Embrace the Mystery

Years ago, when I was living in Cape Canaveral, Florida, I was driving home from work one afternoon when I noticed a massive rainbow just north of east in the sky.

There were too many houses and buildings and trees in my way to get a good picture, but I thought if the rainbow could just stick around for a few more minutes, I might have enough time to race home, grab my camera and head to the beach, because that would make an amazing picture.

So I said the same prayer I always say when confronted with the fleeting nature of … nature, I pointed to the rainbow and said, “Stay right there.”

Five minutes later I was on the beach with my camera and there was this amazing rainbow.  It is literally impossible to know what sits at the end of the rainbow.  It’s why we mythologize it with stories of a pot of gold sitting there in the vast unknown.  Rainbows are, in fact, our own personal illusion.  We see them based on our perspective, our point of view and how the light and the water in the air interact from that point of view.

If we try to move closer, the rainbow moves with us.  If we try to get a different angle, again the rainbow adjusts to our movements.

But that day at the beach, I can tell you that for a moment, the mystery as to what sits at the end of the rainbow was solved.  That day, the end of the rainbow illuminated the rocket gantry that sat on a small peninsula, jutting out into the ocean.  It was incredible.  I took the picture and that same picture is hanging on my living room wall, today.

We human beings are fascinated by mysteries both large and small.  It’s why, on the one hand, true crime podcasts and conspiracy theories propagate so well.  And on the other hand, mystery is at the center of mysticism.  Mystery drives our spirituality.  Mystery fuels faith.

It’s right there in our own liturgy when the priest says, “Let us proclaim the mystery of faith.”

Mystery, in this sense, is something to be embodied, something to be lived—it is not necessarily something to be solved.

It’s like the idea of a prayer labyrinth.  The prayer labyrinth isn’t a maze to be lost in, but a maze to be found in.  It is paradoxical in a way—counter intuitive.

But part of the Christian faith is living with the unknown, embracing it, because God is more than we could ever imagine.  We don’t have to prove our faith.  We don’t have to prove the existence of God, because the mystery of who God is lives inside of us.  And we, too, become a mystery.  We, too, become something more than we could ever imagine.

And isn’t that great?  There is something beautiful in the unknown.  The mystery drives us, fuels us, to be something more, to constantly be on the lookout for the “More” which we also call God.

The mystery fuels artists and poets, but it also inspires physicists, astrophysicists who spend their lives looking further and further out into space and therefore looking further and further back in time, hoping to get a glimpse of the moment of creation.  And theoretical physicists who look to the quantum world, the tiny universes that make us—us. 

Today is a Holy Day—it is The Annunciation of Our Lord Jesus Christ to the Blessed Virgin Mary.

When Mary was told by the angel, Gabriel, she would become pregnant with Jesus, the mystery of it was almost too much for her.  It probably didn’t help that Gabriel told her, “Don’t be afraid,” which I think always has the unintended consequence of making people’s adrenaline spike.

So she asked the angel, “How can this be since I am virgin?”

Good question, Mary!

Mary doesn’t want mystery.  She wants details.

And Gabriel says to her in Luke 1:45, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.”

Gabriel brings her back to the mystery.

Mary doesn’t press him any further.  She says in verse 38, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

At our 9 am reflection group this past Sunday, we discussed a section of Madeleine L’Engle’s memoir A Circle of Quiet.

In this particular part, she describes a dinner she had with friends where the topic of the supernatural comes up and a friend says “that when the electric light was invented, people began to lose the dimension of the supernatural.”  With light, we no longer wonder about shadows and darkness, about the things that exist in this world that we cannot see.

L’Engle goes on to quote Albert Einstein who said, “The fairest thing we can experience is the mysterious … He who knows it not, who can no longer wonder, can no longer feel amazement, is as good as dead, a snuffed-out candle.”

The other night we experienced a terrible windstorm in my area.  We were pummeled with hail and then gusts of wind that knocked down trees, picked up my storage shed and threw it, and left us without power for around seven hours.

You would think the best time to lose power is at night when you are asleep, but I, for one, can’t sleep when the power goes out.  It’s the unknown that unsettles me.  When will the power come back on? I wonder incessantly.  But it is also the silence that throws me off.  No whir from the refrigerator or the white noise of the air purifier, no hum of the heat kicking on. 

I realized that night how much I try to drown out the background noise with other noises.

