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Some Place to Go

Some Place to Go
 
It’s confession time: this past Monday I went to the church office, and there wasn’t any reason for me to go.  Everything I needed to do (and was able to do) could have been done from our apartment.  I knew other church members were taking care of the garden; I had been in touch with both the Scouts and Meals on Wheels; Wanda was checking the mail; all our onsite meetings and services are suspended for now.  St. Liz’s physical campus didn’t need me to go.  But on Monday, I showered, trimmed my beard, put on a nice shirt, and drove to Buda anyway.
 
As I’m writing this, it’s day ten (I think?) of going nowhere but the grocery store.  On Monday when I went to the office, Mayor Adler had not yet issued Austin’s shelter-in-place order, so my drive to Buda was technically aboveboard.  But the truth of the matter is that I just wanted some place to go.  I wanted to go to a place where I had to get ready to go beforehand.  I wanted some place to go that was somehow mine.  A place that asks of me that I have my shirt tucked in and a clean handkerchief in my pocket.
 
Many of us are missing the usual places we go.  Work (for some), to be sure, but also to friends’ houses, to visit family, to school for kids, to the nursing home to see our loved one, to gather as Church.  Some of us are having to miss being at a family member’s final bedside right now.
 
Each of us has within us a kind of homing instinct towards community, good work, places and people that feel like ours in some way.  When we are thwarted in our attempts to act on that instinct, we get restless, irritable, even depressed.  It’s the feeling of not being where we should be, as though we know that we are called to live and move and have our being elsewhere, but are unable to identify what that elsewhere is.  Or maybe we do know what that elsewhere is, but we are unable to pursue it tangibly, as so many of us are unable to do now.  Love wants to move and to be unhindered in its movement.
 
Of the thousands of pages St. Augustine wrote, perhaps his most famous line is from early on in his Confessions: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”
 
At the deepest level, each of us wants some place to go, some place that demands our careful preparation, some place to go that is ours to go to.  And we are restless until we abide there.
 
For Christians, that place has a name: Jesus Christ.  What a human life looks like when his or her heart reposes in God is Jesus.  A particular person, in a particular place and time, always and only living from the heart’s deep and loving repose in God.
 
The restlessness that we feel now, the sense of being cooped up, the longing to return to our usual orbits of work and nurture and relationship—whatever the particulars are for us, each is an icon of the human soul’s deep search for oneness with God in Jesus, that unshakeable repose for which we always search and to which we are always called.  Invited, even. 
 
Right now, many of us simply feel out of place.  Our rhythms are disrupted.  We are lonely; our efforts at rest or productivity seem thwarted before they even begin; we feel unable to be still because the future remains unrelentingly insecure. 
 
Maybe our task, then, is to discern how this time of feeling out of place can become a season of preparation to return more fully to the places we miss.  In other words, at best this time of being dispersed is a chance for so much beard trimming and folding of handkerchiefs.  At best, perhaps, we can try and get our hearts ready to go some place and call it ours.
 
Maybe.  At best.  Perhaps.  I use these words deliberately.  This is a pandemic, after all.  While it may present us with certain opportunities for growth and the revaluation of priorities which we may not otherwise undertake, at its most basic this is a time of self-isolation (for many, though not all) so as to prevent the spread of disease and to safeguard human life.  Economic, emotional, and relational distress are part of this picture even for those who are at no serious risk of life-threatening infection. 
 
The world for which we are restless is not a world where pandemics happen.  In a world where pandemics do happen, however, faithfulness might look like nothing more heroic or gratifying than staying home and trying to befriend our restlessness. 
 
Faithfulness today is what our responsibility is in this.  What happens after that is God’s prerogative.  I’ve talked to many of you these past couple weeks.  Many of us are a bit bored but otherwise doing fine.  Some of us, though, have anxieties of various kinds, not the least of which are job security, isolation, and a nagging sense that the normal world we love is gone.  Or at least that it’s far more fragile than we believed it to be.
 
I’m not sure that I believe ‘normal’ is actually gone in any permanent sense, but it can certainly feel that way.  Sometimes, if we commit to befriending our restlessness, we discover that what presents as restlessness is actually grief, the wound of having lost something.  Big or small, each of us is experiencing loss right now, even if those losses are temporary.  Relationships we rely on disrupted.  Money we need in jeopardy.  A long-awaited surgery yet again delayed.  Trying to hug our grandson through yet another Zoom meeting. 
 
Maybe faithfulness looks like naming honestly what we have lost.
 
Our particular losses are also icons of the human soul.  We each have a dim memory of Eden, which we have lost.  Each of us has an intuitive knowledge of what unfallen life with God is like, even though we’ve never experienced it.  When we see greed at work in the HEB line, or the fear driving us to purchase all the ammunition at Cabela’s, or the suggestion that something called “the economy” is more important than human life, we are confronted again with the fundamental loss—the fundamental fall—with which humanity lives: we do not live in the world for which we were made.
 
Grief is an appropriate response. 
 
That’s the kind of sentence after which one might try to turn towards something else.  A new image or idea or theological chestnut, maybe.  But the thing about grief in my experience is that the only way out is through.  Even if what is lost is only temporarily so.
 
So: what have you lost?  Maybe naming it is the first step towards that Some Place To Go we’re always looking for.
 
God’s Peace,
 
 
Fr. Daniel+
 

The Latest from Bishop Reed + Action Items for St. Liz

Earlier this week, Bishop Reed wrote to the diocese on how both we and the diocesan staff at the Bishop Jones Center will respond with love and responsibility to concerns about the Coronavirus.  We at St. Liz have already begun adapting our common life to our current environment.  Thus, there’s not much that is new for us.  The only change from this past Sunday is that, per Bishop Reed’s instructions, St. Liz will only hold Sunday worship online via Facebook and YouTube through the end of March; I will not be officiating Morning Prayer at our physical campus.  This will maintain at least through the end of March.
 
