Rejoice! Again I say, Rejoice!

Rejoice!  Again I say, Rejoice!

Endings are hard.  They are much more difficult than beginnings.  It is easier to start relationships or projects or new jobs than to finish them—that is one of the reasons we procrastinate so much or stay in relationships even when they are unhealthy or make us unhappy.  I wonder if that is because we don’t want to let go, or dancing with the devil you know is easier than dancing with a devil you don’t know, or is it simply fear of the unknown.  Whatever the reason, being in the midst of something—even when it is broken—seems easier than letting go. 

This past week, I’ve had to work hard on letting go.  You would think that just loosening your grip would be such an easy thing to do, but its not.  It means coming to terms with the reality that something you have spent a lot of time and energy and come to care deeply about has now ended.  Its been hard to let go of Holy Cross Episcopal School.  The school, its faculty, students and families, clergy and supporters have been a big part of my life and experience since arriving in Montgomery six years ago.  My heart aches for what was, what is, and what could have been.  I’ve seen the lives of children changed for the better—children who were lost and needed nourishment and care, withering at the schools they had been planted, were transplanted to Holy Cross and bloomed!  I’ve heard countless stories of what Holy Cross has meant to so many who have crossed her threshold.  My life and the life of this community has diminished a little in her loss.

As Christians we know that endings are never what they seem.  Our faith is built on that.  The death of Jesus Christ is not an ending, though in the moment it feels like such.  But we have the privilege of knowing the rest of the story—Jesus’s death is not the end, instead we know of his resurrection and ascension and his sending of the Holy Spirit to be with us and inspire us in the work God calls us to do.  In life, we don’t always have the privilege of seeing what happens next when we are in the midst of our own experiences of endings—but our faith promises us that there is more.  Endings can bring fear and fear is never our friend.  Faith brings hope even in the face of mystery and the unknown.

I don’t know what will happen next with Holy Cross.  There are a thousand possibilities and no answers right now.  Instead, in the midst of an ending, I grieve and worry but I don’t allow my anxieties to dictate the day.  Instead I turn my tears and concerns to the Lord and trust in his never-failing grace that there will be a path forward, that all the unknowns are in his care, and that his purposes will always win the day. 

Holy Cross is no longer an Episcopal school on Bell Road.  But the community of love that it generated still exists and stands for something deeply entrenched in who we are as Episcopalians.  I give thanks to all those who have supported Holy Cross over the years and the transformation of young lives that she has offered so many.  Holy Cross was a dream that became a reality: an example of the offering and sacrifice we are reminded to give to God.  In that regards and for her love and support of Holy Cross, I give thanks for Harold Nicrosi whose vision and joy was profound in the many years of Holy Cross’s work and ministry in the lives of so many.  As Harold so faithfully put it, she rejoices in the twenty years Holy Cross existed as part of the Kingdom of God.

Rocky Top

 What do you do when you fall off a cliff?  When the rug gets pulled out from under you and you begin a free fall that spirals and circles into blackness until you don’t know which way is up or have any sense of direction?  How do you push through life when your faith takes the wrong exit?  When doubt merges into your lane and causes a pile-up?  It’s so easy to doubt and yet, so hard to talk about.

My grandfather died when I was a young adult in my twenties.  He had cancer, a mass that had interwoven itself throughout the ventricles and arteries surrounding his heart.  By the time it was discovered, it was too entrenched to be removed surgically and could only be minimally shrunken with chemo.  He was terminal.  I was devastated.  He laughed and said it felt like a four-hundred-pound woman sitting on his chest.  I swallowed the lump in my throat.  Steve asked him how he knew what a four-hundred-pound woman felt like since my grandmother couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds soaking wet.  

My grandfather loved me fiercely and I loved him.  I went to visit him frequently over the next year as the cancer slowly defeated him.  I even took him to an Alabama vs. Tennessee football game AND let him wear his ugly orange jacket. Tennessee beat Alabama that year.  He was tickled pink.  I had to listen to him sing “Rocky Top” all the way to his house in Greenback, Tennessee.  He died soon after and left me that jacket.

