Author: Rosemary Lovelace

May 8, 2024

As the congregation moved from Mikell Chapel to the post-quinceañera reception, the young woman whose service we had just celebrated said to me, “Padre Bill, estás entre mis abuelos,” or, “Father Bill, now you are among my grandfathers.” 

Each Sunday for 18 years, I could be found on the Cathedral Close of the Cathedral of St. Philip, where I was a part-time Associate Priest, and where I continue to see patients at the counseling center, a wonderful, sacred space so dear to me. Among the services in which I participated was Catedral de San Felipe, our Hispanic ministry held in Mikell Chapel each Sunday. During those years, my learning curve was rapidly ascending, both in terms of my language skills and my role in relation to the congregation. They had several names for me, including “Padre Guillermo,” and more recently, “Abuelo,” meaning “Grandfather.” The latter is perhaps my favorite name. On Christmas Eve 2018 our granddaughter Sophia was born, and in December of 2022, our grandson Georgie joined his sister. Our twin grandchildren Jack and Alice—age 7 (who call me “Granddaddy,”) were born in March of 2017, so I am now un abuelo multiplicado por quatro or, a grandfather times four!

Sophia and George Harkins

Jack and Alice Harkins

So, how am I living into this new normal of being a grandfather, and how has it changed my ministry, my perspectives on life—and perhaps my sense of self and “being in the world” or “Dasein,” as Heidegger called it?(“Dasein” for Heidegger can be a way of being involved with and caring for the immediate world in which one lives).

Erik Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development included the penultimate stage, or “generativity versus stagnation.” Typically, this stage takes place during middle adulthood between the ages of approximately 40 and 65, so becoming un abuelo is, in this sense, right on time for me.During this developmental stage adults strive to create or nurture things that will outlast them, often by parenting grandchildren, and hopefully contributing to positive, “generative” changes that benefit the common good. Vicky and I spent much of our married life raising our two sons amid busy professional careers, and now, to see them have careers and children of their own gives us a deep sense of joy. Yes, we’ve had deeply satisfying vocational journeys, but these cannot compare to the delight we find in bearing witness to the unfolding of the lives of our sons, and, now, to see our grandchildren being born, grow and develop their own wonderfully distinctive lives.

And this is not all. A subtext in Erikson’s developmental narrative is that we become more connected to those aspects of our world that allow for a “transcendence of self.” We become more deeply aware that we are part of something larger than ourselves, a kind of “operational theology of abundance.” Wendell Berry hints at this when he says:

“Ask the questions that have no answers. Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias. Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant, that you will not live to harvest.” (”Mad Farmer Liberation Front”~ Wendell Berry, Collected Poems)

Indeed, nature can assist us with this journey of generativity. Each year I gather in northern Colorado for a week of trail running, hiking, and fellowship with friends of some 40 years. We reconnect with one another, laugh, hike, read, and write. And we do all of this deep in a sub-alpine forest, engaging in what the Japanese call “shinrin-yoku,” or “forest bathing,” now known to increase levels of serotonin, dopamine, healthy cellular development, and an awareness of connection to God’s Creation—giving birth to empathy and compassion. And speaking of empathy, perhaps we can learn something from trees about being in community during what some are calling an “epidemic of polarization and loneliness” in our culture. Trees live communally in ways we are only beginning to understand. In his remarkable novel “The Overstory” Richard Powers writes about what we might call “grandparent trees”:

“Before it dies, a Douglas fir, half a millennium old, will send its storehouse of chemicals back down into its roots and out through its fungal partners, donating its riches to the community pool in a last will and testament. We might well call these ancient benefactors giving trees…Trees communicate, over the air and through their roots…they take care of each other. Link enough trees together, and a forest grows aware. ”

In his recent book “The Second Mountain,” David Brooks says this about the cultivation of generative moments of transcendence: “The universe is alive and connected, these moments tell us. There are dimensions of existence you never could have imagined before. Quantum particles inexplicably flip together, even though they are separated by vast differences of time and space. Somehow the world is alive and communicating with itself. There is some interconnecting animating force, and we are awash in that force, which we with our paltry vocabulary call love.”

Becoming a grandfather has indeed made me more aware of the beauty of non-binary, liminal spaces, where we greet the other with dignity and respect, just as our Baptismal Prayer calls us to do, and where, as the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas said, we welcome the infinite mystery of the Face of the other. In becoming un abuelo, I see artificial borders become diffuse and disappear. As one of my Hispanic parishioners said to me, “Padre, quiero sentirme vivo,” or, “Father, I want to feel alive.” As the abuelo in me comes alive, my connection to all of Creation becomes more alive as well, with more clarity, urgency, and meaning. May our sense of “generativity” at Holy Family also continue to grow, evolve, and flow out into the community we are called to serve! May our Outreach and Parish Life Committees, among others, guide us in contributing to the common good in life-giving ways, extending love and friendship to one another, and to the communities we serve.

As Gerard Manly Hopkins wrote,

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

   It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

   It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

   And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

   And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

   There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

   Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

   World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

I’ll catch you later on down the trail, and I hope to see you in church on Sunday!

Blessings, Bill+

May 5, 2024

Sixth Sunday of Easter – Bill Harkins

John 15:9-17

15:9 As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.

15:10 If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love.

15:11 I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.

15:12 “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.

15:13 No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

15:14 You are my friends if you do what I command you.

15:15 I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.

15:16 You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name.

15:17 I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.

Good Morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this Sixth Sunday of Easter, and a day on which we consider what it may mean to call one another “Friend” as Jesus now refers to his disciples and, by extension, to each of us. In this passage from John’s Gospel, we hear again about the importance of abiding in love, and the core value of Christian fellowship as “friendship.” I believe Jesus is calling us to lives of integrity—and my favorite interpretation of this is “wholeness.” In responding elsewhere as he does to the Pharisees—and in referring as he does to the heart, thought to be the center of one’s capacity for courage and compassion—Jesus is asking us to consider the heart of our own faith and tradition, and the practices and disciplines that sustain it in “wholeness.” What activities, ritual and otherwise, help us be in “right relationship” with our neighbors, practicing hospitality, and grace, with a spirit of friendship? What allows us to maintain and deepen what theologian Paul Tillich referred to as “self-integration,” that process of finding our center of spiritual health and moral integrity? For Tillich this corresponded to a therapeutic model familiar to pastoral counselors…that one’s spiritual health is the wholeness of a person’s center, or “the ground of one’s being” as Tillich called it. What does it mean in this sense to call another one’s “friend”? What might be your examples of true friendship and, conversely, what might we learn when we miss the mark, and how might we seek forgiveness? I don’t know about you, but I can think of examples of both in my life.

In the synoptic gospels the concept of friend is not nearly as prominent as it is in the gospel of John. In Luke and Matthew, the concept is found in rather negative contexts. Luke refers to friends as handing over Christians in times of persecution (21:16). In Matthew, Jesus as friend is a source of criticism for his opponents. They accurately accuse him of being “a friend of tax collectors and sinners” (11:19). He is criticized for recognizing no boundaries in friendship, for disregarding ritual purity. (Ford, 108) I see myself in these less positive images too, and they call upon me to recognize times when I have not been the kind of friend I would prefer to be, but, I’ll say more about that in a minute.

