More Martyrs

Yesterday was the Feast of St. Alban, the first martyr of Britain. Martyrs seem to be a theme with me recently...

Alban was killed by the Roman Empire in a crackdown on Christianity in the third Century. His death was voluntary: he volunteered himself in place of a priest to whom he'd offered hospitality. After a few short days of conversation with the priest, Alban embraced Christianity, and then was required to either turn in his guest, or offer himself. He did the latter.

I spent last Saturday at St. Alban's Cathedral, in (where else?) St. Albans, England. It was for the annual observance of St. Alban's Day. Hundreds of folks came--the event took me by surprise. I'd been expecting something stodgy and conventional. But it was nothing like that. Huge puppets dominated the outdoor procession. The spring which welled up to slake Alban's thirst was suggested by the local fire department blasting fire hoses from the shrubbery. Scores of children participated too: dressed as flowers, stained glass windows, soldiers and monks the procession was colorful and LIVELY!! The high point, for most of the little boys at least, was when the centurion who chops off Alban's head loses his eyeballs in some kind of divine retribution, and they roll around the grass...

I am not sure who the guiding genius is behind this extraordinary event. It got even better inside the Cathedral with the girls choir singing a jazz mass. The Dean of the Catheral is Jeffrey John, who seems unpopular with the Church hierarchy because he is a gay man in a relationship. I suspect he is the source of the razzle-dazzle. Even the way he introduced the different pilgrim groups had people laughing out loud--in an English Cathedral. I was totally charmed.

The day ended with everybody filing past the shrine of St. Alban singing special words to a familiar tune (The Battle Hymn of the Republic):

We sing of holy Alban and his suffering for the Lord,
of resounding words of witness for the Christ whom he adored;
of his boldness and his daring and his dying by the sword;
his faith is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah! ...His faith is marching on!

It was an inspiring day. The classsical formulation is that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church: new life and growth and encouragement springs from their witness.

It worked for me. The Cathedral was packed. The Dean made us laugh and everyone felt welcomed: imagination was unfettered.

It made me think: imagine if this man was a bishop!

Pentecost

Pentecost is about empowering.
New beginnings.
Growth.

Hildegard of Bingen said the color best associated with the Spirit is green--
the green of trees leafing out
herbs growing in the garden,
wheat sprouting in the fields.

The friary kitchen garden here in Dorset is an icon of fecundity! (I haven't figured out how to get photos off my cellphone onto the internet yet...soon, soon, soon...)

There are complaints of drought in other parts of England. A photo of burnt fields appeared in the newspapers recently. Bewildering weather patterns are a sign of global climate change, I fear. Whoever heard of a drought in England in May???

Nevertheless here in Doreset, at least our corner of it is GREEN. Pentecost came at the end of a long week of Chapter meetings. And the sap was rising all week! It was the first All Brothers Chapter, now expecting to meet every year at Pentecost. Every borther in the Province had a voice and a vote. We spent two days in small groups and a third n plenary, sharing the results of the small group work and making decisions for the year ahead. We concluded singing the praises of God. Everybody had a wonderful time. Not always the case at the end of a business meeting.

Every voice was honored.
Leadership was shared.
Creativity was everywhere.

These are key features for what I think must charatcterize Franciscan life!

And the week wasn't all work either. There was time for Brother John and me to get away to visit a nearby stately home/museum, Stourhead. I'd visited there in 1978: very faint impressions endured. It was a pleasure to re-visit especially the gardens, designed by Capability Brown. And we ate a Ploughman's lunch at a little country pub--all my favorite lunchtime foods of cheese, pickles, ham and lettuce...

Another highlight was gathering with all the brothers and watching Of Gods and Men together. It is a story of a small communityof Cistercian monks lifing in algeria who decide to stay at their monastery during a time of Islamist jihad. Most of the monks are killed. It is a true story, from 1996, I believe.

The other color for Pentecost is red, the red of fire. Of martyrdom.

I had a strong sene of identification with the brothers in the film. Their community life was not so different from ours in SSF--small, fragile, poor. Yet the relationships among the brothers in the film rang true too: both the small frictions among them and the profoundly loving way they came together to make their decisions and face the future together. In one scene they were in the chapel singing, as a helicopter circled tightly overhead. They gathered together, in a kind of communal embrace. I have felt that at time with my brothers. But thank God, never under threat of death.

Their fear and their faith moved me to tears. Their decision not to run from the terrorists, but to stay with their neighbors, knowing what might happen to them struck many of us SSF brothers in a deeply personal way. What would I do (or what will I do) in similar circumstances? They wrote to the terrorists as their brothers, and recognized a terror-filled death was one shared with Jesus.

It is the highest hope and greatest fear of a religious calling.

Come Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful people, and kindle in us the fire of your love.
It was an enlivening, green time.

