We baptized three people at St. Christopher's, Boulder City today and received another into the Episcopal Church. Last week, we confirmed three teenagers at Christ Church, Pioche. That may not seem like a big deal to larger congregations. But to me it is something special.
Christ Church, Pioche is in a small community that has been bypassed by the economy since its mining hey day now long past. A couple of years ago, their matriarch and priest -- then in her 90's -- suffered a fall and had to move away to assisted living. The congregation went through a difficult time of grief and adjustment.
Unlike Pioche, Boulder City is thriving but St. Christopher's was not. They went from being a 3 priest church to a no priest church in a short time, as one moved, one became ill, and the third retired. Their understanding of themselves and how they could go about being church was no longer working, but they had not yet found a way forward. That was just last Fall.
But Christ Church, Pioche just had an engaging upbeat home made curriculum confirmation class modeled on Jeopardy -- a class that ushered 3 teens into the Church. The congregation, inspired by the teens who now know so much interesting stuff, has decided to take the course themselves and reaffirm their Baptismal Vows next year. Meanwhile to the South, St. Christopher's, Boulder City, continues its strong tradition of community ministries, and is now growing again. I saw lots of new faces today in a church considerably more full than I've ever seen it. They are continuing a process of discernment about their future with an outside consultant. They have called Fr. Jim Lyons to serve as their priest, at least for now, and they celebrated his ministry with grateful statements interrupted by several outbursts of spontaneous applause at our forum.
Since I have been in Nevada, there have not been intitation rites (baptisms, confirmations, receptions) at either Christ Church, Pioche or St. Christopher's, Boulder City. But now on back to back weekends, we have celebrated new life in Christ in these congregations. There are green buds on the branch. It must be Spring.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
St. Bart and the Atomic Testing Museum
On Saturday, we drove up the lovely green Pahranagat Valley to White Pine County. We were visiting St. Bartholomew’s, Ely – not the regular annual visit but a special visit. I was there to dedicate their Memorial Garden. It is a lovely place with a superb sculpture of St. Bart in the center. The congregation commissioned it in memory of their late priest, Fr. Dale Miller. The statue represents the good saint leaning forward toward the street extending a hand as if to help a fallen child to her feet. It is a gesture of simple compassion. I have heard stories of unchurched folks who found the faith through the good works of St. Bartholomew’s, Ely “proclaiming the gospel” by such simple compassion. Their garden is the most serene and aesthetic spot in Ely – itself a blessing and sign of deeper blessings over the years and for years to come.
Then it was on to St. James, Eureka. Frank the musician, who plays old time evangelical hymns on the piano while Ministry Developer Norma Engberg accompanies him on the xylophone, had the heat on for us. The little church was toasty warm on a chilly sunny day. The congregation was Frank, Norma, Linda, a state patrolman, his fiancée, and me. It is small now, but there will soon be a mission there, a big mission. The molybdenum mine will open in the near future, hiring 400 miners, most of whom will bring families to this hard life in the wilderness. I hope we can find ways to help them with their daily struggles.
Monday was another day on the road back down the Valley – the Upper Pahranagat Lake is bluer than blue with bright green grasses -- enjoying a sandwich stop at Windmill Ridge. South of Alamo the vegetation switches from pine and willows to Joshua Trees and wild flowers. Stopping for road construction, we rolled down the windows and were awed by the depth of silence.
The St. Bart’s Memorial Garden lingers in my mind. Partly it is because the garden is such a beautiful work done so lovingly by good people. But there is something more. Tonight I will be at the Atomic Testing Museum with Nevada Desert Experience to say a prayer for an event to support the New START Treaty. Ely was downwind from the test site and has a high incidence of cancer. People there with some forms of cancer get special federal benefits because of the atomic testing connection. I think of the statue, St. Bartholomew reaching out a generous hand to suffering people there. Life is already so fragile and so precious. It makes war unthinkable; yet we keep thinking it and doing it, bombing others, bombing ourselves for practice. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done” by us now.
Then it was on to St. James, Eureka. Frank the musician, who plays old time evangelical hymns on the piano while Ministry Developer Norma Engberg accompanies him on the xylophone, had the heat on for us. The little church was toasty warm on a chilly sunny day. The congregation was Frank, Norma, Linda, a state patrolman, his fiancée, and me. It is small now, but there will soon be a mission there, a big mission. The molybdenum mine will open in the near future, hiring 400 miners, most of whom will bring families to this hard life in the wilderness. I hope we can find ways to help them with their daily struggles.