The gospel of John is a different story. Here the word friend (philo) occurs six times. Jesus mentions the “friend of the bridegroom” in a positive context in 3:29. Jesus refers to Lazarus as “our Friend” (11:11). We are told that the good shepherd “lays down his life for his friends” (10:11). The disciples are elevated from servants to friends in John 15:13-15. The crowd taunts Pilate, calling him “no friend of the emperor”—if if he releases Jesus—in John 19. Then there is the verb to love: phileo. The Father loves the Son and shares his plans and purposes with him, which is what friends do (Jn. 5:20). Jesus loves his friend Lazarus (11:36). The one who loves his life will lose it (12:25).

In this week’s text, John 15:19-17, immediately following on the metaphor of the Vine and the branches, Jesus teaches the disciples that discipleship means friendship with him and with God. Discipleship is being a branch of the vine. It is ultimately relational. Hence Jesus’ use of the term “friends” for his followers: “I no longer call you servants . . . I have called you friends” (v. 14). Jesus distinguishes friendship from servanthood. To be a friend is to share a personal relationship and to be made aware of the plans and purposes of the other. And he states the core value of friendship in the community of followers: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (Jn. 15:13). In this love, we are understood as who we are without mask or pretension. The sometimes superficial and functional lies and half-truths of social acquaintance fall away; one can be authentic. Where we are understood, we are at home. And understanding nourishes belonging, and hospitality, values we seek to embody here. I wonder how thinking of ourselves as friends, gathered together as the Body of Christ that is Holy Family, might inform our understanding of hospitality. What might it mean to be a “soul friend” or, “anam cara” as John O’Donohue called it? In the early Celtic church, a person who acted as a teacher, companion, or spiritual guide was called an anam cara. It originally referred to someone to whom one confessed, revealing the hidden intimacies of one’s life. With a soul-friend, we could share our inner-most self, our mind and our heart. This friendship was an act of recognition and belonging. This art of belonging awakened and fostered a deep and special companionship. I would add here that one can be a soul friend to canine and other animal companions. They have certainly been among my best friends. And I wonder how we might be better friends to the natural world that, after all, nurtures and sustains the very lives we live. Say what you will about those who hug trees—and I have been among them—but trees literally eat sunlight, and in so doing produce oxygen that gives us life. Anam cara indeed.

Of course, there are precedents for this sacrificial notion of friendship. If we do a historical rewind, we encounter the notion of friendship in the Old Testament, in Jewish writings between the Testaments and in Greek and Roman philosophy. For these contexts, competition and rivalry have no place in friendship. Trust is essential. Falsehood is not to be born. Much of this Pythagorean thought was adopted by the Stoics and by the early Christian communities as well. Socrates viewed friendship as the most precious of all possessions, the greatest blessing that a person can possess. A friend shows generosity and courage in caring for her or his friend. Being an anam cara requires of a purposeful presence — it asks that we show up with absolute integrity of intention and often, without the need to “fix” or change the other. It means giving ourselves away in love and friendship. I am so grateful to call my wife Vicky my best friend, and my sons and daughters-in-law have become adult friends as well. They continue to teach me. I hope to live long enough to be friends with my grandchildren. And I’ve recently returned from Nashville where with three friends from graduate school where we working on a book about the friendships born there some 40 years ago. I continue to learn from all of these anam cara friendships. I also continue to learn from times when I fell short of true friendship. These, too, can be teachable moments.

In the fall of my senior year at Sandy Springs High School a new student arrived. He was from southern California, and he fit the stereotype perfectly. With blond surfer good looks and an easy manner, he quickly stole the hearts of the girls at school and was the envy of all the guys, only we didn’t want to acknowledge his presence among us. And when he asked for permission to join the football team, along with my teammates I was not happy. After all, he had not suffered through the 2-a-day practices in August; he had not been among us all those years of Gray-Y and Pop Warner football at Chastain Park; he was a stranger among us—he was the “other.” We felt it unfair for the coach to let this latecomer to our little kingdom on the team at this late date. Not this year. This was our year. And so the cadre closed its ranks in an effort to ignore his existence. He didn’t seem to mind this, and quickly made friends with others at school who, according to the proscribed rules of a football oriented society, were also social outcasts. Truth told; we were jealous. And when the coach let him join the team, it only made matters worse. Problem was, he was very good. Lightening fast with excellent hands, he was perfect for our power-I option offense at the position of flanker. This also happened to be my position. So we shared starting duties over the course of a very good season, and I came to admire and learn from him. But I would not let him in. I was a reporter for the school paper during basketball season, and admired from the stands the translation of his skills from the gridiron to the basketball court—a gift I did not share. When track season began in the spring he replaced a dear friend on the sprint medley relay team, of which I was a member, and partly due to his speed we finished third in the state at the GHSA finals in Jefferson, setting a new school record in the process. One afternoon, late that spring, I found him sitting alone in the locker room. He was crying. I sat down next to him and asked him what was wrong. Slowly, his story unfolded: his father was a prominent LA psychiatrist who was an inveterate womanizer. My teammate had moved with his mother to a religious commune in northern California—what we would now call a cult, after his parents divorced. Slowly her mental health began to unravel, and he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle in Atlanta. His mother had just that week been committed to a state mental health institute, and his father was divorcing, yet again. He worried about his younger sister, who was becoming involved with drugs and alcohol, and he did not really want to go to college. It meant yet another change. He missed home back in California. I sat there and listened, and stewed in the juices of my own self-righteous jealousy. I realized that his good looks and easy manner had hidden his pain and that we, all of us who might have been his friends, had been instead effective gatekeepers to his emotional prison. I felt deeply ashamed. I tried over the last weeks of school to befriend him, but it was too late. The forces of time and destiny swept us up in a river of change, and after graduation I never saw him again. When our only measure is friendship with those who think like us, look like us, share our history and context, we become, dear one’s, victims of the very idols we create in the service of this way of being in the world. We lose touch with a sense of God’s grace and compassion and hospitality. And these outward and visible signs of integrity are not about who deserves what; not about our envy which is, after all, nothing more than a mask for the fear that we aren’t somehow enough to obtain whatever earthly kingdom we seek to secure us in our anxiety. Jealousy does not allow for the abundant grace and radical compassionate justice of the kingdom of heaven, and it prohibits true friendship…true love expressed through friendship. A Friendship Blessing from John O’Donohue reads this way: May you be blessed with good friends. May you learn to be a good friend to yourself. May you be able to journey to that place in your soul where there is great love, warmth, feeling, and forgiveness. May this change you. May it transfigure that which is negative, distant, or cold in you. May you be brought in to the real passion, kinship, and affinity of belonging. May you treasure your friends. May you be good to them and may you be there for them; may they bring you all the blessings, challenges, truth, and light that you need for your journey. May you never be isolated. May you always be in the gentle nest of belonging with your anam ċara. May I live this day Compassionate of heart, Clear in word, Gracious in awareness, Courageous in thought, Generous in love.”Amen.

May 1. 2024

“So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.”

