#VirtualShrove - An Invitation

One of the best things about the Episcopal Church is the annual Shrove Tuesday Pancake

Supper. Call it what you will -- Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday -- but in parish halls across the land, the day before Lent kicks off is all about the pancakes.

At the parish I serve, St. John's in Hingham, Massachusetts, it's one of the great highlights of the year with fabulous food, an intergenerational crowd, pancake races, and the ritual burning of the palms from last year's Palm Sunday service, which we use to make ashes for the next day's Ash Wednesday liturgies.

But what you do when there's a pandemic and your community can't gather for the annual tradition? 

We actually have experience with this because in 2016, amid the infamous Snowmageddon, we had to hold a Virtual Shrove Tuesday Pancake Supper due to the INSANE amount of snow (plus a burst pipe to add to the fun). 

Just as we did then, we encourage you to join in your own feast by...eating pancakes on Tuesday!

Whether it's for breakfast, lunch, or dinner (or all three!), eat pancakes and then post pictures of your feast to social media with the hashtag #VirtualShrove. Whether you're eating pancakes alone or with your family, in a blinged out Mardi Gras mask or around a fire pit, why not show the world you're preparing for Lent?

Oh, and if you're curious as to why it's called Shrove Tuesday? Here's the deal:

The day before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, is known as Shrove Tuesday. To shrive someone, in old-fashioned English (he shrives, he shrove, he has shriven), is to hear an acknowledgement of sins, assure the person of God's forgiveness, and to offer appropriate spiritual advice. The term survives today in ordinary usage in the expression "short shrift." To give someone short shrift is to pay very little attention to someone's excuses or problems. The longer expression is, "to give short shrift and a long rope," which formerly meant to hang a criminal with a minimum of delay. 

Shrove Tuesday is also called Fat Tuesday (in French, Mardi Gras) because on that day a thrifty housewife would use up the fats that she had kept around for cooking (the can of bacon drippings for instance). Fatty foods would not be eaten during the penitential season of Lent. Since pancakes were a standard way of using up fat, this day became associated with them. Which is why, of course, so many parishes hold Shrove Tuesday pancake suppers. So this last day before Lent has become the 'feast' to prepare for the time of 'famine' in the desert. 

May your pancakes be fluffy and your preparations, despite the circumstances, joyful. Stay safe out there, friends.

Waiting and Fasting

This past weekend's gospel reading about Jesus feeding the 5,000 included some very tangible

echoes of the Eucharist. The same four-fold action that happens in front of the large crowd mirrors Jesus’ movements in the Upper Room. He takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to the gathered assembly. 

At a moment when many are still fasting from Communion and participating in virtual worship, the story of the feeding of the 5,000 engages a deep and soulful yearning. 

In my sermon, I shared a few things I miss about receiving the Eucharist. I've supplemented this list and offer them to you below. I'm sure you have others from your own experience and context. 

• I miss the altar guild reverently placing the chalice and paten on the altar and veiling the vessels with care and devotion. 

• I miss young acolytes struggling to light the tall candles, especially when they’ve recently been replaced with new ones. 

• I miss our Verger racing around before the service making sure we have enough wine and wafers to feed everybody. 

• I miss the unspoken action of the Eucharistic table setting during the offertory anthem.

• I miss saying a quiet prayer as the server ritually washes my hands before the Great Thanksgiving. 

• I miss that brief silence - just a beat - after I raise my arms in prayer and gaze out upon the congregation before the words pour forth.

• I miss consecrating the elements at the altar, using the ancient manual acts that are both so familiar and meaningfully mysterious. 

• I miss momentarily losing my place in the altar book and then quickly and, usually seamlessly to the naked eye, finding it again.

• I miss the well-worn cloth strips used to mark the book, which I still never trust anyone else to set. 

• I miss the silent choreography with and among the other clergy at the altar. 

• I miss looking out at the congregation and seeing the familiar faces of people I care so deeply about as I elevate the silver vessels. 

• I miss looking out at the congregation and seeing the familiar faces of people I care so deeply about as I elevate the silver vessels. 

• I miss communicating the altar party, especially the wide-eyed look of the newest acolyte. 

• I miss offering the sacrament first to the choir before they return to their pews to sing the communion anthem and lead the Eucharistic hymns I never get to sing, but often hum along to as I go from one side of the rail to the other. 

