The Rev. Canon David C. Lord (1926-2009)

Just a week or so ago, while having lunch with our current Minister of Music, Mitchell Edgar-Galloway, and Bill Roberts of Virginia Seminary about our upcoming parish retreat at Shrine Mont, we talked about our enthusiasm for Maurice Duruflé’s choral setting of the Requiem Mass (I know, how typical for church musicians and clergy types).

I had purchased a recording of the Requiem sung by the Corydon Singers a few years ago and had not listened to it in some time.  Our conversation, coming just a few days before the anniversary of my father’s death, piqued my interest and sent me back to listen carefully and deeply once again.

Duruflé’s Requiem is without question an exquisite creation and an extraordinary fusion of disparate elements -­- plainsong, subtle counterpoint, and brilliant harmonies that bring profound depth to the ancient prayers we offer for those we love but see no longer:

May light eternal shine upon them, O Lord, for thou art merciful. Rest eternal grant to them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.

As people of faith, we know that life, both its joys and difficulties, comes to us as generous gift.  We know our time is limited and this certainty can change the way we see and live in the present.  St. Benedict was right to remind his monks to “keep death before one’s eyes daily” (4:47).

The background of death is always to be before us, though not in a morbid or depressing way.  Awareness of the relative brevity of physical life is meant to help us appreciate and embrace those things that truly matter in the present.  Cultivation of this awareness in no way minimizes the difficulty of grief when the death of a loved one falls across our path.  But I think it is essential that we keep saying “yes” to life, to celebrating what makes human life distinctively human, to securing our hope in the “eternal now” of God’s kingdom, and bringing healing to a world in need.  St. Benedict also reminded his monks to “look forward to holy Easter with joy and spiritual longing” (49.7).

Duruflé’s Requiem is a musical masterpiece that holds St. Benedict’s reminders about death and our longing for fullness of life in perfect tension. Death and life are inseparable.  We lose our lives in order to gain them.  Beyond our physical life there is resurrection life. Some would call this utter foolishness.  But we’ve tasted it, and we’ve recognized it in the lives of countless fellow pilgrims who have loved and inspired us along the way.

My father would have said, “Amen to that!”  I do too.

iTunes Link to Duruflé’s Requiem by Corydon Singers

While doing some research for my sermon this Sunday, I came across a unique web-site titled, The Sabbath Manifesto, a creative project by a group of Jewish artists in search of a modern way to observe a weekly day of rest.  They have created 10 core principles and offer them to anyone looking for ways to develop a rhythm between work and rest in the relentless busyness of life.  Here are the ten principles offered on The Sabbath Manifesto web-site:

1. Avoid Technology.
2. Connect with loved ones.
3. Nurture your health.
4. Get outside.
5. Avoid commerce.
6. Light candles.
7. Drink wine.
8. Eat bread.
9. Find silence.
10. Give back.

I am helped by thinking about Sabbath both as a specific practice and as a larger metaphor to  recover the forgotten necessity of rest.  The very act of refusing to multitask seven days a week serves as a “manifesto” that we are deeply loved by God for who we are, not what we do.

Think for a moment about the significance of worship on Sunday (or any other day of regular worship for that matter).  The gathering, the readings, the preaching, the singing, the breaking of bread – why do we do this week after week?  I wonder sometimes with the amount of work that goes into preparing and attending our Sunday liturgy, if we miss the significance of what it is all about in the first place.

The Gospel we will hear on Sunday (Luke 13:10-17), takes up this issue with the powerful story of Jesus healing a woman with a severe physical handicap in the synagogue.  He is challenged by a leader of the synagogue who tries to discredit his actions while elevating the Pharisees for so dutifully and faithfully following the Mosaic Law. When Jesus sets the woman “free” from her ailment, the leader of the synagogue can only say:

“There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, not on the sabbath day.” (Luke 13:14).

Talk about an adventure in missing the point! Jesus holds a very different understanding of the gift of Sabbath. Sabbath is not only a day given to rest from labor, but is also a day linked to the Exodus event, when God’s people were released and freed from their captivity (see Deuteronomy 5: 12-15).  I think this is the sabbath tradition that Jesus refers to in Luke’s Gospel, a tradition that is based on compassion, deliverance, and renewal.

The Sabbath Day – whether the Jewish Sabbath on Saturday or the Christian day of rest and worship on Sunday – reminds us that we too need to stop, rest, delight, and be released from those aspects of our busy lives that diminish us.  If we are only “going through the motions” on Sunday, and not actually receiving the gift of a day to fast from multi-tasking and concentrate on relationships that really matter, is it any wonder that we feel as if we are treading water and barely getting by week to week?

Was Jesus on to something about the Sabbath as a day to experience being set free from what restricts and depletes us?  Is it possible for people who live in Fairfax County to adopt sabbath-keeping as a formative spiritual practice so that rather than being “bent over” by the pressures of our world we are raised up to see at eye level the wonder and gift of God’s full world?

This is the question I will seek to address in my sermon for this Sunday.  If it resonates with those who gather, I’ll post it here next week.

