Leadership, the Canons, and the Incarnation

The 2018 Christmas Message from the House of Deputies of the Episcopal Church:

As I prepare for Christmas and open myself to greet anew the mystery of the Incarnation, I’ve been reflecting on how I encountered Jesus at General Convention in dancing with the canons, in listening to testimony, in numerous quick cups of coffee and conversation, in myriad early morning meetings before early morning committee sessions, in working with a group striving to find just the right word.

I live out the gospel, at least in part, through governance. It is not just that I am a canon nerd. I will confess that a good day for me is one where I have to reach for the canons, whether diocesan or churchwide, in order to bring clarity to some issue, or arbitrate a dispute, or find a pathway for the way forward in a process.

You might think that testimony regarding amendment of canons heard in such a committee would be tedious or dry. Or that we would spend our long legislative days wasting time arguing over picayune points of law. Or that we were navel gazing. But what occurred in that space was holy. Yes, it was often tedious, and frustrating and on some days seemed like futile effort. But as we sat in committee, people came to testify about how God is working powerfully in their lives, how they yearn to be heard, how they are asking our church to support them with powerful acts of love. For the most part, the speakers did not know us; nevertheless, they came and laid their hearts and lives before us on issues as diverse as the damage done by the Doctrine of Discovery, equity for transgender people in the church, and the need for suicide prevention training across the church.

All of the people who spoke to us were asking that we make the church a better place for them, and therefore for all of us. They came and spoke to us because we needed to hear them. They were one part of the body of Christ speaking to another part of the body. And we all know that no matter how frustrating it can be, we simply cannot say to another member, “I have no need of you.”

Each time I have been on a legislative committee, I have been moved and astounded and surprised by the people who come to be heard. We call these meetings hearings. I find I am compelled to practice a discipline of listening. I strive to hear and attend with my heart. And through myriad beautiful, vulnerable, bold, articulate, gentle, and daring stories, I am invited into relationship with astonishing people. A hearing. A holy listening. A heeding, a hearkening, a beloved encounter.

The canons cannot bear the weight of every burden of the church. Some things we cannot legislate. But for me, it is often in our deliberations about legislating our life together that the incarnation becomes fully known, as we encounter one another anew, as strangers become allies. There is no doubt we are about holy work.

As we rush headlong toward the birth of a baby and are filled anew with wonder at the coming of the Christ child, may we marvel once again at the audacity of God becoming weak and vulnerable in order to save creation. And then remember our call to strive for justice, protect and defend the disenfranchised, regard the least, and love one another. 

Find the entire article on the House of Deputies  website.

The breath before

Christmas Eve

Be still, then, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations;
I will be exalted in the earth.
Psalm 46:11

The morning is overcast, and as I stand by my kitchen sink waiting while my tea brews, its feels like it is still night. Even though we have moved past the longest night, I don’t yet get the sense of light dawning earlier.

I wonder how we learned to count the time, how we know by calendar when the orbit and tilt of the earth makes for the shortest day, how we landed on making an adjustment by adding a day every fourth year and why that day is in February.

I know I could find answers. But in this moment my queries lead me to dwell on kairos, God’s time, sacred time. I know, deep in my body, the time has come. My journey has brought me exactly here.

Everything quietens around me. I am caught in the in-between. I hold the space, finding it expansive. I am still. All is still. The moment of breath before. Come, Jesus, come.


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Love before my eyes

The Fourth Sunday of Advent

For your love is before my eyes;
I have walked faithfully with you.
Psalm 26:3

We gather as a family to decorate our tree, and I am enjoying the ritual of rediscovering treasures as we unwrap the decorations. I hand my daughter the handmade ornament with a photo of her and the friend she has had since age two. The picture brings into the room the tangible power of a long-standing friendship. Not only of my daughter and the young man that boy has become, but also of our families, and in particular his mother and me. I think of the gift of a friendship that is almost twenty years strong, and of the numerous ways we have walked together, apart, in tandem, in benign neglect, in solidarity, in love.

It occurs to me that faithful walking is not the same thing as perfect fulfillment. Faithfulness includes striving and forgiveness and acceptance and renewal.

A new ornament adorns our tree as well. This one a gift from another friend who has long been a companion on the way with me. I am accompanied by many on this Advent journey, and I am grateful.

Now the time is near. We turn expectant faces toward the in-breaking of God’s vision and the love that is before our eyes. Come, Jesus, come.

