Later this week (Wednesday), we observe the feast of St. Martin. I love the guy. He’s the patron saint of the first church in which I served, St. Martin’s in Providence, Rhode Island, a great place. When I arrived, I discovered that the symbol of St. Martin is a goose. There were renderings of geese and references to geese all over the place. It didn’t strike me as the most noble mascot, but I went with the symbolism, new priest and all. But why a goose?

Martin, a priest, was elected bishop and didn’t want to be a bishop. Perhaps a measure of his wisdom, but that’s another topic. (Bishops, what do you think?) Upon election, Martin hid from the folks who wanted him to take the job. He hid in a barn, seemingly a good idea, except the honking of the geese in aforementioned barn gave away his hiding place. Next thing you know, he’s wearing a mitre.

That story endears Martin to me. It’s one in a series of stories in the Bible and in our tradition in which people are called by God and wonder if the call is a wrong number. Who me? Why me? You’ve got the wrong person, O Holy One. I’ve felt that way from time to time. Have you?

More about Martin. A patron saint of France, he was born in 330 in what is now Hungary. His early years were spent in Italy. After service in the Roman army, he settled in Poitiers, whose bishop, Hilary, he admired. According to legend, while Martin was still a catechumen, he was approached by a poor man who asked for alms in the name of Christ. Martin, drawing his sword, cut off part of his military cloak and gave it to the beggar. On the following night, Jesus appeared to Martin, clothed in half a cloak, and said to him, “Martin, a simple catechumen, covered me with his garment.” As a legend, the story may or may not be true. But if it’s not true, it ought to be.

That story endears me to Martin further. It reminds me of the parable of the sheep and goats (Matthew 25), in which Jesus commends those who help those in need, noting that such help is the way to meet Christ. It’s a principle reflected in the baptismal promises which call us to seek and serve Christ in all persons. All of them. And we all know that Christ can often come very well disguised. (Perhaps a good thing to recall in the wake of a particularly divisive election season.)

Martin, a rich young man, a person of means and influence, met and served Christ in this encounter. That’s why the gospel reading chosen for his day (see above) features a rich young man challenged to share what he had. The young man in the gospel chose a different path. He seems pretty clear that Jesus’ call is a wrong number. He goes away, sad. And it seems Jesus is sad too, according to accounts in other gospels. The young man’s refusal causes Jesus to offer the image of a camel going through the eye of a needle. It’s a tough passage for those attached to riches to enter the kingdom of God. It’s to let go. It’s tough for any of us who in terms of global poverty are wealthy. Is there hope for any of us?

Thanks be to God, the story doesn’t end there. Jesus says that with God, all things are possible. So with the help of this young man, and with the witness of St. Martin, let’s consider what is possible. That possibility will unfold as we take our cue from St. Martin this week. How are you being called? Do you wonder if that call is a wrong number? If there were a barn nearby, would you go hide there to escape the call? More specifically, where is God calling you to address the needs of our world, so evident in our considerable coincident crises? Who will you encounter, calling you to share what you have? How will you respond?

Take Martin’s witness to this possibility, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll meet Christ in the process.

-Jay Sidebotham

Please continue in this season of prayer for an election.  Learn more at www.forwardmovement.org/election.

Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org

Starting tomorrow, the office of the Presiding Bishop and Forward Movement offer nine days: A season of prayer for an election. Learn more at www.forwardmovement.org/election.

Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org

Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org

O Lord, give me patience and give it to me now.

I confess that has sometimes been the gist of my prayer (a variation on Augustine’s prayer: Give me chastity, but not yet). Patience has been on my mind lately. Maybe yours as well.

These days, each morning I’m reading through the book of the Acts of the Apostles. I noticed this throw-away line. Towards the end of the book, Paul has been arrested in Jerusalem. He awaits a hearing, first with the local authorities and ultimately with Caesar in Rome. He has a hearing with one guy, who listens for a bit, seems to get bored and sends Paul away. It says Paul was sent away to prison for two years before the second hearing was held. Two years. How did he deal with that time of waiting? Didn’t God realize there was important missionary work to be done?

The story of Moses in the book of Exodus tells us that after Moses had to flee Egypt, he went into the wilderness where he became a shepherd. A throw-away line tells us that he did that for forty years. I find myself wondering what Moses was thinking. What am I doing with this ancient near eastern ivy league education, hanging out for forty years, looking after livestock? Then one day he turned aside to converse with a burning bush. But not until the time was right.