• I miss offering the gifts of God for the people of God. 

• I miss the pride our ushers take in orchestrating the orderly movement of parishioners from pew to altar rail. 

• I miss seeing outstretched hands at the communion rail, some covered with magic markers, others covered with wrinkles, and most somewhere in between.

• I miss the very real presence of Jesus in my own life that only comes through the reception of the Eucharist. 

• I miss fulfillment of the deepest yearning of my soul. 

We wait. We fast. Yet Jesus abides even in the wilderness. And I take solace in that.

What difference does it all make?

This weekend, as we were wrapping up our year-long Confirmation Class and offering one

final session before our high schoolers will be Confirmed, one of them asked a great question: "What difference does it all make?" 

In other words, why does the death and resurrection of Jesus matter? Why not just sleep in on Sunday morning and leave this Christian stuff to others? 

I loved this question because it gets at the very heart of why we do what we do. This is precisely where the spiritual rubber meets the road, a question that forces us to reflect upon our own experience and understanding of the Christian faith and life. And it's a question we need to ask ourselves, if not daily, then at least regularly. 

I posed this question on Twitter because I wanted to share some of the answers with our Confirmands. I hoped to show them that this is an important question for Christians everywhere, not just for a group of 15 kids sitting around a table with a few adults in a church basement.

In the Episcopal Church, Confirmation is termed "a mature public affirmation of faith." It's aspirational, but this is the kind of introspection that leads to a mature faith -- something we all continue to strive for wherever we may be on our own spiritual journeys. We don't have all the answers, individually, but collectively we can point to the broader concept of meaning as we reflect on why this all matters. And I for one take great solace and inspiration in the variety of answers that emerge. 

I couldn't possibly share all the answers that continue to roll in. But here are some of the responses. I encourage you to think about this yourself and perhaps even share your own answer as a comment.

@lindsaymonihen: It means choosing hope over despair, which I believe is a more challenging road. The resurrection means hate, war and hunger do not have the final word in our world; there is an outrageous hope calling us forward.

@bishopannehec: Resurrection frees us from fear of death and all captivities. By faith in such freedom we become newly alive, engaged with earthly life in a heavenly way. Resurrection gives us a lens of courage to confront evil; a lens of hope to overcome despair; a lens of love to cast out hate.

@jericson1963: The death and resurrection of Christ means I am never alone, never beyond love, hope and a sure and certain future.

@allancarpenter: The difference is, quite personally for me, the faith that all things are made new versus the perspective that all things are winding down into oblivion. It’s a big one.

@revsusanrussell: Jesus liberates us from the fear of death: from worrying so much about getting to heaven that we’re too paralyzed by fear to work to bring heaven to earth. We are freed to be fully alive by the power of the resurrection – healed, whole and liberated in this life and the next.

@loudluthrn: Trusting that God loves me and frees me from the power of sin and death through Jesus has helped me live a more abundant life in (often surprising) relationship with others. It is sometimes hard but a seed of joy and peace can always be found to keep me going.

@Knapsack: Hope that can keep us going in the face of possible (likely) defeat, because Jesus should by all earthly rights have been destroyed and forgotten, which was Power's intent: but instead, he lives. And frees us (me) to risk failure to speak truth.

@cbdemp: Because there is nothing too dark, too scary, too terrifying, too daunting that Jesus and in turn, God, hasn’t experienced. There is nowhere I find myself, Jesus hasn’t been.

@BethanyUA: I don’t need to be afraid of anything: Not death or being wrong or embarrassing myself or anyone’s opinion. I trust that God is working out the details and my job is to choose love every day. I can’t live this way 100%, but God understands when I miss the mark and loves me anyway.

@gojirama: I can't imagine facing the death of loved ones, or my own death, without the promise of the Resurrection.

@FortnightBuzz63: Ultimately, I am not alone. I'm not alone in the struggle and suffering of life, and I will not be alone in the mystery of dying. In the end when I lose everything else I won't lose God's companionship.

@julien650: Hope. If he lives, we live. No matter how deep I am in despair and darkness, the light of Jesus can bring me back to life - can restore my brokenness to wholeness and I can live again.

@jathko: If Jesus can take the worst of the worst (horrible humiliation & death) & turn it into something so glorious, then he can most definitely take the rot in my life & the shadow of what’s to come & transform that into a thing of beauty. I’ve tasted it & have a certain hope for more.