For most of the seven hours the power was off, I did not sleep.  I could not settle my mind down.  But I did doze briefly for about hour right around the time I finally convinced myself of this—it will be light again.  Even if the power outage were to last for days, the sun will still rise.

When the power did come back on, shortly before sunrise—when the rain stopped, and the winds died down, I took one of my large Maglites—you know those flashlights that can double as a club if you are attacked—and went outside to assess the damage.

Specifically, I had heard cars all night, running over something on the darkened road.

As I shined my flashlight on the street, I could see several medium size branches—not twigs—that I was able to kick to the side of the road and then, I shocked myself, when the beam of my flashlight caught sight of a massive part of a neighbor’s tree which had snapped off in the wind and crushed the chainlink fence below.  This all happened 20-30 feet from my house.  In fact, I had heard something hit my roof during the storm and then roll off.  I think when the tree hit the ground it exploded and pieces of it flew up on my roof.

All in all, I was very fortunate.

Later in the morning, when the sun was up, I walked outside.  There was trash everywhere.  I live on an alley.  There is always trash, but this March as been particularly windy.  There are black bags from the nearby Corner Store stuck high in the trees, thirty feet above ground.  You want to know which way the wind is blowing?  Look up at the bags.

I also noticed something stuck in the puddle and mud at the end of my drive.

It was a bright pink deflated balloon, the type that holds helium—the kind of balloon frequently lost and cried over by children who can’t quite hold on.

I have always wondered what happens to those balloons once they are lost, the mystery, if you will, of how far they travel, what they encounter and where they finally wind up.

The mystery of faith is always tied to wonder and curiosity.

And so I would say this, if you want to increase your faith, engage those two things—wonder and curiosity.

Explore, create, become a child again and see everything in this world as new and awe-inspiring.  Look for the light, but do not fear the darkness.

And of course, the mystery of faith is tied to love, too.

So, love.  Love God.  Love your neighbor, unconditionally and without exception.

Amen.

 

A Genesis 50:20 Calling

Many years ago now, when I had been an Episcopalian for only a few months and was anxious to experience every opportunity the faith provided me, I attended the ordination of a woman named Pam.

Pam had been present at my very first visit to the church some months before during Easter Sunday.  She was a postulant for Holy Orders at the time, fulfilling her internship at our church as she learned the ins and outs of being a deacon.

I found her to be someone filled with boundless joy.  And so, of course, I was excited to attend her ordination.

The ordination was held at the cathedral.  I feel like every Episcopal diocese is mandated to have a cathedral, something large and gothic appearing, something that makes you stare up at it in awe before you’ve even entered through the doors.

It’s the perfect setting for ordinations, for the culmination, the acclimation and the affirmation of a holy call.

That day at Pam’s ordination, the cathedral was packed.  The inside was just as impressive to me as the outside and I think I spent quite some time just looking around with my mouth open.  There was a choir in the choir loft and the acoustics were such that there was not one inch of that place that wasn’t filled with holy song.

As the candidates for the diaconate began processing in, they did so solemnly, one at a time, maybe one or two risking a small smile as they passed a loved one in the pews.

But then came Pam.

Pam was all smiles.  Her smile was one of those open-mouth, count-every-tooth-kind of smile.  It was the kind of smile that hurts but in a good way.  And as she walked, she pointed to the friends and family she saw on both sides of the aisle and she waved and she laughed and she clapped.

She exuded joy.

The story of how Pam became Deacon Pam is her own to tell, but I will tell you that over the years, I have heard the stories of many people who became deacons and priests, and each story is unique in someways and identical in others.

Many people called to the priesthood and diaconate later in life come from jobs you might expect.  I have met nurses and therapists who became priests.  I, myself, was a teacher before answering the call. 

But I have also met former military and law enforcement.  I have met bookkeepers and accountants, people who used to sit behind a desk all day.

The one thing they all had in common was a call they could not ignore, a call from God that for some felt out-there but for all of them—felt right, more right and more perfect and more true than anything else in their life to that point.  God was calling them to be their true-self.

Indeed, in the gospels, Jesus calls His first followers from all sorts of jobs, from fisherman to tax collectors.  Though the disciples worked in jobs, though they had a profession, the disciples lacked something Jesus brought them—a vocation, something that beckoned to them and offered them, even at perhaps great sacrifice, a path in life that would give them meaning and purpose beyond just physical survival.

I think back to the Samaritan woman at the well.

She immediately becomes an evangelist after meeting Jesus, proclaiming that “He told me everything I ever did.” 

