Not Yet Out of the Lenten Wilderness

by Barb Levy

During Lent this year I found out that my father has lung cancer. His surgery was scheduled for Good Friday.

My Lenten wilderness took me to places of not knowing what would happen to my father, not being well-acquainted with grief, and not knowing how I would cope with his illness and possible death.

On top of this, I felt sad that I would miss my first Triduum at St. Paul’s in 20 years. This is the only place where I've experienced the love mingled with grief on Maundy Thursday, processed into the chapel to watch at the altar of repose, heard the sung Good Friday passion, helped with the lighting of the paschal fire and watched it spread throughout the congregation in the pre-dawn vigil, heard the litany of saints, rejoiced at the great Alleluia, and been transported by the music that Gary James infuses this (and each) season with.

Yet I also sensed that going somewhere else this year could lead me through a new type of Lenten and Holy Week journey.

So what did I find back home in Rochester, NY? Since I wanted to be with my family the evening before my father’s surgery, I went to a noon Maundy Thursday service at a beautiful old church with tall spires, intricate stained glass, and high arched ceilings. But no one bowed, genuflected, or made the sign of the cross. Corinthians (the institution of the first Eucharist) was read in great haste. There was no pause in the Eucharistic prayer, or elevation of the elements. And to top it off, the good news that the priest shared about what was to come on Easter morning was a promise of chocolate-covered strawberries.

I prayed the entire time (only a 30-minute service) that God would forgive me for being so judgmental and snobbish. Then I went across the street and sat in a stone building at the George Eastman House garden, trying to conjure up Gethsemane.

My Good Friday vigil was 11 hours spent in hospital halls and waiting rooms during my father’s surgery. After spending time alone in the interfaith chapel, I later attended a 12:30 Roman Catholic service. I kept my eyes closed much of the time—partly to keep away tears, and also so that my face might not reveal how shocked I was that they read the Passion at record speed with no emotion. The veneration of the cross consisted of people scurrying up the aisle to kiss or bow to two crosses, perhaps eight inches tall, which I would describe as tchotchkes. I decided to call that 35-minute service “galloping through the crucifixion.”

Yet, even as I spent those two holy days enduring these truncated services, I had a vague sense that some underlying meaning would be revealed to me.

And, without a doubt, in these parched places—of exile from liturgy, music, and my familiar parish community—I heard faint, familiar biddings day and night.

I heard what we learn each Maundy Thursday and Good Friday: that we are here to act out the great commandment—to love one another as He loves us. I was able to channel God’s love, by serving as a privately mournful, yet upbeat, devoted daughter. And I was carried through doubt to do what needed to be done in each moment.

Like the women at the cross or the beloved disciple, I bore witness (to my ailing father) and kept watch (with my steadfast and worried family). Just as we read of the blood and water that poured out of Jesus’ pierced side, I thought of my father’s body being incised in order to be healed. And I tried to look bravely at his appearance after surgery, when he seemed so marred, beyond human semblance (Isaiah 52:14).

For the next eight days I was graced with the ability to act most often with caring and compassion, to wait patiently and glimpse occasional optimism, despite being drained of all human strength. My fortitude must have come from that great, unseen source of all being—Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer.

So despite how any of us “do” liturgy—how flustered, reverent or dignified we appear, how many people are in the pews, whether our liturgy borders on theater rather than worship, we are taught in these Great Days that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new. We experience through the agony of the cross how Jesus is the link between God and humanity, heaven and earth, and that there is nothing we will grapple with or attempt to flee from, which he has not also endured.

Finally, I need to share how wonderfully my Triduum ended. I attended the Saturday night Easter Vigil and Easter Compline services at Christ Episcopal Church. This old stone-clad building near the Eastman School of Music has a glorious music program and the most spectacular organ I’ve ever heard. In that place I found another parish home, one that I would love to attend again and again. In it I experienced what drew me into the mystery of Christian faith at my first Easter Vigil. I was transported through light and shadows, Word and response, despair and faith, to the soaring grandeur that breaks through at the Easter Acclamation.

Advent Antiphons

by Stephen Crippen

The liturgy for evening prayer (Vespers) includes the singing of the Magnificat, St. Mary’s song of victory and praise. Antiphons are appointed to be sung before and after the Magnificat, usually tailored to the feast day or season. In the last seven days of Advent, the appointed antiphons are the beloved “O Antiphons,” seven short verses that borrow images of God from the Hebrew scriptures to pray for Christ’s coming.