@thekitchendoor3: Because death is everywhere. We lose loved ones, we lose our own lives, we see the oppression and suffering around us. Resurrection means the story doesn’t stop there.

@MichaelJMcCall: If my immortal soul is safe with the Lord, then I need not be focused on my own behavior against a set of requirements. This gift allows me to become less selfish and focus on the needs of others, which are both earthly and spiritual.

@thefunrevucc: The resurrection is the fulfillment of the promise of God’s everlasting and unconditional love. Nothing I do will change God’s love for me. More important, nothing my worst enemy does will ever change God’s love for that person, either. So better to love than hate!

@JimMead18283862: I know I'm valued and loved by a creator who will have the last word about me, & about everything and everyone else--justice & mercy! I live with hope, courage, accountability. I talk to a living Jesus, not an idea. I treat others differently bc Jesus is risen. Meaning! Purpose!

@garysdeskcom: From a Christian perspective: somehow, through Jesus’ passion we are saved. On a broader level: evil does not always win. Good can come out of bad. On a personal level: God cares. God just gets how much life can suck.

@HeyImJoeTheBear: Jesus took the burden I was meant to be take. He gave me the free gift of forgiveness. Nothing I can do can repay that debt and I live in joy because of it.

@johnrovell: It reminds me that no matter how dark things get or how badly I f*ck up, there is always a chance for rebirth and mercy and new efforts. Jesus rising from the dead basically allows me to raise my head up every day and keep trying, trusting that God is not done with me.

@NoVACLC: It's a simple day to day thing. Nothing is ever so bad that we don't get another chance tomorrow.

@perdue_jrp: There's always hope. No matter how bad it gets, God will come through for you.

@SmudgeThomas: Strength to get through. God carries you through the worst of the worst times and builds you up so grandly.

Talkin' Bout a (Fair Trade Coffee Hour) Revolution

I'm about to do something I swore I'd never do. For the first time in 18 years of ordained ministry, I’m submitting a Diocesan Convention resolution. When the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts gathers on November 3rd, it will consider an issue about which I am passionate, as it has now become personal. 

Based on my sabbatical experiences, I’m offering a resolution encouraging the diocese and parishes to commit to using fair trade coffee at all church events. To me this is an issue of economic and social justice and an easy way for churches to use their purchasing power to better align with our Christian values. 

While fair trade coffee costs slightly more (generally only 3 or 4 cents per cup), this is an investment in thousands of unseen people in the $100 billion global coffee industry, where 80% of the world’s coffee is produced by 17.7 million small-scale farmers, often living well below the poverty line. I met a few of these folks on my travels to Nicaragua and El Salvador this past spring and I've seen first-hand the effects of unfettered globalization.

I've pasted in the resolution below -- this wasn't written in isolation and I'm grateful to a number of folks who helped me craft this (did I mention I've never done this before?). If you're a convention delegate in Massachusetts and you have questions, please be in touch. Or let me know if you'd like to co-sponsor this resolution. If you would like to present a similar resolution in your own diocese or denomination, please feel free to use this language. I would love to see a fair trade movement blow through the Church!

And in the end, I’ll just be happy if this resolution raises awareness and encourages a bunch of parishes to look in the mirror and start using fair trade coffee (did you know there's a fair trade partnership you can join through Episcopal Relief & Development?). 

Buying fair trade coffee is a small act that makes a huge difference. And it really doesn't cost you much more. Check out this incredibly helpful chart from the folks at Equal Exchange.

A Resolution Calling for the Use of Fair Trade Coffee at All Church Events submitted by the Rev. Tim Schenck, the Rt. Rev. Bud Cedarholm, the Very Rev. Amy McCreath, the Rev. Diane Wong, the Rev. Jeff Mello, the Rev. Deborah Warner, the Rev. Sarah Brockman, the Rev. Phil LaBelle, the Rev. Suzanne Wade, the Rev. Beth Grundy, Mr. Rick Collins, Ms. Dawn Tesoraro.

Resolved, that the 233rd Annual Convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts calls upon all congregations, ministries, and diocesan bodies, to use fair trade coffee at all church events; and be it further

Resolved, that the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts aligns itself with the goals of the fair trade coffee movement, which include: raising income levels of small-scale farmers and farm workers; more equitably distributing economic gains across the industry; encouraging environmentally sound and sustainable farming methods; promoting ethical working conditions; and increasing consumer awareness of the economic forces affecting farmers and the exploitation of workers.

