A Cloud of Witnesses

Yesterday evening, on the feast day of St Luke, I was ordained transitional deacon. This is an important point on a long journey for me into ministry, into the Episcopal Church, and eventually into priesthood. There were many important moments for me in the service. But two stand out clearly for me.

 As I vested, I was intentionally aware of all that had formed me for this moment—my childhood desire to serve Jesus, a pilgrimage to Ely, Lindisfarne, and Northumbria, my mentors and home parish, my seminary, and my congregation outside in Boston. I heard the music start and we unevenly made our way out into the procession. As my feet hit the stone floor of the cathedral, I was vividly reminded of my walk through the Ely Cathedral, walking along a pilgrim way that had been in use for over a thousand years. I felt the sudden presence of mystery and of a cloud of saints who had inspired me. Etheldreda, patroness of Ely, a woman who fled her position as Saxon princess to found a double monastery in early Britain. Hilda, the great Celtic saint and woman church leader who trained on Lindisfarne and finally hosted one of the most important church councils in 664. St. Francis, the Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe, Oscar Romero, so many. It seemed as if a whole host of ancient women (and men) who had paved the way for me gathered around me, invisible among the group of women from my home parish and discernment group who were there to present me.

When, later in the service, I knelt to receive the laying on of the bishop’s hands, I once again became aware of this cloud of witnesses. Not only the women of ancient Celtic Christianity and saints of history, but all of those who have mentored me and prayed for me seemed to come around close. Some were there, sitting in the pews behind me—others were spread out all over the country. I felt their presence through the miles separating us. And, suddenly very close, was the outdoor congregation I served with in Boston. It was here, on the streets, that I most fully found my call. The faces of these folks, who had formed me, who had prepared me for ministry, who had taught me what faith means in the most difficult circumstances, who had taught me to live as a pilgrim, and who were even now praying for me—I felt them present with me.     

As the bishop said the words; “Make her a deacon in your church,” tears came to my eyes. I overwhelmingly felt that I was there, at that moment, because of those who had formed me and blessed me on this journey.

Perseverance with St. Francis

It can be hard to continue on a road less traveled when the twists and turns seem to lead only to more twists and turns. None of us can see the end of any road, really, but the results of roads less traveled are even more difficult to predict. Rarely in life do things come together as quickly or smoothly as we might want. These past weeks have been times of deep prayer, waiting, hoping, and unexpected support and joy. They have also been weeks of anxiety, uncertainty, and questioning.

I have found a certain amount of comfort reading Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel on the life of St. Francis. In this rendition, Francis sets out from Assisi little knowing where the road will lead or what exactly he is being called to do. He only knows that God is compelling him to leave all behind and find the salvation of his soul. In some ways, this has been my journey. Like a fire burning in my bones, I have followed a unique calling, not knowing exactly where I will be led.

I am learning to trust the journey. So often my heart is full of uncertainty and fear. I, like many people, like things to make sense and to happen quickly. But the spirit that drives me, she is like the wind and I am caught up in it. Slowly, I am learning that this too is the work of God in my life. I am learning to rejoice in the wind.

And God has been faithful. My needs have been provided for. Amazing support and mentors have entered my life. And plans are coming together to begin ministry.

Everything may not happen just as I had originally thought, but there have been lovely experiences at every twist and turn. I think of the forests that I love so much. When I hike a new trail, I never know exactly what will be over the next rise or around the next bend. But there is always something beautiful—trees towering and dripping with moss, a stream, a view of a rocky beach, a tiny squirrel. At each point, the meaning is in the journey, the lessons I am meant to learn are already present. There is no end to this journey, no arrival. Ministry happens at each step and learning never ends.

This summer, I have learned much about myself. I have deepened my spiritual practices. I have learned to wait. And I have been inspired to begin a new phase of ministry. I am finding that the ideas, the inspiration, the support all come as I journey. God brings them all one at a time.

Be still my soul and wait. "For you will see what I will do." 

Missing Voices in the Church

“Too many potential leaders in our church are excluded because people who already have power and access to money, technology, and education enjoy the privileges not available to all of us. We are a great and diverse body gathered here today, but I know—we all know—that too many voices are still missing. Too few of us gathered here today are poor, or young or people of color. In our idealistic yet imperfect polity, too many voices remain unheard in the councils of the church.” Bonnie Anderson

While I was not able to attend, I have been keeping up on the Episcopal General Convention in Indianapolis this week. There is a lot of talk about money and budgets this year; unsurprisingly, given the current state of the economy. The words that have struck me most so far are from the opening address given by the outgoing president of the House of Deputies, Bonnie Anderson, quoted above.

She openly states that the Episcopal Church, as much as we might talk about social justice, has a long way to go when it comes to inclusivity or openness when it comes to race and class. I am more and more aware of who is left out because they do not have the language—or as Bonnie points out-- the “money, technology, or education” to be included.

“Too few of us here today are poor…” Bonnie notes. It is an important point and deserves a great deal of thought, I believe. The Episcopal Church, like most mainline churches, talks about poverty, domestic and foreign, and donates a good deal of money to try to help end it. We support political measures that could mitigate poverty and we run soup kitchens, open our basements for shelter, extend the use of our showers, and do many other admirable works of mercy. And all of this is very important. Working on the Boston streets taught me how deeply people on the streets relied on the food and shelter offered by local churches.

But is this important work enough? I learned something else on the streets of Boston. My homeless friends did not just need help; they had a tremendous amount of wisdom and faith to give. In a basement Eucharist in the Episcopal cathedral, week after week, I heard people from the streets give sermons and lead services. What I learned there, I will never forget. Born out of deep suffering and life experience, people knew God, experienced God, doubted God, cried out to God. Never before had I experienced such power in worship. I am not joking when I say I heard the best sermons in my life in that basement.

It is not surprising that those who live on the edge often live closest to Jesus of Nazareth, the prophet with nowhere to lay his head. But would we really want to listen to him if we met him today—dirty, ragged, poor, and perhaps a little, well you know… crazy? In not hearing, however, in creating spaces and churches that have no room for the poor except as objects of pity and charity, we have lost this wisdom.

So why are there not more leaders and active participants in our churches who are poor? I think of a dear friend of mine who happens to be homeless just delivered a beautiful sermon at the Boston cathedral. Several others sit on vestry. And lets not forget the powerful work done by peasant lay leaders in Latin America in Christian Base Communities.

The so called poor sometimes do not walk into our churches because they know they are not welcome—they do not have the right clothes, know the right words, eat the right food, or drive the right cars.

But make no mistake, there have always been notable exceptions and our tradition is steeped in the traditions of a rural, agrarian society. I know and have been honored to work with many of these. A Purepecha congregation run by lay leaders who are part of their community. Several Boston homeless congregations where members of the community take a lead in organizing events, preaching, fundraising, planning services, and leading groups. These examples give me hope.   

So, as we talk of money and budgets and social issues, let us also be aware of what we are not hearing and whose voices are not present. And let us seek out those voices, pray to hear those voices, work to open space in our churches for those voices. The so called poor do not simply need our help. We need—desperately need—their wisdom.

Meditations on Place

Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
--Wendell Berry

The sun is finally peeking out in the rain soaked Northwest. Eager to enjoy it, I went for a morning walk in the forest. Every time I breathe the air of the forest, rich with the smell of rotting fir needles and wildflowers, I know that I am at home. I was practically raised in the forest—our little farm surrounded on all sides by wild undergrowth, tree farms, and stands of older trees dripping with brilliant mosses. I have always said that the trees talk to me and I can understand them. As a child, I also developed a keen sense of direction that only seems to manifest in the forest (I can get lost two blocks from home in the city). 

This morning, the sky was a patchwork of stunning blue and lumpy clouds, sending shadows over the trees and casting eerie shadows among the branches. A swallowtail butterfly rejoiced in the sunlight in its black and yellow glory, feeding off of the recently blooming purple foxglove. Since I was walking in a tree farm, not a naturally growing forest, most of the trees were 15-30 year old Douglas Firs, but I was delighted to see Cedar saplings fighting for space. The smell of a Western Red Cedar is rich and pungent and it is by far my favorite tree. The Native tribes of the peninsula call it “the tree of life.” A mature tree can live for centuries and it always feels like a tree full of magic and history to me. I love to sit under them.

I am always amazed at how the cycles of life and death and rebirth are so clearly displayed in the forest. Old stumps and fallen trees scatter the forest floor, rotting and giving life to the mushrooms, salal, and wild strawberries. Small saplings grow out of their base, new life sustained by the death of the old and reborn. And the huckleberries are nearly ripe. The tiny red berries are sour, but when they are ripe, you can taste the juicy sweetness of the forest. They also prefer to grow out of the stumps of old cedar trees.

In the absolute aloneness and stillness of the forest, surrounded only by the trees, birds, and squirrels, I feel in my bones that I am a part of this place and it is a part of me. Even while away studying for the past two years, this place—the forest—called to me. It reminds me of the power of place, of home. We humans are meant to belong somewhere, not the conquerors of space, but part of it, part of the landscape, of the local ecology. The love that swells within me when I am home—in the northwest forests—is a love that people all over the world have talked about when they talk about home.

And, yet, the past few hundred years have wrenched most of us from place and any connection to it or to the land. Most people who were closely attached to the land were and still are wrenched from it as it has become harder and harder to survive, to compete with agribusiness, and to disregard to lure of city jobs. And, yet, I believe that we all long to find home again. One of my greatest dreams and most ardent prayers is that the American underclass—people living on the edges, on the streets, in migrant camps—will find a way to reconnect with the land, with home, with place.  

Ministry among America's Economic Refugees

 "Outreach to the homeless, to the undocumented, to the migrant and the poor is often seen as extraordinary… Rather than extraordinary, it should be seen as the mission of the church… The poor have a special place in the heart of Christ, as they call on us to love as Jesus loved." Fr. McAndrew

So writes Father McAndrew, a Catholic priest who ministers in California with migrant workers. When I explain to people that I want to do outdoor church, that I want to work alongside folks who are homeless, or minister to people who are economically marginalized, I often get expressions of either awe or doubt. People say that I choose the hard places. And they either admire it or think I am crazy. Or a little of both.

I certainly do not feel particularly brave or admirable, though sometimes I wonder if I am a little crazy. Nor are the places I minister particularly hard places. Yes, the reality of life for America’s economic refugees is painful and there is no shortage of human suffering. But, I find the folks I work with to be courageous, warm, intelligent, and resourceful. I am not at all trying to minimize the reality of drugs, alcohol, or violence on the streets. That is all there. But it only seems natural that ministry should happen there and, when it does, when it really happens with and alongside people, beautiful things happen. Jesus is readily found on the streets.

Perhaps I feel differently about this because I grew up in a working class home in a deeply impoverished area of the country. Perhaps I simply find a cocktail party far more intimidating and foreign than talking to guys on the street. Certainly, I like that I can be fully myself there, something I can never do at a fancy party. I also admire the wisdom and courage of those who live on the edge in our country. Everything is stacked against them and still they survive and seek to thrive.

Perhaps I also feel differently about this because I am steeped in the story of a Galilean carpenter who was born among the underclass of Palestine and stayed there, dedicating his short life to preaching and eating with outcasts and nobodies. It is churches who have no room for the poor that seem to break the pattern set by our founder.

So, I work on the streets and alongside economic refugees because it brings me joy. It is not because I feel sorry for people (though their pain touches me deeply) or want to educate them or because it makes me feel noble and altruistic. It is because, when I walk away from a day of work, I feel I have received far more than I could ever give. And I have a faint feeling that I am walking in the footsteps of the prophet from Nazareth and living among his people.     

Pilgrim Tales

What is it about pilgrimage that draws us? Or draws me, at least? It has been a constant theme as I prepare for ministry. When I could no longer ignore my call and no longer find excuses, I decided to go on pilgrimage. In the ancient cathedrals and wind swept shores of northern England, I found without a doubt that I was called by God to ministry. In every carving and every call of the wild geese, I felt a fire burn in my bones I could no longer ignore. So I came back, finished school with no little difficulty, entered the Episcopal process for priesthood, moved across country, and entered seminary. Then, as seminary both deepened my knowledge and increased my questioning, I again was drawn back to the pilgrim way. From Boston toward a monastic house up north, I walked with members of the outdoor church I was ministering with. There, I did not hear any voices or feel the power of my first pilgrimage. I only felt, as I walked with people I loved, that I was in the exact place in the universe I was meant to be. I had no doubt I was called, not only to the thin places, but to the so called hard places. Only, working on the street didn’t seem hard to me—though it was heartbreaking—because it was also full of abundant joy.

In our time of upheaval and change, when everything seems to be in flux, pilgrimage and wandering are apt metaphors. In large numbers, people are moving from the global south north looking for work. More and more people are unemployed or underemployed, living from couch to couch or under bridges and in cars. People are on the move, searching and wandering and trying to survive.

I have done my share of wandering. I grew up in a stable, working class home, though not without its difficulties, but life since then has involved much wandering, as I search for home, for education, for ministry. But I have never experienced the terror and trauma of forced homelessness or crossing borders. As I work alongside people who have, they tell me how important the idea of pilgrimage is to them. I think of pilgrimage as a search for the divine and a search for our deepest selves. It is taking the time away from the hustle and bustle of mainstream society to listen. People who have wandered far and often know deeply what this means. And there is a dignity in being called pilgrims. Not “homeless” or “hobo” or “transient.” But pilgrim. Perhaps, for me, pilgrimage is a way of expressing solidarity with those who have nowhere to lay their heads.

Living by Faith

“Christ of the mysteries, can I trust you on the sea?” Prayer of St Brendan

Faith does not come easily to me. I would really prefer to see the road ahead of me and know how everything will work out. At this point in my life, however, I have decided to step out in faith and follow the call of God on my life. I have moved back to the Pacific Northwest and am looking for a place to settle. I am working with a group of Episcopalians starting an outdoor church ministry. I am in discussion with a few folks around forming intentional community in the Catholic Worker tradition. In all of this, I feel the wind of the Spirit blowing in my life.

Yet, there are always doubts. How do I explain a call to voluntary poverty to my friends and family? Am I too idealistic? Am I crazy to think that I can live differently in a world that expects consumerism, success, and the endless pursuit of an “American Dream”? Life would be so much easier if I just settled down in a more stable career, got settled, and then did some volunteer work that I really enjoy on the side.

Yet the Spirit, she calls me to a different life. Paul, the man of so many paradoxes, voices some of my longing; “I consider everything loss…I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of his suffering…” To know Christ, to experience the power of the risen Christ in my life, to meet Jesus on the streets and in the people around me, to find Jesus in the suffering of the world as we know it. To know the power of his resurrection, to find that there is a different way to live, a radical way that flies in the face of our current economic system, a way that shows the power of the resurrection and a new way of life. For each of us, this may look different. For me, it looks like the call of Jesus of Nazareth, who gave up all to live on the margins of human society and called us to do the same.

I have to admit that the thought of following this path scares me. A lot. After all, Jesus was crucified, Paul got his head chopped off. Things don’t always go so well for those who defy the way things are, the status quo. Even St Francis, who died peacefully in his bed, spent much of his life sick, probably from wandering around with no fixed income or housing. Sometimes I feel a little like Jeremiah, asking God why he couldn’t just live a normal life.

But then there is that fire Jeremiah also talks about, burning in my bones, keeping me restless for God. There is a longing to spend and be spent for the work of God and God’s kin-dom. I am not completely sure what this will look like for me. But I am following this way, one step at a time, hopeful that Jesus walks by my side. This path started years ago for me, on a pilgrim road in an ancient British monastery, and it continues now as I wander with God.