As I said in my video from Wednesday, my main concerns during this time of ‘Church dispersion’ are to continue our common life of prayer and worship as richly as possible and to make sure that the most vulnerable members of our congregation are cared for.  In other words, my concerns are the same as they always are: to help us love God and love our neighbor as fully as possible.  To that end, I have some action items for us:
 
*Tune in for Morning Prayer each Sunday!  Videos will be ready by 8:45am, and a PDF bulletin is included in this email.  Don’t forget to post a “Pass the Peace” selfie in the comments on Facebook if that’s how you’re watching.  And if not, text a selfie to somebody!
 
*Wanda Slater will be curating a weekly list of prayer requests, birthdays, and anniversaries.  I will read the birthday and anniversary names aloud during that portion of our service, and I will read the names of those on the prayer list at the appropriate time.  To respect privacy, I will only read first names; I will not read last names or the reasons for the prayer, nor will I include the name of the person who made the request.  To add a name, email Wanda at parishadmin@st-liz.org  We will do a new list each week.
 
*Pray.  If your household already has a daily prayer discipline, keep doing what you’re doing.  If not, I encourage your whole household to begin one.  A simple way to begin is to pray together each night a prayer on page 134 of the Book of Common Prayer, the prayer beginning “Keep watch, dear Lord….”  I encourage you to commit it to memory.  It is an old and beautiful prayer, taken from the writings of St. Augustine of Hippo.
 
*Once a day, reach out to someone from St. Liz or from your community.  Call your friends for a chat.  Facetime with them for a game of charades.  Make a beautiful card and mail it.  Watch the same movie on Netflix and then chat about it afterwards.  Emotional support and affection offered from afar are important.  Yes, physical caution is necessary to prevent the spread of disease right now, and yes, our creaturely needs like sleep and food and brushing our teeth continue like normal.  But a human person is not only a body:  she is a soul, a heart, a pilgrim spirit in search of companionship on the way.  It is in meeting these intangible needs that the Church is at our best.
 
*Finally, cultivate a little bit of silliness and beauty.  Build a fort.  Teach your dog to play dead.  Kids, do an impression of your mom or dad and put it online so we can see it.  (But ask your parents first.)  For my part, I’ve been recording songs and putting them on my personal Facebook page.  Not just church songs, but other favorites of mine and favorites of my friends.  It’s not much.  It’s just one way I’m trying to add a little leaven of beauty and joy and humor into what is usually a distressing media mix.
 
You remain in my prayers, and I trust that I remain in yours.  For the foreseeable future, in addition to our weekly email, you can expect online communication from me Wednesday evenings and on Sunday mornings for worship. 
 
See you for online Church this Sunday.
 
God’s Peace,
 
Fr. Daniel+
 

Coronavirus Update as of 3/13/2020

Coronavirus Update for Friday, March 13, 2020
 
Given recent cancellations by the City of Buda (and other bodies), and today’s declarations by Governor Abbott and President Trump, I no longer feel my last communication to our St. Liz family about the Coronavirus to be sufficient.  I wrote it Thursday morning, which now feels like a very long time ago.  I am writing with yet another update.
 
Barring unforeseen communications from the Bishop or from other authorities, here is our final answer for the remaining Sundays in March:
 
            *I will officiate and preach at a service of Morning Prayer at both 8:45am and 11am. 
This is primarily because I know this communication will not reach
everyone, and that in times of heightened anxiety, many who are not regular members of a faith community are led to seek the comfort of prayer and the proclamation of the Gospel.  I intend to keep our doors open on Sunday mornings for this eventuality.
           
*I will record a video of my leading Morning Prayer and preaching and post it as a
video on Facebook by 8:45am each Sunday morning.  You are encouraged to pray from home.
 
*We will not celebrate communion.
           
*All Sunday activities and ministries are suspended.  This includes
nursery, coffee hour, Children’s Chapel, Godly Play, Choir, Sunday School for adults, and Newcomers Class.
           
*We will not pass the Peace as this is not an intrinsic part of Morning Prayer.  An
alms basin will be available for offerings but we will not pass a basket.
           
*Our entire Sunday volunteer schedule (MSP) is suspended.  BC of the Day, Altar
Guild, Ushers, Greeters, Lectors, Intercessors, Verger, Children’s Chapel, Godly Play, Lay Eucharistic Visitors, coffee hour, etc.
 
This may sound like a lot.  You have heard me say before that St. Elizabeth runs on Holy Spirit and faithful volunteers.  I believe the above changes to be good ones precisely because of how faithful you are in your work, both in formal volunteer roles and relationally.  Suspending all volunteer work seems to me the only way to guarantee that the whole Body of Christ at St. Liz has the opportunity to rest in the midst of so much anxiety.   Your Bishop’s Committee and I are in agreement that these steps are in the best interest of our congregation.
 
Answers to other questions you may have:
 
            *I will handle pastoral issues, including home communion, on a case-by-case basis. 
Please be advised that some hospitals, nursing homes, and retirement communities have taken precautionary measures that may prevent my visiting in certain instances.
 
            *We will continue to pay all of our administrative, nursery, and housekeeping staff
at their usual rates so that none of them are financially burdened during this interruption of our usual community practices.
 
            *Tuesday Morning Prayer will not meet.
 
            *As of my last communication with them (this morning), Meals on Wheels will
continue uninterrupted in the Mission Hall.
 
*Our various Scout troops will cancel or continue events as they see fit and
will do their own communication.  I have asked them to confine themselves to the Mission Hall and to wipe all surfaces and door handles with disinfectant after their gatherings.
 