I had known for some while that he would die.  It’s not like he was alive one day and the next day he was gone.  We had time to say good-bye, to be together, to matter to one another before the end.  I took advantage of that time to visit as often as I could, but then he was gone and my grief and devastation were real.  I railed at God—yelling and cursing him for taking away someone I loved so much.  I wept on my bed, rolled into a tight ball until I was utterly exhausted.  I told God that if he was the kind of God who would take my grandfather away and cast him into the eternal fires of damnation, then God and I were no longer friends.  I just couldn’t believe in that God.  My grandfather didn’t go to church.  I had never heard him once mention God.  And I had never brought the subject up with him—I had prayed about his salvation and thought that God would somehow give me a sign, but it never came.  I all but lost my faith, casting around for something to cling too, some way of knowing he would be ok and I would too.  I lay on my bed, grieved over his loss and devastated as to what his future might be.

I had bought into the fundamental, conservative Christianity of the South that offers judgment and condemnation on any one of us when we are not following the rules of its game.  Too often we hear the message that to be “saved” requires a confession of personal faith, saying the Jesus Prayer, taking Jesus on as your Lord and Savior; and though I don’t disagree with any of that, I am not sure I agree with it either.  This personal Jesus thing sounded right—I knew I was going to be ok, but it really bothered me to think that my grandfather would not.  It was not a faith that I could believe in anymore.  It was not a game I was willing to play—the stakes had been set too high.  I was over the cliff.  My doubt had t-boned me and the vehicle of my faith was totaled.

Over the years, I struggled to rekindle the relationship I once thought I had with Jesus.  I wanted to feel special.  I wanted my doubts to go away.  I wanted a new vehicle of faith to drive around in.  It was not until I went to Taize that I discovered that faith is less about the vehicle and more about the tires.  Granted the tires can tell you a lot about the vehicle—one tire means you’re riding a unicycle, two tires are a bicycle or maybe a motorcycle, three becomes a three-wheeler, eighteen probably indicates a tractor-trailer, and so on.  I thought I had been riding around on four tires in a sedan or SUV, in reality, my expression of faith as personal reflected the unicycle I had been on.  No wonder doubt and fear had been chasing me for so long, it’s really hard to stay balanced on a unicycle…not to speak of the endurance needed to ride one for long distances.

The brothers at Taize taught me that faith is not about a personal relationship with Jesus.  That kind of faith doesn’t even make sense.  We might have an intimate relationship with Jesus but a personal relationship is typically narcissistic and self-interested.  It carries the temptation to identify Jesus on our terms instead of defining us on his terms.  One brother in particular told me that he had joined the Taize community because it was the one place he had found in which he knew that when he could not bear his load, he would be surrounded by many who would lift it for him.  The brothers in Taize don’t have personal relationships with Jesus, they share a communal one.  That’s when I began to regain my faith, when I began to seek faith in community, when I began to talk about doubt and darkness instead of keeping it all inside.

I don’t doubt at all that my Papa Jerry (that’s what we called my grandfather) is in heaven.  As a matter of fact, I know he is.  He didn’t have to tell me he had a personal relationship with Jesus, he showed me the communal relationship his faith was rooted in throughout my life.  He would do anything for anyone in need.  He loved me and my sister and my parents and his wife and friends unconditionally—there were times when he should have rejected all of us and never did.  He never said a mean word or raised his voice except when riding roller coasters and then he cussed like a sailor because he was one (though I only ever heard him say, “Oh Mother Frog!”).  I know my Papa Jerry is in heaven because Jesus sent an angel to me the day I grieved myself to exhaustion on my bed.  It wrapped me in its wings of love and hope, soft and tender, drawing me into a place of comfort and reassurance.  That angel never said a word, but in that moment, I knew that Papa Jerry’s soul and the souls of all the departed would rest in peace.  He had entered the communion of saints, the one he had been a part of all along.

                                                                                    Light and Life,

                                                                                                Candice+

Unbind Him, and Let Him Go.

The following is a sermon I preached at St. John's Episcopal Church in Montgomery, AL on Sunday, April 2.  I share it because as a child of a Vietnam Veteran, I struggled to understand the suffering and pain my father and so many like him experienced in war.  I hope and pray that other children of veterans might begin to understand, even if just a little, how hard it is for their fathers to have returned from that war.