Now, as far as we know, the only thing Jesus told her was how many times she had been married.  But it is perhaps what Jesus didn’t say that tells the woman everything she needs to know about Him and about herself.

He does not shame her.

He does not judge her.

He welcomes her.

And she is so convinced that He is the Messiah, that He alone can provide this living water, that she leaves her own water jug behind as she races back into town to tell everyone about Him.

In today’s reading from Genesis, we hear my own personal favorite verse in the Bible, Genesis 50:20, where Joseph says to his brothers in this translation, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today.”

This verse is an essential verse when you are trying to forgive someone.  Joseph, having been sold into slavery, by his brothers, then later falsely accused of rape, then later jailed and seemingly headed to death, has now risen in power in Egypt to becomes second only to the Pharoah. 

When his brothers come to him in desperate need of food, Joseph has the opportunity to exact vengeance upon them, to make them pay for what they did to him.

Instead, he offers them forgiveness.  He doesn’t brush off what they did to him.  He doesn’t gloss over it or pretend it wasn’t that bad.  He acknowledges that what they did was evil, but that God’s power triumphs over all evil.  God used that evil to do good through Joseph.

You see when we don’t forgive someone, we give power to them.

When we do forgive, we acknowledge that God has the power over every living thing in this universe.

Joseph’s brothers hurt him, but God was greater.

Genesis 50:20, though, also speaks to something else—what it means to be called, what it means to hear God in your heart and respond.  Though not everyone is called to ordained ministry, please know that God does call each and every one of us to something unique and special for us.

In Joseph’s case, God took a very awful period of Joseph’s life and shaped it to a call that brought Joseph to a place where he could do, not just good work, but God’s work.

Last week I shared this quote from Frederick Bueckner about calling with a friend of mine.  It says, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

That is where each of our callings becomes unique.

I think of Pam processing into her ordination and the joy she radiated—not just any joy—but the joy that comes when you have seen God’s light and love and now that light and love is reflected in you and from you.

That was her calling.

To let others see God’s love within her.

Actually, that is everyone’s calling.  How we fulfill that calling is unique to each of us.

During Pam’s ordination, the choir sang a hymn many of us are familiar with which includes the line, “Whom shall I send?” followed by, “Here I am, Lord.”

I had tears that day as I sang along.

God calls each of us.

Amen.

 

 

A Fly Went By

 This morning, I want to invite you in for a tour of my ADD brain. 

This past Sunday, at the 8 am service there was a massive fly buzzing around the sanctuary.  And I was immediately of two minds about the fly.  On the one hand, I was thinking, “Yay, the first fly of Spring!”  Despite the cold weather and the threat of snow, here was a fly, surely a great portend, a dove returning with an olive branch, if you will.  Surely, pollinators and flowers must be right around the corner. 

That was the positive way of looking at the fly. 

The other thing I was thinking during the service was that fly was probably a horsefly, or some sort of biting fly.  And when it alighted on the pew in front of me, I could not help but think that I could Karate Kid that fly.  Or I could take the Book of Common Prayer and just slam it down on that sucker.  Probably not the Book of Common Prayer, that seemed disrespectful.  A hymnal.  Also I was in the second row and there was no way I could kill that fly discreetly.  

But that fly was very distracting. 

So distracting that I started thinking about a class I took at Miami.  It was a warm day.  The professor had those large windows in the classroom open all the way.  There were no screens.  There was a beehive of some sort right outside one of the windows.  So during the class we were surrounded by swarms of bees with their constant hum, flying over our heads. 

Ask me what class that was and I will tell you I have no memory of that.  

All I remember is the bees. 

So, on Sunday, not only was I distracted by the fly, but I was also distracted by the memory of another time I was distracted. 

Even now as I am writing this, I am reminded of another instance at my old church when the pastor was doing the children’s sermon up by the altar.  The kids were gathered around her.  She had a leaf, a branch of something, I can’t remember what and I think her sermon must have been on the subject of life—something wholesome and enriching.  

But at some point, she noticed there was an ant on the branch and without missing a beat, she grabbed that ant between her thumb and forefinger and squished that ant dead. 

Which meant her children’s sermon now had an entirely different message. 

We are such a distracted culture aren’t we? 

I think of Jesus’s Parable of the Sower in our reading for today.  It seems to me that a lot of us are either the seed falling on rocky ground or the seed falling among the thorns.  