One of my spiritual disciplines is to write very short reflections on an image. I like to train myself to write sparingly about a theme, idea, or metaphor. For each O Antiphon, I searched for five ways to open up the image and shape my prayer during these late days of Advent.

I’ll post further reflections in the coming days, but here are the first four. Blessed Advent!

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December 20

O come, O Key of David, come, and open wide our heavenly home; make safe the way that leads on high, and close the path to misery.

A Key that opens a barn for a pregnant mother and her anxious husband. A Key that opens doors for immigrants so they can find work and dignity. A Key that opens minds and hearts to unfamiliar and frightening ideas. A Key that explains the symbols on a map so I can find my way home. A skeleton Key that opens everything, even the door of death. God as Key.

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December 19

O come, O Branch of Jesse's tree; free them from dreadful tyranny who trust your awesome power to save, and give them victory over the grave.

A Branch that shades living creatures from the noonday sun. A Branch that holds and hides the nest. A Branch that returns oxygen to earth's atmosphere. A Branch of fragrant flowers and nourishing fruit. A bare Branch that buds with life. God as Branch.

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December 18

O come, O Adonai of might, who to your tribes on Sinai's height, in ancient times once gave the law, in cloud and majesty and awe.

Adonai to powerfully overthrow our oppressors. Adonai to powerfully challenge our own oppressive behaviors. Adonai to powerfully defend the weakest and most vulnerable among us. Adonai to powerfully confront our internal demons of anxiety. Adonai to powerfully overcome perpetrators of terror, torture, and genocide. God as Adonai.

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December 17

O come, Sophia from on high, who governs all things tenderly; to us the path of knowledge show, and teach us in your ways to go.

Wisdom to remember that human lives depend on quality health care. Wisdom to notice what our culture wants to hide from us. Wisdom to care about the ethical dimension of what we cook for dinner. Wisdom to ask more questions than we answer. Wisdom to hold our beliefs in a matrix of healthy doubt. God as Wisdom.


Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.

Advent: Purple or Blue?

by Stephen Crippen

In my quest to be named the Weirdest Dog Owner in the World (and that’s a hard get!), I have purchased dog collars for all the liturgical seasons. We have a variety of collars for summer and fall (green), Lent (purple), and high days/seasons (bright colors, since white is not a good color for dog collars). But Advent—that’s a problem.

In my home, the color of Advent is hotly disputed. Andrew: “It’s purple!” Stephen: “It’s blue!” Who’s right?

As much as I want to say I’m right, I know that reasonable people differ. For time out of mind, the color of Advent has been purple, in keeping with its identity—like that of Lent—as a penitential, solemn season. (Christmas and Easter are solemn too, but joyfully so.) In the ancient world, purple dye was highly expensive, so it was associated with wealth and royalty. A commoner like you or me simply couldn’t afford it. In Lent, this added layer of meaning—royalty—evoked Christ’s identity as the sovereign figure at the center of our salvation story. That Christ ironically was not an earthly king but a poor peasant only added to the significance of purple as a liturgical color. And since Christ is central in both the Incarnation Cycle (Advent/Christmas/Epiphany) and the Paschal Cycle (Lent/Easter/Pentecost), beginning both cycles with royal purple seems fitting.

But I like blue. Indigo, really. In recent decades, the use of deep, rich blue in Advent arose to differentiate Advent from Lent as a season of hope and expectation. Advent blue, at its best, reminds the eye of the deepest blue of the night sky just before dawn. As we await the dawning of Christmas, we drape ourselves and our altar in deep blue. Every Advent I like to sing the hymn, “As the Dark Awaits the Dawn,” by Susan Palo Cherwien. Here’s a stanza from her lovely text:

As the blue expectant hour
before the silvering skies,
we long to see your day arise,
whole and wise, whole and wise,
O lucent Morning Star.

So…how did we resolve the dog-collar dispute? Naturally, we met in the middle: since we have two dogs, we have two opportunities to clothe our beloved charges in the color(s) of Advent. May your Advent draw you ever closer to the dawning light of Christ.


Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.

Journeys of Faith: Coming to St. Paul’s from a Lutheran Background

by Stephen Crippen

My parents brought me up in a Missouri Synod Lutheran church in rural Minnesota. Our parish was progressive by Missouri Synod standards, but it didn’t stray too far from the minimalist style and robust (and stern!) theological tradition of German Lutheranism. Nevertheless, my mother had been a Roman Catholic before marrying my father, so every once in a while she would turn to me in the middle of a church service and say something like, “You know, they could engage all of the senses if they wanted to. They could use incense. Worship is best when it engages all of the senses.”