The Episcopal Church gives significant support to its clergy through wellness programs such as CREDO, an eight-day conference that allows participants to focus on four areas affecting overall wellness (spiritual, vocational, health, financial).  I’ve been fortunate to attend two of these conferences over the last ten years.  I’m not sure one can survive in pastoral ministry (or any full time vocation) without the intentional practice of slowing down and disengaging for reflection and discernment.  It’s a constant challenge, and for many, an issue of spiritual if not physical survival.

From the New York Times:

The findings have surfaced with ominous regularity over the last few years, and with little notice: Members of the clergy now suffer from obesity, hypertension and depression at rates higher than most Americans. In the last decade, their use of antidepressants has risen, while their life expectancy has fallen. Many would change jobs if they could.

Public health experts who have led the studies caution that there is no simple explanation of why so many members of a profession once associated with rosy-cheeked longevity have become so unhealthy and unhappy.

But while research continues, a growing number of health care experts and religious leaders have settled on one simple remedy that has long been a touchy subject with many clerics: taking more time off.

“We had a pastor in our study group who hadn’t taken a vacation in 18 years,” said Rae Jean Proeschold-Bell, an assistant professor of health research at Duke University who directs one of the studies. “These people tend to be driven by a sense of a duty to God to answer every call for help from anybody, and they are virtually called upon all the time, 24/7.”

As cellphones and social media expose the clergy to new dimensions of stress, and as health care costs soar, some of the country’s largest religious denominations have begun wellness campaigns that preach the virtues of getting away. It has been described by some health experts as a sort of slow-food movement for the clerical soul.

Read the full article here.

Grandchildren are the crowning glory of the aged;
parents are the pride of their children (Proverbs 17:6).

Over the last several months Deb and I have received so many words of encouragement and affirmation as we waited and prayed for our daughter and her husband’s (Rebecca and Nate) first child to be born.  “You’ll love it!”  “There is nothing like the joy of holding your first grandchild.”  “Your lives are about to change all over again!”  “This is the best time of all!”  We were intrigued by the ebullient manner in which these sentiments were shared with us.

Now we know why.  Nathaniel Walker Gibson, son of Nate and Rebecca Gibson, was born on Tuesday, July 28 at 8 pounds and 20 inches.

It’s hard to comprehend loving someone as much as your own child, but it becomes immediately possible when you hold your grandchild for the first time. Those curious eyes awaken in you a surprising sense of continuity as you realize the emerging spirit of this child has come from a long line of human living and loving of which you are just one small part.  The parental desire to provide and protect overwhelms you all over again!

The experience of receiving the gift of little Walker into our lives, has left us with a fresh awareness that life, in all its wonder and complexity is (as I am wont to say), a “windfall,” something we did not anticipate or engineer.  It’s the recognition that we would not be who we are or where we are without the love and generosity of others.  It has given me a fuller understanding of the word “stewardship,” and it has given me a renewed sense of partnership with all of you and our participation in God’s mission of healing and reconciliation in the world.

In the midst of our joy, I invite us all to renew our prayers for pregnant mothers within and beyond our reach and for God’s compassion and mercy on those who are mourning the loss of a pregnancy or a child in recent months. May God renew their hopes for the future with quiet confidence and peace.

Rick+

P.S. I like the “crowning glory” of the above verse in Proverbs.  Not quite ready for the “aged” part!

This week, I came across an article by James Martin, a nationally known Jesuit priest, who spoke to the popular phrase “I’m spiritual, just not religious” and explained that this kind of thinking might be a way of saying that religion means, “abiding by arcane rules and hidebound dogmas, and being the tool of an oppressive institution that doesn’t allow you to think.”  Martin wonders if people who identify themselves as “spiritual but not religious” imply that faith is something solely between you and God. But is that really true? We cannot simply relate to God alone. That would mean there is no one to whom we are accountable with regard to our “spirituality,” or to suggest when we might be drifting into troubled territory.  Martin writes:

“We all tend to think that we’re correct about most things, and spirituality is no exception. Not belonging to a religious community means less of a chance of being challenged by a tradition of belief and experience, less chance to see when you are misguided, seeing only part of the picture, or just wrong.”

What happens when our “spirituality,” hits the wall?  What happens when life circumstances overwhelm us and we feel that no one understands our situation or would want to?  What happens when our faith gets knocked out of focus and what we thought was a solid spiritual world view no longer makes sense to us?  What then?

For those of us who are connected with a mainstream Christian community, we are frequently reminded that suffering and doubt are part of the life of even the most devout Christians we know. Without the wisdom of a faith tradition we miss the encouragement and tested practices of those who have walked similar roads in ages past.  No matter how intentional we might be about the spiritual dimension of our lives, we are human and make mistakes. And when we do, we can rely even more deeply on the wisdom and grace of a religious tradition. We may not fully understand or agree with all aspects of that religious tradition, but on the whole, the grace and stability it offers are invaluable. The irony is that we most often feel like giving up on the community of faith precisely when we need it most.