Lovingly drawn

Saturday of the Third Week of Advent

You press upon me behind and before
and lay your hand upon me.
Psalm 139:4

I dip my brush into the water and add a streak of wet across the paper. There is nothing to see. I continue, saturating my brush with pigment, and as the paint touches the path of damp I have created, it bursts across the paper with vibrant abandon. I absorb the richness with pleasure.

I love this about water colors; I can direct the path of the paint with the brush, and I can allow a barely perceived trail of water to draw the color across the canvas. Often the results are astonishing.

In my Advent journey, sometimes my steps are purposeful and sometimes the path ahead is invisible. Sometimes the way takes unexpected and curious turns. Sometimes I am driven by Spirit, and sometimes she pulls me forward.


The time is short now, thrusting me inescapably toward the manger whether I am ready or not. And when I let go of focusing on all within me which is not prepared, I discover that I am also inevitably being lovingly drawn toward this encounter with Christ. Come, Jesus, come.

Lighting the way

Feast of St. Thomas
Friday of the Third Week of Advent

Be pleased, O Lord, to deliver me;
O Lord, make haste to help me.
Psalm 40:14

I hurry across the wet grass to cut a few sprigs from our holly bush to replace the fading greens in our Advent wreath. The rain has tapered off for the moment but promises to return. The leaden sky adds to the gloom of an evening that is already heading toward the darkest night. We gather at the dinner table, and into this darkness, we light three candles.

At noontime too, as my work colleagues gathered for prayer, we lit the candles. In the middle of the day this ritual seems not so much about warding off darkness, as lighting the way, offering welcome the One who is coming.

Our invitation is growing. The place in our hearts expanding as our yearning for the one who can save us increases. Come, Jesus, come.

Pleated into sacred time

Thursday of the Third Week of Advent

The Lord, the God of gods, has spoken;
he has called the earth from the rising of the sun to its setting.
Psalm 50:1

One daughter is home from college and the other arrives tomorrow. More family members will turn up the next day, and another’s travels will bring him here next week.

I am less prepared than usual, and when I begin to fret about this, my spouse wisely says, “Well, that’s just how it is this year.” And how it is, is that people I love are gathering.

The threads that connect us are being pulled together as we are pleated into this sacred time. We will fold into one another, rearrange ourselves for a measure into a particular configuration that will soon disperse. The connections will remain, transformed again by the voice that spoke the world into being and our witness of the Word born anew.

The Incarnation awaits, already and not yet, as all creation is being drawn to the center. Come, Jesus, come.

Faithful waiting

Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent

I remember you Name in the night, O Lord,
and dwell upon your law.
Psalm 119:55

I come fully awake and look toward my clock with a sense of resignation. I am right. It is 3:00am. A cough has woken me up and though I get up and take cold medicine, I know it will be a while before I can get back to sleep.

So, I do what my mother taught me years ago, I begin a prayer. My prayer is not asking God to help me get back to sleep, but a conversation. Since I am awake in the middle of the night, what better use of my time than to spend it with God. My mother had a gift for prayer. She knew how to turn any time of waiting into praying. I think for her they were one and the same. I remember her favorite chair, radiating her lifelong faithfulness whether she was sitting in it or not.

Advent calls on us to be awake. Who else is awake with me in the early hours? Mary, pregnant and restless? Shepherds on the night watch? The joyful, the grief-laden, the weary, the lost, the comforters, the expectant? Come, Jesus, come.

Leaning toward the light

Tuesday of the Third Week of Advent

Clap your hands, all you peoples;

shout to God with a cry of joy.

Psalm 47:1

It takes me a while to determine the source of the flickering light. In the darkened auditorium, there are many flashes as proud parents here and there raise a phone or camera trying to capture the moment of their child singing on stage. But I keep glimpsing a low light in front of me that is intermittent and actually seems to be moving beneath the seat.

I smile as I identify it—the boy in front of me is wearing light-up shoes. He is clearly taking delight watching them shimmer as he swings them or knocks them against the floor. His dancing light show punctuates the performances of the high school musicians on stage. I watch the youth onstage singing their hearts out, and I watch the boy also sharing his joy.

A young woman whom I love takes the stage poised for her solo, the audience hushes in anticipation, and the boy snuggles into his father’s lap. His father gathers him up and holds him tight. No wonder he has such joy. He is clearly loved, and that love is spilling out into the world. The soloist releases the first sweet note, deep and true. Voice and light and love dispel the darkness and we all lean in awaiting the Glory to come.

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Determined grandeur

Monday of the Third Week of Advent

I will give you thanks for what you have done
and declare the goodness of your Name in the presence of the godly.
Psalm 52:9

As I wait for my tea to steep, I gaze out the kitchen window and observe the coming of day. The increasing light illumines our small yard, and the backs of buildings beyond, a rugged urban outline that seems weary and drained this morning. Then my eye is drawn to the clouds moving across a steely sky.