5 Lent Year A: Ezekiel 37:1-14; Psalm 130; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45

St. John’s Episcopal Church, Montgomery, AL

Sunday, April 2, 2017

The Rev. Candice B. Frazer

“Unbind him, and let him go.”

Its been awhile since we’ve heard anything about the Westboro Baptist Church, the hate group that has picketed country music singers, pop artists, colleges, media personalities, other churches, and the funerals of fallen soldiers.  They are still active and the Southern Poverty Law Center calls them “the most rabid and obnoxious hate group in America.”  About ten years ago, at the height of their protests at funerals of soldiers, a group of bikers, all veterans from Indiana, organized their own counter-protests. 

By DKH at English Wikipedia - Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3874587 

They would show up wherever Westboro had planned to protest, and form a barrier between the family and friends of the slain soldier and the protestors—blocking them visually and revving their motorcycles or singing patriotic tunes to drown out the hate.  When the bikers first began their counter-protest practice, people weren’t sure what to expect and their was concern that the protests would become violent.  But the bikers were committed to a peaceful, albeit noisy, process that honored the fallen soldier and their family.

Several years after the establishment of the Patriot Guard Riders, as the group of bikers would become called, I got to know a group of them in Nashville.  I was spending the summer doing a pastoral education internship at the Nashville VA hospital.  I had requested and was allowed to meet with a group of Vietnam Veterans who met twice a week in outpatient therapy at the VA. My hope was that in meeting with this group, I might understand them a little more and how the war had affected Vietnam Vets. What I discovered was a story of resurrection.

The veterans I met with had not known each other “in-country”.  They had not served together though most of them had served in the army and all could relate to one another’s experiences both during the war and upon their return home.  Over the course of the summer, as we began to build trust with one another, they related stories of their wartime experiences.  Most of them were horrific and it was easy to see how young, vital men with their whole lives ahead of them had become a generation of brokenness. 

Often their stories would start, “I’ve never talked about this before, but…” and then they would go on to describe some violent battle they had been in, or the terror of walking through enemy land or climbing down into tunnels not sure if they would live or die.  One man even described shooting a young woman carrying a baby because they thought it was a bomb—his grief seemed as fresh as the day it happened.  Over and over again the men would tell stories—not of heroic deeds—but of broken men who believed they had failed their country, their families, and themselves.  And unfortunately, their country believed that too. 

The men recounted stories of their return home, changing into civvies before coming back into the states, letting their hair grow long and faces scruffy to hide the fact that they had been soldiers; but too often people knew and shamed them, looked down upon them, blamed them for a war they had not caused.  The shame that society laid upon them became unbearable, many of them got divorced, turned to alcohol or drugs to cope, and distanced themselves from family and friends.  Their lives became increasingly empty and their relationships suffered.

I didn’t understand why they had distanced themselves from those who loved them, from family and friends, wives and children.  One day in the group session I asked why they thought this had happened.  Their answer was shocking and disparaging. 

To a man, each person in that group described his experience after the war as one of never having left Vietnam—they might have survived the war, but they died in-country leaving their souls over 8000 miles away as their physical bodies flew home.  They had not fully lived since the war.  They weren’t zombies, but they had walled their hearts and emotions to protect themselves and never returned to life as they had known it before the war.  Hearing that their lives ended in that jungle forty plus years ago was heart-breaking but it gave me a new perspective into what it means to live and die. 

We, like the disciples, become so focused on our mortality—our physical death—we are afraid to live.  When Jesus tells the disciples he is going to Judea, they remind him that the Jews there just tried to stone him and question his decision to go there again.  But Jesus reminds them what it means to walk in the light versus walking in darkness.  When you understand that death is not something to fear, you can return to the places where they’ve tried to stone you. 

Having spent the summer with these men, I knew their lives had meaning and purpose and I asked how they had begun to live again so many years after the war.  They were quick to say that though they had never fully returned from Vietnam, they had found new ways of being but that had been a process—it started when they were finally able to come to the VA for the first time.  They described their hurt and distrust of the government as having been factors that kept them from coming to the VA for years even though they needed the medical and psychiatric care that the VA provided.  For most of them, it took multiple trips just to walk in the door  that first time—they would drive up to the building and then drive away unable to face those who had tried to stone them in the past—but they didn’t give in to the fear, they came back and finally made it in.