Early in the gospel of Luke, we meet Simeon and Anna, two senior citizens who spent their lives in the temple, waiting to see the Messiah, waiting to see how God would act. Faithfully waiting. It sounds like they would have waited forever.

Waiting is a spiritual discipline. Patience is a spiritual virtue. We’re talking fruits of the Spirit. To put it mildly, these days I need more of that virtue to live out that discipline. I suspect we all know about waiting. Waiting for a vaccine. Waiting for covid restrictions to lift. Waiting to get a call back after an interview. Waiting in line to vote. Waiting for a doctor’s report. Waiting for an election season to pass. Waiting for a paycheck. Waiting for things to stop changing. Waiting for things to start changing.

So what does holy waiting look like? Henri Nouwen indicates that such waiting is not passive, but rather active (see quote above).

So what is that activity? I’ll name five ideas, five that I work on. You can add others. I’d love to hear what they are:

1. Gratitude: A recognition, a mindfulness of the goodness that is part of the present. Some people make daily lists of those things for which they are grateful. Maybe one thing. Maybe 5. Maybe 100. Some people write daily notes to people to whom they owe a debt of gratitude. There are a lot of ways to do that. When in doubt, recite the General Thanksgiving daily (p. 101 in the Prayer Book).
2. Trust: an ability to live in the confidence that all will be well, that in the end all will be okay and if it’s not okay it’s not the end.
3. Confession: Admit the pain of waiting is tough. If you need language for that, God gave us the psalms.
4. Service: Why do we call a server in a restaurant a waiter?I’m not sure where that comes from but to me one of the ways to navigate my own impatience is to consider opportunities to be of help to someone, to be of service. Those opportunities surround us.
5. Prayer: The discipline of waiting, the virtue of patience may only be realized with God’s help. Fruits of the Spirit, not fruits of my own spiritual evolution or magnificence. The confession that the anxiety is getting to us, that we’re not sure how to manage it, can open the door to deeper patience.

Waiting can be hard. We all have to do it. Thank God for God’s help, claiming the wisdom of Isaiah who promised that those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint. (Isaiah 40:13) Phew.

Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org

I’m reading a book entitled “The Buddhist on Death Row: How One Man Found Light in the Darkest Place.” In it, the author David Sheff tells the story of Jarvis Jay Masters, prisoner in San Quentin, death sentence looming. In confinement, Masters discovered the power of meditation, becoming a Buddhist. He said: “The death penalty saved my life. And gave me life…I never would have meditated. Never would have learned about Buddhism. Never. Never would have been interested.” He described his ceremony of initiation as a Buddhist: “My old self died. The person who was desensitized, numb, dead. And from that death, it’s like I became someone new. I’m becoming someone new.” He went on to be of service to other inmates, finding ways to share what he had learned and somehow in that place, finding joy. The book causes me to consider, wonder, marvel at the witness of folks who discover joy in the darkest places.

It’s the witness of Paul and Silas as described in Acts 16. Tossed into a first century prison (Let your imagination run wild on what that was like!), they spent the night singing hymns and praising God. It’s the witness of Paul in his letter to the Philippians, which we’ve been reading on Sundays. In that letter, written from prison, every other word is joy or rejoice. What gives?

It’s the witness of St. Francis of Assisi, whose feast we observed yesterday.  Maybe you’ve participated in a blessing of the animals (Once I blessed a 5 foot iguana, which arrived in a snuggly on the chest of its owner who had come to church on the subway.) or quoted Francis’ beautiful prayer about being an instrument of God’s peace. But what was it about him that one of the memories persisting over the centuries has to do with his sense of joy, while taking on a life of poverty and enduring opposition from many sides? We’re told he censured friars who went about with gloomy faces, exhorting them to cheerful demeanor. When thieves beat him up and threw him in a snowy ditch, he jumped out and joyfully sang praises to God. In a famous exchange with Brother Leo, he describes perfect joy: If we bear injuries with patience and joy, thinking of the sufferings of our Blessed Lord, which we would share out of love for him, write, O Brother Leo, that here, finally, is perfect joy.