Years later, I began to understand my mother’s motivations. She never expressed regret about her decision to become Lutheran, but she cultivated in me a love for beauty in liturgy, and I suspect her whispered comments to me were an expression of longing for what she had left behind. Her influence inspired me to join Lutheran parishes that embraced a rich liturgical tradition and a sacramental vision. Before I left the Twin Cities for Seattle in 1997, I was a happy member of Mount Olive Lutheran (ELCA) in Minneapolis, a parish replete with glorious music, graceful liturgy, and yes, incense. More striking still was Mount Olive’s location deep in the heart of south Minneapolis, an urban area marked by poverty and urban blight. At their best, Mount Olive proclaims a vision of justice in a neighborhood that cries out for it.

In Seattle, following a five-year stint on the staff of a Lutheran parish, I visited St. Paul’s on the strength of its reputation as a good “liturgical” church. When I first arrived here, I was attracted to the fine music and splendid liturgical life, but also challenged to adjust to some unfamiliar things. I remember struggling with the sung Nicene Creed, which seemed long and labored for me, at least at first. (Now, of course, a spoken Creed sounds odd and awkward to me, like we’re skimping on something important!) And as a borderline extrovert, there were times when St. Paul’s felt a little too quiet and solemn for my taste. But I made a good decision: I told myself to settle down, keep coming back, and keep opening myself up to this interesting and entrancing little parish community.

Now, more than five years later, St. Paul’s is not as quiet, much larger, and (it seems) about as extroverted as I am! But my parish home has retained—and even greatly enhanced—its ability to draw me into awe and wonder, ravish and challenge me with fine preaching, and take me out of my everyday life—not as an escape, but rather for the purpose of transforming my life, clarifying my call, and sending me back into my home and workplace with a renewed sense of meaning and purpose.

A Lutheran church like Mount Olive in Minneapolis offers a similar culture and community, a similar setting in which the assembly draws ever closer to the heart of God, a similar parish in which both justice and beauty are found in abundance. But I am glad to be at St. Paul’s, centered as it is in the Anglo-Catholic tradition, and moving as it is into a time of renewal and growth. At St. Paul’s, I find myself excitedly emailing my dad to tell him about the great preaching (for it was my dad who taught me to listen for that!), and also drawing close to my mother (who is now among our beloved dead) to whisper into her ear, “You were right. And it’s lovely!”

Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find other entries by Stephen on our blog, and his most recent sermon here.

bowing quietly

by Alissa Newton

Last week Andrew and I took our niece, Sophia, to the Epiphany mass at St. Paul's. Sophia will be three in April, and some might question our decision to take someone at such a tender age to a long anglo-catholic mass at 7pm in the evening. (her usual bedtime is around 8, I think.) But Sophia's parents were at a childbirth class for baby #2 and we were feeling adventurous, so we went for it. Sophia has been a fan of St. Paul's since visiting on Thanksgiving with her parents, and whenever she talks about her experiences there she brings up "people in robes" and "how we bowed quietly!"

Sitting in the hushed and sacred space of the sanctuary I realized yet again something I've known deeply for years, but often forgotten superficially: worship is many things, but it is not boring.

I should qualify, perhaps. If one is paying attention - and few adults pay attention the way that a toddler does - mass is not boring. There is too much going on! I watched my niece take it all in with wide blue eyes: the lofty vaulted ceiling, the lit candles, the robed liturgical ministers, and the smoke rising from the thurible as it swung, incense burning inside. I watched her take it in with her other senses as well - the smell of the incense, the feel of the smooth wooden pew beneath her hands, and the softer cushion under her small knees when we went to the communion rail. The feeling of Mother Melissa's hand on her forehead as Sophia received a blessing with a shy smile and pleased eyes. The warmth of the candles at the Mary shrine, where she insisted on stopping to kneel after we left the rail.

This is not to say she spent the entire hour and a half riveted to the service. Few of our children, do! But Sophia noticed the things that are easy for me to forget about. She was captivated by the elements of our worship that are our truest attempts to capture the mystery of our relationship with God, to express the inexpressible about the Divine one incarnate in the world, with-us. We use incense and candlelight to augment our response to that mystery. We dress our priests and other liturgical ministers in brightly colored vestments in an attempt to celebrate the sacrament we experience together in bread and wine, because while there is much that we don't understand or cannot adequately express about that feast, the one thing we do know is that it is a celebration.

