On Love – A Sermon

This is the sermon I wasn’t ready to write for the service I wasn’t ready to lead to honor the friend I wasn’t ready to lose.

For John

We’ve come together today united in our love for John, to share in our grief, and to find comfort in the presence of each other. I’m not going to sugar coat this, grief sucks. Grief is like a form of arthritis. Somedays, it hurts so bad, you can hardly stand it. And other days, it’s not so bad. But there’s always a level of aching that never quite goes away. Some days are harder than others. Some seasons are harder than others. But over time, we will gradually heal. Our fond memories will be good medicine as the days and months and years go by. The love and light and laughter that John brought into our lives has left us forever changed.

Let us find solace in love. When I say love today, I’m not talking about some sweet, sentimental, frilly, foofy kind of love. And I’m not talking about some high-minded, ornate, abstract theological frippery kind of love. I’m talking love at work. Love that is messy. Love with some dirt on its hands. Because that is the kind of love that John shared with all of us. John lived love as a verb. His religion was praxis over proclamation, action over spoken creeds. What do I mean by that?

John and I were in New Haven one night. We’d gone to an AA meeting and were walking towards a restaurant for dinner when a young homeless guy came up to us and asked us for money. John immediately said, ‘Yeah, hang on a sec.’ He fumbled around in his coat pockets digging for his wallet and in the process, pulls out a full pack of of cigarettes and hands them to me to hold. He then pulls out his wallet and hands the guy $20. The guy saw the cigarettes and asked if he could also bum a smoke. John smiled that big, disarming smile or his and took the pack from me, lit two cigarettes, kept one in his mouth and passed one to me, as he so often did, and then handed the guy a nearly full pack of cigarettes and then gave him the lighter besides. John wished him a good night like he was an old friend. It didn’t matter that it was dark. It didn’t matter that there weren’t a lot of people around. It didn’t matter that this guy could easily have intended to mug us both. It didn’t matter how he was going to spend that money. John saw another human being in need and responded with kindness, with generosity, with compassion and without hesitation and without judgement. He said to me over dinner, ‘I’ve been that guy. I know how it feels to be on the other side of that interaction and, Sweetie, let me tell you, it’s not fun.’

And that, my friends, is the kind of love that I’m talking about. That is love at work in this world. Even in the midst of our pain, even in the midst of our struggles, to act with compassion towards others and to recognize their full dignity as fellow human beings, that is the kind of love that will bring us solace and comfort. That is the kind of love that is light in the darkness. That is the kind of love that sets prisoners free. That is the kind of love that should come to mind when we hear that God is love. God’s love is specifically love at work.

God loves each and every one of us. God knows the secret things we struggle with, the things we don’t talk about, the things we manage to cover and still get through our days. And God is at work in those struggles. In the economy of God’s Grace, nothing, absolutely nothing, is wasted. Not one day is unimportant. Not one moment goes unnoticed.

As many of us experienced in our relationships with John, John had a gift for seeing the good in us even when we couldn’t see it in ourselves. John learned each one of our soul songs and he would sing it back to us even when we’d forgotten the tune. And he did that even at times when he couldn’t see the good in himself. That is love at work. That is the love of God shining through this beloved child of God.

When we act out of compassion, out of kindness, and with generosity of spirit towards others in the world – even when we may have our own struggles – we allow God to work through us. We allow God who is love, God who is love at work, to work through us. And as that love moves through us, it not only changes the world around us, it changes us as well.

Some churches don’t have much tolerance for a gay man. Society certainly doesn’t have much tolerance for an addict. But what we saw in John was so, so much more than who he loved or what disease he wrestled with. What we witnessed in John was an everyday kind of holiness. What we witnessed in John was what Lutheran pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber would call an accidental saint – a paradoxical person who doesn’t fit the typical rigid religious stereotype of a holy person but nevertheless, is indeed a holy person doing the work of God who is love.

John is no longer here with us. His work here is done. Now it’s up to us to carry on. John saw something uniquely good and wonderful in each one of you. As you sit with your memories of John, remember what he saw in you. Know that what John saw only in glimpses, God sees with perfect clarity the truth of your goodness. I would challenge you to live out of that goodness in whatever way you can. Be love at work in the world. Get your hands dirty bringing the love of God into this world. God knows this world need it.