Resurrection is never simply about the body.  We might believe in a bodily resurrection, but as Ezekiel shows us—that is not enough.   To be resurrected, to fully live is not simply to have our bones come together bone to bone with sinews and flesh and skin upon them, it is to have breath; and the word for breath that God gives to Ezekiel to prophesy with means more than air or oxygen, it is ruah.  Ruah is the word for breath, but it is also the word for spirit.  When God breathed life into Adam, he gave him ruah.  This is what Ezekiel prophesies, “Come from the four winds, O ruah, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live. . . and they lived, and stood on their feet, a vast multitude.”  God could have done this by himself, but he has Ezekiel prophecy to be a part of it.  And it is not a resurrection of individuals, but a resurrection of the nation of Israel—a corporate resurrection into the body.

Those veterans who finally made it into the VA, facing their fears, facing the shame and guilt they had known all their lives began to resurrect.  They were given medical care and their bones came together bone to bone.  They were given psychiatric care and their sinews knit together and flesh came upon them.  Then they found one another and ruah was breathed into them.  Three years before I met them, in Westboro Baptist Church’s heyday, a young soldier from Tennessee had fallen in a combat zone in Iraq.  Westboro planned a protest.  And this broken, rag tag band of out-patient therapy group veterans found out about it, contacted the Patriot Guard Riders to see what they could do and then organized a counter-protest that escorted the body of the young soldier from the airport to the funeral home and then to the cemetery. 

At the graveside they formed a barrier between the protestors and those who mourned, revving their motorcycles throughout the service effectively drowning out the chants of hate.  In their own way, they had not only comforted a family, offering their young hero honor and respect for his service to his country, but they too proudly served their country once again.  And in that moment the ruah brought them into resurrected life.

Resurrection is not some evacuation plan, in a far off future, when we are all out of options.  Resurrection is about how we live with the Spirit of God in us in the here and now.  When Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, he tells the mourners and witnesses to the event to “[u]nbind him, and let him go.”  We understand that to be about releasing Lazarus from the strips of cloth binding his hands and feet and wrapped around his face.  Think about what that means—Lazarus may have been just raised from the dead, but he is still bound, he is not free; his face is wrapped, he cannot see.  Jesus has the people free Lazarus and return his sight.  Just as God uses Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones, Jesus uses the Jews that have gathered at the tomb to unbind Lazarus from his trappings of death. 

We are all part of the resurrected life and the resurrected life is now.  Resurrection doesn’t happen in a vacuum and it is not some end game to angle for in a future context.  Resurrection happens in unexpected places and at unexpected times.  Yes, it happens at the tomb, but it also happens in a valley of dry bones; it happens after great battles and wars; it happens in places like the VA; and it happens to and because of you and me. 

Resurrection happens when we are no longer bound by our fear of death—I don’t mean the not-breathing kind of death, I mean the not-living kind of death.  When you begin to live unbound—when you rev your motorcycles and sing patriotic songs—you help others to lose their bonds as well.  Live, not bound by the fear of grief or suffering or the changes in this world.  Live.  The earthly reality is that bad things happen.  And yet, the divine reality is that when they do, we need not fear them. 

“Unbind him, and let him go.”

At the Rail

Hands reaching, heads bowed, the murmurs of “The body of Christ, the bread of Heaven” repeated again and again.  Each time I get to serve at the rail, distributing the broken body of Christ to cupped or crossed hands I am exhilarated and humbled.  There is an incredible amount of joy in breaking bread together and yet, I am also aware of the deeply sacred and intimate act that is our sharing in Christ’s body and blood. 

Everything in our liturgy orients us to this place—the sharing of bread and wine as communion with God, with one another, with all those who have gone before us and all who will come after us, with those present and with those who are absent.  It is the crescendo of the liturgical movement, the climax of the story, it draws us together into the body of Christ.  The truth of the Eucharistic feast is that we may all partake—rich and poor, black and white, republican and democrat, conservative and liberal.  It is the place, both physically and spiritually, that we all come together as one because it is not about us; it is about God.

The Methodist have a hymn, “Be known to us in breaking bread but do not then depart/Savior abide with us, and spread thy table in our heart.”  When we celebrate The Great Thanksgiving, we are not only recalling Jesus’s words and actions at The Last Supper or even simply giving voice to the sacrifice that he makes upon the cross, we are being made one body filled with the grace of Jesus Christ, that he may dwell in us, and we in him.  As God abides in us and we are nourished with the spiritual food, we then go forth into the world carrying this renewed sense of being—not as individuals, but as the body of Christ brought together in this sacramental act of worship.

We live in a time when our differences do not simply threaten to divide us, they threaten to annihilate us.  Our desire to be individuals, to be right, to be powerful has become stronger than our joy in the bonds of common life.  It has become increasingly difficult not only to “cross the aisle” of governmental politics, but to “cross the street” of social politics as well.  We hear buzz words like “gun control”, “presidential campaign”, “police shootings”, and “gay marriage” and flock to our corners ready to fight and defend our cause.   We no longer listen to one another, but throw words at one another as if we were catapulting boulders on some medieval field of battle.  It is at this point, when we can finally recognize and understand our own behavior, that we must turn to our liturgy for guidance and support.

We come to the rail and kneel in the recognition that we cannot trust ourselves to be right nor worthy.  We come to the rail because we believe there is something greater than ourselves and words alone cannot express it.  We come to receive—not to give or even to take.  And when we cannot come, others come to us—in the pew, in the hospital or nursing home, or even in our homes.  They come bearing Christ that we might all be part of the great communion—the body of Christ.  Because as the Body of Christ, we recognize that it is not our differences that divide us.  Our differences unite us.  What is the heart without the lungs?  The hand without the fingers?  The ankle without the foot?  The body is made up of vastly different parts, united as one in its ability to function not because all the parts act in the same way, but because each part is tasked with its own unique work.

As the body of Christ, we are each unique but we are all the same.  This is the great paradox of who we are as Christians.  We do not have to agree, believe, or act the same.  Instead we recognize that our differences are not cause for division and fear, they are cause for strength and hope.  That is what we do at the rail each week—we come together to remember our strength and our hope.

All Dogs Go To Heaven

I miss my childhood home: the one where I learned about family and friends, joy and sadness, dying and death, but most of all, about love.  Our house was a ranch-style house in a middle class neighborhood.  It was made of brick with a small front porch and a big back patio.  A chain link fence where our black poodle, Twice, liked to play fenced in our backyard.  Our front yard was bordered on two sides by a white, split-rail fence that I learned to walk on and do stunts, pretending I was a tightrope walker.  We had green grass, big pine trees, lots of shrubs, and flowers.  I’m sure my parents did a lot of upkeep, but for me it was simply idyllic.

My best friend, Callie, lived next door and across the street lived our playmates, the two Jeffs and Jason.  We rode our bikes together, played baseball in one of the Jeff’s front yard, and had the same after-school sitter (think Mrs. Figg, only with fewer cats).  Life was pretty great, but it wasn’t perfect.

My rabbit, Sunny the Bunny died first.  It was the first time I had ever experienced death and even though I remember being upset, I don’t particularly remember the pain.  We didn’t get another rabbit, but I still had Twice and my goldfish, Romeo and Juliet.  I don’t remember the death of my goldfish; I think my parents told me they went to live in the sea (which I didn’t realize was code for “flushed down the toilet”).  But Twice’s death was painful.  I can still remember every detail of that experience almost forty years later.  She had dug a hole under our fence and been hit by a car several blocks away.  She made it back to our front porch, where I heard her scratch on the front door, and found her only for her to die in my arms.  I cried and cried on my parent’s bed.

It wasn’t long before we got a new puppy, a white toy poodle that I got to pick out and named Buffy.  My gang of playmates came over and she was so tiny we would carry her around in our pockets.  Buffy was a great dog and lived well into her (and my) teen-age years before dying of old age.  Though her death was hard, as has been the deaths of all my dogs, none were as hard as Twice’s.  I’m not sure what it is about certain people or pet’s deaths that makes them harder than others, but I do know that when they are sudden and unexpected, they seem to stick with you a bit longer.

Twice’s death was heart breaking for an eight year old.  But it was also important in teaching me about life.  I learned that pets don’t last forever and I value and appreciate them even more so because of it.  Because of that loss, when my great-grandparents died a few years later, I not only had a reference point but I could ask some questions about death and heaven that, as a ten year old, I wouldn’t have been able to frame otherwise.  I also found some comfort in knowing that my grandparents and Twice would be together, since all dogs go to heaven.