 2 Corinthians

Among my favorite pieces of music is John Coltrane’s iconic composition “A Love Supreme,” recorded in December of 1964. Coltrane’s gift to us was a declaration that his musical devotion was now intertwined with his faith in God, a spiritual quest that grew out of his personal troubles and addiction. The album was recorded in one session on December 9, 1964, in a studio in New Jersey, leading a quartet featuring pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist Jimmy Garrison and drummer Elvin Jones. Of that experience, Coltrane said, “I experienced, by the grace of God, a spiritual awakening… leading me to a richer, fuller, more productive life.” After running the NYC marathon in 1979 I joined a group of college friends at the Cookery, in Greenwich Village. McCoy Tyner, who played piano on the recording, was playing piano that evening with the band accompanying the Blues impresario Alberta Hunter. As he began a selection from Coltrane’s album, Tyner said to those of us gathered that night; “It was just such a wonderful experience….we couldn’t really explain why it was… meant to be. The Spirit was present in that room that day.” 

Music has the power to evoke the mystery of Paul’s call in Corinthians to “see what cannot be seen” in ways that move us to deeper understanding, as in this favorite hymn of mine:

My song is love unknown, / My Savior’s love to me; / Love to the loveless shown, / That they might lovely be. / O who am I, / That for my sake / My Lord should take / Frail flesh, and die?

My Song Is Love Unknown – King’s College, Cambridge (youtube.com)

Some time ago, I was with my family for a trail race in northern New Mexico and visited the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi, in Santa Fe, site of Willa Cather’s novel Death Comes for the Archbishop. Among my favorite passages in the novel has Archbishop Latour, the main character, say:

“Where there is great love there are always miracles…One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are… I see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest …upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.”

A few years earlier, while attending a clinical conference in Santa Fe, I watched a glorious parade on the Plaza of St. Francis Cathedral. The morning was filled with music, including Spanish violin groups, Mariachi bands representing various societies paying homage to saints, and music from many of the Pueblos found in the region—so much wonderful music!

As the participants entered the Cathedral, I found myself moved by the richness of God’s creation. I was also acutely aware that in this time and place, I was very much in the minority. I was the “Anglo” stranger, standing on the periphery as the parade passed me by. I felt a momentary loneliness, even in the crowd gathered to watch the parade.

Then a Mariachi band of old Hispanic men, with deep, leathery skin the reddish brown color of the very earth in the surrounding hills, came into view. As they passed by me, one of them paused, and bowed, still playing his violin. Nodding, he motioned me to enter the procession. His deep brown eyes were smiling, and in a moment of joyful, grace-filled transcendence, I found myself a part of this glorious dance, healed, and moving up the stairs into the deep, delightful, sacred mystery of the Cathedral. Music accompanied me on this journey, and was reminiscent of the final verse of “Love Unknown”:

Here might I stay and sing, / No story so divine; / Never was love, dear King, / Never was grief like Thine. / This is my Friend, / In whose sweet praise / I all my days / Could gladly spend.

Paul reminds us that death does not rule, not only when we die, but also while we live. As Cather’s Archbishop Latour says, miracles of grace are all around us, if we will open our eyes and ears to see and hear. We have so much love to share here at Holy Family, so many ways to give of ourselves—to give that love away. Find a way to join us, won’t you? There are so many opportunities for service—including our amazing choir, gifting us with beautiful music each week!

It takes a combination of creativity, imagination, talent, and the gift of the Holy Spirit to gift us with these lovely pieces of music. John Coltrane understood this as a “Love Supreme.” I do as well. And that morning in Santa Fe, love unknown and unseen was made “manifest” to me. May we, too, join in the Holy procession—the grace-filled resurrection parade on into Pentecost, and beyond, with gratitude. May our eyes see and our ears hear the music of love supreme, unknown and unseen, and may we not lose heart.

I’ll catch you later on down the trail. And I hope to see you in church! Bill+

April 28, 2024

5th Sunday of Easter – Bill Harkins

John 15:1-8

15:1 “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower.

15:2 He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.

15:3 You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you.

15:4 Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.

15:5 I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.

15:6 Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.

15:7 If you abide in me, and my words abide in you,

ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.

15:8 My Father is glorified by this,

that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning! And welcome to Holy Family on this 5th Sunday of Easter, and blessings to those of you who in any way have given of themselves in the service of compassion, the Hebrew word for which is, after all, Rachamim, meaning “wombish” or womb-like. So whenever we reach out to another in the womb-like embrace of compassion, we are, each of us, abiding with the other, just as Jesus abides with us. Begging the question, what does it really mean to “abide” with someone? How do we recognize this quality in others and perhaps more important, cultivate it in ourselves and live this out in our commitment to Holy Family?

Some time back Vicky and I attended a clinical conference in San Francisco, and we visited Grace Cathedral for the early morning service. We were entranced by this remarkable place of worship high atop a hill overlooking the city. Inside, we explored its various chapels, a labyrinth, lovely murals depicting the history of the city, and stunningly beautiful stained-glass windows. One is invited to enter this holy space, and to allow one’s spiritual imagination to come alive. The last available window space has recently been filled with an incredible stained glass piece, depicting a spiral nebula—a lovely galaxy much like our own milky way, spinning beautifully deep in outer space. I was reminded again of the words of Eucharistic Prayer C—“the vast expanse of interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, and this fragile earth, our island home.” Somehow the depth and expansiveness of the cathedral seemed to contain a hint of all that, and more—a kind of mysterious engagement with the holy, as if the Spirit blew gently, constantly, lovingly through the cool depths of the very soul of the building holding us in its embrace.     

After the celebration of the Eucharist we emerged into the brilliant northern California sunlight on a cool April morning. On a plaza just below the doors of the Cathedral is an outdoor labyrinth, encircled by Japanese Maples only now in full leaf, and luminous in the morning light. On the perimeter of the labyrinth nine or ten Cantonese women from a Buddhist monestary down the hill engaged in their morning ritual of Tai Chi, the lovely, synchronous form of worship, exercise, and meditation. We stood for a long while at the top of the steps, entranced by this rich, resonant sychronicity of worship and culture: our own celebration of the Eucharist, this labyrinth of ancient Celtic origins, and the deeply moving Chinese ritual of Tai Chi, all brought together by the grace-filled welcoming embrace of one of our Cathedrals.

My primary feeling was that of gratitude—a deep, abiding appreciation for the moment of Kairos we experienced. It was moment when the Spirit seemed so present, so close, so available. And that Spirit-time, that Kairos, points us to something that lies at the very heart and soul of who we are—what the world is, the very force that emanates from God and gives life to us all. This morning—in this light-filled space—we hear the remarkably poignant words spoken by Jesus, Abide in me as I abide in you. Put simply, Jesus’ incarnation of the ancient ideal of abiding, and love embodied in this term, was to become the pattern of how the disciples, and that includes us, were to love one another, the pattern, that is, of how we ought live our lives. St. Augustine once observed that Jesus loved each one he ever met as if there were no other in the entire world to love. He radically individualized and made incarnate the affection he acted out toward others. I was reminded on the steps of Grace Cathedral that morning that we are all made in the image of that extraordinary love—all of us—and this Holy space was an outward and visible sign, if you will, of the love which led Jesus to say that he would take us into himself.  