            *St. Liz is holding no official Life Groups for the remainder of March.  However, your
house is your house.  If you’d like folks to keep coming over, by all means invite them.
 
Thank you for your patience as we navigate this uncharted territory together.  I remain grateful for all that you do and all that you are.  While I do not welcome the Coronavirus or its interruption of our common life, I do pray that we have the grace to receive this as a great Hush from our Creator in the midst of our fevered lives.
 
I leave you with the words of the Psalmist (46:11-12):
 
                                    “Be still, then, and know that I am God;
                                                I will be exalted among the nations;
                                                I will be exalted in the earth.”
                                    The Lord of hosts is with us;
                                                the God of Jacob is our stronghold.
 
God’s Peace
 
 
Fr. Daniel+
 

Coronavirus Update

This morning I spoke with the Hays County Health Department epidemiologist.  As you can imagine, he’s been busy.  The good news is that there are currently zero Coronavirus cases confirmed in our immediate area.  While this is good news right now, we should be prepared to be extra responsible for the foreseeable future.  I’m writing with how we’re going to do that at St. Liz. 
 
Much is unchanged from my last communication:
 
  • If you’re sick, stay home!
  • Wash your hands thoroughly and often
  • Frequently and liberally use our many hand sanitizer dispensers
  • Continue to “Church” well 
 
A few things are changing, though.  Here are the details:
 
For the remaining Sundays in March…
 
1.) I am discontinuing the practice of intinction (dipping) at communion.  Sip, don’t dip.  Sipping is more sanitary than dipping, and receiving only the bread still ‘counts’ as communion. Sipping from the common cup involves a theoretical increase of risk for spreading disease, but in practice this risk is so low as to be undetectable.
 
2.) Given my observations of how difficult it can be for many of our children to sip carefully from the chalice, I am asking families with young and elementary aged children (5th grade and younger) to have their children receive the bread only.  I will communicate this to the kids myself this Sunday and subsequent Sundays in March.  At St. Liz we go out of our way to nurture and involve our children in all aspects of our common life, and I have no qualms about asking their help in caring for our wider congregation in this way until Coronavirus concerns have significantly decreased.
 
3.) We will pass the Peace verbally and with hand signals but without physical contact.  Thus far, I have reminded us that it is perfectly acceptable to bow or wave during the Peace and have asked us to respect each other’s boundaries in this regard.  However, to continue in this way puts the burden of maintaining firmer physical boundaries on the folks who want firmer boundaries, which is to say the burden is on those who are most concerned during a time of heightened anxiety.  I think we can be more loving than that.  Once folks are hanging out at coffee hour, or saying goodbye in the parking lot, folks are going to do what folks are going to do.  I realize and respect that and am not at all trying to micromanage all the ways we interact as Church.  But the liturgy is different.  As our Godly Play leaders remind the kids, and as I remind the kids before we set the Learning Altar, the work we are doing is special, and our bodies have to be ready.  Right now, while concerns and risk are higher than usual, a ready body is one willing to love his or her neighbor from a bit more distance than we might usually like.
 
That’s a look at what is changing for the next few weeks.  Here are some things that are not changing:
 
  • We will continue to hold all our Sunday morning services and Tuesday Morning Prayer. 
  • Newcomers Class will continue. 
  • We have Lay Eucharistic Visitors who are ready and waiting to visit those unable to make it to worship.
  •  Godly Play will continue. 
  • Our new Children’s Chapel Choir Experiment will still begin this Sunday during the 11am service. 
  • As of this writing, there are no changes to our Holy Week or Easter schedules. 
  • Deacon Thom’s Sunday School class will continue.  (He was always planning to be away on March 22, though.) 
  • Life Groups will continue.  If any Life Groups feel the need to change how, where, or when they gather, I am happy to assist if I’m able, but I trust hosts and leaders to have those conversations with the members of each particular group. 
  • And as always, we will continue to be smart, calm lovers of God and His Church!
 
Finally, I am available if you’ve concerns or need to talk.  You remain in my prayers, and I ask that you add to your own prayers the many medical and public health professionals who are burning the midnight oil on our behalf.
 