Sophia got it. She was thrilled by the smells, the colors, the candles, and the movements. She stood and sat down and bowed quietly. She also drifted a bit during the homily (though it was lovely) and the prayers. Those were just people talking, and what's so thrilling about that? Grown-ups are always talking. The magic is with the mystery, the unexplainable parts of the mass.

I think the same is true about faith (and prayer) itself - there is something unexplainable about it. Many people try to put it into words, and their attempts can be illuminating, even transformative. But the essence is a lot more like incense or candlelight - sweet and wonderful to behold, undeniable when experienced, and somehow cheapened by description.

I think one of my goals for the coming year is to pay attention to the world the way a toddler would. There's a lot of mystery and wonder to be found - both outside and inside of me, my family, my church, and my religion. I want to keep an eye out for the unexplainable, and my heart open to see and wonder at mystery when it can be found. I also need the reminder that there is much pleasure to be found in the simple routines of life - in this case standing, sitting, experiencing the smells and sights and, when appropriate, bowing quietly.

Alissa Newton is a postulant to Holy Orders from St. Paul's and the editor of the parish blog. This entry was adapted from her personal blog, which can be found here.

What’s with all the incense?

by Samuel Torvend

As we were finishing the entrance hymn on Easter Sunday, my sister, her husband, and their five-year-old son slipped into the pew next to me. My nephew, Rex, stood on the pew so that he could see his friend, Stephen, twirling the thurible, the metal container filled with a burning coal and heaped with incense pebbles. “I can see the smoke,” whispered Rex, “but, Uncle Sam, where’s the fire that makes it?” Well, this was a great question from a curious soon-to-be kindergartner. If there’s smoke, there must be fire. I whispered in his ear that a coal, much like one of his father’s barbeque briquettes, is set on fire with a match that makes it sizzle and turn into a hot ember. The incense that is added to the coal creates both the smoke and the smell. His eyes widened and he said, “Oh, that is way cool … and it doesn’t fly out and hit us.”

While his son found the use of incense fascinating if not wonderfully dangerous, Frank, his father, seemed less impressed. At dinner that afternoon he said: “You all at St. Paul’s really like to do it up big; you know: lots of ceremony.” Let’s be clear: there was no condescending tone in his voice, but I did wonder, Does he think it’s just silly: the bowing, the genuflecting, and, then, those many clouds of Easter incense? And then he asked, “I thought it had something to do with your prayers rising to God … Isn’t that right?” Big point to Frank who could have been quoting Psalm 141: “Let my prayer be counted as incense before you, and the lifting up of my hands an evening sacrifice.” On smoke rising from burning incense as symbol of prayer “rising” to God, he was right on the money.

And yet at St. Paul’s on this Easter Sunday, the altar table, the bread and wine, a newly-baptized baby, the Easter candle, the worshipping assembly and the ministers of the Mass were all incensed. Why all that incensing of food, candle, and people? The answer rests in the ancient past of Christianity. It was not until the fourth century that Christians began to incense people and significant objects in their worship. While one reads in the Bible of incense being burned during worship, the practice of incensing people probably derives from the Roman imperial practice of honoring political elites, such as the emperor and his court, with burning incense. Where you see and smell incense, a bigwig is not far behind. Oh, but here is the interesting twist that begins to take place in Christian worship: the pagan imperial practice of using incense was welcomed by Christians but turned on its head: what honored only the elites who sat at the top of the social pyramid was now turned toward ordinary people and ordinary things. Infants, deacons, women, widows, priests, the poor, men, children – anyone and everyone who enters into the Christian assembly is honored with a practice that had been reserved only for social VIPs. In essence the Christian practice proclaimed that each and every person was worthy – worthy to be honored with incense – since each one is a child of God, marked with an eternal dignity, and joined to the body of Christ, the great high priest. Thus, the incensing of all the people, their table, and the food they receive as the Body and Blood of Christ would now proclaim a status-reversal: all these – not just a few – but all these are holy. And so, here, in this place, each person is to be honored with fire and fragrance at one’s birth into the Christian community (baptism), as one is nourished weekly in the Christian communion (Eucharist), and at one’s death in the midst of the community (the Christian funeral).

I would agree with my nephew: that is way cool.

Samuel Torvend is a member of St. Paul's and professor of the history of Christianity at Pacific Lutheran University.

