By Chris Neville
When I was applying to colleges, I toured a few of those located in Philadelphia. At each one, my tour guide said something along the lines of, “Philadelphia is a big city, but it’s really a big college town.” Working at St. Peter’s, I have definitely found this to be true. Relationships with the various institutions of higher learning in this city have been highly beneficial to me during my time at St. Peter’s Food Cupboard. As might be expected, these institutions have been an unfailing source of volunteers. I receive emails weekly from individual students or student groups who want to serve at St. Peter’s. During my tenure here, we have had volunteer groups from Thomas Jefferson University, the Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine, the University of Pennsylvania, Drexel University, Temple University, and Bryn Mawr College. In addition, the universities of Philadelphia have provided me with skilled volunteers who help me to improve the food cupboard. Every autumn, we partner with the Intercultural Communication master’s program at the University of Pennsylvania, which provides us with five to seven students who volunteer at the food cupboard every Saturday for an entire semester, helping us to discover and overcome cultural barriers between us and our clients. Many of these students are able to provide the indispensable service of interpreting between Mandarin and English. Another skilled volunteer is Claire, a medical student at Thomas Jefferson University who chose to do her community internship with us, studying food security in Philadelphia. Claire has brought skills that enable her to serve in food cupboard leadership positions and to review and edit our grant applications. Encouraged by these partnerships that basically fell into my lap, I began actively seeking more relationships with Philadelphia universities. At the suggestion of one of my board members, I contacted a group of Temple MBA students, requesting that they analyze how the food cupboard functions and suggest changes that could help us to operate more smoothly. We recently had an initial meeting with these students, who are excited to put their coursework into practice to help us out. I am also contacting various student groups in search of volunteer Mandarin, Cantonese, and Vietnamese interpreters. Aside from volunteers, relationships with Philadelphia universities have provided me with amazing networking opportunities. When I mentioned that I am considering looking for a job in biological research at the close of my Servant Year term, multiple volunteers offered to help me connect with researchers at their respective institutions. Additionally, my official Servant Year mentor is a very well-connected visiting professor at the Wharton School of Business. Every time we meet, he offers to connect me with someone interesting or potentially helpful. When talking about networking, Lindsay, our program director, once told me, “Philadelphia is a big city, but you’ll find it’s really a small town. Everyone knows everyone.” This, too, I have found to be true. Philadelphia has skyscrapers, a subway system, and 1.5 million inhabitants, but it’s also a small college town full of well-resourced people who are eager to serve their community. Chris Serves as Manager of the St. Peter's Food Cupboard
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By Noah Stansbury
The Third Sunday of Easter, Year B Luke 24:36-48 In the name of the one, holy, and living God. Amen. Our Gospel reading today finds the disciples in a pretty dark place. For us it’s been two weeks since Easter, but in the lectionary we’re still, really, right at the end of Holy Week. The events of the Last Supper, Gethsemane, and the crucifixion are still in the front of everyone’s mind, and while something strange has been going on at the place where they laid Jesus, most of the people in the room are convinced this is just salt in a gaping, gangrenous wound. But something is afoot: the two episodes in Luke that immediately precede this passage are the Resurrection itself and the encounter between Jesus and the unnamed disciples on the road to Emmaus. Jesus has vanished from their midst, and they immediately go to find the Eleven and while they are still breathlessly relaying the story of their most unusual dinner guest, Jesus does it again, showing up in their midst, unexpected and unannounced. It has been a busy day. In all of these encounters, we see the same kinds of adjectives: “they were alarmed,” “they were afraid,” “terror and amazement seized them.” I’m particularly drawn to the language in our reading today; the disciples were “startled”. What an incredibly human moment. I was turning a corner the other day and was startled by a co-worker who didn’t catch my eye at first, and that was bad enough! I can only imagine if it had been someone I knew to be dead; I’d probably fall right over. Let’s go ahead and nominate this translation choice for understatement of the week. It’s as if the people who put together the lectionary are trying to get us to slow down and recognize something, even if they have to illustrate the point a few times: It is indeed a startling thing to be interrupted by the resurrected Christ. Perhaps in the comfort of our own lives—in a culture where these stories have been passed down generation after generation, their impact worn away to a faint echo of what it once might have been—it is easy to forget just how much calamity this news brings to those who hear it. Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death; life as we thought we knew it has been completely upended, our carefully arranged lives scattered asunder in the light of this new thing being worked out in our midst. Such an encounter takes all our preconceived notions about the way the world works, about the way we expect the world should work, and casually tosses them aside. We’ve all had those moments where the rug was pulled out from under us and suddenly nothing is the same, and it’s often a deeply unsettling thing, even if after the initial shock has passed we see that it is in fact good news. Like a lot of biblical comparisons, the ways this plays out in our own lives isn’t always as dramatic as it was for the disciples, but that doesn’t make it any less impactful. People ask me what it was that drew me to St. James (and I have to admit there are some days when I’m the one doing the asking), and I remember that when I was sitting on my couch in Pittsburgh after an interview with our head of school, marveling at what I had just learned, I clearly thought to myself, “This is an outpost of the kingdom of God in a place that desperately