Explanation: 

Coffee has long been an integral aspect of hospitality and fellowship in our communities and fuels much church business. This resolution encourages parishes, missions, chaplaincies, and the diocese to commit to the exclusive use of fairly traded coffee. While fair trade coffee costs slightly more (generally only 3 or 4 cents per cup), we feel this is an investment in thousands of unseen people in the $100 billion global coffee industry, where 80% of the world’s coffee is produced by 17.7 million small-scale farmers, often living well below the poverty line. 

The goals of the fair trade movement are consistent with the Christian faith, and this resolution reveals a small but impactful way our purchases can better reflect our Christian values in the global economy. Fairly traded products help make our sisters and brothers on the other side of the supply chain more visible to us, connecting us to the people behind the products we enjoy. Fair trade coffee is also organic – grown without chemical fertilizers or pesticides – and of higher quality, which improves taste, positively impacting the impression made on visitors and newcomers.

Our denomination has already made access to fair trade coffee both easy and affordable through a partnership between Episcopal Relief & Development and Massachusetts' own Equal Exchange. In addition to facilitating easy ordering and providing quality products, when congregations join the partnership (which is free), 15 cents is donated to Episcopal Relief & Development's General Fund for every pound of fairly traded products purchased. The sponsors of this resolution are happy to provide a list of other fair trade coffee organizations upon request. 

Statements Against

·         Fair Trade coffee costs more per pound and would place an undue burden on economically struggling parishes.

·         Navigating the world of fair trade coffee is complicated, and some corporate entities have sought to coopt and dilute its impact.

Implementation Requirements

·         Diocesan staff, parish vestries, and other local ministry leaders will be required to spend time exploring fair trade coffee options for their particular ministry settings.

·         Oversight of the implementation of this resolution will rest with the bishops of our diocese, in their ministries of parish visitation and oversight of diocesan staff.

And our (Episcopal) flag was still there

I'm not a big props-in-the-pulpit guy. Maybe I witnessed too many Trinity Sunday sermons growing up where the preacher would mess up some analogy using three tapers or three cups of water and I'd end up more confused than ever.

But I did use a prop at our midweek Eucharist on St. Andrew's Day (November 30). I was talking about Andrew, the first apostle called by Jesus, which led to the well-known St. Andrew's cross, which led to my hauling out an old Episcopal Church flag that resides on the top shelf of a tall cabinet in my office. 

I think the flag in question was replaced in our nave by a newer flag a number of years ago and, since we never throw things out in churches, it was naturally placed on a virtually inaccessible shelf in the rector's office. Please don't question it. That's just how things work.

Many people know the symbolism behind the Episcopal Church's flag but many have no clue so I thought I'd say a few words about it. Plus, I'm teaching an Episcopal 101 class to newcomers this Sunday so these sorts of things are on my mind.

The first thing you should know about the Episcopal Church flag is that it's a relatively recent addition to our church. It's not as if in the aftermath of the American Revolution, the clergy and laity sat around thinking, "Let's see. We need a new Book of Common Prayer, a Constitution, Canons, and, oh right...a flag!"

In fact the flag wasn't approved for use until 1940. Just imagine that General Convention -- they approved both a hymnal and a flag!

I'm not sure when the Episcopal Church suddenly realized they didn't have a flag -- and

needed one -- but it was designed by William Baldwin, a member of the Cathedral of the Incarnation in the Diocese of Long Island (NY). 

And I, for one, love the design of this flag. It's become iconic partly because of the flag itself but also because of the iconic "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You" signs that you can still spot all over the country. 

So what's the symbolism involved and why was I mentioning this on St. Andrew's Day? I'm getting to that last part, be patient.

The large red cross on the white field is the Cross of St. George, the patron saint of England. That makes sense, as we are members of the worldwide Anglican Communion, directly descended from the Church of England. It's been speculated that the white on the flag represents the purity of the Christian faith while the red is symbolic of the sacrifice of Jesus and the blood of the martyrs. Maybe that was Baldwin's intent or maybe it's a later explanation but either way, it works.

