Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org

O Lord, give me patience and give it to me now.

I confess that has sometimes been the gist of my prayer (a variation on Augustine's prayer: Give me chastity, but not yet). Patience has been on my mind lately. Maybe yours as well.

These days, each morning I'm reading through the book of the Acts of the Apostles. I noticed this throw-away line. Towards the end of the book, Paul has been arrested in Jerusalem. He awaits a hearing, first with the local authorities and ultimately with Caesar in Rome. He has a hearing with one guy, who listens for a bit, seems to get bored and sends Paul away. It says Paul was sent away to prison for two years before the second hearing was held. Two years. How did he deal with that time of waiting? Didn't God realize there was important missionary work to be done?

The story of Moses in the book of Exodus tells us that after Moses had to flee Egypt, he went into the wilderness where he became a shepherd. A throw-away line tells us that he did that for forty years. I find myself wondering what Moses was thinking. What am I doing with this ancient near eastern ivy league education, hanging out for forty years, looking after livestock? Then one day he turned aside to converse with a burning bush. But not until the time was right.

Early in the gospel of Luke, we meet Simeon and Anna, two senior citizens who spent their lives in the temple, waiting to see the Messiah, waiting to see how God would act. Faithfully waiting. It sounds like they would have waited forever.

Waiting is a spiritual discipline. Patience is a spiritual virtue. We're talking fruits of the Spirit. To put it mildly, these days I need more of that virtue to live out that discipline. I suspect we all know about waiting. Waiting for a vaccine. Waiting for covid restrictions to lift. Waiting to get a call back after an interview. Waiting in line to vote. Waiting for a doctor's report. Waiting for an election season to pass. Waiting for a paycheck. Waiting for things to stop changing. Waiting for things to start changing.

So what does holy waiting look like? Henri Nouwen indicates that such waiting is not passive, but rather active (see quote above).

So what is that activity? I'll name five ideas, five that I work on. You can add others. I'd love to hear what they are:

1. Gratitude: A recognition, a mindfulness of the goodness that is part of the present. Some people make daily lists of those things for which they are grateful. Maybe one thing. Maybe 5. Maybe 100. Some people write daily notes to people to whom they owe a debt of gratitude. There are a lot of ways to do that. When in doubt, recite the General Thanksgiving daily (p. 101 in the Prayer Book).
2. Trust: an ability to live in the confidence that all will be well, that in the end all will be okay and if it's not okay it's not the end.
3. Confession: Admit the pain of waiting is tough. If you need language for that, God gave us the psalms.
4. Service: Why do we call a server in a restaurant a waiter?I'm not sure where that comes from but to me one of the ways to navigate my own impatience is to consider opportunities to be of help to someone, to be of service. Those opportunities surround us.
5. Prayer: The discipline of waiting, the virtue of patience may only be realized with God's help. Fruits of the Spirit, not fruits of my own spiritual evolution or magnificence. The confession that the anxiety is getting to us, that we're not sure how to manage it, can open the door to deeper patience.

Waiting can be hard. We all have to do it. Thank God for God's help, claiming the wisdom of Isaiah who promised that those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint. (Isaiah 40:13) Phew.

Contact: Rev. Jay Sidebotham jsidebotham@renewalworks.org
RenewalWorks is a ministry of Forward Movement www.renewalworks.org

I'm reading a book entitled "The Buddhist on Death Row: How One Man Found Light in the Darkest Place." In it, the author David Sheff tells the story of Jarvis Jay Masters, prisoner in San Quentin, death sentence looming. In confinement, Masters discovered the power of meditation, becoming a Buddhist. He said: "The death penalty saved my life. And gave me life...I never would have meditated. Never would have learned about Buddhism. Never. Never would have been interested." He described his ceremony of initiation as a Buddhist: "My old self died. The person who was desensitized, numb, dead. And from that death, it's like I became someone new. I'm becoming someone new." He went on to be of service to other inmates, finding ways to share what he had learned and somehow in that place, finding joy. The book causes me to consider, wonder, marvel at the witness of folks who discover joy in the darkest places.

