“Alleluia! Christ is risen! Come let us adore him! Alleuia!” Morning Prayer on Easter Monday was well attended and heartily spoken. Mick lead us through the new schedule of liturgy in this new season. The Pascha Nostrum, the Song of Moses, two enthronement Psalms, and readings on the exodus and the resurrection. Now we stand during the Prayers (though as a reflex I began to kneel at “The Lord be with you” and accidentally lead half the worshipers to their knees). This is the Easter position – Christos aneste – Christ is risen – but more literally “Christ stood up.” So we stand with him to proclaim that with him we are raised. What joy! What grace! What can we offer in return for such? Our very lives, which he has now redeemed (=bought! – They are his anyhow!). “Almighty God, we your unworthy servants give you humble thanks for all your goodness and loving kindness to us!” It is great to know, and to learn by the experience of the rhythms of the liturgy, that Easter follows Good Friday. I focus a lot on the cross – and rightly so – but it is good be reminded that after the long, hard toil of the Way, and the pain and torture of the cross itself, stands the inexplicable, illogical, and utterly unexpected glory and joy of resurrection life. We glimpse its reality, if only for a moment, as we gather with the angels in the heavenly choir.
Breakfast followed, of course, in the Parish Hall. The weather was really nice so we are going to have to start eating outside on the picnic tables. All the usual suspects were there – I think we had about 15 total – including about five who spent the night sleeping in the back yard or around town but who then come up for breakfast. One of our usual friends, C, who lives across Durham out in the (comparative) boonies was around for some construction work he did last week. “You going over by my place at all?,” he asked Mick. “No, but I can be,” the good Warden replied. S got out of his tent and came in for a glass of juice and announced that he was going back to bed. “Hibernation,” I think Luke called it. But S didn’t leave before he had announced that (unbeknownst to me) everyone was welcome over at my place tonight to watch Duke play for the national title. We all enjoyed a brand-new egg casserole this morning and quite a good (as usual) one at that. I gobbled up more than my share.
Every week is a new adventure.
--Colin
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!
Is it me, or did Lent seem like more than six weeks this year? Surely it was much longer ago that we celebrated Shrove Tuesday at our Pancake Supper, cooked for us by our friends from the Episcopal Center at Duke? Was it that we were celebrating the Daily Office by using the not so familiar Rite I? Perhaps it was due to the fact that I felt more penitent?
Whatever the reason, Palm Sunday and Holy Week did come and were welcomed.
Here at St. Joe’s we have, what I think is a pretty unusual family. I’ve talked before about our wonderful fellowship, but it goes much further than sharing a meal with like-minded committed Christians.
Our table fellowship that follows each weekday Morning Prayer gives an opportunity to talk, laugh and yes sometimes cry with a wide variety of people, some homeless, some not, but nevertheless needing more than that plate of breakfast casserole, eggs, cereals, toast and coffee. Loving thy neighbor is not always easy believe me. I struggle daily with doing just that. There are challenges to our faith on a daily basis, but I know that with God’s help we can overcome them.
Returning to the Easter theme, the eve of Palm Sunday saw seven of us weaving palm crosses. Sharing conversation, experiences, humor and of course food. I’ll be the first to admit that my crosses were not as artistic as A’s, who hails from Lebanon and was teaching us beginners with wonderful patience. But what a gratifying experience it was – nothing technical, nothing sophisticated, but enjoying the four thousand year art (or attempted art in my case) with, as A proudly says, “Our nearest neighbor to the Biblical lands”.
Holy Week was busy for us. Jokes were made about “our car is on auto-pilot”, or “perhaps we should bring our beds to church,” but seven liturgies marking Christ’s death and celebrating his resurrection between Wednesday evening through Easter Sunday have to be the highlight of the year.
After our short, but moving, Holy Saturday morning service, I was seconded to help our wonderful Altar Guild. I didn’t have much choice (only joking) as I am married to one of their members. But after an hour or so of cleaning and polishing, especially the church brasses, I realized what another important example of fellowship this was.
After six flowerless weeks and veiled crosses, our sanctuary became alive again. A resurrection no less. As later in the day we commenced the Great Vigil, being led into a darkened church by the paschal candle, we knew, all of us, that hope, with the light, would soon spring from Christ’s resurrection. After renewing our baptismal vows it was my task to turn on the lights. Never has Alleluia been shouted with such gusto (well, not since last Easter at least) and a wonderful feeling of joy and yes, relief, swept over the congregation who knew that Christ had risen indeed.