It’s the witness of Nelson Mandela, 27 years in prison, who said: You may find that the cell is an ideal place to learn to know yourself, to search realistically and regularly the processes of your own mind and feelings. That kind of reflection allowed Mandela to combat forces of institutionalized racism, poverty and inequality.

It’s the witness of the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu, good friends who laughed a lot, as recorded in “The Book of Joy,” an account of conversations they had in a week together. Each of these men knew the worst that 20^th century politics could inflict. Though reflecting different religious traditions, they each exhibit joy. Part of that joy, that equanimity, that peace resulted from the fact that they each spent hours daily in prayer.

It’s the witness of Pope Francis whose first apostolic exhortation was entitled “The Joy of the Gospel.” His first papal homily, on Palm Sunday 2013, began: “Here is the first word I wish to say to you: joy!”

It’s the witness of Jesus who told his disciples that he came to give them abundant life. On the night before he was arrested, tortured and executed, knowing full well what was coming, Jesus told his disciples  that he came to give them joy that was complete.

We are surrounded by this great cloud of witnesses. They tell us, remind us, show us that joy can come in the darkest places. It comes with expressions of gratitude, quiet time, service, listening. We all know dark places, some more devastating or inexplicable than others. Maybe you’re in one of those places this Monday. Maybe every Monday feels a bit like that. These witnesses remind us that we are not alone in facing darkness. They also let us know that valleys can be places where we glimpse a long, beautiful view that includes a path forward.

Trust is on my mind these days. Apparently, I’m not alone in wondering who to trust, as we grapple with considerable coincident crises, crises of health, economics, racial division and inequity, climate change. Science, politicians, media, election processes, institutional religion, law enforcement are all being questioned, against the background noise of what some call fake news, untruths and alternative facts. We never know what’s around the corner, but Covid-tide is a season of heightened anxiety fueled by uncertainty about what, who and how we can trust.

That has led me to think about all the ways that scripture calls us to trust. Easier said than done. (One of my college friends signed his religion papers with the acronym: SOKOP. Sounds okay on paper). The psalms, in a number of places, offer a variation of the following verse: Put not your trust in rulers or in any child of earth, for there is no help in them. (Psalm 146:3) Maybe you’re thinking about trust these days as well. Apparently, a lot of people are. If so, join me in working through a few questions:

1. Where do you draw strength? Asked another way: What are reliable sources of nourishment and sustenance for the journey? We live in a world offering lots of spiritual junk food, easy to swallow but not what we really need, not ultimately sustaining. We give our hearts to that which does not satisfy our hearts. It’s especially tough when so many Christian leaders reveal the hypocrisy of the church, nothing new under the sun. As one of those church leaders, when I hear the reasonable, verifiable complaint that the church is just filled with hypocrites, all I can say is, “Guilty as charged.” Then I revert to the prayer that both sustains and frightens me: “Let not those who hope in you be put to shame through me.” (Psalm 69:7) What would it mean to draw strength from the God who calls us into relationship?

2. Where do you place your hope? Asked another way: In whom do you place hope? The old hymn affirms: We may not know what the future holds, but we know who holds the future. In many ways, we find ourselves in the midst of storms. Life these days feels like those small glass snow domes that get all shook up. We’re waiting for things to settle. Hoping. Jurgen Moltmann based his theology on hope. In a paper called The Spirit of Hope: Theology For A World In Peril, Moltmann wrote (pre-covid): “Terrorist violence, social and economic inequality, and most especially the looming crisis of climate change all contribute to a cultural moment of profound despair.” Moltmann reminds us that Christian faith has much to say in response to a despairing world. In “the eternal yes of the living God,” we affirm the goodness and ongoing purpose of our fragile humanity. What would it mean to embrace the text of the hymn (#665 in the 1982 Hymnal) “All my hope on God is founded,” music written by Herbert Howells after the death of his 9 year-old son?

3. Where do you give your heart? Asked another way: What’s love got to do with it? As our Presiding Bishop reminds us, it all boils down to love. If it isn’t about love, it isn’t about God. Ultimately our trust is an expression of the heart, an expression of love. As in any committed relationship, love is based on the trust that partners seek the best for each other. They seek to honor each other, with all they are and have. More Moltmann: “God’s love empowers us to love life and resist a culture of death.” What would it mean, in a vindictive season, to let love be our guide in some new and deeper way this week, not giving into fear or fretting but figuring out some way to make it all about love?