In Communion

I can't believe it has been a month since I last posted on the blog. It has been a month of chapter meetings: first in Brisbane, Australia, then on Long Island, NY at Little Portion. Both meetings were good and interesting.

But combine jet lag with meeting-lag and I didn't have much juice in my batteries!

These past few days, however, I've been able to get back up on my feet and begin to do some things. Most enjoyably, I've been gardening. I've got blisters to prove it, and the flower boxes are now brimming with marigolds, shrubs have been pruned and the terraces swept. It is hard to do this around Little Portion without thinking abut all the brothers before me who have popped their blisters doing the same tasks. I feel very closely connected with them, part of the continuity of religious life, the "Quotidian Mysteries" Kathleen Norris writes about. Every day mystery of communion with brothers, nature, God: the communion of saints and the communion of the cosmos.

As I swept this morning I remember how Jon and I would watch the bees and drink coffee together next to the herb garden, resting from weeding. Jason would smoke his pipe and spend his summer evenings joyously weeding a lush English border he'd planted next to the arbor. Dunstan still weeds with a table fork and has a personal relationship with every bulb and bush ever planted at Little Portion, as well as living on a first name basis with the chipmunks and the birds.

Yesterday I was running along Shore Road, along Mt. Sinai Harbor, and a box turtle was just edging out onto the road. Fearing for its safety I snatched it up and carried it across the road: power to the box turtle!

Inside I typed up all the Norms and Policies for the Province so that they could be restored to our Manuals. These too are a trip down memory lane. Every Norm, which is really a statement about things we have agreed upon as a chapter, is a story. I remember why we said we wanted brothers to learn Spanish. I remember why we agonized for a long time over job descriptions. There are older norms about participating in demonstrations: I can just hear the brothers debating it, and the differing points of view. These ancestor brothers still have a vote, as their opinions have been captured in the Provincial Norms.

Australian Easter

I celebrated the Easter weekend in Darwin, Northern Territory. Talk about hot! But Br. James Andrew's house is set to capture any breeze blowing through, and it was fairly comfortable. I preached on good Friday at the little Anglican Church in Palmerston that Br. James attends. After that we had a picnic on the beach. Easter Sunday we were back in Palmerston.

I've just finished reading a couple of great books: Rob Bell's "Love wins" and Eugene Peterson's "Practicing Resurrection." Rob's book had been coming up on my Amazon "recommended book list" for several days, but it wasn't until after I read a review of it in the UK Church Times that I got it. Apparently he gets protesters appearing when he speaks about this book because he holds out the possibility of heaven for everybody who wants it, and insists that Jesus is the "Way" meaning it in the broadest possible terms: even people who aren't Christian but practice love and compassion and justice are part of Jesus' Way. It's depressing to think people would get angry about that.

Practicing Resurrection is another very helpful book. Peterson is the author of "The Message," and after listening to Br. Tom read from it during my stay in Los Angeles, I was intrigued to see what the guy has to say. The book is a fairly thorough exegesis (study) of the Letter to the Ephesians. I found it very liberating to read.

Lots of time to read because it is wet weather here in Brisbane, Australia. There is more flooding to the west of the city, but the part the brothers live in is high and safe from the floods.

Fine Fall Days Down Under

I spent a week in New Zealand, with the Brothers at Hamilton. Hamilton is a small city on the North Island, far from Christchurch and the earthquake. But we were not isolated from the effects of the earthquake--being a small country, the brothers knew of plenty of people who'd been affected directly. And there are lots of fundraisers for the earthquake victims being advertised on T.V.

Br. Simone and I enjoyed a day out, going to visit several places where volcanic activity was bubbling to the surface. Steaming rivers and boiling pools of mud are big tourist attractions in New Zealand. Best was swimming in the hot springs at Rotorua.

Here we are standing on a beach with the Pacific ocean stretching out behind us.

Brothers Damian Kenneth and Brian hosted a dinner party during my stay. It was a very ecumenical affair with Roman Catholic, Anglican and Romanian Orthodox clergy.

Another evening Simone and I visited a homeless shelter where he volunteers. We took some food, then stayed to talk. I was impressed by the experience--we could have been in New York, Washington or California. Its depressing to think homelessness is such a universal experience. The major difference here is that the men were mostly Maori. The other universal quality is the selflessness of the volunteers, the sign of never failing grace and generosity and that where homeless exists and the worst of urban life, there is always it seems right alongside it, the very best of human behavior: generous, caring and creative in the face of tremendous need. I was reminded of a line of a liturgy from the 80's: God came not to take away our suffering but to be with us in it. Yet with some political determination and a minor allocation of resources (compared to, say, defense budgets) we could make homelessness history.