Easter Sunday, without doubt, my favorite day of the year, saw a packed (for St. Joe’s) church enjoy and praise the resurrection of our Savior. I was on acolyte duty and admit that together with the relief and joy I could feel tears of emotion – tears of joy especially at what was something new for me. T, a regular at Daily Office and a professional choreographer and dancer, enriched our celebration with his liturgical dancing. Thank you T. Indeed thank you to our music director, choir and musicians. And a big thank you for Altar Guilds everywhere, but especially to ours at St. Joe’s, who tirelessly work to prepare God’s church for worship and the Lord’s table for us to share in the resurrection throughout the year.
Thanks be to God. Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!
--Mick
Whatever the reason, Palm Sunday and Holy Week did come and were welcomed.
Here at St. Joe’s we have, what I think is a pretty unusual family. I’ve talked before about our wonderful fellowship, but it goes much further than sharing a meal with like-minded committed Christians.
Our table fellowship that follows each weekday Morning Prayer gives an opportunity to talk, laugh and yes sometimes cry with a wide variety of people, some homeless, some not, but nevertheless needing more than that plate of breakfast casserole, eggs, cereals, toast and coffee. Loving thy neighbor is not always easy believe me. I struggle daily with doing just that. There are challenges to our faith on a daily basis, but I know that with God’s help we can overcome them.
Returning to the Easter theme, the eve of Palm Sunday saw seven of us weaving palm crosses. Sharing conversation, experiences, humor and of course food. I’ll be the first to admit that my crosses were not as artistic as A’s, who hails from Lebanon and was teaching us beginners with wonderful patience. But what a gratifying experience it was – nothing technical, nothing sophisticated, but enjoying the four thousand year art (or attempted art in my case) with, as A proudly says, “Our nearest neighbor to the Biblical lands”.
Holy Week was busy for us. Jokes were made about “our car is on auto-pilot”, or “perhaps we should bring our beds to church,” but seven liturgies marking Christ’s death and celebrating his resurrection between Wednesday evening through Easter Sunday have to be the highlight of the year.
After our short, but moving, Holy Saturday morning service, I was seconded to help our wonderful Altar Guild. I didn’t have much choice (only joking) as I am married to one of their members. But after an hour or so of cleaning and polishing, especially the church brasses, I realized what another important example of fellowship this was.
After six flowerless weeks and veiled crosses, our sanctuary became alive again. A resurrection no less. As later in the day we commenced the Great Vigil, being led into a darkened church by the paschal candle, we knew, all of us, that hope, with the light, would soon spring from Christ’s resurrection. After renewing our baptismal vows it was my task to turn on the lights. Never has Alleluia been shouted with such gusto (well, not since last Easter at least) and a wonderful feeling of joy and yes, relief, swept over the congregation who knew that Christ had risen indeed.
Easter Sunday, without doubt, my favorite day of the year, saw a packed (for St. Joe’s) church enjoy and praise the resurrection of our Savior. I was on acolyte duty and admit that together with the relief and joy I could feel tears of emotion – tears of joy especially at what was something new for me. T, a regular at Daily Office and a professional choreographer and dancer, enriched our celebration with his liturgical dancing. Thank you T. Indeed thank you to our music director, choir and musicians. And a big thank you for Altar Guilds everywhere, but especially to ours at St. Joe’s, who tirelessly work to prepare God’s church for worship and the Lord’s table for us to share in the resurrection throughout the year.
Thanks be to God. Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!
--Mick
Witnessing to Resurrection Life
The following is the sermon preached by The Rev. Karen C. Barfield, Chaplain of the Episcopal Center at Duke, at the Great Vigil of Easter celebrated at St. Joseph's by the two missions. The texts were Romans 6:3-11 and Luke 24:1-12.
“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?” (Romans 6:3)
The last congregation I served in Memphis before coming to North Carolina was a fairly large Episcopal Church. On average there were several hundred people there each Sunday morning.
On the day of the bishop’s visitation there were several folks lined up to be baptized.