Feet

By Alissa Newton

Today is Maundy Thursday , the beginning of the end of Lent and the beginning of the Triduum, the time when we remember and liturgically re-live the three days before the death of Christ.

I've always loved Maundy Thursday, even before I knew that some people used that name for it. Growing up in an evangelical non-liturgical tradition the Thursday before Easter was simply "The Foot-washing Service." There is something undeniably intimate and vulnerable about the washing of feet, and as a child I found this both moving and sort of thrilling. In the church of my childhood this was a segregated service, women in one room and men in the other. I don't know what happened for the men, but in the women's group we would all sit in a circle and sing hymns. Every year sometime before the foot-washing service my Mom would tell me a story about one of the first times she attended, when she was a young woman. She might have even been a teenager. After the singing of hymns began, each woman would wash the feet of the woman sitting next to her, and so on in a circle until everyone had both washed and been washed. My mother, the young woman, happened to be sitting next to one of the matriarchs of the church, an elderly lady whose movements were slow and hands shook. Mom was slightly horrified to realize that this woman would be washing her feet. I remember listening to my mother tell of how she sat and had her feet washed by someone so much older than her, wiser, and much more frail, and how that moment both humbled and exalted her. Sometimes when she told the story her eyes would brim with tears, remembering. I loved to hear it, and I loved to be a part of the whole ritual. The church I grew up in had little in the way of formal ritual, but what we had I reveled in. At the Foot-washing I felt connected to the Church, even as a child, in a way that was unique to my experiences in church at the time.

Now I still love the footwashing ritual. Set within an Anglo-Catholic mass, with choir and Eucharist, robes and incense, men and women together - the washing of another human being's feet remains one of the most intimate and powerful experiences of community that I have ever been exposed to. It is an act of service that is equally humbling for both recipient and the one who washes. Feet are so often a neglected body part - they do so much of the work of getting us around, but in our culture are seen as dirty and sort of private. It's rare to have someone else touch them. And even more so in the context of the Sacred. We Anglo-Catholics are so in love with Beauty and Mystery, two qualities rarely discovered in feet.

I hope today can be a reminder to me that in the context of Eucharist, in the Kingdom of God, the neglected and dirty can be part of what is Holy and Beloved and Beautiful. Jesus' feet were washed by the tears of a shamed woman who brought him perfume. Jesus washed his disciples feet before he gave them the first Eucharist. Humility and vulnerability are powerful and important, these stories tell us, and Christ proves to us as he embodies both in order to bring us through Maundy Thursday and tomorrow's Good Friday, to Easter.

Alissa Newton is Jr. Warden at St. Paul's and the editor of the parish blog. This entry is cross-posted to her personal blog, which can be found here.

Seasons

by Ellen Hill

Seasons

I heard a little voice last Sunday.


It belonged to one of our many new toddlers. It was strong, clear, and confident. A comment made about something she found interesting.

Some Sundays, I sit amazed at this influx of little bodies, with strong sturdy legs investigating new spaces. A small face pressed against the glass to experience its rainbow qualities. The tiny hands reverently touching St. Francis. I am sure they are experiencing St. Paul’s in an organic, hands-on way that I am quite envious of.


I remember this journey with my own children, trying to find a path between exploration and adoration. Three little bodies squirming, reading, talking, but still trying to understand what was happening around them. Eventually they did. They followed the service, participated on the altar, read lessons, and served on committees. They grew up in a community where it was safe to be yourself. A community nurturing their spiritual education and growth. A place where difficult questions could be asked, and questions that have no answers could be discussed.


So, at this time in the life of our parish, children are present. We welcome their voices. We look forward with excitement at this new explosion of life. Like spring it holds the promise of unknown beauty.


And sometimes, it takes us back to our own childhood. Sunday in the pew between my own father and mother. My father, young and strong; my mother, unable to stay awake through any sermon no matter how short or long. We were always in our Sunday best complete with hat and gloves. The best part was just the feeling of happiness as we sat shoulder to shoulder. Oh, and of course the trip to the donut shop on the way home.


With all the lessons of Sunday service, perhaps this is the most lasting legacy -- that we can carry these moments of happiness throughout our lives as both the child and the parent.


I remember the beauty of a small hand in mine, tiny and warm, so infinitely beautiful.


Some Sundays it rests in my hand again. Now it rests fingertip to fingertip, palm to palm, all grown up yet still so infinitely beautiful.

Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.