It's the witness of Paul and Silas as described in Acts 16. Tossed into a first century prison (Let your imagination run wild on what that was like!), they spent the night singing hymns and praising God. It's the witness of Paul in his letter to the Philippians, which we've been reading on Sundays. In that letter, written from prison, every other word is joy or rejoice. What gives?

It's the witness of St. Francis of Assisi, whose feast we observed yesterday.  Maybe you've participated in a blessing of the animals (Once I blessed a 5 foot iguana, which arrived in a snuggly on the chest of its owner who had come to church on the subway.) or quoted Francis' beautiful prayer about being an instrument of God's peace. But what was it about him that one of the memories persisting over the centuries has to do with his sense of joy, while taking on a life of poverty and enduring opposition from many sides? We're told he censured friars who went about with gloomy faces, exhorting them to cheerful demeanor. When thieves beat him up and threw him in a snowy ditch, he jumped out and joyfully sang praises to God. In a famous exchange with Brother Leo, he describes perfect joy: If we bear injuries with patience and joy, thinking of the sufferings of our Blessed Lord, which we would share out of love for him, write, O Brother Leo, that here, finally, is perfect joy.

It's the witness of Nelson Mandela, 27 years in prison, who said: You may find that the cell is an ideal place to learn to know yourself, to search realistically and regularly the processes of your own mind and feelings. That kind of reflection allowed Mandela to combat forces of institutionalized racism, poverty and inequality.

It's the witness of the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu, good friends who laughed a lot, as recorded in "The Book of Joy," an account of conversations they had in a week together. Each of these men knew the worst that 20^th century politics could inflict. Though reflecting different religious traditions, they each exhibit joy. Part of that joy, that equanimity, that peace resulted from the fact that they each spent hours daily in prayer.

It's the witness of Pope Francis whose first apostolic exhortation was entitled "The Joy of the Gospel." His first papal homily, on Palm Sunday 2013, began: "Here is the first word I wish to say to you: joy!"

It's the witness of Jesus who told his disciples that he came to give them abundant life. On the night before he was arrested, tortured and executed, knowing full well what was coming, Jesus told his disciples  that he came to give them joy that was complete.

We are surrounded by this great cloud of witnesses. They tell us, remind us, show us that joy can come in the darkest places. It comes with expressions of gratitude, quiet time, service, listening. We all know dark places, some more devastating or inexplicable than others. Maybe you're in one of those places this Monday. Maybe every Monday feels a bit like that. These witnesses remind us that we are not alone in facing darkness. They also let us know that valleys can be places where we glimpse a long, beautiful view that includes a path forward.

Trust is on my mind these days. Apparently, I'm not alone in wondering who to trust, as we grapple with considerable coincident crises, crises of health, economics, racial division and inequity, climate change. Science, politicians, media, election processes, institutional religion, law enforcement are all being questioned, against the background noise of what some call fake news, untruths and alternative facts. We never know what's around the corner, but Covid-tide is a season of heightened anxiety fueled by uncertainty about what, who and how we can trust.

That has led me to think about all the ways that scripture calls us to trust. Easier said than done. (One of my college friends signed his religion papers with the acronym: SOKOP. Sounds okay on paper). The psalms, in a number of places, offer a variation of the following verse: Put not your trust in rulers or in any child of earth, for there is no help in them. (Psalm 146:3) Maybe you're thinking about trust these days as well. Apparently, a lot of people are. If so, join me in working through a few questions:

1. Where do you draw strength? Asked another way: What are reliable sources of nourishment and sustenance for the journey? We live in a world offering lots of spiritual junk food, easy to swallow but not what we really need, not ultimately sustaining. We give our hearts to that which does not satisfy our hearts. It's especially tough when so many Christian leaders reveal the hypocrisy of the church, nothing new under the sun. As one of those church leaders, when I hear the reasonable, verifiable complaint that the church is just filled with hypocrites, all I can say is, "Guilty as charged." Then I revert to the prayer that both sustains and frightens me: "Let not those who hope in you be put to shame through me." (Psalm 69:7) What would it mean to draw strength from the God who calls us into relationship?