The last weekend I was there I gave a quiet day for about 10 people: "Remember who you are" was the theme. I told them "be who you are before God: be simply yourself." The desire to do this is evidence of God's action. We spent the morning remembering family, hometown, the costs of forgetting our background: vulnerability to social marginalization, addictions. Remembering brings the will to work for healing and can unleash creativity. In the afternoon we spent time remembering who we are in God's eyes: beloved, worthy, empowered, forgiven. And to remember that we ARE the church. I ended up with the words of Eugene Peterson: Now God has us where he wants us--with all the time in this world and the next to shower grace and kindness upon us.

Now I am in Australia. We spent the other day digging trenches to divert rain water, and since then we've not had any rain: glorious early autumn weather. Generally though getting spiritually ready for Easter and the cold winter months.

It is such a head trip switching hemispheres!!

Leaving Lincoln heights

Preaching, cooking, housework, food pantry, and running, going to meetings: it’s been a full month in Los Angeles.

The greatest part has been working in the kitchen. I almost never get to work in the kitchen on a daily basis anymore. Simon taught me how to “supreme” an orange. The weekly food delivery from the food pantry the brothers run (and live off of) brought out all my creative impulses. What to do with grits, 20 pounds of them? Beans, beans, beans…

Every afternoon I sat on the verandah to drink a cup of tea. After a few days I recognized the neighbors, and they me. Now we greet each other with a nod or a smile. One tot who goes by with her Grandma every day waves enthusiastically. I sure wish I spoke Spanish; add that to the bucket list.

The Church of the Epiphany has long been a community anchor. Although attendance has declined in the past 10 years or so, it has an amazing past. And with the SSF brothers here, I wager it has a brilliant future. Throughout the Sixties through the Eighties, the Church was “the storied Lincoln heights church that hosted United Farm Workers organizer and former Archbishop of Canterbury Robert Runcie and was a center of Chicano civil rights activism” according to The Episcopal News, the diocese of Los Angeles magazine.

Last Tuesday Br. Tom Carey and I went to a book signing for “Blowout!: Sal Castro and the Chicano Struggle for Educational Justice” by Mario T. Garcia and Sal Castro. It was mesmerizing to listen to Sal tell his stories of how he helped students organize perhaps the largest student demonstration in history, and to hear about how the folks from Epiphany church helped and shared their lives and parish facilities for dances, speeches, teach-ins. I kept thinking about the stories of the Chicano students and their desire for education, for opportunity and respect here in America sound so much like the students in Tripoli, Sana, Cairo and the other cities where we see students speaking out against oppression, fighting for opportunity.

There is still so much to do here in this neighborhood and around the world.

Tonight I fly to New Zealand to spend some time with the brothers there.

Praying through the news

The T.V. has been on already this morning, and we have been watching scenes from Japan. Then they cut to scenes from Libya. People have been phoning with news about my “step-nephew” who lives in Nagoya, Japan (he and his family are okay).

Something about watching disasters and wars that make me feel impotent, sometimes a bit frightened and wondering what the heck I can do….

Pray, of course.

The real task is to take this chance to get in touch with who I am and be ready for whatever might happen in my life. Because we never really know what might happen. I am traveling soon to New Zealand, we know earthquakes strike there. I don’t have any plans to visit a war zone, but I feel I need to be ready, if I find myself in harm’s way to do what I need to, to help others; ready to work to find safe solutions, promote peace. Necessary skills, when you come to think of it no matter where we are…

Do I have choices about my involvement? If I choose to be involved in a protest or demonstration or contentious conversation (try “abortion” at the dinner table) am I at peace inside? Am I still equipped with my sense of humor and compassion? Am I motivated by love? If not I need to watch out I don’t get caught up in a situation that pulls me into a place of forgetfulness, governed by fear and anger.

Sometimes we don’t have a choice: even more we need to remember who we are. I remember speaking with some monks who escaped their burning monastery in the hills above Santa Barbara, CA a few years back. How did they feel? One reported he felt concerned but not panicky, able to follow instructions and to look out for the welfare of others. I hope I could say the same! After watching the response of many during 9/11 I think many of us have deeper reserves of strength than we suspect.

I spoke with a nurse a few years ago in the Solomon Islands after a tsunami warning had her moving patients from the Central Hospital to higher ground. How did she feel? She admitted to feeling frightened but glad of work to do; happy to be helping others. It turns out that experience was a real wake up call for local authorities who would have only been able to save half the patients if disaster had struck.

But the nurse, the monks, they are people who were able to walk through frightening experiences, grounded n an understanding that they were accompanied by God.

They did not expect exemption form trials and disasters. They were able to find comfort and meaning in their faith which made them much more effective.

“Be still and know that I am God,” the psalmist writes. I pray this often. Not that I will sit still and avoid life, but that I can maintain a calm center, a quiet heart, a sense that God is with me. Then I find my decisions are sounder, my attitude is saner and I am of better service.