I marvel at their beauty. Gunmetal gray changing shape and hue as they move across my vista. And behind them others flushed rosy and tinged with that orangish color I can never quite describe. This is reflected light I know. A miracle of the sun, the science of molecules and particles and refraction. And something my eye does with all of that that translates it into color.

I marvel at the grandeur of God’s creation, and in the next moment regret that my view is marred by power lines and rooftop vents and decaying urban structures. But then my vision shifts, and I realize my appreciation of this magnificence is not diminished by these obstacles. My eye moves past them, and in their own way they punctuate the glory to be encountered.

As I move past the midway point of my Advent journey, aware that I am now closer to the manger than to the beginning of this expedition, I wonder what obstacles along my way are of my own making, and I marvel how the Holy One continues to open the vista ahead of me.

Bearing joy

The Third Sunday of Advent

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice
Philippians 4:4

I finally stop and really look. I have been walking by the Christmas cactus in our office all day, really all week, and have not taken in its splendor. But it is worth pausing for—it has bloomed outrageously. My colleague and I agree; we have never seen it this full of color before, and it has been here for years, faithfully putting forth flowers in due season.

My pause becomes a linger and then a loiter as I revel in the extravagant beauty. There is something that seems almost unAdvent about its abandon. Then I recall the great Advent prophet John the Baptist, who calls us to bear fruit worthy of repentance. I think of bearing fruit, not only producing the repentance, but also of carrying it out into the world.

I capture the blossoms in my heart and bear them with me as I go on my way, rejoicing.

Way of encouragement

Saturday of the Second Week of Advent

I will instruct you and teach you in the way that you should go; 
I will guide you with my eye. 
Psalm 32:9 

I smile as I watch the mother and young son walking ahead of me. He looks up to her adoringly, his face bright with eagerness as he pelts her with one question after another. Her answers are part conversation, part instruction, teaching him the way of the world. It is clear that her way is one of respect and candor, patience and optimism. She keeps her eye on him as she simultaneously continues their conversation and negotiates the path ahead.

What a difference it makes how our teachers guide us, I think. How our questioning is received, and whether our way is shaped by encouragement or discouragement.

As I continue to navigate the Advent path, I notice signs of holy instruction along the way. Scripture, prayer, conversations with others, seasonal ritual. And as I open myself to what I need to learn in this moment of time, I am encouraged by the knowledge that God is keeping an eye on me, that she always has me in sight, and that her counsel comes in response to what I am about.


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Bearing tenderness

Friday of the Second Week of Advent

Blessed be the Lord! 
For he has shown me the wonders of his love in a besieged city. 
Psalm 31:21 

I log into the online audio conferencing just in time. It has been a hectic day with one scheduled appointment on top of another and I have hardly had time to prepare for this podcast recording hosted by two people I admire. I have been a bit nervous.
 
As we settle in, I remember that I am in the company of friends. This is holy conversation, and the technology that connects us seems to evaporate the physical distance. I imagine us sitting in comfortable chairs in the living room with cups of tea. This moment is nestled into a friendship shaped by years of encounters: ice-cream and borrowed DVDs and babysitting. Vocation and prayer and inspired adventures. 
 
I am at home here. I recall other conversations in my day. People I have known for years and those I have met recently. Relationships woven from shared work and exciting endeavors and disagreements and reconciliation and challenges and visions for how we can change the world. 

In the midst of struggle, God gives us to one another to cherish and be cherished. We bear the promise of love into a world that yearns for tender care.

Never lost

Thursday of the Second Week of Advent

If they stumble, they shall not fall headlong,
for the Lord holds them by the hand.
Psalm 37:25

I am halfway home from the gym when I realize I don’t have my phone. This is so unlike me. I pull over and do a quick search, including checking my gym bag in the back of the car. No phone. So back to the gym I go, just keeping alarm at bay. I park and as I head to the door, I realize that my phone has been in my pocket the whole time.

I recall how earlier in the week, also unlike me, I left my purse at a restaurant, to be grateful hours later when I retraced my steps and they had it for me. Each time I experienced the sharp fear of loss and vulnerability, followed by the relief of knowing that everything was going to be alright.

As I head back home, I think of how I too am never really lost. Even as I experience times of doubt, loneliness, and defeat, I am always held within the bounds of God’s boundless love. I may stumble, I may even feel like I am falling headlong, but I am never beyond the reach of saving grace.