That is the place he prepares for us. Jesus’ love for us was not just a radically incarnate, individual love. It was also a universal love, and it includes this planet earth, our island home, and everything in it, including Grace Cathedral, and this sacred space, and each of us, who are called to be earthen vessels of that love. The eyes with which he looked upon the world were never filled with disdain or contempt. We must never forget that the opposite of love is not anger, but rather indifference. Jesus loved each of us as if we were the only ones in the world, and he loved all as he loved each. And this speaks to the wisdom of C.S. Lewis, who made a distinction between what he called “need love” and “gift love.” Need love, says Lewis, is always born of emptiness—a kind of possessive acquisitiveness that is the relational, spiritual equivalent of a vacuum, like a black hole in outer space, sucking everything into its dark center. Lewis acknowledges that many times when we humans say, “I love you,” what we really mean is “I need you, I want you…you have value to me that I desire to make my own, regardless of the consequences to you.” Over against this image, Lewis contends that another form of love is radically, ontologically different. It is what he calls “gift love.” Rather than being born of emptiness, or impoverishment, and the needs to which they point, this form of loving is one of fullness, and grace, and gratitude. Its goal is to enrich and enhance the beloved rather than extract value. Gift love moves out to bless and increase—to enliven, nurture, and sustain the other. It is more like an ever-flowing spring than a needful vacuum. Lewis concludes by saying that the uniqueness of the biblical vision of reality is that God’s love is “gift love,” not “need love.” He reminds us that, “we humans are made in the image of such everlasting and unconditional love,” we are created Imago Dei—in the image of God. Not only are we loved by God in this way, we can choose to live our lives this way. We are most likely to fall into “need love” when we are feeling scared, or vulnerable in some way—when faced with new situations or people who are different in one way or another. But even then, in the midst of our uncertainty, we can choose, with God’s grace, to grow into the wonder of “gift love.”

Sometimes the examples of this come from places we might not expect—sources that catch us by surprise, origins that fill us with awareness of the fullness of that “gift love.” On a summer day in 1998 more than 300 PBS stations across the nation aired a very special episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood that featured KoKo, the sign-language-using gorilla. Mr. Rogers’ visit to KoKo’s home at The Gorilla Foundation helped launch a week of programming entitled “You and I Together” which addressed the confusion and fears of young children when confronted with new situations or people who are different. The weeklong theme of “inclusion” featured KoKo and helpful talks about feeling included, no matter the nature of one’s disability, infirmity, skin color, race, gender, religion, or sexual orientation. It turned out that “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was one of KoKo’s very favorite TV shows. And when this gentle Presbyterian pastor, beloved by so many, entered KoKo’s room, she immediately embraced him in a gentle gorilla hug, and in sign language said, “Love you, neighbor, KoKo love.” KoKo then bent down to help Mr. Rogers remove his shoes, as she had seen him do every day, for so many years, on his show. She then helped him remove his sweater. So, you see, gift love is available to us all, and can come from unexpected sources. And with the grace of God we can choose to embrace that love, just as KoKo embraced Mr. Rogers. The Spirit of that love infuses and energizes and enlivens. It was present in the Cantonese women doing Tai Chi—and no doubt they will be there this morning. It was present in the seekers walking the labyrinth that day. No doubt they will be there again.

It was present in those who gathered for the celebration of the Eucharist, 2000 years ago, and at Grace Cathedral and all such places, and it is present for us, here and now, in this sacred space we have come to love. In some versions of our Eucharist the priest may say “Behold what you are…become what you receive.” This phrase goes way back to St. Augustine, who in the 5th century preached a sermon in which he reminded us all that by our participation in the Eucharist we are transformed into the Body of Christ, broken and blessed, and given for the world. Like the bread we break this morning, each of us is broken too—we each have places of loneliness, fear, disappointment, shame…And so accepting and making friends with this part of ourselves, is a part of the journey of giving ourselves to something bigger than we are…we call this entrusting ourselves to God’s care, and allowing the Holy Spirit in Her wisdom to guide us. And when we know ourselves as God’s beloved, like KoKo and Mr. Rogers, we become the love we have received. With the help of that Spirit, and God’s ever-present and unfailing grace, we can grow into the deep mystery of loving each one as if there is no other in the world, and loving all, as we love each. As Wendell Berry has written:

The Incarnate Word is with us,

is still speaking, is present,

always, yet leaves no sign

but everything that is.Amen. 

April 24, 2024

God covers the heavens with clouds, prepares rain for the earth, makes grass grow on the hills. … God gives to the animals their food, and to the young ravens when they cry.

~ Psalm 147

Somewhere John Muir wrote “I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was going in.” As I write, I’m just in from a trail run up to Mt. Oglethorpe on a day of cerulean blues skies and spring breezes. The view from Eagle Rock was lovely, and reminded me of an annual trail run with friends in Colorado, near the confluence of Rocky Mountain National Park and the Roosevelt/Comanche Wilderness Area. An alpine start and half day’s climb to Comanche Peak (12,700’) reveals the crenellated waves of mountains from Wyoming to the north, and the San Juan’s to the south and west. Last year, an unusually heavy snowpack remained well into July. Daily visitations from moose, deer, raven and peregrine falcons—and, based on tracks around the cabin, brown bear enlivened and blessed our sojourn here in the lovely Pingree Valley. And indeed, in going out, I found myself going in, both here in the lovely Southern Appalachians, and in the Colorado Rockies. But what might “going out and going in” mean? Why did Muir find such inward solace outdoors?

Each year for 30 years I have gathered in wilderness settings with friends from Vanderbilt, for trail running, hiking, fellowship and laughter. For the past 20 years we have gathered in the Pingree Valley, an artifact of glaciers following the uplift of the Rocky Mountains some sixty million years ago. Deep in a sub-alpine forest of spruce, fir, and aspen we are bathing in the pinenes, limonenes, and other aerosols emitted by trees, and believed to elevate NK cells, a type of white blood cell known to send self-destruct messages to tumors and virus-infected cells, and lower levels of cortisol and other stress-related hormones. We’ve known for a long time that factors like stress, aging, and pesticides can reduce our NK count, at least temporarily.[1] After an unusually busy winter and spring, I am grateful for this time away with my friends, including the trees!

In his book “The Three Day Effect” Richard Strayer from Arizona State studied the effect of time spent in nature on networks in the brain, especially the attention network. Strayer writes.

“So many things demand our attention: emails, deadlines, chores, grocery lists, elusive parking spots, and, as William Wordsworth put it, all the ‘getting and spending.’ ‘The world,’ wrote the poet ‘is too much with us.’”[2] When the attention network is freed up, other parts of the brain appear to take over, like those associated with sensory perception, empathy and productive day-dreaming.  