In one family both brother and sister were to be baptized that morning. The little girl was about 2 years old, but her older brother was about 10 and was very inquisitive and excited.
As the bishop met with those to be baptized during the Sunday school time, this boy sat right next to the bishop and asked all kinds of questions. He was excited about his baptism and was all ready to go.
During the service when it was time for him to be baptized, the bishop called him over to the font, but the boy clung to his mother’s side for dear life.
He looked at the bishop and said, “I don’t want to be baptized.”
As the bishop tried to coax him over, it was clear that he would have to be peeled away from his mother’s skirt.
The bishop, in his wisdom said, “Your baptism is supposed to be a time of joy. If you don’t want to be baptized, you don’t have to be.”
And that was that.
Later in the service when the boy and his family came to the altar rail for Communion, as the bishop approached him, the boy said, “Well, I guess I blew my chance, huh?”
The bishop smiled and said, “No, you have another chance. Meet me at the font after the service, and I’ll baptize you then.”
The boy, smiling, received his blessing and returned to his pew.
“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?”
That Sunday morning did that boy cling to his mother’s side out of embarrassment or stage fright before the large crowd gathered in the church?
Or did he have some inkling that what he was about to do was as frightening as being buried with Christ in his death?
Did he know that his life was about to change forever –
that new demands would be placed on him that he might not be able to meet?
Perhaps a little of both.
In my experience, children “get it” – they understand things we barely begin to comprehend.
How many times have we heard stories of young children – 3 and 4 years old – saying to their parents on the way back from the altar rail:
“Boy, I really needed the bread of Jesus today.”
__________________________________
Tonight we gather together on the most Holy of Holy nights –
to hear the story of salvation history:
to hear the story of creation,
of rebellion,
of redemption.
We gather here tonight to celebrate that God became human,
walked among us,
suffered as we suffer,
died
and then rose from the grave.
And here is the key (in the words of Paul):
“Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.
“For if we have been united with him in a death like his,
we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”
We have been buried with Christ so that we, too, might walk in newness of life.
Clarence Jordan, founder of the Koinonia Community in Americus, GA, said,
“The crowning evidence that Jesus was alive was not a vacant grave,
but a spirit-filled fellowship.
Not a rolled-away stone,
but a carried-away church.”
In reflecting on this statement, Lutheran theologian Christoph Blumhardt comments:
“It is not enough to celebrate Easter and say ‘Christ is risen.’ It is useless to proclaim this unless at the same time we can say that we have also risen, that we have received something from heaven.
“We must feel appalled when the tremendous events that took place, the death and resurrection of Jesus, are proclaimed again and again and yet actually nothing happens with us. It has no effect.” (from “Christ Rising” in Bread and Wine, Orbis Books, 2003, p. 350).
As Paul says, “if we have been united with him in a death like his,
we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”
However frightening that plunge into Christ’s death may be:
whether a literal immersion under the waters of baptism
or a turning from the ways of sin and death we encounter daily,
we celebrate with Christ the newness of life that awaits.
As the new fire, the new light, emerges in the darkness,
we remember that the darkness never overcomes the light.
May the fires of God’s love and grace burn within us
so that our lives may be a witness to resurrection life –
casting aside all fear.
God is doing a new thing in us –
birthing God’s kingdom through us
right here and right now.
So, this day and every day let us shout
“Christ is risen”
not only with our lips
but through our very lives.
Amen.
“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?” (Romans 6:3)
The last congregation I served in Memphis before coming to North Carolina was a fairly large Episcopal Church. On average there were several hundred people there each Sunday morning.
On the day of the bishop’s visitation there were several folks lined up to be baptized.
In one family both brother and sister were to be baptized that morning. The little girl was about 2 years old, but her older brother was about 10 and was very inquisitive and excited.
As the bishop met with those to be baptized during the Sunday school time, this boy sat right next to the bishop and asked all kinds of questions. He was excited about his baptism and was all ready to go.
During the service when it was time for him to be baptized, the bishop called him over to the font, but the boy clung to his mother’s side for dear life.
He looked at the bishop and said, “I don’t want to be baptized.”
As the bishop tried to coax him over, it was clear that he would have to be peeled away from his mother’s skirt.
The bishop, in his wisdom said, “Your baptism is supposed to be a time of joy. If you don’t want to be baptized, you don’t have to be.”