Trust

Yesterday, I had my day planned out. Spend some time at the beach, bake a batch of cookies while I worked on my homework, frame out a blog post, and cook a nice meatloaf dinner. Long about noon, I came home from the beach and took a quick scroll through Twitter. I retweeted a link by Bishop Bridget Mary Meehan calling for Pope Francis to recognize women’s ordination. Nothing new there for me. I openly support Catholic women who call for the ordination of women. Anybody who knows me knows that. Within a minute of tweeting that link, a Catholic priest pounced on me. That led to a debate. Five hours of debate in tweets of 140 characters or less. It was not the way I planned to spend my Saturday.

And yet, it was time incredibly well spent. I was told I am a heretic, selfish, stupidly misguided, emotional, full of rage and guilt, ignorant of scripture, lack doctrinal formation, lack objectivity, have an unformed conscience and am in desperate need of a stricter confessor. All of these failings have taken me out of the arms of the Catholic Church and out of the arms of Jesus. So my dear readers, read on at your own mortal peril.

I know my views on women’s ordination are considered heretical by the Catholic Church. I’ve wrestled with that view for years. I don’t take the church’s views lightly, nor do I suggest anyone else should. And ultimately, after study and prayer and discussion, I made the decision to follow my conscience and to trust in the truth of my experience of God’s love. The Catholic Church has always held the primacy of conscience and taught that individuals must follow their conscience even if they are wrong. (Vatican II, On Religious Liberty 1965)

So then who gets to decide what is truth? So who gets to decide what Jesus truly intended? This is why we need a church community: to challenge us and hold us accountable. It is why I have shied away from the spiritual-but-not-religious views that many people take up after becoming disillusioned with religion. Religious tradition serves a purpose and that is to lead us closer to God. My Catholic pastor has been known to say openly that if religious tradition is not leading you closer to God, it isn’t working for you. Find one that will. But don’t try to con God. Be honest with Him. It’s the only way the relationship can grow. I know many faithful Catholic women who have struggled with the church’s teaching on women’s ordination. Some find that they accept the doctrine as truth. Are they wrong?  No. They have followed their conscience, as must we all.

The Catholic Church brought me closer to God and there have been days when I wish it hadn’t. It would be easier to show up Sunday after Sunday, halfheartedly shuffle forward to receive Communion, mumble through an obligatory confession a few times a year and go back to my everyday life with God safely tucked away in the tabernacle where He can’t wreak havoc on my life. But it did bring me closer. I found love, compassion, forgiveness and was challenged to show others the same. Along the way, I found the landmines and roadblocks that keep people from coming back to the church. I found people who, like me, equated the Catholic Church with God. If the Catholic Church rejected them for whatever reason, then in their mind God had likewise rejected them. And that is a dangerous lie. Jesus came for the lost, the broken, the sinners, not just the elect few. No one who cried out to Him went unheard or unanswered.

Yesterday was one of those days when I wished I could keep silent and found that I could not. I had things to do! And yet, I could not let the Twitter tirade go unchallenged. I poured out my convictions 140 characters at a time. The church is greater than the Roman Catholic Church. It is the community of all believers and belongs to all those who seek Jesus with an honest heart. To deny women ordination is to deny that women are also made in the image of God and other denominations have accepted that truth. That my disobedience to Rome is not disobedience to God. That becoming Protestant was not slapping God in the face but running into His arms. If in the end, after having followed my conscience to a religious tradition which brings me closer to God, if then I am wrong, He will not slam a door in my face. He knows my heart, my wounds, my scars and my desires. And most importantly, nothing can ever take me out of His arms. I am His and I trust Him.

Yes, I said it. I trust Him. I trust Him above all else. Especially above the threats of judgment and hell and condemnation. I did not arrive at this place lightly or easily. But I am where I am and my Shepherd knows my path. At the end of a long, heated debate, Fr. Paul told me he wouldn’t want to be me on the Last Day. Because if he is wrong, no biggie. But I am wrong, yikes. But from the way I see it, if I am wrong, I trust in God’s love and His mercy. I make no claims to have the right answers. But if Fr. Paul is wrong, how many people will he have browbeat into staying in a dishonest relationship with their God, encouraging them to maintain a false fidelity to church over an honest struggle for truth out of fear of hellfire and damnation? And which then is the greater sin? I trust that in the all-encompassing light of God’s love, it will cease to matter.

Are you ok?

I spent yesterday afternoon with a houseful of good friends celebrating St. Patrick’s day with good food, good whiskey and lots of laughter. I was chided for having not posted recently. I had promised my friend Frank that I would post 2 weeks ago and well… life got in the way. So in answer to the question that I was asked repeatedly yesterday: Yes. I’m okay. Really truly okay.

I’m not really in a church at the moment and yesterday’s party was full of people I’ve gotten to know through my parish over the years. It was a gentle reminder that I can’t stay without a community for too long. Do I miss it? Not yet. Will I? Yes, eventually. Probably sooner rather than later. But right now, I’m where I’m supposed to be. Where is that exactly? I suppose this is my desert, my time and space to be alone with God.

If you’ve been reading my scribbling long enough, you know I have my share of issues with God as well as my issues with Mother Church. Trying to separate the two finally became impossible to juggle. It filtered through my thick skull that trying to figure out where I stand as far church without understanding where I stand with God is quite simply a waste of time.

Life always comes down to the same question. Where am I with God right now? In a very strange new place. I’m not entirely sure that I like it but I haven’t run screaming either so I suppose there’s something to be said for that. I’ve spent so many years locked into a fight-or-flight stance with God that giving it up, is well…. a little terrifying. I’ve made my disquiet about it very well known, probably a hundred times a day. That level of honesty is something new for me.

It’s not like I’ve never let Him know when I’m afraid. Many a night I stayed up all night when the marriage went to hell, when Eugene was sick, when my eyes went haywire and I was afraid that one morning I’d just wake up blind. He’s heard about all of it. Not that I would dare to think He was going to step in to fix it but He was the only one awake and listening at 3 in the morning.

And it’s not like I’ve never let God know when I’m pissed off. I’ve cussed Him a blue streak. In several languages. But instead of hanging around for an answer, I’d usually end up screaming, “Go away and leave me alone!” I was so furious with Him, I kicked the door shut between us and slammed and threw things and broke things. Like a kid who had a really bad day, I threw a full scale temper tantrum.

And when I got tired of running, tired of fighting and tired of yelling, I sat there in the middle of the broken mess that I’d made of my life and realized that He was standing there at the door.
Waiting.
Patiently.
I don’t know what I expected exactly. Anger? Annoyance? Disappointment?Impatience at the very least. Compassion and gentleness weren’t exactly at the top of the list.

So for the last couple years, I may have opened the door but I’ve been pacing in circles. Watching Him. Waiting for even a flicker of trouble. Little by little the conversation became less one-sided. The anger, the impatience, the disappointment that I expected from Him never materialized.

Now, I’ve stopped pacing. I can say what I think. I can say what I feel. I still flinch. But at least I can say it. I could finally say the one thing I never would. “I’m afraid of You.”

There was no argument to the contrary. No attempt at persuasion. His response was simply, “I know.”

So here we are, in this strange new place where blatant honesty is not only acceptable but expected. It’s a little unnerving. But it’s okay. We’re okay.

See I have a thing about doors. I know where they are. Always. I know if they’re closed or not. I know if they’re locked or not. I know how many steps are between me and the door. Most importantly, when anyone is between me and the door, I how much I trust them.

He’s in the room.
We’re talking.
And I’ve quit counting the steps to the door.

Mud Puddle Sunset: Thoughts on Perspective

After the storm
August 10, 2012

I’ve been told that I have a tendency to see things that others don’t.  It’s a gift I don’t even pretend to understand.  With the turf being redone, the field near my house quickly transitioned from dirt to mud to lake as three inches of rain fell in under an hour.  The skies cleared.  The water began to drain off.  Then as the sun started to set, amazingly clear reflections appeared in puddles all over the field.

Sometimes once you see something, no matter how hard you try, you can’t unsee it.  I know.  I’ve been trying, with no success, to get the image of God and I and our intense tete-a-tete out of my head.  Wasn’t it a blessing?  A breakthrough?  A revelation?  Yes, yes and yes.  But it didn’t just open a door.  It knocked down the whole wall.  I can’t put it back up.  It’s not that I necessarily want to put it back up, but it’s left me feeling pretty exposed even now, three weeks later.  It’s been long enough now for the old insecurities to start creeping back in.  I still find myself flinging stuff at God sitting over there in his chair but now when I do, I can’t help but see myself from his side of the room.  Yes my flaws and imperfections are still there but now I can’t help but see it with a different lens of compassion.  Compassion is something reserved for other people, not for myself.  It’s uncomfortable  in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on.

But I keep looking at this photo of the mud puddles reflecting the sunset so beautifully.  It’s not a flawlessly perfect mirror reflection but it’s strikingly beautiful nonetheless.  One expects to see such reflections in pristine mountain lakes not in a stripped-down muddy football field full of contractor’s stakes and heavy equipment.

So if beauty lies in the unexpected, then it’s not such a far leap to find consolation in the uncomfortable.  It’s just a matter of perspective.