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.

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.