As people of faith, we are called to “trust in the Lord with all our hearts, leaning not on our own understanding, confident that God will direct our paths.” (A riff on Proverbs 3:5,6) In case you haven’t picked it up already, I’m finding that challenging. It’s presumptuous of me to suggest a solution, as I navigate a cloud of unknowing. But here’s the answer I’ve decided to go with. I’m going to literally and figuratively take a deep breath and trust that the God of love has the whole world in his hands. And I’m going to try to remember that a life of hope is not always easy. Even more Moltmann: “Faith, wherever it develops into hope, causes not rest but unrest, not patience but impatience. It does not calm the unquiet heart, but is itself this unquiet heart in man. Those who hope in Christ can no longer put up with reality as it is, but begin to suffer under it, to contradict it. Peace with God means conflict with the world.” Said another way: All manner of things shall be well, but we may be in for rough sledding before we get there.

On that cheery note, amidst it all, I trust you will know blessing and peace this week. Thanks for thinking this through with me.

The historian Eusebius (you all remember him, right?), in his Life of Constantine, tells how the emperor ordered the building of a complex in Jerusalem “on a scale of imperial magnificence,” to set forth as “an object of attraction and veneration to all, the blessed place of our Savior’s resurrection.” Constantine’s shrine included a large basilica for the Liturgy of the Word and a circular church, known as “The Resurrection” for the Liturgy of the Table. Toward one side of the courtyard separating the two buildings, through which worshippers had to pass on their way from Word to Sacrament, the top of Calvary’s hill was visible. In that courtyard, the solemn veneration of the cross took place on Good Friday. The dedication of the buildings was completed on September 14, 335. 1,685 years later, we celebrate the Feast of the Holy Cross on this day, with prayers and scripture readings taking us to the foot of the cross.

Labor Day is one of the few secular holidays finding its way into the liturgical calendar (along with Independence Day and Thanksgiving). Prayers and readings have been chosen to help us think about our labor, our efforts, our work, our ministry in the place to which God has brought us.

We often say that praying shapes our believing. What we pray molds our attitudes. Prayers also guide our actions. In this time of considerable coincident crises, contending with threats to health, a depleted economy and urgent racial reckoning, the collect for Labor Day, included above, has a lot to say. We ask for guidance in the work we do. We ask to be made mindful of the rightful aspirations of other workers and to arouse our concern for those who are out of work. It says we’re in this together.

A political season can trigger (heated) debate about best ways to respond to the challenges we face. But the fact that Labor Day is a feast of the church, finding its place in the liturgical calendar, means that this is not simply a matter of politics. It’s something we do as part of the Jesus movement, part of the way of love. It’s something we do as people of faith, as disciples. That prompts a few questions to think about in the spare time provided on this holiday (not to mention time provided by sheltering in place).

First, the prayer notes that our lives are linked one with another. Whatever work we’re given to do, for pay or as volunteers, is meant for the common good. So let me ask: In what way do you see your life linked to all those who might be struggling these days, with issues of health or economics or race relations? Spend some quiet time asking God to show you that linkage. How will your efforts be dedicated to the common good?

Second, on this day, we hear a portion of a letter from St. Paul (again included above), writing to the Corinthian church. He compares their lives, as individuals and as a community, to a construction project. He talks about their labor in building. He asks them to think about the foundation on which they build. So let me ask: As you think about the life you are building, what’s the foundation? What does it mean to you to build on the foundation that is Jesus Christ? What about Jesus is foundational for you?

Finally, on this day, we’re invited to read an excerpt from the Sermon on the Mount (again, see above). Jesus challenges his listeners to think about what they value, what they treasure. In words that always make me stop and think, words we hear on Ash Wednesday, he tells them: Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. That verse prompted one of the desert fathers to issue this related challenge: Do not give your heart to that which does not satisfy your heart. So let me ask: Where are you giving your heart these days? In the quiet of this Labor Day, think about what it is you treasure. What are the ways that we can treasure, we can value and honor the common good, the whole human family?

The times in which we live can drive us into isolated corners. The politics of the day encourage tribalism and division. It’s often hard to see the common good. Jesus calls us to another way, the way of love. How do you hear that call on this holiday, this holy day?