When we find ourselves on rocky ground, we may have the best of intentions.  We love God.  We want to do good in the world, but the rocky ground doesn’t allow us to have deep roots and when trouble comes our way, we are easily distracted.  Cynicism replaces joy.  Our hearts harden and we lose sight of the love of God. 

Or we may find ourselves scattered among the thorns.  Like the seed on rocky ground, we hear the Word.  We love the Word, but again distraction, pain and suffering, wars and rumors of wars, choke that love. 

So, what do we do when we find ourselves in rocky soil?  When we find ourselves surrounded by thorns?  Because it feels like rocky soil and thorns are not something we have control over.  We know this.  Life is hard.  Distractions are plentiful.  Jesus’s Parable of the Sower only goes so far.  Seed thrown on good soil prospers.  

But what do we do when, through no fault of our own, we find ourselves struggling to bear good fruit in the world? 

And if you have read or listened to my reflections all these years, you will notice a common pattern.  I will ask a question and I will provide an answer that is a seemingly small act, but full of enormous and divine-inspired potential. 

Today is no different. 

But I want to make something clear first.  I am not suggesting that the solution to all of life’s problems is easy or small.  We are all living in a world currently where our problems range from a fly buzzing around the sanctuary to wars in the Middle East.

And if there is no simple solution to the distraction of a buzzing fly during Sunday service, there is absolutely no easy solution to war. 

However, I do believe with all my heart that the first step to a solution, the first step in growing our roots deeper even in rocky soil, in eluding, in dodging, in thriving despite the persistent thorns that spring up everywhere around us, is something simple. 

And it is this. 

We must do things that nourish us spiritually.  We must hydrate with living water and eat of the bread of life.  

And for me, I believe one way to do this is relational; it is how we interact with the people in our lives, not just our close friends or family, but, especially in our interactions with strangers.  Imagine if we looked at every encounter with a stranger as an encounter with God. 

Even as I say that, I am reminded that I, and most of my generation, was raised with the admonition DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS!  It was so ingrained in me, in fact, that once, when I was little, I walked past a policeman on the street.  He said “Hi” to me and I responded by glaring at him and refusing to speak. 

My mom was horrified, but I was just doing what she told me. 

So let me add a discerning clarifier.  Imagine if every encounter you have with someone over the course of the day, whether it’s someone you know or a stranger, is an opportunity for God to work through your heart. 

Last Friday, at physical therapy, I held the elevator for a woman.  She thanked me.  She was also going to physical therapy.  We were the only two in the waiting room.  It had only been a minute or two of silence.  I had put away my phone and was dozing with my eyes open, when the woman struck up a conversation with me. 

 I am always surprised when strangers start talking to me, but it has been happening more and more lately.  The woman asked me about my physical therapy, and I got the sense from her that she wasn’t being nosy, but was actually nervous, perhaps about her own appointment.  

So, I asked her about her own back issues and quickly slipped into what I call “chaplain mode.” 

Chaplain mode means being a more active listener, not thinking about what you want to say next, but truly listening.  If you speak at all it’s to express sympathy or empathy.  

I wondered, as she was speaking, if God was calling me to pray not just for her but with her.  I’ve prayed with people in stranger places than a waiting room. 

But she was called back for her appointment a moment later and I didn’t have a chance to speak to her again. 

It is terrifyingly easy these days to cultivate a hardened heart.  There are so many thorns out there to trip us up. 

Please recognize that everyone is hurting these days.  And that a little bit of kindness toward strangers especially can go a long way in healing not just someone else’s heart, but our hearts as well. 

All of this reminds me of a story I’ve told many times.  Early in my teaching career, one of my teacher friends showed me something strange she found in her classroom.  There in the back of the room was a small plant seemingly growing out the seam where the wall met the floor.  I think we watched it grow for a few days and then one night, the janitor came in and tore it out and threw it away. 

That day one of our students came up to that teacher.  He was distraught.  He was the one who had planted that plant.  Every day, he brought water in a tiny little M&M container to water his plant.  Why had he done this?  Who knows?  Maybe it made school bearable, to come every day with the purpose of making sure something lived and thrived even in the strangest of soil. 

Take the time today to nourish your own spirit.  Do not neglect it.  You can do nothing for others until you take care of yourself first.  

What do I always say?  Love God.  Love your neighbors, unconditionally and without exception.  But also this: remember that God loves you.  You are God’s gift to the world.  Treat yourself with the holiness and care that responsibility deserves. 

Amen.