And that was that.
Later in the service when the boy and his family came to the altar rail for Communion, as the bishop approached him, the boy said, “Well, I guess I blew my chance, huh?”
The bishop smiled and said, “No, you have another chance. Meet me at the font after the service, and I’ll baptize you then.”
The boy, smiling, received his blessing and returned to his pew.
“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?”
That Sunday morning did that boy cling to his mother’s side out of embarrassment or stage fright before the large crowd gathered in the church?
Or did he have some inkling that what he was about to do was as frightening as being buried with Christ in his death?
Did he know that his life was about to change forever –
that new demands would be placed on him that he might not be able to meet?
Perhaps a little of both.
In my experience, children “get it” – they understand things we barely begin to comprehend.
How many times have we heard stories of young children – 3 and 4 years old – saying to their parents on the way back from the altar rail:
“Boy, I really needed the bread of Jesus today.”
__________________________________
Tonight we gather together on the most Holy of Holy nights –
to hear the story of salvation history:
to hear the story of creation,
of rebellion,
of redemption.
We gather here tonight to celebrate that God became human,
walked among us,
suffered as we suffer,
died
and then rose from the grave.
And here is the key (in the words of Paul):
“Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.
“For if we have been united with him in a death like his,
we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”
We have been buried with Christ so that we, too, might walk in newness of life.
Clarence Jordan, founder of the Koinonia Community in Americus, GA, said,
“The crowning evidence that Jesus was alive was not a vacant grave,
but a spirit-filled fellowship.
Not a rolled-away stone,
but a carried-away church.”
In reflecting on this statement, Lutheran theologian Christoph Blumhardt comments:
“It is not enough to celebrate Easter and say ‘Christ is risen.’ It is useless to proclaim this unless at the same time we can say that we have also risen, that we have received something from heaven.
“We must feel appalled when the tremendous events that took place, the death and resurrection of Jesus, are proclaimed again and again and yet actually nothing happens with us. It has no effect.” (from “Christ Rising” in Bread and Wine, Orbis Books, 2003, p. 350).
As Paul says, “if we have been united with him in a death like his,
we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”
However frightening that plunge into Christ’s death may be:
whether a literal immersion under the waters of baptism
or a turning from the ways of sin and death we encounter daily,
we celebrate with Christ the newness of life that awaits.
As the new fire, the new light, emerges in the darkness,
we remember that the darkness never overcomes the light.
May the fires of God’s love and grace burn within us
so that our lives may be a witness to resurrection life –
casting aside all fear.
God is doing a new thing in us –
birthing God’s kingdom through us
right here and right now.
So, this day and every day let us shout
“Christ is risen”
not only with our lips
but through our very lives.
Amen.
A Meditation for Holy Saturday
Hope against all hope, when hope looks not only foolish but impossible: this is the call of Holy Saturday. It is an incredibly challenging call to us, to inhabit the tomb with the crucified, lifeless body of Jesus, where the power of death can be palpable, even suffocating. In the face of the death of the Lord, our lives stand still, numb, silent. It is as if the whole world has been sealed up in the tomb with him. Nothing more can be said, nothing can be done. Our future is now completely bound up with his future; our future now rests in him.
From all appearances, though, there is no future for him: this is the reality of Holy Saturday. Jesus has been executed. His life has ended shamefully, horrifically. He did not save himself from the cross or tomb; now he is beyond saving. What shall become of him? What can become of another dead would-be Messiah? What shall become of us who staked everything on him? What can become of us?
The only hope for him, for us, for the whole world, lying in the tomb is God: this is the revelation of Holy Saturday. The future of Jesus is for God to decide. In the realm of death, there is no hope, no security, no foothold, no ray of light; the death of Jesus erases even the tiniest sign upon which we may have based our faith. In the tomb, we are confronted with the sheer absurdity of hope, of waiting for God when all reasons for waiting, for hoping, have fallen short. In the dead body of Jesus, we come face-to-face with the disarming truth of Christianity: the only future we possibly have lies with God because our future lies in Jesus. Easter Sunday does not abolish this truth; it makes it more glaringly obvious.