Monday was another day on the road back down the Valley – the Upper Pahranagat Lake is bluer than blue with bright green grasses -- enjoying a sandwich stop at Windmill Ridge. South of Alamo the vegetation switches from pine and willows to Joshua Trees and wild flowers. Stopping for road construction, we rolled down the windows and were awed by the depth of silence.
The St. Bart’s Memorial Garden lingers in my mind. Partly it is because the garden is such a beautiful work done so lovingly by good people. But there is something more. Tonight I will be at the Atomic Testing Museum with Nevada Desert Experience to say a prayer for an event to support the New START Treaty. Ely was downwind from the test site and has a high incidence of cancer. People there with some forms of cancer get special federal benefits because of the atomic testing connection. I think of the statue, St. Bartholomew reaching out a generous hand to suffering people there. Life is already so fragile and so precious. It makes war unthinkable; yet we keep thinking it and doing it, bombing others, bombing ourselves for practice. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done” by us now.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Lenten Reflections: Part 2
II. CLEFT FOR ME
The rocky edifices of my world are beautiful precisely because they are broken. Their very appearance above ground is the consequence of various geologic cataclysms, a shifting of tectonic plates, a volcanic eruption, or a glacial assault upon the earth. The great rocks themselves are marked by fissures, caves, and niches formed by wind, water erosion, and the insistent wearing of time. These rocks are marked by ages. Their beauty resides in the paradox of strength and brokenness. How can such solidity be fractured? Are the wind and water mightier than the rock? Was the seemingly impregnable stone fortress flawed, concealing secret faults, weaknesses waiting to be exploited? Or is the stone rather personalized by an inner consent to be broken, a submission to sacrifice for some more tender, even more human, inclination? The fissures, caves, and niches not only transform a flat surface of uniform disinterest into a complex portrait of aesthetic wonder, they offer shelter from sun, wind, and rain. Ironically, they shield the more vulnerable living creatures of the desert from the very same forces that break the rocks so that they may afford the shelter.
That the Rock of Ages should be cleft is astounding. If the Rock is cleft by a force superior to itself, that would be the end of faith. It would mean the power of chaos triumphs over order, the power of nothingness (Karl Barth called it, das Nachtige) triumphs over Being. But suppose the Rock of Ages is not cleft against its will. Perhaps it is not subjected to such breakage by weakness but by the vulnerability of its own love. Hesed. “His mercy endures forever.” Suppose the Rock of Ages is not cleft by meaninglessness and chaos, but rather is cleft for a purpose the Rock deems worthy of such a sacrifice. The Rock consents to be broken. What purpose could justify the breaking of God?
“Rock of ages cleft for me.” If the foundation of reality is only strength, then where is the place for my weakness? Where can I hide on the stony surface of such a reality? I need the strength of the Rock to save me with its power, but I also need the vulnerability of the cleft which is its caring, the costly caring, in which I take refuge. Neither power nor vulnerability standing alone will offer refuge. Love and power must be conjoined in the God of my salvation – the God who is both rock and person, the rock with the power to shield, but with a cleft which is his “wounded side.”
God is infinitely more than human. Heaven and earth cannot contain the Lord. He cannot be confined in a temple, labeled with a name, or defined by an image. God is more vast that the universe itself. Yet, God’s greatness rests not in vastness but rather in God’s willingness to become human, to take on flesh, to subject himself to the frailty of mortal life so that we might not be alone. The greatness of God’s compassion exceeds the greatness of God’s might. God opens in vulnerable mercy to enfold us. “Let me hide myself in thee.”
It is my very self I need to hide. It is my very self because that is what is threatened by the world, which is often indifferent, often even hostile to my presence here. It is not just my assets or my reputation. It is my very self that is at risk of being crushed or distorted by demands, manipulations, and judgments, crushed or distorted by fate, ill health, personal calamity. The person God made me to be is in danger of destruction or distortion by a world that wants me to be either entirely different or entirely absent. If I am not sufficient in myself to deliver myself, then where can I turn but to God? And so I do. I recite the words of Isaiah,
Surely it is God who saves me,
I will trust in him and not be afraid
for he is my stronghold and my sure defense
and he will be my savior.
Isaiah 12: 2
Or I center myself with a one word prayer, murmuring the name of God alone, resting in God and trusting that God holds my life in his hand. I would rather hold my life in my own hand, but my hand is too small. It is not strong enough.