God’s Peace,
 

Fr. Daniel+

The Heartbeat of Our Souls

In our faithful observance of Lent, we are invited into a season of “self-examination and repentance; by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and meditating on God’s holy word” (from the Liturgy for Ash Wednesday, BCP, p. 265). In his post last week, Father Daniel commended two specific practices for us to consider in our Lenten observances this year: the use of the rite of Reconciliation of a Penitent (sometimes called “Confession”), and incorporating the Psalms into our prayer life. I’ll be writing here about the latter. Building on Father Daniel’s helpful guidance of using the day-of-the-month tags (which are sprinkled conveniently throughout the Psalter as it appears in our prayer book) that link particular psalms to either Morning Prayer or Evening Prayer, I’d like to suggest that engaging in such a rhythm echoes the one that naturally beats at the center of our being. For prayer has always been the heartbeat of our souls, just as the Psalms have long been at the heart of prayer.
            The Psalms themselves might be thought of as a heartbeat, moving often from laments or woes that constrict, to ebullient praise and expansive worship—not unlike the way our heart contracts and expands, thus sustaining our body. In fact, the Hebrew word for “heart” pulses throughout the Psalms, occurring more than a hundred times in the Psalter—and nearly a thousand times throughout the Bible! There are, of course, plenty of instances when that word in the Hebrew Scriptures is meant simply to signify the internal (if excitable) organ, such as the prophet’s “wildly beating heart” in Jeremiah (4:19). But in the overwhelming majority of its biblical occurrences, the heart implies something distinctly more than the blood-pumping machine with which we associate the word today.
            The biblical heart represents the human person in our entirety and, especially, in relationship to God. In all of these instances, the heart is seen to represent not only the totality of the human person, but the location where we experience union with the divine nature. As Paul wrote to the church in Galatia: “God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts” (Galatians 4:6), or in other words, our very being. Similarly, Paul prays that Christ may dwell not in the minds of the Ephesians but in their hearts through faith (3:17). So too did the mystic and monk John Climacus note in the sixth century that when the psalmist sang “I cried out with all my heart” (Psalm 118:145), the psalmist was referring not only to the bodily organ, but also to the soul and spirit.
            While the contemporary heart has come to be most closely associated figuratively with the emotions—and love in particular—it originally represented something much more expansive and integrative than that. The biblical heart not only felt but also listened, thought, reasoned and instructed. Saint Augustine couldn’t help but speak of the heart in metaphorical terms; he referred to this central organ of belief more than two hundred times in his Confessions, beginning with one of the most beautiful and still-resonant lines in the language of faith: “our heart is restless, O God, until it rests in You.” Thus, Augustine not only placed the heart at the very center of our soul’s longing, he identified its ultimate source and destination: our hearts always have and always will belong to God.
            I fear we’ve lost much of this notion of the heart today—except, that is, in our prayer life, where it still makes sense that our hearts not only pump blood, but also think and know and hope and feel deeply. The psalmists surely knew this; for them our hearts could not only beat but also leap for joy, or melt like wax, or sing with gladness. While the Psalms are surely poems and hymns, they are unlike any other poetry we know. They do not rhyme sounds and syllables that only our ears and minds can discern, so much as images and ideas that only make sense in the chambers of the muscle that beats in the center of our being, where our hearts can rhyme with a deer longing for water in the desert.
            Part of my daily prayer practice is to lift my heart up to God. (We all do something similar each Sunday at the beginning of the Eucharistic Prayer when Father Daniel says, “Lift up your hearts” and we respond joyfully, “We lift them up to the Lord!”). In my personal practice, I ask God to “make my heart beat to your rhythm”, and pray that my heart might somehow rhyme with the magnificent muscle at the center of Jesus’ being. To be honest, though, when I lift my heart up to God in my daily prayers, it isn’t always joyful; sometimes I lift up a troubled heart; other times a thankful one, and still others a contrite and repentant heart. And therein lies the bewildering and bewondering beauty that brings me to my knees to begin with. Because whatever is on our hearts when we lift them up to God, the Maker of our hearts reaches out to receive them, gathers up all that we offer, and holds it all tenderly in God’s own wide heart of mercy. Because not only does God already know what is on our hearts before we lift them up; God knows each and every one of us by heart.  
            This past week in our adult Sunday School, in which we are making our way through the Psalms, we paid particular attention to the blessedness of confession and the forgiveness of one who repents. This coming Sunday we will spend some time with the contrite and repentant heart of David, someone after God’s own heart, as he pours out his particularly Lenten remorse: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10). As you proceed in making and keeping a holy Lent this season, I pray that the Psalms at the heart of our Scripture and Book of Common Prayer might somehow inspire your prayer life. Please know that you are always welcome to drop in to the Psalms study class that meets every Sunday between the two services.
            You don’t need to bring anything other than your God-given and beautiful heart!
            In Christ’s Love,
            Deacon Thom
 
 

Lenten Resources: Psalter + Confession

A blessed Lent to you and yours.  Today, I want to offer one idea for a possible Lenten discipline using the Psalms, and call your attention to a sacramental spiritual tool the Episcopal Church offers: the Reconciliation of a Penitent, what we commonly call Confession.
 
First, an idea for a Lenten discipline: read the Psalms.  This is a good and ancient practice in its own right, but this year, as I mentioned at our Ash Wednesday service, the Psalms are also the book of the bible Bishop Reed has invited us to study.
 
We’re giving special attention to the Psalms in two ways at St. Liz.  First, our deacon and seminarian, Thom, is leading an adult Sunday School class on the Psalms right now.  It’s in the Mission Hall, in between Sunday services, the same time as Godly Play so the kids have somewhere to go, too.  Thom is a gifted and insightful teacher; I commend his class to you.  Thom will be away on March 22, but otherwise his class should continue through the spring.
 
Another way we’re attending carefully to the Psalms at St. Liz is by singing them on Sunday mornings.  Christians have been singing the Psalms for centuries, letting the weight of the melody sink the words deeply into our memories. 
 
But you can pray the Psalms on your own, too.  The Book of Common Prayer encourages this.  If you follow the Daily Office lectionary, you’re already praying Psalms morning and evening.  If you’re not, however, there’s an even simpler way.  (Granted, being simpler to use than the Daily Office lectionary isn’t saying much!)
 
Turn to page 785 in your Book of Common Prayer.  You’ll notice that right above Psalm 132, it says “Twenty-eighth Day: Morning Prayer.”  All through the Psalter in the BCP, there are little tags like this.  The idea is simple: in the morning of the 28th day of a month, you start reading the Psalms right there, and you keep reading until you see “Twenty-eighth Day: Evening Prayer.”  Once you get to the tag for evening of the 28th day, you stop.  That evening you pick up your BCP again and start reading the Psalms where you left off, and you keep reading until you see “Twenty-ninth Day: Morning Prayer.”
 
I start on page 785 because most of us get this newsletter on a Friday morning, and this Friday is February 28th.  So, if you were to start today, you would start on page 785 and read Psalms 132-135 this morning.  Then, Friday evening, you’d read Psalm 136-138.  Then on Saturday morning of February 29th, you’d read Psalms 139-140.  On March 1st, you go back to the beginning of the Psalter.  And so on.
 