And speaking of empathy, perhaps we can learn something from trees about being in community during what some are calling an “epidemic of polarization and loneliness.”[3] Trees live communally in ways we are only beginning to understand:

“Before it dies, a Douglas fir, half a millennium old, will send its storehouse of chemicals back down into its roots and out through its fungal partners, donating its riches to the community pool in a last will and testament…trees communicate, over the air and through their roots…trees take care of each other….seeds remember the seasons of their childhood and set buds accordingly. Trees sense the presence of other nearby life…learn to save water and feed their young and synchronize their masts and bank resources and warn kin and send out signals to wasps to come and save them from attacks. Forests wire themselves up underground. There are brains down there, ones our own brains aren’t shaped to see. Root plasticity, solving problems and making decisions. Fungal synapses. Link enough trees together, and a forest grows aware. ” (Richard Powers, The Overstory)

Our beloved Holy Family parish is, in many ways, like a deep and abiding forest. Community, like nature, as Muir suggests, has the power to heal, nurture and sustain us, and to remind us that we are not alone. We are reminded that whatever our burdens we are part of God’ beloved Creation, in Deep Time. As Mary Oliver says so well:

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,

“and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine.”[4]

So consider finding a way to get outside this spring and summer, if only to sit or stroll in a local park, or perhaps to plant a tree. Of course, our own Holy Family campus is perfect for what Muir called a “saunter.” And consider, too, finding ways to reach into our parish community, and to co-create relationships in this sacred space, and be filled with light! We need volunteers for Eucharistic Ministry, Pastoral Care, Outreach, and other forms of service. In volunteering you may find that in reaching out, you are going in…deeper into your relationship with God, and in so doing, deeper awareness of your own spiritual journey. What we care for, we grow to resemble, and yes, by going out, we may find that we are going in.

I’ll catch you later on down the trail…and see you in church!

Eastertide blessings,

Bill

[1] https://www.outsideonline.com/1870381/take-two-hours-pine-forest-and-call-me-morning

[2] https://www.rei.com/blog/camp/the-nature-fix-the-three-day-effect

[3] https://www.hrsa.gov/enews/past-issues/2019/january-17/loneliness-epidemic

[4] Mary Oliver, When I am Among the Trees 

April 14, 2024

3rd Sunday of Easter – Bill Harkins

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all. Amen.

Good Morning and welcome to Holy Family on this the 3rd Sunday of Easter! I’m so glad you are joining us today.       

In this chapter of our lives at Holy Family, I find myself empathizing with the Disciples in ways perhaps new for me. Maybe you do so as well. We know they have been scared, and in the reading for today, they don’t recognize Jesus when he appears. Begging the question, when we are in a season of uncertainty and transition, can we recognize Christ in the face of the other, our sisters and brothers, and can we remain relatively non-anxious enough to lead with wisdom, and resilience? And, let’s remember we have only recently emerged from an unprecedented time of social distancing and quarantine, and we’ve all been on a post-pandemic journey of sorts. One of our daughters-in-law is an epidemiologist with the CDC, now working remotely from Houston, and so I pay attention to CDC notices of various kinds. Not only are we all still adjusting to life after the pandemic, we are also in what the Surgeon General has called an “epidemic of loneliness,” exacerbated by the pandemic and the real and ambiguous losses, as well as the anticipatory grief and anxiety we all feel to varying degrees. We are also in a season of political discord which, while not unprecedented, is quite real. The loss of life in Gaza and related conflicts add to our sense of dislocation. Let’s covenant to pray for one another, for the world, and for resilience and patience in this time together. And let’s seek to look for life-giving ways to contribute to Holy Family with love, and when needed, forgiveness. We need one another.

On Tuesday night of this past week our vestry and nominating committee met with Scott Kidd, an old friend of mine and rector at our neighbor church Resurrection, in Sautee Georgia. I’m so glad to be on this journey with you all, and I am grateful for those serving on these committees. I am also aware of being in a new leadership role among you. A few days ago I was walking out to the car with Andy Edwards after services. Now, Andy and Melinda were here many years ago, back when I was a Postulant at Holy Family, many years ago, and he said “Well, your priesthood has come full circle from here, to the Cathedral, and now back again.” And so it has. My first thought was one of deep gratitude for this parish, and for all it has meant to me and my family. I was also aware of a moment of anxiety, being as I am in a new role among you all.  Because of the overlapping relationships we have had, it has been a kind of developmental challenge. I am reminded of this continuity and overlap of life themes in the story of the mother who was getting breakfast ready for her son. She noticed that he not only had not appeared but he seemed to be making no sounds of preparation upstairs. She went to his room and, finding the door closed, asked if he was OK. He said he was fine but that he was not going to school today. The mother, being of the modern sort, decided to engage her son in reasonable conversation, and asked him to provide three good reasons why he should not go to school. The son obliged: “Number one, I don’t like school; number two, the teachers don’t like me; number three, I’m afraid of the kids.” “Okay,” said the mother. “Now I’m going to give you three good reasons why you are going to school. Number one, I’m your mother and I say school is important. Number two, you’re 40 years old and, number three, you’re the principal!” 

Well, truth told we are, each of us in a new role at Holy Family, and I am only one among many asked to step up in this season. As our beloved Katharine Armentrout said on the occasion of her retirement, lay leadership will be—for many reasons—increasingly important in the coming chapter. We’re not alone in this. The new mission statement in the Diocese of Colorado is “Lay Led…Clergy Supported.” This is the new zeitgeist in the church for many reasons. We will each have to discover in ourselves opportunities for leadership, and this may mean facing fears, uncertainty, and leaving our comfort zone to be an integral part of the Body of Christ in this place. We each have an opportunity to grow in new ways. Let’s covenant to do so, shall we?

And so, like the disciples in the Gospel for today, we are each walking, talking with one another about what has happened, finding some meaning in what we’ve been through, and trusting that God is listening to us and bearing witness to our concerns and fears. Carl Jung once said that the soul rejoices in saying out loud what we feel inside, just as our Psalms teach us to do, even when it is hard to do so. As the disciples experienced in this Gospel, Jesus is available to hear both, and we are called to do likewise.

Jesus invited the disciples tell about their anxieties and pains; he let them grieve and mourn. Jesus listened to them, as they poured out their fear, uncertainty, sadness and grief. Jesus patiently guided the disciples “from hopelessness and sadness to celebration, to hope, to relationship restored and renewed; in short, to resurrection.”    

And yes, we are living in a time of transition and change. Rabbi and family therapist Ed Friedman has reminded us that grief and loss that are not transformed get transmitted.  We’re also feeling anticipatory grief. Anticipatory grief is that feeling we get about what the future holds when we’re uncertain. Anticipatory grief is a general sense of unease. I suspect the disciples felt much the same as we do now, a king of not knowing with the sense of dislocation that attends it.

The author Rachel Naomi Remen has suggested that “The way we deal with loss shapes our capacity to be present to life more than anything else,” she says. And when we tell each other stories of hope and resilience, they tell us about who we are, what is possible for us, what and who we might call upon. They also remind us we’re not alone with whatever faces us and that there are resources available to us. But we must each be committed to hope, and compassion, and grace. As Goethe said, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth…the moment one definitely commits oneself, the Providence moves too.”  The Disciples believe Jesus to be a stranger, and their eyes were opened in the breaking of the bread. In this text and related passages, this is a common theme. What does it mean to really see? How often do we miss what is right in front of us and how often do we miss the face of Christ in the stranger whom we encounter on the road?  In the Gospel story for today we have a signpost of sort; a guide through the uncertainty in this season of transition at Holy Family.