2. Where do you place your hope? Asked another way: In whom do you place hope? The old hymn affirms: We may not know what the future holds, but we know who holds the future. In many ways, we find ourselves in the midst of storms. Life these days feels like those small glass snow domes that get all shook up. We're waiting for things to settle. Hoping. Jurgen Moltmann based his theology on hope. In a paper called The Spirit of Hope: Theology For A World In Peril, Moltmann wrote (pre-covid): "Terrorist violence, social and economic inequality, and most especially the looming crisis of climate change all contribute to a cultural moment of profound despair." Moltmann reminds us that Christian faith has much to say in response to a despairing world. In "the eternal yes of the living God," we affirm the goodness and ongoing purpose of our fragile humanity. What would it mean to embrace the text of the hymn (#665 in the 1982 Hymnal) "All my hope on God is founded," music written by Herbert Howells after the death of his 9 year-old son?

3. Where do you give your heart? Asked another way: What's love got to do with it? As our Presiding Bishop reminds us, it all boils down to love. If it isn't about love, it isn't about God. Ultimately our trust is an expression of the heart, an expression of love. As in any committed relationship, love is based on the trust that partners seek the best for each other. They seek to honor each other, with all they are and have. More Moltmann: "God's love empowers us to love life and resist a culture of death." What would it mean, in a vindictive season, to let love be our guide in some new and deeper way this week, not giving into fear or fretting but figuring out some way to make it all about love?

As people of faith, we are called to "trust in the Lord with all our hearts, leaning not on our own understanding, confident that God will direct our paths." (A riff on Proverbs 3:5,6) In case you haven't picked it up already, I'm finding that challenging. It's presumptuous of me to suggest a solution, as I navigate a cloud of unknowing. But here's the answer I've decided to go with. I'm going to literally and figuratively take a deep breath and trust that the God of love has the whole world in his hands. And I'm going to try to remember that a life of hope is not always easy. Even more Moltmann: "Faith, wherever it develops into hope, causes not rest but unrest, not patience but impatience. It does not calm the unquiet heart, but is itself this unquiet heart in man. Those who hope in Christ can no longer put up with reality as it is, but begin to suffer under it, to contradict it. Peace with God means conflict with the world." Said another way: All manner of things shall be well, but we may be in for rough sledding before we get there.

On that cheery note, amidst it all, I trust you will know blessing and peace this week. Thanks for thinking this through with me.

The historian Eusebius (you all remember him, right?), in his Life of Constantine, tells how the emperor ordered the building of a complex in Jerusalem "on a scale of imperial magnificence," to set forth as "an object of attraction and veneration to all, the blessed place of our Savior's resurrection." Constantine's shrine included a large basilica for the Liturgy of the Word and a circular church, known as "The Resurrection" for the Liturgy of the Table. Toward one side of the courtyard separating the two buildings, through which worshippers had to pass on their way from Word to Sacrament, the top of Calvary's hill was visible. In that courtyard, the solemn veneration of the cross took place on Good Friday. The dedication of the buildings was completed on September 14, 335. 1,685 years later, we celebrate the Feast of the Holy Cross on this day, with prayers and scripture readings taking us to the foot of the cross.

Labor Day is one of the few secular holidays finding its way into the liturgical calendar (along with Independence Day and Thanksgiving). Prayers and readings have been chosen to help us think about our labor, our efforts, our work, our ministry in the place to which God has brought us.

We often say that praying shapes our believing. What we pray molds our attitudes. Prayers also guide our actions. In this time of considerable coincident crises, contending with threats to health, a depleted economy and urgent racial reckoning, the collect for Labor Day, included above, has a lot to say. We ask for guidance in the work we do. We ask to be made mindful of the rightful aspirations of other workers and to arouse our concern for those who are out of work. It says we're in this together.

A political season can trigger (heated) debate about best ways to respond to the challenges we face. But the fact that Labor Day is a feast of the church, finding its place in the liturgical calendar, means that this is not simply a matter of politics. It's something we do as part of the Jesus movement, part of the way of love. It's something we do as people of faith, as disciples. That prompts a few questions to think about in the spare time provided on this holiday (not to mention time provided by sheltering in place).