I commend Martin’s article to you – a helpful reminder for ourselves as well as a bit of wisdom to pass on when you engage with those who see little value in the mainline church today.  Turns out you can be “spiritual” and “religious” and nurturing that relationship appears to be the better part of wisdom.

From Hymn 211 in the Hymnal 1982.

The whole bright world rejoices now, Hilariter, hilariter!
The birds do sing on every bough, Alleluia, alleluia!

Then shout beneath the racing skies, Hilariter, hilariter!
To him who rose that we might rise, Alleluia, alleluia!

And all you living things make praise, Hilariter, hilariter!
He guideth you on all your ways, Alleluia, alleluia!

To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost Hilariter, hilariter!
Our God most high, our joy and boast. Allelluia, alleluia!

Listen to a recording from St. John’s Ottawa:

Download audio file (Hilariter.mp3)

Hilariter is latin for joyfully and is pronounced “hi-lair-i-tair.”

Some people give up something for Lent, like a favorite food.

Alabama Episcopal Bishop Henry N. Parsley brings something extra with him during Lent.  “I carry a stone in my pocket,” Parsley said on Ash Wednesday as he opened the Lenten preaching series at Cathedral Church of the Advent. He held it in his fingers and showed it to the congregation as he stood in the pulpit. “It reminds me I have no right or need to cast the first stone. I’m no less a sinner than anyone else . . . The season of Lent is meant to bring us to review our sinfulness,” Parsley said. “It’s simply knowing that you’re mortal and fallible and not God.”

Read the full article here.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes in the Times Online about a central conviction of his faith:

If the Universe was brought into being by One beyond the Universe, then it was created by a being who desires to bring things into being. The simplest way of expressing this is: God created the Universe in love. For it is love that seeks to bring new life into being. It is love that makes space for the other. God’s love made space for the Universe and for that astonishing sequence of events that produced us.

If so, then each of us is here because of God’s love. That fact transforms the human condition, rescuing it from ultimate solitude. We are not alone. We exist because someone wanted us to be, someone who believes in us even when we lose belief in ourselves, who knows our fears and hears our prayers, giving us strength when we falter and lifting us when we fall.

And just as God creates in love so He asks us to create in love. The Abrahamic monotheisms are the only systems to place love at the heart of the moral life. There are other codes of ethics: every civilisation has them, secular or religious. All civilisations have something like the golden rule: treat others as you would wish to be treated. Many of them have forms of justice: treat equals equally. But only a vision that sees the world as God’s work of love makes love the highest value. Love God with all your heart, soul and might. Love your neighbour as yourself. Love the stranger for you know what it feels like to be a stranger.

And yes, there is another way of seeing the world and our place within it. The Universe came into being for no reason, and one day for no reason it will cease to be. There is nothing special about humanity: we are mere primates with a gift for language. There is nothing special about any of us. We are born, we live, we die, and it is as if we had never been. Our ideals are illusions; our hopes mere dreams. We have no souls, only brains; no freedom, only the hardwiring of our genes. And the biggest illusion of them all is love, the smokescreen created by humans to hide the fact that we are here to reproduce.

I know which I prefer. Better is a world built on love than on the Darwinian struggle to survive. Greater the mind that lifts its eyes beyond the visible horizon than one that refuses to believe anything that cannot be measured, mapped and scientifically explained.

Read the full article here.

In the Hymn “Once in David’s Royal City,” there comes this line:

For he is our lifelong pattern: day by day like us he grew; he was little, weak, and helpless; tears and smiles like us he knew: and he feels for all our sadness, and he shares in all our gladness.

“Our lifelong pattern” reminds us that Christmas is far more than a single day can hold. Christmas is the birth and the best of what human nature can grasp – love, truth, understanding and compassion—the basics upon which the whole of our life in this world depends.  In the babe of Bethlehem, in the person and words of Jesus of Nazareth, in the graceful strength of his Spirit, we find a new dimension at work in our lives.  We discover a goodness stronger than evil, a compassion stronger than selfish striving, and a love stronger than cruelty or hatred.  On this day, we celebrate the glad tidings of Christ’s birth and the profound gift of hope he brings to the world.

Can we truly have hope for a more peaceful world?  Is change in the human heart really possible?   Hope is the single most important ingredient for changing the world, or at least changing our little corner of it. “Hope,” as the writer Jim Wallis likes to say, “is believing in spite of the evidence, then watching the evidence change.”

We yearn for an expression of hope that offers a positive, generous, and engaging way of life.  We want to belong to a hopeful community which is also committed to grappling honestly with difficult questions and which longs to make the world a better place.  Christ is the pattern of that hope, and the Church, when it rises to the call, is a sign and foretaste of what such hope can be in the world.

Wherever you are in your journey of faith this Christmas Eve, do not surrender your hope, no matter how flickering the flame of hope may be within you.  Let the glad tidings of Christmas be reborn in you, and then, for his sake, live and share your hope with others.

Merry Christmas my friends,

Rick+