The Disposition of Worship during Lent

 Friends, 

 

Last week’s worship services were, in my mind, an uplifting blend of celebration and discipleship. We sang songs of joy and we expressed our thanks for the prodigal abundance of creation. We offered ourselves in prayer and we marveled at the story of the Transfiguration. We even acknowledged the hoopla of an event that we make out of the Super Bowl, as we far surpassed our collections of goods and donations for the Souper Bowl of Sharing. What a joyous weekend it was, with costumes and masks adorning our praise and worship.  

 

Then, on Wednesday, our Ash Wednesday service was meaningful in a very different way. We approached the chancel three times. First, we remembered our baptism, after hearing the story of how the Christ stepped into the waters of baptism as a way of “fulfilling all righteousness.” Marvel about this: Jesus “fulfilled all righteousness” by being in solidarity with those of us who need repentance and transformation. Second, we experience the real presence of Christ in our collective spirits by celebrating the Lord’s Supper. We remember that grim occasion, when Jesus forthrightly says that one of the twelve would betray him, Simon would deny him, and all of them would abandon him. Even so, Jesus broke the bread and poured the cup and shared it with them saying, “This is my body, broken for you; this is my blood, shed for the forgiveness of many.” Finally, we acknowledged our mortality through receiving the imposition of ashes. From dust we have come, to dust we will go. I’ve always been struck as how I cannot see my own ashes, but when I see the ashes on my friends, when we wear those smudges together, I become more aware of my own mortality. 

 

“Celebration” is one voice of worship, but there are others. Lenten worship is often seen as “sad” or “morbid,” but I prefer to think of it as a season to be serious and reflective about the very thing we celebrate. The disciples came down from their bedazzling mountaintop experience that we celebrated last weekend, hearing about Jesus’ forthcoming death and resurrection. Likewise, we spend the season of Lent looking at what it means to follow the Christ who was celebrated but also betrayed, who was followed but also crucified, who taught and healed but was also killed and buried. The original twelve Apostles were all on board when Jesus was healing and liberating and feeding the crowds, but when Jesus began to speak about his forthcoming trial, they faltered. 

 

That’s the part of discipleship that we consider expressly during Lent. When we follow the one whose death was demanded by the crowds, who was stripped bare, and executed by the Empire, we are following one whose way of changing the world is not through popularity, wealth, or coercion. This shadow of the cross is what makes Jesus’ sermons different from a Ted Talk – it is a call to think differently, act differently, and be part of God’s Reign, based on an ethic of love and service. It can be liberating for those of us who are bound by the machinations of popularity, wealth, and coercion. But it can also be difficult to accept when we have been coopted by the machinations of popularity, wealth, and coercion. 

 

However you observe Lent – whether you shed a habit, take on a new practice, join some of our ongoing opportunities to live reflectively, or simply stop to look up with wonder each day – I pray that you will experience a deep sense of grace. Our Lenten practices do not manufacture grace, they offer us opportunities to recognize that grace that fills our lives. 

 

Mark of St. Mark 

 

 

Lent

 Our theme for the Lenten season is, Between Our Rock and Hard Places. Each week we will look to God’s steadfast, covenantal love for us – that’s the rock. And we will listen for how that rock can support us when we go through our trials – those are the hard places. 

 

We’ll begin our season with an Ash Wednesday service on February 14, at 6:30pm. Each week we will have a Text Study of the forthcoming Gospel reading, with a 30-minute video posted every Monday and a one-hour discussion every Wednesday morning in the Bonhoeffer Room at 9:30am. That discussion will be on zoom and will be recorded for those who are not free to join or watch during that hour. And, except for this coming Wednesday (because of our Ash Wednesday service), we will continue to have our half-hour zoom discussion of our readings from Brian McLaren’s book, We Make the Road by Walking. That has proven to be a lovely time that always leaves us wanting more. And each week we will post a question for you to hold in reflection, both on our Facebook and Instagram pages, as well as in our Faith In Action newsletter. For a copy of our brochure with all of our worship times, weekly themes, and events, click here. 

 

For this weekend, come celebrate the love of God made known to us in the Christ. Laissez le bon temps rouler !

 

Mark of St. Mark

The Gift of Enough

 As I write this, I am sitting in one of the humble rooms at the Serra Retreat Center on a brief break during the annual Pastors’ Retreat for the Presbytery of Los Ranchos. It sounds like a joke, to refer to this room as “humble,” when this retreat center is located on the top of a mountain in Malibu. There is no end to the irony that Franciscans – who take a vow of poverty – own this property which has to be worth north of $100 million. It was left to them in an estate, so now several Franciscan monks live here and, with a relatively small staff, run the retreat center. The intersection of green and stone throughout the grounds is lovely, the Spanish tilework brings color and geometric symmetry together, and the view of the ocean is spectacular. All of that makes Serra a beautiful spot, but, to me, it is the simplicity of the rooms that makes it a wonderful retreat center. Each room has two single beds, which leave little space for the desk and armoire, along with a sink. I’m fairly sure that the rooms were originally built with only one single bed in mind, since I have to sit on the edge of one bed to type on my computer, because I can’t fit the chair in between them. There is a shared bathroom in between every two rooms, so neighbors have to learn to negotiate that. When we enter, each bed was made with new sheets, etc., by the last person to stay there, so we are to offer a prayer for them. Then, before we leave, we will make the bed with another fresh set of sheets, so they will offer a prayer for us. It is wonderfully unMarriotty. 

 

And yet, it is enough. What a wonderful gift St. Francis and his movement offer to us – to be thankful for enough. Imagine how charitable we could be if we learned well how to be thankful for enough. Instead, we are conditioned to think that our house is fine, but a house a little larger in a bit of a nicer location would be better. Our job is fine, but the trajectory of our career ought always to be on the up and up. Our wardrobe is fine, but if we’re tired of looking at the same outfits over and over, off we go to the store. It all comes quite naturally to us, and we don’t even realize that the presumption of “ever-expanding” is really a learned disposition, not simply the way things are. Enter the Franciscans. There are benches everywhere among the paths and flora, but no television in each room. There are Stations of the Cross, symbols, and statues everywhere to remind us of God’s provision, but no pool, sauna, hot tub, or boutique. And it is enough. 

 

I don’t want to go overboard. Because the room is built for one, yet accommodates two twin beds, the outlets require quite a few undignified contortions to plug in my hearing aid charger or my laptop. And the Franciscans provide Wi-Fi everywhere, a concession to obsession. And there’s Starbucks down at the bottom of the hill. So, we’re not deprived of creaturely comforts. But the simple absence of one or two things, and the mild encouragement to participate in making the center a welcoming space for the next person – those small things awaken me to a whole lot of potential new things that I can do to de-clutter my life and live more intentionally. 

 

Oh my, it sounds like the season of Lent is calling! And it is, starting on Ash Wednesday, February 14. So, I’ll say more about the small changes that awaken us to life next week. I’m supposed to be retreating right now. 

 

In peace, 
Mark of St. Mark

The Crowded Self

 This week’s gospel reading from Mark 1:21-28 has left me ruminating all week on what I am calling “the crowded self.” It is a story about a man “with an unclean spirit.” The language of the story – both the narrator’s descriptions and Jesus’ words to the man – fluctuate between identifying the man and the unclean spirit as both one entity and as different entities. From some of the other biblical stories about persons with unclean spirits, we can see why, on the one hand this unclean spirit could make him a fearsome terror, and, on the other hand, we could still look at him and feel sorry for him. In my translation blog, that you can read here, I refer to this situation as “a man and his cage.” 

 

The language of “unclean spirit” seems very pre-scientific and almost spooky, but I think the attempt to name the difference between our identity and our struggles – or our accomplishments, for that matter – is ongoing work. Not long ago I was giving myself three minutes a day to devote to Duolingo, to try to build up my Spanish. Occasionally the app would issue a phrase that always gave me pause: “Now you will be able to recall this skill more easily from your brain.” The fact that "I" would be able to “recall” “this skill" from "my brain" was odd to me. What is the distinction between the “I” who is able to recall, and “this skill” that I have learned, and “my brain”? Is “my brain” just some kind of passive card catalog that “I” can rummage in to find things? If so, what part of me is doing the rummaging? What part of me is deciding to rummage my brain? It left me asking, “Who am I?” Or, apparently, I ought to ask, "Who are I"? 

 

The same identity issue seemed to be at play in a news article about two attorneys who were disgraced when their former firm released a trove of emails they had sent that were full of racist, sexist, anti-Semitic/Asian comments. They issued this apology. “The last 72 hours have been the most difficult of our lives, as we have had to acknowledge and reckon with those emails," adding, "They are not, in any way, reflections of the contents of our hearts, or our true values.” But if those horrible emails came from something other than their hearts or true values, from whence did they come? If those emails were not "in any way" reflections of the heart or values, what exactly were they reflecting? 

 

It is ever a difficult challenge to name the unity and multiplicity of the human personality. In Deuteronomy 6:4-5, there is a formula called “the Shema,” named after the first Hebrew word, that reads, “Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.” Notice the unity that is ascribed to God, “the Lord alone,” which could also be translated, “the Lord is one.” And notice the tripartite human condition composed of heart, soul and might. What is at play is the attempt to recognize what I call “the crowded self.” We express it sometimes as “me, myself, and I” or in Freudian terms of the “ego, id, and superego” or in Jungian terms of the “self and shadow self” or President Lincoln’s appeal to our “better angels” and so on. Practically every self-help book, New Year’s resolution, and even Lenten disciplines are predicated on a part of our personality introducing new to or excluding old habits from the rest of our personality, to become a better personality. And when part of us resists and another part of us feels ashamed and another part of us speaks encouragement - we may find ourselves thinking, “It’s awful crowded in here.” 

 

So, here’s a word for that part of us what aspires to do better, and for that part of us who is chagrined that we need to do better, and for that part that fails, and here’s to that part that shames, and that part that encourages, and that part that referees among the other parts: Grace. Grace abounds. Grace forgives. Grace redeems. Grace heals. Grace. Grace is the lens through which God views the crowded space we call “me.” 

 

Mark of St. Mark

Happy Ash Valentine’s Wednesday

Since it is not too often that Ash Wednesday falls on Valentine's Day, I decided to write an ode. Or a poem. Maybe a rap. I don't know what it is, but here it is. Enjoy.

When once there was ash, 

This year there’s a mash 

Of love that is sent 

And hearts that repent

 

When once there’s a smudge 

This year there’s some fudge 

There’s a lover that falls

And the Savior that calls

 

When once it was dour

This year there are flowers

The cross Christ imposes 

And the vase full of roses

 

When once it was serious

This year seems delirious

Black ash on the head

With garments of red

 

When once it was focused

This year’s hocus-pocused 

Reserving a dinner 

Redeeming a sinner

 

Ashes to Ashes 

Dust to Lust

One love calls for a fast

The other a repast

Finding Christian Truth in Non-Christian Religions

 Friends, 

 

Have you been tracking our new study of Brian McLaren’s book, We Make the Road by Walking? If not, I think you might be missing out on a valuable opportunity for personal and spiritual growth. Brian McLaren has emerged as a significant voice for progressive Christianity and spirituality over the last few years. He has advocated for a practice of Christianity that draws strength and wisdom not only from traditional Christian sources but from other faith traditions, and in ways that respect the best insights of psychology and science. That is part of the reason why McLaren is often featured in Richard Rohr’s daily meditations from the Center for Action and Contemplation. In the book, We Make the Road by Walking, McLaren offers very manageable chapters for reading week by week over the course of a year. SueJeanne Koh has been offering a weekly opportunity for you to gather with others from St. Mark to reflect on each week’s reading and those conversations have been excellent. Thanks for everyone who has been part of those conversations. If you want to jump in or have questions, you can contact SueJeanne here. 

 

McLaren’s approach to interreligious appreciation is related to something that I wanted to say about last weekend’s sermon. I was inviting you to marvel with me at the fact that Matthew – after grounding the story of Jesus’ birth so firmly within the Abrahamic tradition – suddenly introduces Magi, astrologers, from the east. In the end, they are the only ones in Matthew’s birth story who come to worship the Christ. That turn in Matthew’s story would have been hard to imagine for many of his readers in the Abrahamic tradition, where practicing arts like astrology was forbidden. I likened it to someone pointing out strong resonance between Buddhism and the Christian message. While I was not thinking about Brian McLaren at the moment, he is precisely the kind of thinker that invites us to appreciate the insights of those religions that many Christians would simply dismiss because they are not Christian. 

 

What I want to emphasize is that Matthew did not have to reach outside of his tradition in order to see the wisdom and insight of the Magi’s eastern religion. That’s a key point for those of us who believe that our Christian faith can often resonate with other faith traditions – we do not have to step outside of our Christian faith to appreciate that resonance. We can appreciate it as faithful Christians. 

 

At the same time, I’m not suggesting that all religions are the same. For me, that claim reduces the depth and particularity of religious movements. I also shy away from picking and choosing bits and piece of various religions, like an a la carte approach to truth. To do so would make me the final judge of truth and I question whether once can really understand religious thought as a dabbler and not as a disciple. 

 

Matthew’s story invites us to see the Magi and their distinctive religious way of being as part of the story of the birth of the distinctively Jewish Christ. Matthew lets the Magi speak for themselves. He honors their religious quest. He notes that they escape Herod’s plot to find and kill the child by being warned in a dream – the same way that God will enable Joseph to rescue the child from Herod. And, in the end, the Magi go back to the east, go back to their religion, as those who have found the Christ and worshiped him. That seems to me to be a model of how to honor other religions and find spaces of resonance with them, without caricaturizing, absorbing, or proselytizing them into something that they are not. That seems promising to me in a time when almost every mode of thinking is cast into a binary “right or wrong’ mold. 

 

Mark of St. Mark

Those New Year Resolutions

 Friends, 

 

When we lived in Iowa, we were minutes away from a YMCA, where three of our five family members worked at one point and all of us exercised regularly during the cold months. Except January. In January it was ridiculous. At times there were clipboards on the treadmill and elliptical machines, to sign up and wait for an opening. Spin, Zoomba, kickboxing, and all the other cardio classes would fill up ten minutes before start time. And those folks wrapped in towels waiting for a swimming lane, oh man. Over time we all learned that it would all be back to normal by the end of the month, so it was simply a matter of waiting. 

 

That’s how New Year’s resolutions often go, isn’t it? 

 

One challenge of making resolutions is the question of identity. Essentially, a resolution is me, telling myself, that I am going to change my habits. That kind of collective action among my multiple and often contrary impulses is a tall order. The same is true for just about any approach to “self-improvement.” It is worth noting, however, that some of those folks who started showing up at the Y in early January actually did become regulars, and many of the regulars had begun their regular habits once upon a time in early January. So, while keeping a resolution is a tall order, it is not unattainable. 

 

Another challenge of making resolutions is to look beyond our own interests or self-absorption. This point was articulated by Roger Rosenblatt in a powerful essay this week on aspiring toward other-centered commitments as a better path than the typical New Year’s resolutions. I think he is too dismissive about personal resolutions since they often pertain to matters of health and well-being. Still, Rosenblatt makes an excellent point. When we make resolutions about our actions with the larger world in view – protesting war, preserving endangered species, visiting prisoners, or writing encouraging letters to a friend – our actions can have far-reaching effects. Serendipitously, committing ourselves to others is also an act of “self-improvement.” In the great ethical paradox of Jesus, loving one’s neighbor and loving oneself can be one and the same. 

 

A huge challenge to making other-centered resolutions is that much of the results are out of our hands. A letter to an estranged friend may not be acknowledged. Advocacy to the local school board may be drowned out by other voices. A quest for justice may lose out to a generous political donation. And the sheer intractability of challenges like climate change, war, and homelessness often leaves us little to show for our actions. 

 

In the end, whether personal or otherwise, resolutions and commitments are costly. The declaration, “I will lose twenty pounds” in January is a commitment to still be exercising in August. The resolution to become a climate activist is simply the first step of a long and tiring journey. Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s challenging book, The Cost of Discipleship, describes well how essential costly commitments are to being a follower of Christ. The declaration, “I have decided to follow Jesus” is a commitment to love one’s neighbor, even when that includes enemies. Commitment is costly, so making a resolution means counting the costs. 

 

How can we proceed when we count the costs, whether it is toward our own health and well-being, toward making the world more just and verdant, toward loving God and neighbor as we love ourselves, or all of the above? What keeps us moving when we failed before, or when our greatest efforts seem to be a small and forgettable speck in the large world? 

 

I suspect there is great wisdom in setting our aspirations both ideally and realistically. There are some resolutions that we can make that are measurable and achievable within our own control, whether dietary, exercise-related, or lifestyle choices. They give us specific aims for each day, and we can celebrate each step along the way. There are other resolutions that are not measurable and lie outside of our control, but are important to make anyway: To rid the world of human trafficking, to preserve the ocean by eliminating micro plastics, to bring immigration justice to the US border. Commitments of that sort may never be crossed off our ‘to do’ list, but they give us orientation and direction for our life journey. 

 

However you are resolved to live today, throughout 2024, and for the remainder of your life journey, I hope you imbibe deeply in the grace and hope of knowing that whatever you do and however you do it, you do so as God’s beloved child. 

 

Mark of St Mark