There is a poignant solace in taking refuge in the cleft of the rock. God affords me refuge and that is good. But for the cleft to be ther for me, God has must be broken. A rift in God must occur in order to afford me that refuge. I did not break God. Even my sin is not so powerful as that. God is broken open by God’s own love. The Buddhist teacher, Chogyam Trungpa, used to speak of the heart being “broken open.” Just so, God is broken open by God’s own love to afford me refuge and that makes the place of refuge a place where I know I am loved, where I am valued enough to endure the fracture of mortality. That’s is what God shows me in Jesus on the cross – a God willing to walk into death with me, a God willing to descend into hell to bring me back from it.
I can prostrate myself in awe of the Rock of Ages like a Pleistocene man before El Capitan. But awe is not love. I love the Rock of Ages because it is cleft. When I find myself unworthy to breathe the earth’s air, I find my worth in knowing the Rock was cleft for me.
I wish I were more often moved to reverence and wonder by the glories of creation. But I am not. I am a prisoner of ego. I live in a small world of projects, plans, and petrifications of the heart. God’s glory only occasionally gets my attention and then it does not last. But fear gets my attention. It gets my attention so well, I would not blame God if God threatened me daily. But God does not. I cannot recall once being threatened by God – by preachers of hellfire and damnation, yes. But not by God. And the hellfire and damnation seemed too remote to pose an immediate threat. So whence cometh the fear that focuses my mind?
Life is unstable. Buddha said as much in the 2nd Noble Truth. Heraclitus echoed him in his teaching on flux. Ecclesiastes despaired over it. A forgotten seat belt, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the tremors of the earth or the economy or the emotions of those we love, all these variables can bring a grandiose life to rubble and ruin. Something as tiny as a blood clot or a bit of plaque broken loose from an artery will wipe away the miracle of the human mind. In John Irving’s novel, The World According To Garp, when the hero was a little boy wading in the ocean, his mother would call out warnings to watch out for the undertow. He misheard her, thought she was warning of a malevolent monster “the undertoad.” He misheard her word but caught her meaning. It feels as if the lion prowls, dash Nacthige undoes, the chaos monster scatters the sand paintings of our lives and loves. That is when I need to hide myself in the cleft of the rock. And I do.
Over 60 years, so many disasters have almost happened. God has delivered me from most of them. Others have happened, and God has delivered me through them. I would far rather be delivered from than through. But the point is to be delivered, to see the sky clear and walk the earth again. The storms come. The storms pass by as we nest in the invisible castle, secure in the crag and the fortress of God, powerful as the granite mountain, caring as the wounded side. Like the rocky edifices of Nevada, God is beautiful in God’s brokenness.
Copyright 2010 Dan T. Edwards
The rocky edifices of my world are beautiful precisely because they are broken. Their very appearance above ground is the consequence of various geologic cataclysms, a shifting of tectonic plates, a volcanic eruption, or a glacial assault upon the earth. The great rocks themselves are marked by fissures, caves, and niches formed by wind, water erosion, and the insistent wearing of time. These rocks are marked by ages. Their beauty resides in the paradox of strength and brokenness. How can such solidity be fractured? Are the wind and water mightier than the rock? Was the seemingly impregnable stone fortress flawed, concealing secret faults, weaknesses waiting to be exploited? Or is the stone rather personalized by an inner consent to be broken, a submission to sacrifice for some more tender, even more human, inclination? The fissures, caves, and niches not only transform a flat surface of uniform disinterest into a complex portrait of aesthetic wonder, they offer shelter from sun, wind, and rain. Ironically, they shield the more vulnerable living creatures of the desert from the very same forces that break the rocks so that they may afford the shelter.
That the Rock of Ages should be cleft is astounding. If the Rock is cleft by a force superior to itself, that would be the end of faith. It would mean the power of chaos triumphs over order, the power of nothingness (Karl Barth called it, das Nachtige) triumphs over Being. But suppose the Rock of Ages is not cleft against its will. Perhaps it is not subjected to such breakage by weakness but by the vulnerability of its own love. Hesed. “His mercy endures forever.” Suppose the Rock of Ages is not cleft by meaninglessness and chaos, but rather is cleft for a purpose the Rock deems worthy of such a sacrifice. The Rock consents to be broken. What purpose could justify the breaking of God?