The light, sky blue is the color associated with St. Mary (who says Episcopalians don't take Mary seriously enough? She's on our flag!). The nine white crosslets represent the nine original dioceses that made up the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States following the Revolution (Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, and South Carolina). In hockey terms, these would be like the Original Six (Boston Bruins, Chicago Black Hawks, Detroit Red Wings, Montreal Canadiens, New York Rangers, and Toronto Maple Leafs).

Anyway, these nine crosslets are arranged in the pattern of a St. Andrew's Cross (or Saltire). Why? Because when the fledgling American church needed a bishop they couldn't send a priest to England -- the ordination rite required allegiance to the king. A major problem! So Samuel Seabury of Connecticut was sent to Scotland (ding, ding, ding!) to be consecrated in 1784. 

Legend has it that, when it was time for his martyrdom, St. Andrew believed himself unworthy to be crucified in the same manner as his Lord. Thus he was bound, rather than nailed, to a cross in the form of an "X." 

But why, you ask, is St. Andrew the patron saint of Scotland? Because it's said his relics were, by divine guidance, transported from Constantinople to Scotland. In any event, there has been a strong connection between the Scots and St. Andrew since as early as the 8th century. Hence the Scottish flag prominently bears the cross of St. Andrew.

So you see, this has all come together quite nicely. I had a prop for my homily and perhaps you've learned something about St. Andrew. Or at least the Episcopal Church flag.

In the Running

Inspired by our civil and high-minded national election, I decided to throw my hat into the ring to stand as Deputy to General Convention from the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts. If you're not familiar with it, General Convention is the governing body of the national Episcopal Church that meets every three years. Four clerical and four lay deputies are elected by each diocesan convention and ours is coming up this weekend, November 4-5.

If elected, I would serve at the 2018 General Convention in Austin, Texas. If I go down in a blaze of ecclesiastical glory, well, I'll still be in Austin for the third Lent Madness Day at General Convention. 

Am I electable? I have my doubts. In many dioceses the same folks get elected like clockwork every three years. All four clerical "incumbents" are running for re-election in Massachusetts so my odds aren't great. But I'm willing to put my name on the ballot and risk public humiliation (okay that's overstating it), because I think it's too important not to get some fresh voices into the conversation.

I care too much about the Episcopal Church, believe that Jesus' message of love must be communicated to the world in fresh and bold ways, and cherish our uniquely Anglican identity and expression of faith. In other words, I think the church is at a critical juncture, a place of hope and opportunity, and I believe I have some gifts to offer to help lead us into the future.

I guess this makes me the outsider in this election -- the Gary Johnson of diocesan convention (though I have heard of Aleppo). 

Of course, if you know me, you'll recognize that the idea of ten straight days of church meetings chills my very soul. But I do think the Holy Spirit can work even within the often mind-numbing structures of church administration and I'm willing to put in the hard work of preparation to be a part of this ecclesiastical and legislative community.

It's interesting to note how different dioceses invite nominees to run. Here in DioMass, you need six signatures of those eligible to vote at Diocesan Convention and you must submit a 75-word statement. Now 75 words is not a lot! It doesn't give you much space to say anything substantial but, for what it's worth, here's what I wrote.

A digital evangelist, author, blogger and Lent Madness creator who has served in our diocese for seven years, I am passionate about communicating the Gospel in fun, fresh, exciting and creative ways. I cherish our Anglican heritage, while knowing we must respond to a changing culture in desperate need of Jesus Christ. I would be honored to represent our diocese while helping the Episcopal Church more effectively communicate its message of love to the world.

What I won't do is actively seek votes and schmooze people at our convention. I've seen people do this and I just can't stomach it. But if you're a voting member of the convention, I'd certainly be more than willing to chat. And I will humbly ask for your vote.

We need some fresh voices in the conversation. We're at an important place as a denomination, as followers of Jesus, and it's just too important to me to stand idly by.

And anyway, if I lose, it will just mean that the election was rigged. That's how it works, right?

Unassuming Prophet

I rarely put sermons on Clergy Confidential. I do have a sermon blog titled @FatherTIm Sermon Vault where I warehouse them, but I generally only share those links with the parish I'm serving since a) preaching is all about context and b) no one needs more sermons clogging the internet. 

But I did want to share what I said at yesterday's funeral for the Rev. Ed Allen because his was an inspiring life, one that deserves to be shared. Ed was a parishioner at St. John's and a retired Episcopal priest and it was an honor to preach at his service -- I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've ever preached at the funeral of a fellow priest.