First, the prayer notes that our lives are linked one with another. Whatever work we're given to do, for pay or as volunteers, is meant for the common good. So let me ask: In what way do you see your life linked to all those who might be struggling these days, with issues of health or economics or race relations? Spend some quiet time asking God to show you that linkage. How will your efforts be dedicated to the common good?

Second, on this day, we hear a portion of a letter from St. Paul (again included above), writing to the Corinthian church. He compares their lives, as individuals and as a community, to a construction project. He talks about their labor in building. He asks them to think about the foundation on which they build. So let me ask: As you think about the life you are building, what's the foundation? What does it mean to you to build on the foundation that is Jesus Christ? What about Jesus is foundational for you?

Finally, on this day, we're invited to read an excerpt from the Sermon on the Mount (again, see above). Jesus challenges his listeners to think about what they value, what they treasure. In words that always make me stop and think, words we hear on Ash Wednesday, he tells them: Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. That verse prompted one of the desert fathers to issue this related challenge: Do not give your heart to that which does not satisfy your heart. So let me ask: Where are you giving your heart these days? In the quiet of this Labor Day, think about what it is you treasure. What are the ways that we can treasure, we can value and honor the common good, the whole human family?

The times in which we live can drive us into isolated corners. The politics of the day encourage tribalism and division. It's often hard to see the common good. Jesus calls us to another way, the way of love. How do you hear that call on this holiday, this holy day?

-Jay Sidebotham

For a number of years, I served at a church named St. Bartholomew's. I'm reminded of that church today, the Feast of St. Bartholomew. Some churches make a big deal about the saint for which the church is named. At St. Bart's, we didn't make much of the observance. Partly because it fell at the end of August when many of our folks (including clergy) were on vacation. We also downplayed the day, because the truth is we don't know a lot about this saint.

There's a hymn created for use on saint's days. It has an intro and closing stanza, but then some stanzas pertinent to any  number of saints. You can plug in that stanza for your feast day. Customized hymn. Great idea. Here's the stanza for St. Bartholomew:

Praise for the blest Nathaniel, surnamed Bartholomew;
We know not his achievements but know that he was true,
For he at the Ascension was an apostle still
May we discern your presence and seek, like him, your will.

I always get a chuckle out of this stanza, not only because the writer found a rhyme for Bartholomew. It essentially says that we don't know anything about this guy, but because he gets mentioned in the gospels, we assume he was a pretty good guy. Apart from the rather gruesome way that he was martyred (I'm going to let you look that up on your own), we find almost no other information about Bartholomew in scripture.

As the hymn suggests (and some scholars doubt) Bartholomew and a character named Nathaniel may be one and the same. What we know about Nathaniel comes from the first chapter of John's gospel (see column on the left). Jesus calls his first disciples and in the process, has an exchange with Nathaniel. Nathaniel's friend, Philip, is all excited about meeting Jesus, the one promised by Moses and the prophets. He tells Nathaniel about Jesus of Nazareth. Nathaniel responds: Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Jesus soon meets Nathaniel and commends him for being a straight shooter.

Kudos to Nathaniel for his freedom to ask questions, bordering on impertinence. In that regard, he reminds me of many Episcopalians. I love that his story is preserved in scripture. He models honest, holy conversations. And he discovered what we all must learn: God can handle our hard questions, our skepticism. We need not try to hide or disguise them, as if God didn't know we had them.

Then join me in thinking about that question: Can anything good come from Nazareth? How do you translate that question into your own context?  I suspect we all find it easy to put people into categories, to help us make sense of the world. We all have preconceived notions of how God can work, or what kind of people God can use. We are tempted to limit that group. We may be totally surprised by who might be our teachers, our guides. I've had Episcopalians look down their noses at folks from other denominations, even those that are clearly attracting many people. I've had evangelicals tell me that Episcopalians don't love Jesus as much as they do. We may be inclined to look in the mirror and wonder: Can anything good come out of me, out of my life? Can God work in my shambles of a life?