“Rock of ages cleft for me.” If the foundation of reality is only strength, then where is the place for my weakness? Where can I hide on the stony surface of such a reality? I need the strength of the Rock to save me with its power, but I also need the vulnerability of the cleft which is its caring, the costly caring, in which I take refuge. Neither power nor vulnerability standing alone will offer refuge. Love and power must be conjoined in the God of my salvation – the God who is both rock and person, the rock with the power to shield, but with a cleft which is his “wounded side.”
God is infinitely more than human. Heaven and earth cannot contain the Lord. He cannot be confined in a temple, labeled with a name, or defined by an image. God is more vast that the universe itself. Yet, God’s greatness rests not in vastness but rather in God’s willingness to become human, to take on flesh, to subject himself to the frailty of mortal life so that we might not be alone. The greatness of God’s compassion exceeds the greatness of God’s might. God opens in vulnerable mercy to enfold us. “Let me hide myself in thee.”
It is my very self I need to hide. It is my very self because that is what is threatened by the world, which is often indifferent, often even hostile to my presence here. It is not just my assets or my reputation. It is my very self that is at risk of being crushed or distorted by demands, manipulations, and judgments, crushed or distorted by fate, ill health, personal calamity. The person God made me to be is in danger of destruction or distortion by a world that wants me to be either entirely different or entirely absent. If I am not sufficient in myself to deliver myself, then where can I turn but to God? And so I do. I recite the words of Isaiah,
Surely it is God who saves me,
I will trust in him and not be afraid
for he is my stronghold and my sure defense
and he will be my savior.
Isaiah 12: 2
Or I center myself with a one word prayer, murmuring the name of God alone, resting in God and trusting that God holds my life in his hand. I would rather hold my life in my own hand, but my hand is too small. It is not strong enough.
There is a poignant solace in taking refuge in the cleft of the rock. God affords me refuge and that is good. But for the cleft to be ther for me, God has must be broken. A rift in God must occur in order to afford me that refuge. I did not break God. Even my sin is not so powerful as that. God is broken open by God’s own love. The Buddhist teacher, Chogyam Trungpa, used to speak of the heart being “broken open.” Just so, God is broken open by God’s own love to afford me refuge and that makes the place of refuge a place where I know I am loved, where I am valued enough to endure the fracture of mortality. That’s is what God shows me in Jesus on the cross – a God willing to walk into death with me, a God willing to descend into hell to bring me back from it.
I can prostrate myself in awe of the Rock of Ages like a Pleistocene man before El Capitan. But awe is not love. I love the Rock of Ages because it is cleft. When I find myself unworthy to breathe the earth’s air, I find my worth in knowing the Rock was cleft for me.
I wish I were more often moved to reverence and wonder by the glories of creation. But I am not. I am a prisoner of ego. I live in a small world of projects, plans, and petrifications of the heart. God’s glory only occasionally gets my attention and then it does not last. But fear gets my attention. It gets my attention so well, I would not blame God if God threatened me daily. But God does not. I cannot recall once being threatened by God – by preachers of hellfire and damnation, yes. But not by God. And the hellfire and damnation seemed too remote to pose an immediate threat. So whence cometh the fear that focuses my mind?
Life is unstable. Buddha said as much in the 2nd Noble Truth. Heraclitus echoed him in his teaching on flux. Ecclesiastes despaired over it. A forgotten seat belt, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the tremors of the earth or the economy or the emotions of those we love, all these variables can bring a grandiose life to rubble and ruin. Something as tiny as a blood clot or a bit of plaque broken loose from an artery will wipe away the miracle of the human mind. In John Irving’s novel, The World According To Garp, when the hero was a little boy wading in the ocean, his mother would call out warnings to watch out for the undertow. He misheard her, thought she was warning of a malevolent monster “the undertoad.” He misheard her word but caught her meaning. It feels as if the lion prowls, dash Nacthige undoes, the chaos monster scatters the sand paintings of our lives and loves. That is when I need to hide myself in the cleft of the rock. And I do.
Over 60 years, so many disasters have almost happened. God has delivered me from most of them. Others have happened, and God has delivered me through them. I would far rather be delivered from than through. But the point is to be delivered, to see the sky clear and walk the earth again. The storms come. The storms pass by as we nest in the invisible castle, secure in the crag and the fortress of God, powerful as the granite mountain, caring as the wounded side. Like the rocky edifices of Nevada, God is beautiful in God’s brokenness.
Copyright 2010 Dan T. Edwards
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