I hope you'll take a moment to read it and recognize that we need Ed's voice now more than ever. 

Funeral for the Rev. Edward P.  Allen

July 19, 2016

What a privilege to stand before you this afternoon and reflect upon the life of a fellow priest. A man I admired and was inspired by, a man known and loved by each one of you. But before I begin, I thought I’d share something Ed wrote 24 years ago; a note Alice gave me one day several years ago that she’d found in a file of his old sermons. 

It was titled, One of the Terrors of Preaching. “More often than not, after a week of meditating on the themes expressed in collect, Old Testament, psalm, epistle, Gospel and the life of the parish and the world — after mulling them over, twisting them this way and that, trying to find some connection between them and what was going on inside myself — and after finally putting something together  that I could pass off as a sermon, I would find myself in church on Sunday morning listening to readings that I would swear I had never heard before. I would ask the ceremonialist, ‘Is she reading the wrong lesson?’ or I would hastily check the lectionary, only to discover that what I was hearing was what I had been reading over and over all week, except that now it was coming to me from an entirely new angle. Then, with my confidence in my insight totally shaken, I would have to get up and preach. Sometimes it was disconcerting; at other times is was, ‘What the hell! Go for it.’ Anyway, it was never dull.”

There was a fullness to the life of Ed Allen that can’t be captured in just a few minutes. But, what the hell, go for it! 

Ed was a husband and father, of course, an Episcopal priest who served parishes in California and as college chaplain at the Interfaith Center at UC Irvine. A man of faith and compassion and humor; a storyteller and a gentle soul. But also a man of passionate conviction who stood up for right in the face of wrong; for love in the face of hate; for justice in the face of discrimination

If Jesus taught us to love our neighbors as ourselves, Ed Allen took that commandment and lived it, both in his personal and vocational lives. His words and deeds reminded us all that Jesus’ invitation to love one another was not optional. We can’t love our neighbors as ourselves on our terms or at our convenience. It just doesn’t work that way.

As Alice and her children were gathering stories in the days after Ed died, Norton forwarded me an article that his brother Ted had posted on Facebook. And I was amazed by a 1963 California newspaper clipping. The headline was “Corona del Mar Pastor Jailed in Sit-In” and there was a picture of a 35-year-old Ed Allen in his clerical collar — wearing a very stylish plaid blazer I might add. Ed had been arrested for protesting a new housing development that was discriminating against people of color. As the article reported, Ed was “carried bodily to a police car and spent six hours with 23 other pickets in a cell built for 12 persons before he was bailed out.” Presumably by Alice.

But what really stood out to me were some of Ed’s quotes. After his arrest, Ed was quoted as saying, “Segregation is a black mark against America. However, the challenge of integration is a frightening thing. There are those who are afraid of the changes that equal rights will bring. Through their fear, they either do nothing to ‘rock the boat’ or else they will campaign actively to keep things as they are. Those who want to see American freedom truly practiced are equally afraid. It takes guts to stick your neck out — especially for somebody else.” 

Yes. Yes, it does. And I’m particularly moved by Ed’s witness for two reasons. First, his

passionate stance for standing on the right side of racial justice during a seminal time in our nation’s history and second because, sadly, we still desperately need that voice today, 53 years later. 

It is precisely the fear about which Ed spoke that still confounds our efforts to seek reconciliation. It is our fear of change, our fear of those who differ from us, and our fear of giving up control. The gospel of Jesus, as Ed well knew, is all about driving out fear and breaking down barriers between and among people. Not everyone is willing to live that out in such a tangible way and for that we can all be inspired and encouraged to make a difference in our own day, in our own way.

I also love this part of the article: the reporter asked Ed how he felt about the prospect of arrest and “Father Allen admitted he was ‘scared’ to take part in a sit-in demonstration” and his wife, Alice was “‘pretty nervous at first’” (at the time, she did have two young children at home). But “‘She’s proud of me now,’ he added with a grin.’” And I think we can all spot that grin from a mile away. 

On the last day I saw Ed — near the end, I’d gone up to Linden Ponds to pray with him and with Alice — I made a point to wear two of Ed’s stoles Alice had recently given to the church. I wore a red one to do the monthly service at Allerton House, a nearby nursing home, and I wore a white one to do a committal service in the Memorial Garden — the same one I’m wearing right now.