Last summer a friend and I were hiking and trail running high in the mountains of Colorado, and at certain points above the tree line where the trails can become diffuse, cairns, towers of rock guiding the way, were so very helpful. “Inuksuk”—or little people—as the Inuit tribes call these signposts, can be like lighthouses on a distant shore, guiding us along. Jesus is just such a guide in the Gospel for today, and as such he helps the disciples move from grief and loss and despair to hope, and to compassion.  “My peace I give you.”

On Tuesday night this past week, our consultant gave us a list of things we must do together as we seek our new rector—and this list included coming to terms with our history; acknowledging the past, being honest about the DNA in that past… and dealing with both grief—letting go—and moving forward together…holding on; beginning to discover a new identity; allowing for and empowering new leaders among us; strengthening relationships and enriching hospitality; asking ourselves where we have been, and where we are going, and what kind of leadership is needed in this new chapter…and we are called to love one another with grace, and compassion. And with love.Well, some time ago a dear friend and clergy colleague died after a courageous, year-long struggle with leukemia. A priest for more than forty years, he was gifted in the areas of ministry he most deeply loved; contemplative prayer, spiritual formation, and liturgy. We served on the Cathedral staff for several years, both of us part-time, and in some ways we were very different…and we became close perhaps not in spite of this, but because of our differences. He was a wise and gentle mentor to those of us younger in “priest years,” and a gift to each parish he served. After several hospital stays, two extensive rounds of chemotherapy, and a joyful but short lived remission, the cancer returned with new vigor. My colleague, in consultation with family and friends, decided to cease all but palliative care, and to die on his own life-giving terms. In one of our last conversations on his back porch, with the birds singing in the early spring air, he said to me “Bill, I have had so much love.” I said “Yes, there are many who love you, and I am among them.” “That may be, “he replied, “but what I mean is that there are so many whom I have loved. I have so much gratitude for the love God has enabled me to give away.” Dear ones, we are given by God the freedom to love—and this requires release from any fears and the bondage of unnamed grief that would keep us from giving this love. It requires the peace of God, breathed on the disciples and each of us. We are rightly suspicious when we are called only to joy. Yes, and even amidst our struggle with various forms of loss and uncertainty, we can find life-giving possibilities, in conversation with each other, widening the circle of care, and guided by love. And remember, as Jesus taught us, that wholeness includes all of our wounds, just as it included all of his. It includes all of our vulnerabilities. This is the way we connect to one another. Our shared humanity allows us to be available to one another. In sharing his wounds, and in the breaking of the bread, Jesus was known to the disciples, and to us. Let us go and do likewise. Amen.

April 17, 2024

“The physical structure of the Universe is love. It draws together and unites; in uniting, it differentiates. Love is the core energy of evolution and its goal.”

~ Teilhard de Chardin, Human Energy

One of my favorite professors at Vanderbilt University was Dr. John Compton, who taught courses in the philosophy of science, hermeneutics, and phenomenology. He was a brilliant teacher whose father, Arthur Compton, was a Nobel Laureate who worked on the Manhattan Project at Los Alamos, New Mexico, where John attended High School.

John encouraged us to engage in the dialogue between science and religion, ask tough questions, and enjoy and explore the ambiguous spaces in between. We read Thomas Kuhn’s book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962) which challenged the view of scientific discovery in which progress is generated and accelerated by a particular great scientist. Rather, Kuhn suggested, new discoveries depend on shared theoretical beliefs, values, and techniques of the larger scientific community—what he called the “disciplinary matrix” or “paradigm.”

Building upon this, feminist scholars identified attitudes towards gender and race as among those shared values and beliefs, and suggested that we need to question the way in which histories of science recount who does what, and who gets credit. Evelyn Fox Keller, writing in her book Reflections on Gender and Science, suggested that science is neither as impersonal nor as cognitive as we thought. And it is not reserved for male geniuses working on their own. It occurs through collaboration. This includes religious values, critical inquiry, and dialogue between science and religion. Having come to doctoral work at Vanderbilt as a neuroscience undergraduate major, I appreciated this reciprocal, interdisciplinary dialogue.

The year Kuhn’s text was published, the Mercury Friendship 7 mission occurred. John Glenn, piloting the spacecraft, was returning to earth when the automatic control system failed, forcing him to manually navigate the capsule to touchdown. Katherine Johnson, one of the (“Hidden Figures”) African American mathematicians working for NASA, calculated and graphed Glenn’s reentry trajectory in real time, accounted for all possible complications, and traced the exact path that Glenn needed to follow in order to safely splash down in the Atlantic.

Such stories amplify and deepen the work of Kuhn, Keller, and others who encourage us to create a future in which more and different people—regardless of race, gender, religion, class, or sexual identity—can imagine themselves as participants in new unfolding discoveries. Collaboration in a season of transition, or times of crisis, is essential to resilience, and to hope.

At heart, these narratives evoke the essentially relational nature of Creation, and God’s love, an evolving, divine, dynamic energy. As the poet Wallace Stevens said; “Nothing is itself taken alone. Things are because of interrelations or interactions.” We are reminded that nature itself is a system of reciprocal and deeply related interactions:

“Ecosystems are so similar to human societies—they’re built on relationships. The stronger those are, the more resilient the system. And since our world’s systems are composed of individual organisms, they have the capacity to change… Out of the resulting adaptation and evolution emerge behaviors that help us survive, grow, and thrive.” ~ Suzanne Simard, Finding the Mother Tree: Discovering the Wisdom of the Forest

And as Ilia Delio has written, “If being is intrinsically relational (as the Trinity evokes) then nothing exists independently or autonomously. Rather, “to be” is “to be with”…I do not exist in order that I may possess; rather, I exist in order that I may give of myself, for it is in giving that I am myself.”[i] Or, as Mary Oliver said so well,

“And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?

Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world. ”

Sounds like a relational, incarnational, Trinitarian Gospel to me. I pray that in this Eastertide season and beyond, we at Holy Family find ways to live into, and out of this “matrix” of God’s unfolding Creation. This requires of us a willingness to collaborate, imagine new possibilities, and to remember our Baptism, in which we pray:Give us…an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works. Amen.

April 10, 2024

Lent and Easter arrived early this year, and so this “liminal” in-between, threshold season came at a time of transition for us at Holy Family as well. The sequence between Christmas and Lent was compressed and, in some ways, seemed hurried. I was grateful for spiritual disciplines and restorative niches not necessarily dependent upon the liturgical calendar, as these can nurture and sustain us no matter what the lunar cycle (on which the Easter schedule depends) may tell us!* 

Truth told however, I felt a bit disoriented myself, juggling a busy clinical practice, family and teaching commitments, and turning my attention to serving Holy Family as part-time, interim priest in charge. And so, when I arrived at Grandview Nursing facility in Jasper last Wednesday, it seemed as though only a few days ago we were there for the wonderful Christmas sing-along and gift distribution we offered last December. 