It’s easy, and you can start and stop as you need.  All you need to know is what day of the month it is, and then go find either the morning or evening Psalms.  Done!
 
Second, I want to call your attention to a lesser used sacramental rite of the Episcopal Church: the Reconciliation of a Penitent, or what we usually call “Confession.” 
 
You may be wondering, “Wait, don’t we confess our sins every week?”  Yes.  The words are familiar.  The deacon or priest says, “Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor,” and then we begin, “Most merciful God…”
 
These words are part of our general confession, designed to be used together, week in and week out.  The words we use to confess on Sundays are deliberately broad—“in thought, word, and deed”—and because we’re all saying them together, this general confession offers us a kind of personable anonymity.  All this is as it should be for public worship. 
 
Even though our Sunday confession is general, none of us actually sins in general, but with specificity.  It is that coworker against whom I passively scheme.  It is this marriage in which I have been a negligent spouse.  It is that night all those years ago which still I cannot help but call to mind.
 
Because this is true, and because sometimes our specific sins continue to haunt us no matter how many general confessions we make on Sundays, in the Episcopal Church we have the sacramental rite of Reconciliation of a Penitent.  In this rite, one confesses his or her sin or sins out loud to a priest.  There is no anonymous crowd in which to let one’s voice become part of a multitude.  When we seek the sacramental rite of Reconciliation of a Penitent, we hear ourselves own what we have done, out loud, and we do so in front of another person.  He or she may offer counsel and encouragement, suggest a tangible form of penitence or thanksgiving, or (in extreme cases) temporarily withhold absolution until necessary actions are taken. 
 
In the confessions I have heard, I have done a great deal of counseling and encouraging, some suggesting of penitential practices (usually to repair relationships), and never withheld absolution until certain actions have been taken.
 
I usually make my own confession in the days before Lent and (some years) in the days before Advent, as well.  Both are seasons of preparation, of getting our soul’s house in order, and Lent in particular is a season of penitence.  Going to confession is part and parcel of that for me.  I made my confession on Monday of this past week.  It was long overdue, and I felt more at home in my life afterwards.
 
I rarely feel as exposed as I do when I’m making my confession.  This is why the Book of Common Prayer describes the rite in this way:
 
“The content of a confession is not normally a matter of subsequent discussion.  The secrecy of a confession is morally absolute for the confessor [i.e. the priest], and must under no circumstances be broken.” (pg. 446)
 
When my confessor hears my confession, not only is the confidentially morally absolute for him as he goes about the rest of his week and has conversations with others, but he also does not bring it up to me again.  If he sees me the next week, he doesn’t say, “So, how are you doing with the you know what we talked about the other day?”  When absolution is declared, the sins really are absolved.  A new page is turned.  We are not confronted with them again; they are forgiven.
 
I offer all of this as a resource, not as a prescription.  The rite of Reconciliation of a Penitent is in the Book of Common Prayer, with a description on page 446 and the rite itself beginning on page 447.  You are welcome to read it.  You’ll notice that there are two forms, one on page 447 and one on page 449.  There are some historical reasons for having two forms, but practically speaking, Form One can be better for very specific sins one wishes to confess.  Form Two can be better when one needs more space for talking.  This can be good if the confession is part of a significant conversion or change of life for the Penitent, or if the Penitent desires to confess a great deal about a portion of his or her life, or if the Penitent lacks the virtue of concision (like me) and is simply more comfortable with talking a lot.
 
A confession can be heard anywhere that is private.  At St. Liz, I usually close the church for a brief time and hear them inside the altar rail.  The priest usually sits, and the person confessing can either sit or kneel.
 
Finally, the Reconciliation of a Penitent isn’t limited to Lent; it’s always available.  If ever you are interested, simply reach out, and we’ll set up a time.
 
God’s Peace,
 
Daniel+
 

A Resolution at Diocesan Council + the Different Kinds of Bishops

Diocesan Council is in Corpus Christi this weekend, and there’s a significant resolution coming up for a vote.  Resolution 2020-1, if approved, would empower Bishop Reed to appoint an Assistant Bishop for a period not to exceed three years.  You can find the official wording of the resolution at this link.  This resolution is a good idea, and I have encouraged our delegates (Will Piferrer and Lisa Sartorio, with Julie Warfield as our alternate) to vote in support.  I want to say briefly what this resolution does and why it is a good idea, and then highlight the technical distinctions this resolution makes.
 
In simplest terms, this resolution would allow Bishop Reed to get some ongoing, regular help from a second bishop, and it would allow this to happen quickly and efficiently.  The Episcopal Diocese of West Texas needs two bishops.  We cover sixty counties and about 69,000 square miles of territory.  Furthermore, we have eighty-seven distinct worshipping communities of various kinds, and that each should receive an annual episcopal visit (i.e. a visit from the bishop) is to be desired.  Given all the other responsibilities bishops have in addition to confirmation visits and the like, two bishops is a good idea for us.
 
Now, there are a few ways a diocese can have multiple bishops, and this brings us into the technical ‘Episcopal speak.’  There are five kinds of bishops our diocese has had in recent memory: Diocesan, Coadjutor, Suffragan, Assisting, and Assistant.  The first three are elected; the last two are appointed.  In what remains here, I’m going to highlight the practical distinctions amongst these roles.
 
The first is the Diocesan Bishop.  This is what Bishop Reed is for us.  The Diocesan Bishop is the top of the diocesan pyramid, so to speak.  Diocesan bishops are elected by a Diocesan Council—including lay and clergy delegates—and once elected have far-reaching authority.  A priest may be elected to become a Diocesan Bishop, or a diocese may elect someone who is already a bishop (a Suffragan or Assistant from another diocese, for example). 
 