And I intentionally wore them because I’m aware that the current generation of clergy has a mantle to take up. Courageous priests like Ed Allen, even in his gentle and self-effacing way, helped till the soil of racial reconciliation at a time when the harvest was plentiful but the laborers were few. And it is important for us to continue to nurture what was planted in Jesus’ name. Work that needs to continue, work that must continue if we are to be faithful to the ministry of our Lord.

Today as we remember Ed’s life and celebrate Jesus’ victory over death, we are once again reminded that nothing can separate us from the love of God. In his letter to the Romans St. Paul writes that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” 

For everyone privileged enough to know and love Ed Allen, nothing can separate us from the memory of this unassuming prophet. Nothing can separate us from the influence he had and will continue to have upon us. And this is precisely why, even at the grave, we can make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

"I Tweet from Afar"

One of the great joys of Advent is hearing Palestrina's Advent Responsory. At my own parish, St. John's in Hingham, Massachusetts, the choir sings it at the start of our annual service of Advent Lessons and Carols.

We’re nowhere near the Church’s season of hope and expectation in terms of the calendar year but as the Episcopal Church’s triennial General Convention convenes in Salt Lake City this week, there is plenty of hope and expectation as we prepare to elect a new Presiding Bishop for a nine-year term. And by "we" I mean the House of Bishops.

As people throughout the Episcopal Church follow the proceedings from afar aka via social media, (it only seems like every Episcopalian is in Utah), I thought I’d rewrite Palestrina’s stunning words to better reflect the current feeling of anticipation. 

No pressure on the Chosen One elected on Saturday, of course. It’s not like we expect you to be the Messiah or anything...

I Tweet from Afar

I Tweet from afar:

And lo, I see the power of Wi-Fi coming,

and a cloud covering the whole Church.

Go ye out to Tweet him and say:

Tell us, art thou he** that should come to reign over thy people Episcopal?

High church and low, endowed and about to close, one with another,

Go ye out to Tweet him and say:

Hear, O thou shepherd of hashtags, thou that leadest Convention Deputies like sheep:

Tell us, art thou he that should come?

Stir up thy signal strength, O Bishop, and come

To reign over thy people Episcopal.

Glory be to the Internet, and to the iPad, and to the Voting Bishops.

I Tweet from afar,
And lo, I see the power of Wi-Fi coming,
and a cloud covering the whole Church.
Go ye out to Tweet him and say:
Tell us, art though he that should come to reign over thy people Episcopal?

** Yes, the four nominees are all male. Not my fault.

Based on The First Matins Responsory for Advent

G.P. da Palestrina (c. 1525–94)

14 Years and Counting...

Before (with Fr. Cobb lurking)

Today's the 14th anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. You wouldn't know that unless I told you since no one keeps track of this stuff other than the person upon whose head the bishop laid hands and invoked the Holy Spirit.

If you have a lot of clergy friends on social media you've likely seen a number of these announcements. Typically, people are priested in December or January after graduating from seminary in June and spending six months as a (transitional) deacon.

Sharing this information -- and I've done it in the past when I've "just realized today's the anniversary of my ordination" -- always feels a bit awkward. Like the football player who crosses the goal line or makes a big defensive play and then preens for the crowd and thumps his chest. "Let's see  how many likes I can get for my priesthood! Affirm me, people! Now!"

I guess there is a parallel here because the priesthood, like football, is a team sport, not an individual one. You may not know this but for a priest, celebrating the eucharist is kind of like a super power that is dependent upon other people. A priest can't say the Great Thanksgiving unless at least one other person is present. Well, we can but the bread and wine would simply remain bread and wine. We need the congregation to participate in the process of consecration and blessing. So the community gathered is an integral piece of both the liturgy and a priest's vocational life.

I still remember the moment I was made a priest in God's one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church. I'm not sure how else to describe it but something changed as the bishop and a bunch of other priests laid hands on me at the parish where I served as curate, Old St. Paul's in downtown Baltimore, on December 9, 2000.

But I do know several things had already gone awry that day. The Bishop of Maryland, the Right Rev. Bob Ihloff, got sick and had to send the suffragan bishop, the Rt. Rev. John Rabb, to do the ordination at the last minute.