As the years progressed and other pets died, I learned about saying good-bye, about burials and funerals, but most of all, I learned about love.  I learned that even though the amount of pain could feel almost unbearable, the joys of past memories could bring a watery smile and with a little time, that watery smile could become a beacon of hope, a remembrance of light when the world seems dark.  I learned that the pain was worth it because the joy and love were so much greater and that I could take the experiences of our shared life together and make the world greater too.  As I grew older and more pets died, I learned to bury them with liturgy and plant trees over their resting places as visual reminders of the hope and joy they had brought to my life; visible signs of the resurrection I believe we are all called too.

It is a hard thing to know death, but it is a hard thing to know life.  Life always offers a certain amount of gain and loss.  But it is not a hard thing to know hope.  My pets, both the living and the dead, are a constant reminder of hope.  May yours be to you as well.

Candice+

We’re collecting canned pet food and newspapers for the humane society this month at St. John’s.  We will bless that food at our Celebration of St. Francis of Assisi on October 4 at 5:30pm where we will also bless our pets.  I pray you might join with us in giving a little hope to our furry friends and join us in blessing those who bring us hope as well—if not at St. John’s at a church wherever you live or attend.

Rolling in Dead Fish

My dog, Banshee, loves the beach.  She knows we are headed to the beach when we load up in the car and she gets in the back seat.  And she is excited.  She loves to run on the pier, bark at the pelicans, dig in the sand, and swim in the bay.  Its her favorite place on earth.

Banshee will return to me with a particular whistle. So, when we are at the beach and no fences separate our house from the neighbors, I feel rather comfortable allowing her to run free, knowing she will return when I whistle—at least, most of the time.

At times, Banshee finds some exciting treasure (at least in dog terms) and is tempted to not return when I whistle.  Her favorite treasure at the beach is dead fish.  Being a hound dog, she has quite a nose for sniffing out dead fish.  I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing when she’s on the dead-fish-prowl and will immediately whistle for her to come back.  Often, she’ll stop dead in her tracks as soon as I whistle and cast a look over her shoulder at me that says, “What?  I’m not up to anything.”  Sometimes, she’ll come running back to me and I lavish her with praise, “What a good dog!”  But other times, after looking back, she’ll put that nose down and start sniffing again, tracking the smell of the dead fish.  I whistle a second time and, she may put her head up and give me a scornful look communicating that I’ve no idea what I’m interrupting; other times she’ll just keep going—the temptation is too great.  Dead fish are, after all, the greatest treasure that can be found at the beach.

When that temptation proves too great, Banshee will race to the dead fish and proceed to roll in it so that she reeks of a gaggingly, disgusting smell that can be compared to nothing else on this earth.  I’ll continue to call her, and sometimes even have to go and get her, but whether she comes after being called or I go to get her, I always pet her and lavish her with praise.  You see, if I were to punish her or fuss at her, I know the next time I called and she had to decide between the dead fish and me, she’d just go for the dead fish.  But by always praising her for coming back to me, even if she has rolled in the stench beyond a thousand stenches, I know I’ve at least got a chance that she’ll choose me the next time. 

People often ask me if God is a punishing God.  The answer is no.  God does not punish, God calls to us to come to him over and over again.  God knows how tempted we are by the dead fish in our world, by the sin and corruption he would not have us choose.  But instead of fussing at us or spanking our nose with a rolled up newspaper, God welcomes us and lavishes us with praise when we choose him. 

That’s not to say that choosing a dead fish and refusing to respond to God’s call is not without consequences.  Banshee still has to get a bath whenever she rolls in dead fish because she smells terrible.  And as much as Banshee loves to swim in the bay, she feels the exact opposite about taking a bath—she associates water from the faucet and being lathered up with soap akin to having acid poured on you and then your skin flayed.  Its not my desire to punish her, but her free will that leads to the momentary despair of bath time.  And that’s the truth we must accept about God when it comes to our free will; God chooses us and God does not choose to punish us even when we choose the dead fish and, consequently, the cleansing bath.  That's a truth Banshee hasn't learned yet, and neither have we.