The second kind of elected bishop is a Bishop Coadjutor.  When someone is elected Bishop Coadjutor, he or she is elected to work alongside the current Diocesan Bishop until he or she retires, at which point—and this is the key—the Coadjutor becomes the Diocesan.  (Thus, one is usually a Bishop Coadjutor for only a year or two, and sometimes even less.)  Bishop Reed, for example was elected as Coadjutor before the Rt. Rev. Gary Lillibridge retired.  A priest may be elected to become a Bishop Coadjutor, or a diocese may elect someone who is already a bishop.  Bishop Reed, for example, was our Bishop Suffragan at the time of his election as Coadjutor.
 
The third kind of elected bishop is a Bishop Suffragan.  This is what Bishop Brooke-Davidson was for us.  The Bishop Suffragan is elected by a Diocesan Council, but once elected does not exercise quite the same level of authority as the Diocesan Bishop, though he or she will likely have numerous areas of oversight in a diocese and outranks all diocesan clergy but the Diocesan.  A key distinction here is that, because a Bishop Suffragan is elected by the diocese, his or her tenure as Bishop Suffragan is not tied to that of the Diocesan Bishop.  So if the Diocesan Bishop retires, the Bishop Suffragan continues as a Suffragan: he or she does not have to step down, and neither does he or she automatically become the Diocesan.  A priest may be elected to become a Bishop Suffragan, or a diocese may elect someone who is already a bishop elsewhere.
 
This brings us to bishops who are not elected, but appointed by the Diocesan (or acting ecclesiastical authority).  The first of these is an Assisting Bishop.  An Assisting Bishop is appointed to help with confirmations and the like in a mostly ‘as-needed’ basis and is already a consecrated bishop.  The Diocesan Bishop does not appoint a priest, who is then consecrated, to fill this role.  As noted in the link above, when Bishop Reed sends Bishop Folts (retired of our diocese) to do a confirmation, Bishop Folts serves in this role.  Assisting Bishops are usually retired.
 
The final kind of bishop, and the one which is relevant for Council this year, is an Assistant Bishop.  An Assistant Bishop is appointed but usually serves in a more regular and fulltime capacity than an Assisting Bishop would.  An Assistant Bishop is already a bishop at the time of his or her appointment; the Diocesan does not appoint a priest, who is then consecrated, to fill this role.  Because an Assistant Bishop is appointed and not elected by the whole diocese, an Assistant Bishop’s tenure is tied to the tenure of the bishop who appointed him or her.  So: if the Diocesan Bishop retires or steps down for some reason, any Assistant Bishops the Diocesan appointed must also step down.  Bishop Brooke-Davidson now serves as an Assistant Bishop role in the Diocese of Virginia.
 
The resolution at Council this weekend would allow Bishop Reed to appoint an Assistant Bishop to serve for a period not to exceed three years.  If Bishop Reed were to retire or step down for any reason before that three years expired, the Assistant Bishop would also have to step down.  If the resolution passes, Bishop Reed could appoint a retired bishop in our area, or a bishop from another diocese, to serve as our Assistant Bishop.  The key is that no priests in our diocese will become bishops by virtue of this resolution, should it pass.  Bishop Reed would appoint someone who is already a bishop. 
 
The downside of this resolution is that the diocese as a whole does not get a say in who the Assistant Bishop is.  The upside, however, is stronger: this saves us from having another election, which would be taxing on time, energy, and finances.  A bishop election tends to take over the diocese while it is going on.  We’ve had two elections (Bp Reed’s and Bp Brooke-Davidson’s) in recent years, and waiting a while before holding another seems to me to be wise.  Let’s just try being Church for a while.
 
One final thing to note is that the Standing Committee is fully supportive of Bishop Reed’s appointing an Assistant Bishop.  The Standing Committee is sort of like our Bishop’s Committee, but for the whole diocese.  Again, I think this resolution is a good move for us as a diocese right now, and I have encouraged our delegates to vote in support.
 
God’s Peace,
 
 
Fr. Daniel+
 

Why We Recoil from Religious Speech that is Reckless and Unkind

A great many of us know what it feels like to hear a fellow Christian say something about God or the Christian life or Christian morality that seems to us deeply misguided, insensitive, or just plain wrong.  We usually experience this discomfort at a gut-level: our reaction is intuitive and instinctual, and after the fact we might put some language on why the utterance was troublesome.  Sometimes, however, we come up blank with this second round of reflection.  It just felt wrong, but we’re not sure why.  Today, I want to walk through one recent instance of an utterance by a Christian leader that felt wrong to many.  In so doing I want to suggest that our instinctive recoiling can be a sign that the utterance lacks grace and is therefore untrue.
 
First, the instance in question.  During a sermon from her City of Destiny Church in Apopka, Florida earlier in January, Spiritual Adviser to the President Paula White-Cain used the following words:
 
In the name of Jesus, we command all satanic pregnancies to miscarry right now.  We declare that anything that’s been conceived in satanic wombs that it’ll miscarry, it will not be able to carry forth any plan of destruction, any plan of harm.
 
You can see a video of this segment here (including the predictable variety of responses).  This link to a Concordia University professor’s Twitter feed has some short reflections on Paula White-Cain’s prayer, as well, including reference to other Christian voices speaking from a similar perspective.
 
There are three interrelated problems here.  One pastoral, one exegetical, and one theological.
 
The pastoral problem is most quickly named, for this is the one that rubs most of us the wrong way.  To command miscarriage in the name of Jesus (or in any other name, for that matter) is reckless to the point of cruelty, even if the language of miscarriage is intended metaphorically.  To use miscarriage metaphorically in this way is to value one’s poetic license above the actual experiences of those for whom one is responsible.
 
Paula White-Cain gave her sermon on January 5th.  Since that time, statistically speaking, someone in the United States who trusts her ministry and preaching has suffered a miscarriage, and because of this trust this person is now perhaps haunted by the phrases “satanic pregnancy” and “satanic womb.”  Is her miscarriage the result of Paula White-Cain’s prayer?  Has the metaphor become literal?  These are the kinds of doubts no one should ever suffer.  To preach like this abrogates the pastoral responsibility of the preacher to her congregation.
 
The second problem is exegetical.  Exegesis is what preachers do with a text of scripture: to exegete is to unpack, explain, pull meaning from.  Paula White-Cain has responded to criticism of her sermon with the following:
 
I was praying Eph 6:12 that we wrestle not against flesh and blood. Anything that has been conceived by demonic plans, for it to be cancelled and not prevail in your life….That is- any plans to hurt people.
 
She is certainly in good company using the language of spiritual struggle against demonic forces.  This language is all over the New Testament, and though it makes many contemporary Christians uncomfortable, it is an orthodox and viable metaphorical scheme through which to pray, preach, and otherwise communicate the gospel.  Furthermore, we find this spiritual warfare trope in Ephesians, particularly in the “full armor of God” passage in which we find Eph. 6.
 
The exegetical problem arises precisely in Paula White-Cain’s defending her words by linking them to Eph. 6:12.  Nowhere in any part of Ephesians does St. Paul make use of pregnancy or miscarriage as metaphors.  There’s language about walls coming down, husbands and wives, children obeying parents, armor, warfare, adoption—any number of evocative images.  But pregnancy and miscarriage aren’t among them.[1]  If the goal is to pray for the foiling of demonic plans, her chosen text has resources to facilitate such a prayer, but it does not support “satanic pregnancy” and the like.
 
The third problem is theological.  While the images of spiritual warfare are all over the New Testament, this does not mean that the two sides of this conflict are equal, or that they have the same ‘weapons’ available to them.  The battle is won; Christ has banished the infernal legions (Mark 5); and by his death he has destroyed the one who has the power of death, that is the devil (Heb. 2:14).  This is not to say that we do not struggle with sin; nor is it to say that we cannot articulate this struggle by using “satan” and “demon” language.
 
But again, the battle is over and the victory is won.  Why?  Because Jesus Christ became incarnate by the Virgin Mary, lived and died as one of us, and on the third day God raised him from the dead.  It is by Mary’s real human pregnancy, by the real human birth of this child from Nazareth from a real human womb that God began his overthrow of the spiritual forces of darkness.
 
The metaphor of satanic pregnancy suggests that the spiritual forces of darkness have a potency equal to God’s: that they, too, could somehow try to ‘re-invade’ the earth in a way that is like the birth of Jesus, i.e. via ‘satanic’ pregnancy instead of Mary’s.  But this would be to say that the spiritual forces of darkness have strength and means akin to God’s. 
 
They do not.  To suggest otherwise is not a Christian worldview; it is functionally dualist.  I say ‘functionally’ because Paula White-Cain does say that the blood of Jesus is ‘superior,’ but this is akin to my proclaiming vegetarianism while eating a cheeseburger.  Even if the language of satanic pregnancy is metaphorical—and again, this defense is slim given that Ephesians lacks this metaphor entirely—the thought-world inaugurated by the metaphor is one in which demonic forces can generate life as God does.  Thus, this metaphor is one that attributes to demons power akin to God’s.  This is decidedly outside Christian orthodoxy. 
 
Taken together, these three problems show a connection between the insensitivity of religious language and its theological falsehood.  The case in question also suggests that where we find these two, we are likely to find a third: the misrepresentation of scripture.  This is not surprising because, for the Church, scripture is nothing if it not a truthful collection of religious language.
 
Based on this evidence, it seems that when we recoil from a religious utterance that is reckless and unkind, it is worth considering whether our reaction is symptomatic of the statement’s falsehood.  I want to be clear: we cannot diagnose a simple causal link between the two, as though what makes me uneasy must necessarily be a lie.  This would be to make my own individual sensibility the final arbiter of the truth, which is dangerous.  But for Christians, a correlation does exist between religious language that is reckless or mean and falsehood.  We might say a correlation exists between religious language that is mean or reckless and religious language that is unorthodox.
 
Why might this be?  The task of the theologian—whether a preacher, an academic, or a churchgoer helping a friend through difficulty—is to articulate what God’s relationship to the world and its creatures is like.  “God is love” we read in scripture (1 John 4:8), and God’s loving relationship to the world has a name: Jesus Christ, whom God sent into the world because He loved the world (John 3:16). 
 
Yet this Jesus is also the truth (John 14:6).  We see here, then, that for the Christian theologian of any stripe, truth and love inhere in the same person.  When religious speech lacks one of these, what we are hearing is not the Word of God.  We recoil.
 
In Ephesians, St. Paul writes that our language must be “only what is useful for building up, as there is need, so that [our] words may give grace to those who hear” (4:29).  We recoil when we hear preachers use phrases like “satanic pregnancies,” “satanic wombs,” and the command to miscarry in the name of Jesus because there is no grace in them.  We should not be surprised to find them riddled with exegetical and theological problems, as well. 
 
God’s Peace,
 
 
Fr. Daniel+
 
[1] In preparing this piece, I went looking for “satanic pregnancies” in the New Testament.  I reread Revelation 17-18, which features the infamous “whore of Babylon” image, the woman seated upon the waters who fornicates with the kings of the earth.  There’s fornication, and a reference to her being the mother of earth’s abominations (17:5).  We are much closer to “satanic pregnancies” here, but Revelation goes to great pains to make it clear that this woman is actually a city (17:18).  With all the references to “merchants” and “luxury” (18:3 and 18:7), it seems clear that what the author has in view is greed and other systematic injustices, primarily (but not exclusively) economic.  Thus, even in the context of Revelation we would be obliged to conclude that “satanic pregnancy” and the command of a spiritual miscarriage are dubious images to choose because the “abominations” are already here in the form of violence and economic injustice; we’re not waiting on them to be born.