Ben, who was one at the time, decided to get sick and was throwing up all over the place. Bryna

After (with the Rev. Todd McDowell)

almost couldn't make it until an angel of mercy in the form of my rector David Cobb's teenage daughter Emily came to the rescue to babysit. Speaking of Bryna, she was six months pregnant with Zak.

In a strangely prophetic (?) maneuver I managed to lose my voice to laryngitis. David, naturally, compared this scenario to Zechariah, the priest struck dumb by the Archangel Gabriel at his disbelief that his wife would give birth to John the Baptist.

A good friend who was scheduled to do a reading and was driving in from out of town had his car break down that day and never made it to the service.

All of which is to say that rarely do things go as planned in priesthood and in life. I couldn't imagine doing anything else other than serving God's people at the altar. Yes, the title of the classic book on the priesthood resonates: "The Impossible Vocation." But it continues to be a joyful journey and a privilege to share the Good News of Jesus Christ for a living.

Here's to another 14 years! Well, actually another 16 since that's when the Pension Fund kicks in.

Monk in the Midst: Bishop Tom Shaw

Over the coming weeks and months there will be many stories and recollections of the late Bishop of Massachusetts, Tom Shaw. He touched people all over the world with his deep spirituality, humility, good humor, and passion for justice in the name of the Gospel.

All together these memories create a kaleidoscope of a faithful life lived in service of our Lord; a life that impacted thousands in ways gentle and bold, public and private. Some reflections will be shared quietly among friends and colleagues, others will be shared in newspapers and liturgies, still others will be pondered and treasured in the hearts of individuals.

I had the privilege of serving under Bishop Shaw for a quarter of his 20-year episcopacy. There are others that knew him for much longer and with much deeper intimacy. Yet I find myself compelled to share a few thoughts about a man who has been an important part of my own spiritual journey over these past five years in the Diocese of Massachusetts.

A few years ago Bishop Shaw called the church to ask me if I would become a member of the diocesan Commission on Ministry. ("Hi it's Tom" -- panic as I thought "Who the heck is Tom?" and then "Oh, that Tom"). I begged off but offered to help him with any other projects that might "better use my gifts." At a subsequent visitation he told my congregation, with a twinkle in his eye, that he was "stunned" at my response since "no one ever said no to me before."

Well, several months later he called again, this time asking if I would help him brainstorm some ideas to help him better communicate with the diocese. Well, the last thing the internet needed was Tom Shaw tweeting. Just not his thing. At all. So social media was out. But as I thought about it and talked with him it became clear that the bishop was a master storyteller with the ability to perceive the Spirit in unique ways. I mean, he was a monk after all. So I thought a video project would make the most sense. We got diocesan Communications Director Tracy Sukraw on board, hired a videographer, and "Monk in the Midst" was born.

We had several planning meetings -- all at a coffee shop in Harvard Square near his monastery and soon started filming and releasing seasonal and topical videos starring...Bishop Shaw.

The most memorable of these experiences, for me, was going to Copley Square to film an installment a few days after the Boston Marathon bombing. The place was still crawling with news trucks and reporters and police on a beautiful spring day. Before setting up we spent a good amount of time taking in the impromptu memorials comprised of t-shirts, flowers, running shoes, teddy bears, and hand-made signs. And, following his lead, offering silent prayer for the victims and their families, for the city of Boston, for people everywhere suffering from violence.

Tom exuded a prayerful presence in the memorial area as the bustle of Boston swirled around him. People looked stunned, or resigned, or tearful and I just sensed the bishop's love for all of them as he stood in the center of it all.

This is the image I'm left with as I reflect on Tom's life and ministry: a monk in the midst of it all, offering presence and comfort and hope; standing as an icon of sorts, a window into the divine love of Jesus Christ.

These last months of his life have been hard for us all as the effects of the brain tumor ravaged his body and mind. But the one think it couldn't touch was his spirit. Because Tom Shaw himself always pointed towards the Resurrection.

And thus this time in our common life is truly an Easter moment. Easter reminds us that despite the tragedies and trials we all face in this life, rarely as public as with a bishop, death doesn't get the last word. We don't remain on Heartbreak Hill; death doesn't win. Life does. Because when Jesus emerges from that tomb life wins out over death and that false boundary between life and death is breached once and for all. So there remains life in the midst of death; just as there remains in our memories a monk in the midst.

May Tom's soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace and rise in glory.