needs it.” I came to St. James School under the auspices of Servant Year, a program of our diocese that invites recent college graduates into a year of service while living in small residential communities with each other. When I initially applied in January of 2014, I had expected to start the program in August, and I had never really considered working in an education placement. But, as with the disciples, something was afoot. The way God comes to us unbidden, that thing we call “grace,” is messy, often ill-timed, invasive, and above all hard to ignore. It rarely shows up in ways we expect or prefer, but if you’re paying attention, you know it when you hear it. A few weeks later, I showed up on the campus of St. James for the very first time, having accepted a job without having ever seen the place in person. It is a place where God’s work in the world is being carried out, where light shines out of darkness. It has become for me, and I think for many, a holy place. In this passage we also have Luke’s version of the Great Commission: "Repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in my name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things." We know the rest of the story, of course. The apostles took what had been entrusted to them and passed it on to their successors, who cultivated the young church and the disciples that came after them, on down through the centuries through saints and sinners alike, in catacombs and in darkened houses, in classrooms and in open fields and on hard pews and around the kitchen table, down to you and me, starting in our baptism and God willing continuing to the day we leave this world. You and I, too, have become witnesses of these things, tasked with proclaiming repentance and forgiveness to all nations. No pressure. Not so fast, you say. There’s something about this idea of proclaiming repentance and forgiveness that I know conjures for me (and I suspect for many) a distasteful image of the street corner preacher, railing against the supposed depravities of the world around him, standing on his soapbox (and it is in my experience always a he), perhaps frothing at the mouth a little bit. Or maybe if you haven’t met this person, you have that one person on Facebook who always has something to say about the evils of contraception or same-sex marriage and someone engages them and then wheels start spinning and next thing you know there’s what we Millennials call a “flame war”. The imagined meaning of proclaiming repentance is not something we Episcopalians typically go in for, and why should we? Instead the Church has, in her wisdom, painted a different picture for us. The catechism in the Book of Common Prayer tells us that the mission of the Church is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ, and that this mission is carried out by the ministry of all who have been baptized (and yes, there is a catechism in there, toward the back, but wait until after the service to go looking for it). So what does it mean for us to proclaim repentance and forgiveness to a broken world that desperately needs it? We don’t assert there is a better way of doing things just by yelling about it and wishing it were that simple; we model it. We go where the pain is, and we walk alongside it. We look at what the way of the world has wrought, and we start to pick up the pieces. North Philadelphia’s reputation precedes itself, of course, as a wasteland of poverty, hunger, violence, drug crime, insufficient educational resources, and the list goes on. Allegheny West, the neighborhood where St. James lies, has in recent years had the distinction of having the highest murder rate per capita in all of Philadelphia. Nearly half of the students who attend the neighborhood public high school will drop out. The choices our ancestors made have brought us this far, and rather than stand at a distance and shake our heads, it is our responsibility to say, “Enough,” and do something about it. If we, as the Body of Christ, are in a society that has laid our brothers and sisters this low, then the repentance—the turning away—from the evil done on our behalf begins with you and me. We find the things that destroy God’s creatures, we let them look us in the face, and we begin to turn them back. At St. James we use education and service as the locus for our work to bind up the broken, proclaim release to the captive, and freedom to the oppressed, but it is so much more than that. It has to be. Forming relationships and community is the key part of that “restoring unity with each other” piece that lifts it beyond mere charity and makes it… something else, something better, perhaps even on a good day a glimpse of the kingdom of God. Our students’ families are an integral part of our community, and by virtue of nearly half of our staff living on the same block as the school, we are able to form meaningful relationships with many, providing access to medical services, food, clothing, and furniture. This year we are especially focusing on providing nutritious, fresh-cooked meals in an area that until recently lacked a proper grocery store of any kind, and the effects are already being felt at home by some of our students. A couple of weeks ago at St. James we marked a milestone in the life of our community as we baptized eight of our students, the first baptisms held at the church in a decade or more. In those baptisms, we welcomed them into the household of faith, passing on the witness that we have received, and inviting them into the Church’s work of reconciliation. These eight, and the St. James students who perhaps will follow in their footsteps in the years to come, will carry out this work in their own way, but it’s easy to see where they found their example. They have met the risen Christ, heard his word and dined at his table, and seen that there is much good news interrupting the darkness that surrounds them. As St. James bears witness to the fading darkness this Eastertide, I am reminded of the words of St. John Chrysostom writing in his famed Paschal Homily: “Let all partake of the feast of faith. Let all receive the riches of goodness. Let no one lament their poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn their transgressions, for pardon has dawned from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Savior’s death has set us free…. O death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory? Christ is risen, and you are overthrown!” Alleluia, thanks be to God! In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. Preached by Noah Stansbury, serving as Volunteer and Church Outreach Coordinator at St. James School, April 19, 2015. By Rex Yin
I started Servant Year in February at the Free Church of St. John in Kensington. Interestingly, Free Church is located two blocks away from Mastbaum AVTS, the high school I graduate from. I believed this would be the perfect opportunity to serve my high school community and give back to Kensington. When I transitioned out of my previous role into my current role, I made a new commitment: “I will serve with unconditional love. I will serve with grit and persistence. I will serve with a goal in mind. I will serve with passion and dedication. I will serve through my vocation. I will serve all.” One of my role models who cultivated my passion for education is Donna Vernick. I met her when I was in middle school, and maintained a mentoring relationship with her through high school and college. She passed away this past September but she continues to live in memories of the children she served. Donna was a servant of Christ and everything she did showcased her commitment to be like Christ. She stepped into the community of Logan and Olney, and served children who did not have one or both parents, lacked guidance or direction, experienced trauma, faced language barriers, and more. Despite the challenges she saw in her students ‘ lives, she served us all with unconditional love, grit, persistence, a goal, passion, dedication, and through her vocation as an educator and member of the church. While my transition was quick, it was pretty smooth and I was enjoying my new position. But when there are highs, there are also lows. Last week I was dealing with a few behavior challenges and I was beginning to reevaluate myself. This past Tuesday morning, I was so frustrated with myself and overwhelmed, and decided I wanted to go for a walk. During my walk, I thought about Donna Vernick. Tears began to well-up, and I remembered the commitment I made. “I will serve with unconditional love. I will serve with grit and persistence. I will serve with a goal in mind. I will serve with passion and dedication. I will serve through my vocation. I will serve all.” Just like how Donna Vernick served Logan and Olney, I will to serve Kensington. I will face challenges. I will face struggles. I will have storms in my life. But I will also face joys. I will also face moments of happiness. I will face feeling satisfied and fulfilled. I don’t want to be just like Donna, in fact I don’t think she would like that. Instead, I want to strive to be a servant of Christ. Just like how Donna inspired me, I want to inspire others to be servants of Christ. Rest in Peace. Rest in Power. Thank you, Mrs. Vernick. Raksmeymony (Rex) Yin, Out-of-School Time Coordinator & Food Pantry Assistant By Ellen Doster
"I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing with my life next year," I told my Wednesday night small group two Novembers ago. Many of my friends were applying for internships, jobs, and grad school. I felt like I was behind, like I'd been lazy in not having life after college figured out. I knew I wasn't ready for grad school. I had been mulling over the idea that I was maybe being called to pursue discernment for ordination, but despite four years in a college that was a stone's throw from an Episcopal seminary, I had no idea where to begin. I was scared I was going to get stuck. "Have you heard of the Episcopal Service Corps?" one of the group, a seminarian, asked. "I have a friend who'll be here at the seminary next year, and she went through the ESC program in Chicago." Again, despite four years at an Episcopal Church-owned university, I'd never heard of it. After doing a little research, it felt right. The service, the intentional community, the discernment - here was an environment where I would have the resources I needed. I applied, and by February I found myself committed to the Servant Year program in Philadelphia. So many doors and opportunities had opened up, and I felt great affirmation in my decision to pursue this course and wherever it would lead. But as exciting and daunting as the prospect of moving to a completely new place where I knew absolutely no one was, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I'd gotten the next year planned out, so I could just relax and finish my senior year without too much worry. And that was frustrating, because I didn't want to be worried about the future, uncertain as it was. I wanted to be able to tell people, "I'm not sure what's next, but I'm excited," without being overwhelmed by the fear of being left out and left behind. I balked at the thought of feeling like I was just doing what I needed to do to get through to the next stage of my life, whatever that's supposed to be. I wanted this to have purpose. It's not that I was doing anything for the wrong reasons, it was just that so many years in a system that makes no time or room for anyone who can't keep up the pace had conditioned me into that feeling of relief. It's a vicious cycle of anxiety, building tension, a decision, and then sweet relief. Society rarely gives us the time we need. At the age of eighteen, we have to have a plan, a road map to the future. We have to get our degrees, our certifications, and just pray that we made the right choice before we've gotten any meaningful experience under our belts. We might take a little time off from "the plan" to do a bit of soul-searching, but the pressure to get back on track inevitably and all too soon falls back into place. I've been in the Servant Year program for about six months now, and my time here in Philadelphia has so far been wonderful, rewarding, and at times frustrating. I've been given time and space to just be present in my service and not worry about where I'm going to be in two years. But it's that time of year again when we start to freak out. Why haven't I heard back from those grad programs? Will I get any job interviews? I still have no idea what to do next. Will I be able to get by until I do? It's a time of anxiety and pressure. I've made the decision to accept a second-year offer from Servant Year, and I'm really excited about the new opportunities next year will bring. But that hasn't fully assuaged my fears. Is my discernment on track as it should be? Am I rushing, or am I falling behind? The truth is, I can't skip the uncertain times of my life, the times when I'm "in transition." And if I want to be really honest, life is by nature transitory, and I shouldn't want certainty at the price of stagnation. If this year has taught me anything, it's that if I treat this or any time in my life as just a transition, I won't learn anything. I won't grow. I won't reap any meaning from these experiences. I don't see my work or my community as just a stop on the road to my "real" life. I feel just as called to be here in this place at this time just as strongly as I feel any other call. Last summer just a couple of weeks before I moved to Philadelphia, I met that friend of a friend who had worked in the ESC, just as she was moving to Sewanee to begin her time in seminary. I couldn't help but wonder if I would be in that same position in a few years. We were both at the threshold of a new journey. "I hope this is okay, but I wrote this note for you," she said, giving me a hug and presenting me with a little envelope. I keep this note with me, pulling it out and reading it from time to time when I feel myself growing anxious or fearful. I find this prayer especially timely during this season of Lent, and it reminds me be present in my work and my community as it is now. A prayer for a major life transition: Lord, help me now to unclutter my life, to organize myself in the direction of simplicity. Lord, teach me to listen to my heart; teach me to welcome change, instead of fearing it. Lord, I give you the stirrings inside me. I give you my discontent. I give you my restlessness. I give you my doubt. I give you my despair. I give you all the longings I hold inside. Help me to listen to these signs of change, of growth; help me to listen seriously and to follow where they lead through the breathtaking empty space of an open door. Amen.- Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals, page 552 Ellen Serves as Ministry Resident at St. Mark's Church. By Josh Davis
I started working for Servant Year in mid-January and was placed with Consumer Bankruptcy Assistance Project (CBAP), the country’s only pro bono non-profit bankruptcy law firm. CBAP provides a truly unique service, allowing people who are drowning in debt get a fresh start without paying the costs of a bankruptcy attorney. To better demonstrate how monumental this is, let me explain exactly what bankruptcy is. When I tell people where I work, few people seem to get what I do or with whom I work. Some people misunderstand bankruptcy, while others are hostile towards it, and most everyone else is somewhere in between – our clients included. There is an unfortunate stereotype surrounding bankruptcy that falsely claims that people filing for bankruptcy are simply exploiting the system and shirking responsibility. CBAP only serves low-income individuals, so I cannot speak for middle-income or wealthy individuals who file bankruptcy, but no one comes to CBAP looking to exploit the system. Furthermore, people who come into CBAP to file for bankruptcy cannot actually pay off their debts. Our clients often feel shame for needing to file bankruptcy, but they should not. They are generally honest individuals who want to pay their debts, who abhor the possibility of bankruptcy, but who have had some dramatic change in their lives. Normally, these changes stress their already limited resources, pushing them into the red for months and years on end. Their medical bills soar through the roof as they are diagnosed with a lifelong illness; or they are stuck in the middle of an expensive divorce; or their parent dies leaving no one else to pay for the casket; or they face countless other hurdles that would financially burden any family. Some work but cannot find anything that pays better, some are looking for work constantly, some cannot work and only receive public benefits – which are not much at all – but they all do their best to stay on top of bills. They never imagined that they could fall behind on their bills, but they received some fundamental shock. As they fall further and further behind, they are constantly harassed and intimidated by collections agencies. The people who come to CBAP to file for bankruptcy are doing so out of need. Have they made mistakes? Of course they have, but what principally pushed them into debt is generally something over which they had no control. So, let’s revisit what CBAP does. Three part-time law students and I interview the clients and work with them to prepare their files for bankruptcy court under the supervision of a full-time staff attorney, a full-time executive director, and a part-time supervising attorney. Once the file is prepared, the attorneys submit the petition and represent the client in bankruptcy court. This is all done for free. For our clients, having to pay for a bankruptcy lawyer could make filing literally impossible, so this service is indispensable. In 2005, Congress attempted to revise the bankruptcy code to make it harder for people to file, and unfortunately they went above and beyond the call of duty. The process for filing bankruptcy is long and stressful to put it mildly. The fact that CBAP guides people who desperately need to file through this system is incredible. Through CBAP clients can receive a fresh start, as bankruptcy can be used to restore utilities, relieve stress, and protect them from aggressive creditors. Josh Serves as a Paralegal at Consumer Bankruptcy Assistance Project's Fresh Start Legal Clinic. By Annie Salorio
If there’s one thing I can say about myself with confidence, it’s that I am, and always have been, a good student. And I don’t mean that I know how to cram just enough the night before an exam to earn exactly the number of points I need to maintain a certain average. I actually took great joy in my assigned school readings. I even added excited, super-nerdy notes to my margins. When long-term projects were assigned, I set my own deadlines for smaller chunks of the larger goal, triumphantly checking them off as I went. In college, I went to professors’ office hours and had dinner at their houses (I love small liberal arts schools). In other words, school came easily to me. I knew what was expected. I enjoyed doing what was expected. Learning was a joy, and school was my home. Servant Year is a different experience. Now, I certainly don’t mean to dissuade anyone from applying. The benefits of this program are numerous, and I could devote an entire post to them alone. In the past seven months, I’ve made new friends, explored a new city, and learned a lot about myself. But something else has happened to me; something that I wasn’t well-prepared for in the warm embrace of academia. I’ve been wrong. A lot. I’ve inadvertently annoyed my housemates. I’ve neglected personal responsibilities (my body, my messy room, my pile of laundry, etc.). And God knows I’ve made more mistakes at work than I can keep track of. If any other good students are reading this, I have something unsettling to tell you. You’re awesome, but you may be at a bit of a disadvantage in this department. School dominates the first eighteen years of your life. If school comes relatively easily to you, you don’t get a whole lot of practice being wrong. And in real life, you’re wrong a lot. Sometimes it feels like you’re wrong more often than you’re right. But there’s good news. When I was a student, a single “C” on an assignment was enough to ruin my day, even if all my previous grades in the course had been “A”s. These days, if I make a mistake at work, I don’t have too much time to let it get me down, because I’m bound to make a different one the next day. I know this might sound like a nightmare, but there’s a great beauty to it. In a class, a certain number of mistakes leads to a failing grade. As I said above, I’ve made a lot of mistakes as I’ve navigated my Servant Year. But I haven’t “failed” yet. Because one of Servant Year's goals is for us to emerge as slightly better people than we were when we started. At the end of the day, as long as this is accomplished, the number of mistakes doesn’t matter (within reason, of course). Before I go, I want to make one thing clear. I’m not trying to bash academia. I love it dearly. I miss it. I intend to go back to it in the next few years. But when I do, I will fear failure a little bit less than I did seven months ago. And if that’s not a blessing, I don’t know what is. Annie Serves as Youth Ministry Assistant for the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania. By Trish Johnston
Growing up in Wilmington, Delaware, and going to college in rural upstate New York, public transit wasn’t a part of my life until I moved to Philadelphia in August. I made the conscious decision to not bring my car with me to the city as a way to get me out of my comfort zone and really force myself to embrace city living. And so for the past six months, I have spent countless hours on SEPTA buses, trains and trolleys. A lot of people living in Philadelphia hate on SEPTA, but I’ve found that (most of the time) it’s not that bad. Many of the experiences I’ve had on public transit serve as reminder of life’s lessons. They may seem like little things, but you can learn a lot from a simple train ride. You can roll your eyes and harmph at the guy who brought a full sized boom box onto the train and is playing loud music, or you smile when you look around an realize almost everyone in the car is dancing a little in their seats. The world around you is what you choose to see, and your day is going to be a whole lot better if you choose to see the happy, the good. Sometimes the bus driver doesn’t see you standing at the back door of the bus, and to get off at your stop you might need to scream ‘back door!’ Being assertive to get what you need is ok, as long as you’re polite while doing it. The train is going to come at the same time whether you stand anxiously at the edge of the platform looking for it, or whether you take a minute to sit down on the bench. Be patient. Trust the journey. God has a plan for you. You can keep yourself up at night worrying or you can sit back, take a breath, and enjoy. If you see someone with a desperate look on their face running to catch the train you’re already on, you stick your leg out between the closing doors for them, no matter the bruising consequences. You never know when you may need someone to hold that door for you. A SEPTA worker lets you on the train for $2.00 instead of $2.25 because you don’t have a quarter on you. A bus driver stops mid-intersection because he sees a kid running to catch up. A group of people helps a mom get her stroller up a flight of stairs. A young man offers an elbow to a woman struggling to step up onto the bus. A guy gets out of his seat for you, not because you’re elderly or pregnant, but because you’re carrying a full bag, a yoga mat, a lunchbox, and are flushed from the trip up the stairs. Goodness, kindness, and compassion are all around. You just have to take out your headphones, open your eyes, and see it. Trish serves as Volunteer Coordinator at Seamen's Church Institute (SCI). By The Rev. Callie Swanlund
Show up. Be Seen. Live Brave. This was the tagline of the training I completed with Brené Brown this past week in Texas. I spent a week with Brené and her team in order to become certified as a facilitator of the Daring Way, which is based on her research. You may know Brené from her TED talks or from her books; she is a research professor at the University of Houston who has spent the past decade studying vulnerability, courage, worthiness, and shame. This week, I learned a great deal about vulnerability. Many of us might think of vulnerability as weakness, but Brené argues that vulnerability is in fact our best measure of courage. In her research, Brené collects data by listening to people’s stories. She asked people to finish the sentence, “Vulnerability is [blank.]” And here’s how people responded: Vulnerability is calling a friend whose child just died. Vulnerability is the first date after my divorce. Vulnerability is getting pregnant after three miscarriages. Vulnerability is waiting for the biopsy to come back. Vulnerability is bringing my new boyfriend home. Vulnerability is starting my own business. Vulnerability is signing up my mom for hospice care. Vulnerability is hearing how much my son wants to make first chair in the orchestra and encouraging him while knowing it's probably not going to happen. Vulnerability is falling in love. Contrary to our first reaction that vulnerability is weakness, not a single one of these responses sounds weak, does it? No, it takes great courage to do that which God calls us to and to let others see our true selves, created in the image of God. In our tradition, we have the perfect model of vulnerability: Jesus. Jesus opens himself up to love even when it means getting hurt. Jesus shares his truth even when he knows it’ll make others angry. Jesus gives of himself even when it might mean having nothing left. Then today, we hear of Jesus letting his light shine, even in the midst of darkness. Leading up to this morning’s gospel passage, Jesus has just told his disciples that he will experience great suffering, including being rejected by those in power and being killed, only to rise again three days later. His disciple Peter doesn’t want to believe it could be true, so Jesus in turn spells out the potential cost of discipleship, which may include death to those who follow him. It is following this shocking revelation that Jesus takes Peter and James and John on a mountain top hike. As Jesus is transfigured, he is the ultimate example of vulnerability. He takes trusted friends along and peels back the layers of himself to show his full, true identity. Standing on that mountain top, shining as the brightest light the world has ever seen, Jesus shows great authenticity and courage. In allowing his light to shine, Jesus’ friends - who in Mark’s gospel can be quite bumbling and daft - are finally certain that he is who who says he is: God’s son, the Beloved. Following in Jesus’ footsteps, how do we show up, be seen, and live brave? How do we begin to practice vulnerability? It’s a process to be sure. But there are steps we can take. When Brené compiled her data, she noticed a pattern among men and women who were fully living and truly loving life. The faithful Episcopalian that she is, she borrowed a phrase from the confession in our Book of Common Prayer, in which we say “we have not loved you with our whole hearts.” The people loving with their whole hearts she labeled Wholehearted. “Wholehearted living,” Brené says, “is about . . . cultivating the courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning thinking, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough. It's going to bed at night thinking, Yes, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes afraid, but that doesn't change the truth that I am also brave and worthy of love and belonging.”1 One of the ways she suggests living into wholeheartedness is cultivating laughter, song, and dance as an antidote to the need to be “cool” and always in control. It is said that shamans, or medicine people, who were sought out when someone was feeling out of sorts or depressed or dispirited, would often ask one of these questions of the person: When did you stop being enchanted by stories? When did you stop singing? When did you stop dancing?2 During my training, Brené had us laugh, sing, and finally dance together as a group to fully experience the increasing vulnerability of each action. She names dancing as full body vulnerability, claiming that the only thing more vulnerable would be to be naked. When we dance, there’s a fear that we might be perceived as uncool or out of control. I totally resonate with this fear - I could never be one of those people who is hired to dance around with a sign at a busy intersection in order to draw in business, even if it came with a million dollar paycheck. I am an uncomfortable dancer, feeling very uncoordinated and self-conscious. And yet, that said, there are few things better in life than a family dance party in my living room. Yesterday my 4-year-old taught me a dance move she’s calling the Volcano, and we both rocked out to it until we collapsed into giggles. In these moments, the fear of being out of control or looking ridiculous dissipates and it is this lack of control and care-freeness that I love most. Think of those moments when you overhear a stranger with a laugh so hearty and genuine that you can’t help but join her in laughter. Or when you pull up to a stoplight and notice that the driver next to you is singing at the top of his lungs and using the steering wheel as a drum set, and you can’t help but grin. In embracing their vulnerability, they endear themselves to you, and you are emboldened to be more courageous in your own life. Since the season of Lent begins this Wednesday, I will share with you that my Lenten discipline this year is to dance every day. I know we often think of Lenten disciplines as stripping away, as fasting from something we enjoy. But what if this year, we were to choose something that would help us become more vulnerable, more courageous? Something that would help us show up, be seen, and live brave. Something that would remind us that we are God’s beloved children and so, so worthy of love. As you experience the joy of this Sunday Gras, wherein we feast before the fast, [with music, and food, and conversation], pay attention to the feeling of your heart opening more fully and think about how you might cultivate wholeheartedness and vulnerability through laughter, song, and dance this Lent. May we imagine ourselves on that mountain top, Jesus dazzling us with his brightness, his authenticity, his true self. And may we also let our inner light shine. Let us show up, be seen, and live brave. 1. Brené Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection 2. The Four-Fold Way: Walking the Paths of the Warrior, Healer, Teacher and Visionary The Reverend Callie Swanlund Serves as Associate for Formation and Family Ministry at Servant Year Supporting Congregation Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and as a Servant Year Mentor. Sermon preached at Christ Church Cathedral for the 2015 Forma Conference, January 30, 2105. Andrew Kellner, Canon for Family & Young Adult Ministries Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania Mark 1:21-28 “The people were amazed by his teaching, for he was teaching them with authority...” In the name of our God, Father; Son; and Holy Spirit. Amen. Why is it that today the Church is increasingly not seen, as a true and good discussion partner in asking and answering some of life’s most important questions? For that matter, why are we not asking them? I have spent the past seven year ministering in and with the Episcopal Church. I even joined up! Prior to this however I had grown up and moved through communities of faith where certainty was the goal and the object of that faith, much as Brene Brown described yesterday morning. Some of you, I am sure had similar experiences. My teachers, mentors, pastors, priests and parents all served as authorities, providing certainty in the midst of an uncertain world. Then at the age of twenty-two, I packed my belongings and moved from Northern Michigan to Lackawanna, New York,a small steel mill town that shares a border with Buffalo, along the shores of Lake Erie. I had been hired to work at Baker Victory Services, a Roman Catholic residential facility for adolescents with multiple psychological diagnoses. I began to lead a local youth group, and would often take young people from Baker with me to the group. It was not at church or in that youth group, but rather in the cottages at Baker, that over the course of the next two and a half years, that all the certainty that I had been given and latched onto for so long, began to melt away. You see the platitudes and slogans of certainty, are not helpful when you hold a teenager in your arms as they wrestle with the value of their own life. Words provide no certainty in the midst of deep heartache and pain, but rather melt away leaving one’s own soul bare and broken. The certainty of doing, being and saying the right thing crumble, and you are left to face your naked self, with the baggage of shame, so closely linked with certainty. And yet time and time again we reach back, putting back together the rubble of our certainty, trying to protect ourselves and fearing to grieve; to forgive and to let go. The desire and pull towards certainty is so often misconstrued today as authority. To teach with authority is seen as providing certainty and being concrete. As a culture we have trusted that concrete certainty makes for the very best or perhaps even the only foundation for life and for faith. Perhaps we have the scriptural children’s song all wrong: “The wise man built his house upon the rock… the wise man built his house upon the rock… the wise man built his house upon the rock and the rains came tumbling down.” Concrete certainty, is not the rock to which the song refers, but so very often it takes its place. And this false rock of concrete certainty provides little foundation for a dynamic and living faith shaped by the experience of encountering God. For the idea of Jesus is not the same as the living Jesus. And yet the idea of Jesus or ideas about Jesus, so often serve as the touchpoints and fabric of religious formation and education. Often times without our even acknowledging it. Many of us, especially we Episcopalians, tend to shy away from the idea and reality of teaching with authority, as we have gotten bogged down in the Myth of Authority. This Myth of Authority says that:
This is the Myth of Authority, the myth that authority equals certainty. And in places where this myth has become reality, authority constricts and confines, rather than its rightful acts of setting right, setting free, healing, and bonding together relationships. You see there is not only the danger of giving life and reality to the Myth of Authority; there is also the danger of failing to act and teach with authority, because of the fear of this myth. But when we teach with true authority we provide relationships in which to wrestle with the questions of our deepest meaning. Places where we hold up principles and ideals, for each person to grapple with and live into. We challenge assumptions, including our own; for true authority comes from living a life of integrity; allowing for yourself to be wrong; allowing yourself to grieve your errors so that you can forgive yourself for being what we all are: a fallible human-being. I grew up going fishing with my dad. A man who was and at times still is, one of the most concretely certain individuals I know. We have not always seen things eye to eye, dad and I, not gotten along. But we talk, and we talk a lot. Even as an adult, I speak with my parents at least 5 times a week. And so when one day four years ago my dad asked me to go Walleye fishing with him in Canada, I gladly accepted, even if it was with a bit of trepidation. You see, I knew my dad was not quite happy with me, even if it was a topic we did not talk about. We are both good Midwesterners afterall. The issue was, that I had married my husband a year earlier and my father had refused to come to the blessing of our marriage at the Cathedral Church of our Saviour, in Philadelphia. But dad and I were going to go fishing. We drove together in my dad’s pick-up truck to the Northern shore of Lake Superior some 10 hours from my childhood home. We settled in to our small cabin and got in two wonderful days of fishing from our small aluminum boat. There were a lot of close quarters on this trip. But it was on the night of our third day, after dinner while playing cards, that all that togetherness must have gotten to my dad. He looked up from the cards in his hand and said, “Your mother told me not to say anything, but I can’t take it any longer.” Though I knew what was coming next, I remember asking him “It’s okay, what’s on your mind?” “I can’t accept your lifestyle.” he said to me. Though I had not been prepared for this conversation, I quickly responded with a question, trying not to sound too much like a smartalic. “What part of my lifestyle?” “You know what part.” was his reply. I responded and said “I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about. Is it the part where I work for the Church? Is it the part where I teach young people about the love of God and how they can find a relationship with Jesus? Is it the part where I helped to start a school of under-resourced families? Is it the part where I tithe and go to church? I am not really sure what you cannot accept.” “You know what part.” Dad was becoming more frustrated. “No I don’t.” I replied “Is it the part where I have found someone who loves me and who I love? Is it the part where we have worked hard to make our relationship work? Is it the part where we have made sacrifices for each other, just like you and mom taught me to do? I am just doing what you have taught me to do.” “You shouldn’t be having sex.” And there it was. “Dad there are lot of things I shouldn’t be doing. But I’m trying my very best to be the man you taught me to be; to live my life as faithfully as I can. And to model my relationship with Dave after, your relationship with mom. We work hard at making it work. We make sacrifices to make it work. And most of the time we are not having sex. I am just doing what you taught me to do.” At this point my dad left the cabin, only to return after some time had passed. We promptly continued playing cards, as though nothing had happen. But a few months later, my parents came to visit Dave and I, on vacation. We were staying at our favorite place, Beaver Island in Lake Michigan. I told Dave that as soon as my parents arrived my dad would want to go swimming and to just be ready for it. And like clockwork when they walked through the door, my dad said “Lets go take a swim.” Dave declined not wanting to push anything and said, “It will be good father-son time.” My dad looked at him and said “Well then come on son.” When we teach with authority we must allow the teaching to be lived into. It may not look the way we thought it would, but teaching with authority allows room for individuals to be as faithful as they can be, and allows for a broader understanding of the principles and ideals we hold most dear. Authority does not fear difference, but embraces and challenges us all. And they said “What’s this? A new teaching with authority!” Our organization, our community, our family, has seen much change since I was elected to the board 4 years ago. We changed our name, becoming Forma. Becoming something new and yet remaining true to who we were. We have reached out in intentional ways to broaden our community of Christian formation leaders. We have leaned into our understanding and commitment to the Charter for Lifelong Christian formation by inviting in youth, campus and young adult ministers, expanding our membership to 446. We have developed stronger connections and collaboration with our denominational formation office, even establishing a liaison with our board. We have birthed our dreams into reality with the successful launch of two certificate programs, to raise up and strengthen leaders in our field. And we have taken strategic moves to remain the nimble and responsive organization that we always have been by restructuring our board, and taking on the task of raising funds to hire our first executive director. Our community has changed but our shared commitment to the ministry of Christian formation remains stronger than ever. Our commitment to each other and the unique gifts and energies that we each bring calls us to continue to be a grassroots organization in support of individual formation leaders. All while strengthen the role and quality of the ministry of formation in the life of the Church. Our board cannot do any of this alone. We are each called and challenged to teach this truth with authority. Being lived out in the reality of the smallest parish to the largest. Being supported and connected across dioceses and provinces. Each and every members’ voice and ministry comes together to produce a great tapestry of diverse expressions of our shared faith. My friends as we take our leave one from another, may your voices be strong, your resolves firm and your hearts stirred to daily take up the task of teaching our Church with authority. Amen. Andrew oversees the Servant Year program as part of the Office of Family & Young Adult Ministries of the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania. He also is a member of the Episcopal Service Corps Board. By James Roll
Love lost yesterday’s war the day that I was compelled to leave a church that I loved because of my sexuality. I lost a place that I called home. One thousand and sixty four tears fell on that day when silence fell. I remember numbly walking out into the cold that I had been cast into, leaving behind everything that I once had surefire faith in. I dodged the sincere loving embraces offered by friends because my heart failed to remember how to let love reign supreme. An unrelenting wave of suspicion and mistrust came to rule in my disquieted soul. Fleeting memories which had been the basis of my faith were reduced to meaningless specks of dust that irritatingly flew into my eye. I vaguely remember going on a mission trip to Hamlin, West Virginia to work on a house belonging to Ardella, a lovely old lady who had lost her husband a few weeks before we arrived. Despite her loss, Ardella surprised all of us with her compassion and willingness to engage us in conversation while sharing a cup of her wonderful sweet tea. On the last day, I found myself sitting in the kitchen when Ardella’s daughter wandered in while on the phone organizing the details of the grave headstone for Ardella’s recently departed husband. I reached out to hold Ardella’s hand. In response, Ardella uttered a barely audible “thank you.” In that brief moment, Ardella unknowingly ordained me to go out into a hurting world to build relationships with people through love, service, and compassion through a simple but powerful act that influenced the person I was in what seems a lifetime ago. Today, I simply rub my eyes--and the irritating little speck of dust that holds the distant memory is gone. I sigh as I remind myself that I blame the church for rescinding my ordination when I was cast out into the wilderness.I remember believing wholeheartedly that leaving the Church behind altogether should have set me free--free to soar on eagles wings with nothing left to hold me back from living my life. My chains should have been broken--but I--I felt a part of myself wither in the boundless silence. Something was missing. I had realized that somewhere along the way I had tossed a precious relationship with God carelessly into a rubbish bin. I arrived at St. Mark’s as the faithless wanderer, seeking a place where I reignite the doused flame of my soul. I intentionally chose to come here to join a wonderful faith community because throughout the sojourns in the wilderness that I have endured--however lonely--I have clung to the hope that someday I will find peace with all that has happened. Engaging in ministry while struggling with the concept of faith has proved to be challenging, thought provoking, yet exciting within an intense Anglo-Catholic community here at St. Mark’s. One of my myriad responsibilities is to lead the daily office; however, I have come to the unsettling realization that merely saying the opening words of the Venite leaves me with an empty feeling. Each time I utter the words, “Come let us sing to the Lord; * Let us shout for joy to the Rock of Our Salvation”, the awareness that I thoroughly lack the desire to shout for joy to the Lord has become increasingly stark. It doesn’t matter how many times I say the Daily Office or how many times I attend a mass here because that sinking feeling of hollowness returns each time. I take solace in the knowledge that I have thrown myself into this community with the understanding that my soul shall continue to be at peace with patiently waiting for the day that faith returns. At complete odds with the aforementioned void is the complete excitement that consumes my soul when I throw myself into my ministry at the Soup Bowl and at the Food Cupboard. I have graciously been constantly reminded of the joy of building relationships with others simply by being present in a wonderful community. My heart goes out to the gentleman who shared the story of being excommunicated by his family. I leaps for joy when I hear about the blessings that friends at the Food Cupboard experienced at Thanksgiving with the Turkeys that we gave out. I laugh at the memories I have created amidst the bustle of the Soup Bowl alongside an incredible group of volunteers. My thoughts go out to the man who asked me to pray for him about his addictions. I am given peace when a good Samaritan says that it’s okay to be honest about where I am in my relationship with God--even if that means admitting to others that I don’t believe in God. I often catch myself feeling like Martha, bustling from one task to another, because I strive to ensure that the ministries I am a part of continue to be vibrant, loving, and places where people can go to find either their spiritual or tangible food. On the other hand, even amidst the action, I can’t help but feel that I am continually watching, waiting, and listening for God wherever he may be. James Serves as Ministry Resident at St. Mark's Church. |
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