Let's let Jesus answer. He said that children could be our teachers. He noted that a hated Roman centurion had more faith than anyone he had met in Israel. He indicated that the most educated religious scholars of his day were blind guides. He commended a foreign woman for audacious faith. He held up despised lepers as models of gratitude. He told a thief on the cross that he would join him in paradise.

And then there's this quiet, unsung saint, Bartholomew or Nathaniel or whoever he was. He teaches us that God's saving work for all people for all time can begin in podunk, backwater towns. It can happen through the most unlikely people.

Even you and me. Celebrate that this Monday. Live into it.

-Jay Sidebotham

It's all good

I was enjoying lunch a week or two ago with a good and wise friend. As we were winding up, he said: Let me ask you a question. I had a sense I should fasten my seatbelt. He asks good questions. This was what he wanted to discuss: Does God have a plan for our lives? He spoke of friends who are crystal clear that God has mapped it all out. It's all scripted. We just need to play our part, act out the role. As an Episcopalian, more qualified, uncertain answers went through my mind as he asked about God as strategic planner. I thought of responses like: It depends. It's complicated. It's a mystery. I'm not sure.

I'm pretty clear in my own belief that there is not just one course our lives can take and if we screw that up, God gives up on us. I'm not certain God has it all planned out, as if we're chess pieces or automatons or actors in a drama with a foregone conclusion. It's a mystery for sure, God's knowledge (omniscience) and power (omnipotence) intersecting with our agency. I'm oddly comforted to know that theologians have debated this for centuries.

But I do hold this creed. I do believe that in all things, God has intention for good, for each of us, for all of creation. God intends healing, wholeness, deliverance, salvation, peace. And if we are working towards any of that, we are in the zone.

Yesterday in church, the lectionary gave us the option of reading one of the final scenes of the story of Joseph, of amazing technicolor dream-coat fame. It's one of my favorite stories. If you're looking for a good summer read, catch the whole saga in the book of Genesis, chapters 37-50.

It's one of those stories that makes people regard the Bible as just one big story of sibling rivalry. (Maybe that's the story of human history.) To review, Joseph, favored son of Jacob whose sons represent the 12 tribes of Israel, didn't seem to mind playing favored son status with his siblings. It didn't go over well. So they planned to kill him. They threw him in a hole in the ground to figure out what to do with him. They decided to sell him as a slave. He ended up in Egypt. He was a smart, capable boy and he rose in position in Egypt until he was falsely accused of a crime. Thrown into prison, he languished there until his gift for interpreting dreams put him in a place of power. As model administrator, paragon of wisdom, he governed Egypt, making preparations for a global famine. Before long, his brothers made their way to Egypt to get food. They appeal to Joseph for help, though it's been a while and they don't recognize him.

The passage read in church yesterday (included above) describes the moment when Joseph's identity is revealed to his brothers. They worry he will exact revenge. But Joseph speaks of God's good intention. His brothers meant to do him evil. Joseph says God meant it for good. All of it resulted in the rescue, the deliverance, the salvation not only of Joseph but of his brothers, and thus, the people of Israel. One could argue that if this story hadn't happened, the story of the Bible might not have gone any further.

Was it God's plan for all these bad things to happen to Joseph? That's hard to understand and embrace. Just as it is hard to understand and embrace the mystery of why bad things happen to good people. But what does seem to come through is that God has ability to work in any situation and bring good out of it. Case in point: the cruelty of the cross. We call it redemption and it occurs to me that in the coincidental crises we face right now, and in the personal crises that come to each of us, we could use some redemption. We each have to find ways to look forward, to hold on to hope, to trust in one whose intention toward us is goodness. How is that as a challenge for you this Monday morning?

As I was mulling this mystery, I heard a fine sermon preached by a friend in which she quoted Phillips Brooks, great Episcopal preacher (no, that's not an oxymoron) and Rector of Trinity Church in Boston in the 19^th century. Check out this quote: You must learn, you must let God teach you, that the only way to get rid of your past is to make a future out of it. God will waste nothing.

It's all good.

-Jay Sidebotham