While it is still dark in the tomb, however, where there is no guarantee of Sunday, let us ponder the lament of Psalm 130: “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!...I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in [the Lord’s] word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.” Let us wait in silence and openness for the coming of our God, our future and our hope.
--Jodi Belcher
From all appearances, though, there is no future for him: this is the reality of Holy Saturday. Jesus has been executed. His life has ended shamefully, horrifically. He did not save himself from the cross or tomb; now he is beyond saving. What shall become of him? What can become of another dead would-be Messiah? What shall become of us who staked everything on him? What can become of us?
The only hope for him, for us, for the whole world, lying in the tomb is God: this is the revelation of Holy Saturday. The future of Jesus is for God to decide. In the realm of death, there is no hope, no security, no foothold, no ray of light; the death of Jesus erases even the tiniest sign upon which we may have based our faith. In the tomb, we are confronted with the sheer absurdity of hope, of waiting for God when all reasons for waiting, for hoping, have fallen short. In the dead body of Jesus, we come face-to-face with the disarming truth of Christianity: the only future we possibly have lies with God because our future lies in Jesus. Easter Sunday does not abolish this truth; it makes it more glaringly obvious.
While it is still dark in the tomb, however, where there is no guarantee of Sunday, let us ponder the lament of Psalm 130: “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!...I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in [the Lord’s] word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.” Let us wait in silence and openness for the coming of our God, our future and our hope.
--Jodi Belcher
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
"We entreat thee, O Lord"
At St. Joseph’s, we usually pray Morning and Evening Prayer according to Rite II. This year, however, we’ve decided to use Rite I in Lent. The first time I prayed Evening Prayer this season, I was struck by how challenging I found the change. Praying “thee” and “thou,” (which has the virtue of making it crystal clear to 21st-century people that we’re not shouting “Hey, you” to God). Addressing God through dependent clauses (“Almighty God, who has given us grace at this time…”) instead of directly (“Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time…”). And confessing in more, and in my case at least, more accurate, detail (“we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts”). I had to pay greater attention, enunciate the words of the prayers, trusting that they will be my own—or rather, that I am theirs, because they're part of the apostolic faith that has formed, and is forming me. I like the freedom that I feel in praying familiar prayers, but I also appreciate the prod offered by less familiar ones—like a gentle but sharp pull on the bridle, making sure I’m still on the path.
Others have an easier time. That first evening in Lent, as I carefully followed along in my BCP, starting to relax into the repetitive response to the intercessions, I realized that a tiny but clear voice had joined in, from the pew directly in front of mine. Our youngest sister at St. Joseph’s, a beautiful 2-year-old, was praying along in perfect time. “That this evening may be holy, good, and peaceful, We entreat thee, O Lord. That thy holy angels may lead us in paths of peace and goodwill, We entreat thee, O Lord. That we may be pardoned and forgiven for our sins and offenses, We entreat thee, O Lord….”
No concern about thees, thous, or yous; no awareness of dependent or independent clauses; little attention to verbs or adverbs. Just pure prayer, offered by a Christian who’s already steeped in prayer, who’s formed and nourished by it, and who unself-consciously offers it up as her own, in harmony with all the saints. To that, even in Lent, I say: alleluia. And amen.
--Vicar Rhonda
Others have an easier time. That first evening in Lent, as I carefully followed along in my BCP, starting to relax into the repetitive response to the intercessions, I realized that a tiny but clear voice had joined in, from the pew directly in front of mine. Our youngest sister at St. Joseph’s, a beautiful 2-year-old, was praying along in perfect time. “That this evening may be holy, good, and peaceful, We entreat thee, O Lord. That thy holy angels may lead us in paths of peace and goodwill, We entreat thee, O Lord. That we may be pardoned and forgiven for our sins and offenses, We entreat thee, O Lord….”
No concern about thees, thous, or yous; no awareness of dependent or independent clauses; little attention to verbs or adverbs. Just pure prayer, offered by a Christian who’s already steeped in prayer, who’s formed and nourished by it, and who unself-consciously offers it up as her own, in harmony with all the saints. To that, even in Lent, I say: alleluia. And amen.
--Vicar Rhonda
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Shrove Tuesday supper
For the second year, the chaplain and congregation of The Episcopal Center at Duke hosted a Shrove Tuesday meal at St. Joseph's. Thank you all for your hospitality!
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