An Invitation to Altar Work

I’d like you to meet me at the altar on Saturday, February 15th at 2pm.  We’re going to learn how to be at the altar, how to handle the objects that go on it, what their names are.  Everyone, of all ages and of all experience levels, is invited.
 
When we put something on the altar, it changes.  A placemat becomes a corporal.  A cup becomes a chalice.  A plate becomes a paten.  An odd piece of stiffened white linen becomes a pall.  Bread and wine become body and blood.
 
All these funny church words serve to remind us of a basic truth: the altar is the place where we meet Jesus, and when we meet Jesus, things change.  We change.  The presence of Christ involves a kind of translation: when we are with Christ, we are in a new kingdom.  We cross a kind of border.  We learn new words in this strange new country where bread and body and even we are somehow different.
 
This is one of the themes we’re practicing with our Learning Altar, or Low Altar, at the 8:45am service.  It’s simple: we step onto our big blue rug like we’re stepping into a new country.  We learn the names of the objects that go on the altar.  We learn to handle them, and we place them where they go.  The prayerful simplicity of this work gets our hearts ready to receive Jesus even as our bodies prepare the physical space where we will meet Him through sacrament.  We receive God’s presence as a little child does, because that’s really the only way to receive it (Mark 10:15).
 
When we learn to handle the altar objects and learn their names, we are learning to be at home at the altar.  It’s a way of learning to be comfortable at church, which is to say that this is a way of letting St. Liz becoming ours.  The chores we do taking care of the altar are like setting the table at home: we handle the objects, we place them where they go, we keep them clean, we learn their names.  Corporal, paten, chalice.  Placemat, plate, cup. 
 
We do this in honor of God and on behalf of our sisters and brothers.  Furthermore, this is the kind of work that is necessary.  Sunday worship cannot happen without the altar work getting done.  We cannot eat unless the table is set.
 
I’m inviting you to learn how to do this altar work, but showing up does not oblige you to anything.  We’re gathering to learn the names of things, how they go together, how to handle them.  I hope you’ll come.  Saturday, February 15th at 2pm.
 
God’s Peace,
 
Fr. Daniel+
 
As the deer longs for the water-brooks,
so longs my soul for you, O God

                                     —Psalm 42:1

St. Elizabeth Adult Sunday School to Resume February 2, 2020
 
            In my brief time here in Texas, I have come to respect the mighty power of water. We notice its absence in times of drought, and delight in its liquid mercy when it falls like grace from the skies. Unless, of course, it comes as a sudden downpour, the likes of which I’ve only seen here in the Lone Star State. Water can quench or inundate; it can relieve, rejuvenate, sustain or challenge. The Edwards Aquifer yields gallons of water for the millions of taps and faucets in the greater Austin area, while Barton Springs steadfastly offers a refreshingly cold splash even in the longest stretch of a triple-digit heat wave. And then there’s the river that winds its way through Buda—the Onion Creek—reputedly the longest creek in Texas at nearly sixty miles long, and whose banks provided dreams of hope and home and new beginning to formerly enslaved African Americans after the Civil War. Or the peaceful holiday waters of Ladybird Lake, with its kayakers and paddle-boarders; or even the troubled waters of the Rio Grande.
            I don’t know exactly what I was imagining, but the first time this Northerner caught a glimpse of that borderland river up close it didn’t look at all like I had pictured it in my mind. The river gently rippled opaline before me, obeying the laws of the universe and wending its way surely home to the sea. A breeze whispered the tall grasses along the bankside; a man groomed and exercised his horses nearby, eventually bringing them to the river to water them. Indeed, if it were not for the constant reminder of the Customs and Border Protection vehicle that sat idling nearby the entire time I was there, I might even have considered the bend in the river where I stood a place of tranquility and calm.
            Whatever side of that river you’re on, there is an ocean of emotion surrounding it. Though the river is a place of hopefulness, aspiration, and liberation—and even beauty—it is also a place of anger, fear, frustration, outrage and trepidation. If the river has a song (as most rivers do if you listen closely), it would surely be the gut-wrenching, God-praising hymnbook we call the Psalter. The Psalms, like the river, overflow with human emotion—with anguish, lament, and despair, as well as joyful praise and thanksgiving. And they wend their way not only through the Holy Scriptures and our Prayer Book, but also down through the ages to us here and now. Remarkable in their raw honesty and tender intimacy, the Psalms reflect the full spectrum of human emotion and human response to a life of faith—from the anguish expressed in the cry: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” (22:1), to the ecstatic praise and thanksgiving in the ebullient call: “Let the rivers clap their hands, and let the hills ring out with joy before the Lord” (98:9). In periods of our own spiritual drought or doubt, not only can the poetic language of the Psalms still help and comfort; when we pray them, we also become tributaries joining a long river of faithful doubters and believers who have prayed them before us. Part poetry, part hymn, the Psalms are far more, though, than simply musical or literary forms to those who pray them. Like the river, they sustain; they are daily bread.
Beginning February 2, adult Sunday school will resume at St. Liz, meeting from 9:45-10:45 in between our two services. For the next few months we will dip our toes into the ancient waters of the Psalter, and wade into that great river of prayer so foundational to our faith. Whether you stick around after the early service, or come early before the later service; come for one or some or all of the classes, I hope you’ll join me in this adventure in exploring together the depths of the Book of Psalms.

Faithfully,
Thom
 
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