And what a joyful day that was! Thanks to the hard work of the choir and outreach committee—and others like me who tagged along—we sang Christmas carols, provided cookies, punch, and assorted other goodies, and distributed gift bags to each resident. As I made my way down the halls to take gifts to those room-bound souls unable to sing with us in the cafeteria, I was so very grateful for the privilege of being among those representing Holy Family as the Body of Christ in the community. Some of the residents in those halls were asleep, and it gave me a grin to think that when they awoke, their gift bag would be waiting for them, just as if Santa had magically appeared while they slept. 

I was also impressed by the degree of need I saw among some of the residents, especially those who have little or no contact with family. And in some cases, their needs are so basic—things I tend to take for granted. So, I was delighted to learn that we were enthusiastically invited to come back at Easter. On Wednesday I arrived a little early and had a few moments to talk with the Activities Director, who was so very pleased that we had returned. She apologized that the Christmas tree was still up in the cafeteria, now bereft of ornaments, gathering dust to one side of the room. “We’ve had a lot of turnover here,” she said, “and it just hasn’t been a priority…Easter seemed to come so early this year.” “I hear you, sister,” I responded, “…and I’m still wondering where the whole month of March went!” 

“I tell you what,” I said, “we have 65 Easter baskets (well, actually lovely Easter “buckets”) to give out. Why don’t we put them on and around the tree and call it an ‘Easter Tree’.” And so, we did. Soon, the Christmas tree had become the Easter tree, adorned with buckets lovingly filled by Holy Family outreach members with a wonderful assortment of treats and Easter gifts. There were more beneath the tree, gifts abounding in a lovely incarnational moment of synchronicity and confluence…Christmas, Easter, and everything in between here, and now.

As Richard Rohr said in one of his recent meditations; “We all want resurrection in some form. Jesus’ resurrection is a potent, focused, and compelling statement about what God is still and forever doing with the universe and with humanity. Science strongly confirms this statement using its own terms: metamorphosis, condensation, evaporation, seasonal changes, and the life cycles of everything from butterflies to stars. The natural world is constantly dying and being reborn in different forms. God appears to be resurrecting everything all the time and everywhere. It is not something to “believe in” as much as it is something to observe and be taught by.”

Yes, and with Rohr, and Wendell Berry, who implores us to “practice resurrection,” I, too, choose to believe in Jesus’ resurrection, however we understand this, because as Rohr suggests, it “localizes the whole Mystery” in this material and earthly world and in our own bodies too—the only world we know and the world that God created and loves and in which God chose to incarnate. That’s why our time at Grandview last week was such a gift. It was an outward and visible embodiment of what Augustine said about the Eucharist…”Behold what you are…become what you receive.” Indeed. We become the Body of Christ by virtue of our participation in the Eucharist and we share that with the world. At Grandview last week we, too, were transformed by our willingness to show up, as the mystery of the Body of Christ, in community. 

For the souls gathered together to sing, break bread, and share stories, Chronos (clock, calendar time) and Kairos (spirit time) became one. A Christmas tree, now bereft of ornaments and lights, became a glorious Easter tree. And for a moment, held in time, incarnation and resurrection were one. I looked into the eyes of my fellow parishioners, and I saw reflected in them the gratitude of those whom we served. It was a moment of grace, hospitality, and mystery. As Mary Oliver said:

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the

mouths of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever

in allegiance with gravity

while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds

will never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the

scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say

“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,and bow their heads.

    I’ll catch you later on down the trail, and I hope to see you at church!

    Bill+

    *The simple standard definition of Easter is that it is the first Sunday after the full Moon that occurs on or after the spring equinox. If the full Moon falls on a Sunday then Easter is the next Sunday.

    April 7, 2024

    Second Sunday of Easter – Bill Harkins

    The Collect of the Day: Second Sunday of Easter

    Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

    The Gospel: John 20:19-31

    When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

    But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

    A week later his disciples were again in the house and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

    Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

    In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen.

    In the Gospel lesson for today we find the disciples behind locked doors, hiding together in fear in the upper room. No doubt the words of the women at the tomb were ringing in their ears, only worsening their isolation and fear: “They have taken away our Lord and we do not know where they have taken him.” Suddenly Jesus appears, and speaks those remarkable words; “Peace be with you”. And he breathes upon them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” And in John’s version of the story Jesus says, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” It may be that forgiveness is at the heart of today’s Gospel story, and this includes both forgiving others, and ourselves. These are parables of grace, and resurrection.

    But where was Thomas? Perhaps he needed to be alone. He needed time to think, to question, to ponder the events swirling around him. Maybe he went to that place we all may go, in the midst of deep grief and confusion, where we believe that no one can reach us, even if it is not true. It’s easy to be drawn to Thomas because he seems so human. After all, it was Thomas who asked Jesus how they could know the way. Jesus replied “I am the way, the truth, and the life”. But Thomas needed proof. He was perhaps among the first purveyors of the scientific method. His hypothesis in this instance was that unless he saw “the marks of the nails in Jesus’ hands and unless he put his hand in Jesus’ side, he would not believe.” The elegant beauty of the scientific method is that it allows us to test one hypothesis against others. And this is how we learn. Jesus understood this, and was not critical of Thomas. Rather, he affirmed Thomas in his doubting, and helped him recognize doubt as part of our faith journey. I’ve never understood those who vilified Thomas for doubting. Martin Luther King, who died 56 years ago this month, said that “Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.”

    It’s easy to have empathy for Thomas because we may recall times in our own lives when we felt the same way; times when it seemed that we wandered lost, and scared, and we questioned our faith. Sometimes we don’t know what we don’t know. The world of Jesus’ followers had been turned upside down and was in utter chaos. And yet, Thomas possessed two great virtues: he absolutely refused to say that he understood what he did not understand, or that he believed what he did not believe. There was an uncompromising honesty about him. He refused to respond to the anxiety of his own doubts by pretending they did not exist. Thomas, like the other disciples, was lost. And he had the courage to name his disorientation. As Wendell Berry said so well, “It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

    In today’s Gospel Jesus is reminding Thomas, and by extension all of us, that it is often relationship that heals us when we no longer know what to do or where to go. Relationship is where the real work begins. Jesus reaches out to Thomas in his isolation and his questions. It is not doubt that is the enemy my friends. Rather, it is responding to it by cutting ourselves off from others that is most risky. And we are most likely to do this when, like the disciples, we are scared, sad, angry, and lost, and we hide ourselves behind closed doors. Often, what locks us in are our fears, insecurities, illnesses, compulsions or addictions, past hurts we have experienced and hold inside, and hurts we have caused. The social scientist Brene’ Brown has said that faith communities, in order to be safe containers for beloved community, must be “shame free.” They must create safe spaces for honest, authentic transparency in relation to those things that would keep us in the bondage of disconnection. In striving towards hospitality, excellence, and grace we seek to create that safe space here at our beloved Holy Family parish, each connection born of relationships. Jesus gives us an alternative to being cut off from ourselves, and others, and from God.

    The grace and forgiveness in today’s Gospel may assist us when we have had to piece our lives back together after they have been turned upside down, and our doubts prevail. And we have similar examples. The story is told that the Great Window at Westminster Cathedral was destroyed during WWII. After the war, pieces of glass of all shapes, sizes and colors were collected from the dust and rubble, and lovingly fixed together and placed in the frame of the old west window, bringing the Cathedral to life again. Careful examination of the window would reveal the faces of angels, disciples and kings, all jumbled up with pieces of colored glass; small fragments of writing in Latin, next to drawings on glass of clothes, hands and feet. Bit by bit the window space was filled in with old glass until the most amazing window was completed, a feast for the eyes, and a thing of beauty. It didn’t tell stories from the Bible exactly as it had originally, but told a different story. This story was of good overcoming evil, of sadness turning into great joy, of conflict replaced by forgiveness and peace. It put the words of Jesus into action by showing what could be done when people worked together to do good things. Today’s Gospel is just like this, and our lives can be like this too. Thomas understood this well.

    Well, some time ago I attended the “birthday” of a friend who was celebrating his 10th year of sobriety. I first met him in 1978 when we began working together as counselors on the adolescent psychiatric unit at Peachford Hospital. Just out of college, a little scared and uncertain what to do next, I learned so much from my colleagues, and from the patients and families with whom we worked over the next two years. My life and that of my friend took different paths, but we kept in touch. I knew he had struggled with alcohol, but I did not realize the depth of his addiction. And so on a cold and rainy night some 35 years after we met, I drove up to Cherokee County as he picked up his 10-year chip. I walked into a room filled to capacity—maybe 70-80 souls in recovery. Dressed like the seminary professor I was, I felt a little out of place when the first person to greet me was a leather clad member of “Bikers in Recovery,” who welcomed me with gracious hospitality rather than suspicion and with a bear hug so fierce it awakened an old football injury. I will never forget his warmth and sincerity. That night I heard the testimonies of those who knew my friend, and stories of life—his and theirs—before and after sobriety. I was moved by their openness, shared vulnerability, and honesty. I noted the utter lack of shame in that safe space. I heard my friend recount how drinking almost killed him, and how he had said to those gathered in that very room, some ten years earlier, “I am lost. Tell me what to do, and if you tell me, I will do it.” And then, through tears of one who has come back to life from the edge of the abyss, “You saved my life, you know… I asked, and you gave, and you told me to work each step, and that you would be there with me each step of the way. And you were. I was among the living dead, and I slowly came back to life. I am here tonight, standing up here talking to you, because you people saved my life.” As I listened, a phrase came to mind from St. Augustine: “In the midst of life we are in death, and in Christ, in the midst of death we may find life.” Here was a perfect example of a man whose life had in many ways ended…who was no longer fully alive, and who had come back to being fully present in the world, freed from the numbing distraction of alcohol abuse. And so it was that those gathered that night were practicing resurrection; It was Thomas’ story of grace and forgiveness, and ours.

    And so you see, dear ones, those souls had chosen not to remain trapped and hidden behind the locked doors of their addictions—a living death cut off from relationship, but rather to be in community, out in the open. In so doing, they had to face with brutal honesty—a searching, fearless, and unrelenting moral inventory— as they say in the recovery community, the truth of what had kept them imprisoned. I found myself inspired by this connection of relationships, and I understood my friend better too. And, I understood the power of the Paschal Mystery of Easter a bit more clearly: that in the phrase “one day at a time” we see the truth of that new life. It was as if we placed our hands in the wounded brokenness of my friend’s soul, and we believed. In Christ, darkness and death have been overcome—are overcome—one day, one moment at a time, here and now. Jesus wanted the disciples to see his wounds so that they could understand the resurrection hope those scars represented. The Easter miracle of this Gospel passage is that Jesus comes again and again to these confused, frightened disciples, and offers himself in relationship. And like Thomas and his brothers we are called to move through times of doubt to moments of grace. To move, that is from Good Friday losses, to Holy Saturday ambiguity, and on to Easter. To give of ourselves, our stories of doubt, grace, and forgiveness, we must know ourselves—that’s the fearless moral inventory. “Practice Resurrection,” the wonderful writer Wendell Berry says to us, and every time we choose to do this, the grace-filled Easter story continues. When I got home that night, I sent my old friend a message thanking him for the gift of his story, and for inviting me into that sacred space. He sent a text message that read like the Holy Week Triduum we just observed: “Life and Chaos; Recovery and forgiveness; New Life and Gratitude.” And I realized that is almost like…I would say is exactly like the Holy Spirit had been breathed upon us in that locked room, the doors of which had been flung open by the grace of my friend’s story. And when that happens, because we have asked for it, we can participate in the compassionate, hospitable, beloved community, yes, one day at a time. Amen.

    April3, 2024

    “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” ~Meister Eckhart

    Grace and peace to each of you, in this Eastertide season, and a deep bow of gratitude to each of you for a wonderful Holy Week! Easter Sunday was simply magnificent. Thank you, Holy Family, for the grace and hospitality extended by everyone!

    Over the past 8-10 days, I’ve enjoyed a kind of “second autumn” while running on the local trails. The lovely Beech groves deep in the forests of our neighborhood, especially on longer runs where I reach the spot pictured below, are an opportunity to pause, and pay attention. And this in turn is an occasion to attempt what I’ve learned from many on from my journey in Christian centering prayer and Buddhist mindfulness practice: show up; pay attention; speak my truth (and this can be a deepened, inner self-awareness); and let go of attachment to things I cannot control. The last step, as we know, can be in relation to an infinite variety of issues, including addictive behavior of various kinds, and is at the heart of any 12-step journey. It is at the heart of the Serenity Prayer.

    Trail running in the woods near our mountain home continues to teach me to let go of attachment to things I cannot control, and this has in turn had application in many areas of life. These Beech trees, deep in the woods on the Womack Trail, hold on to their leaves until spring—about now, a phenomenon known as “marcescence.” Usually, sometime in March, the leaves will fall, a kind of second autumn, and this is called “abscission.”

    Holding on…letting go; this is part of the rhythm of life. I’m doing some of both even now. This past week almost all of the Beech leaves have fallen, providing nourishment for the trees when they most need it. And what finally pushes the leaves off their branches is the subtle nudge of the new leaves, only now beginning to emerge. We are in a liminal season.

    It reminds me that even as we say goodbye and say “thank you” to George, and as we begin to turn our attention toward the hiring of a new rector, we are also staying the course, and living into our Baptismal promises as the Body of Christ. And so we are doing both; holding on, and letting go. And during this past Holy Week, especially as we observed the Triduum beginning on Maundy Thursday, we observed the same unfolding; of letting go of Jesus… bearing witness to the fact that we are now the Body of Christ in the world, and holding on to this faithful compassion in the midst of transition. Good Friday can take an infinite variety of forms in our lives, yet we have promise of Easter, and we say “thank you.”

    Vicky and I are so grateful for Holy Family, a parish that gave birth to my priesthood many years ago. We came to love this place, and to return often over the years. Now we are at home here and, for a season with the increasingly important work of the laity (I’ll say more about this in a later post) we will work faithfully to find a new rector. And in this “threshold” in-between season, let’s remember this lovely prayer of holding on, letting go, remaining hopeful, and resilient; a prayer, truth told, about Easter resurrection:

    “O God of unchangeable power and eternal light: Look favorably on your whole Church, that wonderful and sacred mystery; by the effectual working of your providence, carry out in tranquillity the plan of salvation; let the whole world see and know that things which were being cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection by him through whom all things were made, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen”