Change

[Earlier this month, our rector at St. Christopher's, Father Bill Anderson, announced his retirement at the end of the month. Our lessons were Exodus 1:8-20, Psalm 124, Romans 12:1-8, and Matthew 16:13-20.]

I’ve always liked St. Peter. He could come up with the most incredible revelation one moment and follow it up with the most off-the-wall comment in the next. A couple of weeks ago, we read how he impetuously got out of the boat to follow Jesus across the water. I remember cartoons from my childhood, like the Roadrunner, where the Coyote can walk off a cliff and stay up until he realizes he’s not on solid ground and down he falls. Peter was like that; when he saw that he was on the water, his fears overcame him and he started to sink. It was Peter who impulsively wished to build three tabernacles on the mountain of the Transfiguration; it was Peter who, just before the crucifixion, three times denied knowing Jesus.

But it was also Peter who, after Pentecost, risked his life to do the Lord’s work, speaking boldly of his belief in Jesus. It was also Peter, the Rock, whose strength and courage helped the young Church in its questioning about the mission beyond the Jewish community. He was first opposed to the baptism of Gentiles. But he had the grace to change, and to baptize the Roman centurion Cornelius and his household. Finally, tradition holds that Peter fled from Rome during Nero’s persecution. On the Appian Way, he is supposed to have met Christ who was heading toward Rome. Jesus told Peter, “I am coming to be crucified again.” Peter thereupon returned to Rome, and was shortly thereafter crucified, head downwards at his insistence. He said, “I am not worthy to be crucified as my Lord was.”

With his stumbling and his failures, Peter reminds us that even the chief of the Apostles was just as human, just as fallible as you and I. Jesus did not come among us to save the strong and godly, but the weak and the sinful—us.

This statement of Peter: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God!” is called the Confession of Peter. It even has its own date on our calendar—January 18. He is the first person to name Jesus as the hope of Israel. Before this, other than God, only demons had known who Jesus was.

Jesus’ response is famous: “I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.”

This raises all sorts of questions of authority and our Roman cousins cite this as the basis for the authority of Peter’s successor as the Bishop of Rome—the Pope. I remember in 1978 finding it a curious coincidence that the day after Cardinal Albino Luciani was elected Pope John Paul I, I went to my Episcopal church and heard this passage read.

Of course, as Anglicans, we don’t accept the Roman interpretation that this reading gives a universal authority to the Pope. But it is important to us even so.

First, Peter—Simon up to now—is given a new name. Until this point, there is no record of the word for “rock”—“Cephas” in Aramaic or etros” in Greek—being used as a person’s name. Throughout Scripture, the changing of a person’s name is significant—Abram to Abraham, Jacob to Israel, Saul to Paul—because in that culture, when your name changed, you were changed.

Peter is the rock upon which the Church is built by the Lord. The other Apostles, the Fathers of the Church (and the Mothers), and all the saints of God have built and are still building up the Church in love and faith. One commentator said that Peter is “Rocky I” and so, you are “Rocky 5 Billion” with the same director, the same plot and a larger cast. Even as Peter was called, so are we. Through us, Christ continues to be present to his world.

This Church is more than buildings, more than organizational structures like Dioceses and Provinces. It is more than a group of people sitting and worshipping with us today. It is a divine mystery greater than we can imagine reaching throughout space and time joining us all together—a Jewish fisherman in the First Century in Palestine and a lay preacher in Georgia in the 21st Century—in a continuity of faith, tradition, of doctrine, and of people.

That continuity is what we will refer to momentarily in the Creed when we say we belong to “one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church”. We claim a connection to the Apostles, most notably through our bishops, whose consecrations are traceable back in a nearly unbroken line to the Apostles. With each baptism, each new birth into the Church, Jesus makes us a new “Peter”, a new rock upon which the Church is built.

Fr. Herbert O’Driscoll uses a wonderful image for this. His idea is to look at all of the last 20 centuries as concentric circles of time. We are in the very outermost circle, farthest away from the center—and at the center is the Cross. We are brought into the circle, into the faith, in large part because somewhere, somehow, someone in the circle just before ours took us by the hand and said, “come,” and so drew us in. That is one very important reason why we are here. That person was able to do this for us because someone had taken him or her by the hand and had drawn that person in. And so on, through all the centuries, hands are held through all of those circles. Until we reach the place where a very few of those hands were held by hands touched by the mark of nails. So we hold hands touched by nails. In this way, Christ builds his church; such is the gift we have been given.

Remember what else Jesus says about His Church: “The Gates of Hades shall not prevail against it.” No matter what happens, for good or for evil, God’s Church will prevail; we have that promise. This doesn’t necessarily mean that a particular parish or denomination will survive and prevail, but that at its most fundamental level, the Church will never fail. I find that very comforting when I think of all the things we men and women do and have done on a daily basis to destroy it.

I spoke a few minutes ago about a change; a change in Simon’s name to Peter, a change of great importance in that culture. We at St. Christopher’s are about to begin a process of change ourselves. Next week, we will say goodbye to Bill and Jane Anderson as they end their ministries among us—but not as our friends—and begin the exciting and terrifying process of examining ourselves and finding the right man or woman to join us as we move this parish into its second 50 years. This is Change with a capital C!

We generally don’t like change. We have our comfort zones—our boats, as it were. Father Bill is a known commodity to us. I can assure you, from the position of someone who serves at the Altar, it’s a lot easier to serve a familiar friend. We don’t like change.

On a summer day in 1995, I listened to the radio in my office in San Antonio, Texas, as the Base Closure Commission voted to close the Air Force base I worked at. The place where I worked was going away! Change with a capital C! I could have moaned about how I hated change and what would we do and felt sorry for myself. I didn’t do that. Instead, I accepted that change would come and opened myself up to new possibilities, including a move to middle Georgia. My family and I have found a home that we love far more than our home in Texas; a community of which we feel so much more a part of than we did in San Antonio; a parish which has over the last nine years opened itself to us in good times and hard times, and which has given me opportunities to grow in new directions in ways I could never have imagined! All this because, when change was inevitable (and, by the way, it always is), I was open to the opportunities to grow that change presents.

Change is coming to St. Christopher’s. It always is, to be honest, but it’s more obvious today. It is critical that we look for ways to make that change positive. We will then find new opportunities to grow in faith that we cannot imagine today. And you know what? So will Bill and Jane Anderson!

On the wall of one of the classrooms in my Illinois high school so many years ago was a quote from the former UN Secretary General, Dag Hammarskjöld,

For all that has been — Thanks. For all that shall be — Yes.

Always say “Yes” to that which will come. For our Christian faith is a faith of change, not a conservative one. When we pray, “Your kingdom come,” we are praying for incredible, monumental change, so that we will be in a place where God’s redistributive justice is always done, the poor are raised up, the hungry are fed, and the captives are freed. The Resurrection is change, change to the previous finality of death. As Christians, we should welcome change; we should embrace change; we must work to bring change about.

Let us pray:

Almighty Father, who inspired Simon Peter, first among the apostles, to confess Jesus as Messiah and Son of the living God: Keep your Church steadfast upon the rock of this faith, so that in unity and peace we may proclaim the one truth and follow the one Lord, our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Crumbs for the Dogs?

[Our lessons were Genesis 45:1-15, Psalm 133, Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32, and Matthew 15: 10-28.]

Today’s Gospel can be for challenging for us. In many ways, we have been brought up in a tradition of a meek and mild Jesus who isn’t that involved in the world but instead focuses on the afterlife. He’s also in our art a bit too fair skinned for an inhabitant of that part of the world. Sometimes instead of striving to make ourselves more like Jesus, we try to make Jesus more like us.

Jesus has left Palestine and has gone into what we now call Lebanon. There was a long-standing feud between the people of the Holy Land and the people of Lebanon. Some things haven’t changed much, it seems.

The district of Tyre and Sidon that Jesus has entered was Canaanite territory on the Mediterranean coast to the north and west of Galilee. The residents were a greatly mixed people who may still have had some Canaanite blood, but also well diluted by infusions of Syrian and Phoenician elements. They were Gentiles, of course. The designation of a Canaanite woman was a typically Jewish term of reproach and disparagement, as is the troubling reference by Jesus to dogs. While it may trouble us to hear such words coming from Jesus’ mouth, Jews did speak of their neighbors that way. And remember that in their culture, dogs weren’t given the privileged position that they have in our culture.

This woman is in dire need. For her daughter’s sake, she is willing to ask an ordinarily despised Jew for help and even calls him “Lord”. She has no reason to expect him to help her.

And at first, he doesn’t. He says he was only sent to God’s chosen people. And when she persists, Jesus uses the common racial slur the people of Israel used about Gentiles—“We don’t give human food to dogs.” He is trying to see if the woman can step beyond the customary boundaries of her race. And she does. In her words, she shows that she understands.

All throughout the Gospel, we see Jesus’ message being misunderstood. The disciples frequently don’t get it. The Pharisees can’t see past the Law. But this Canaanite woman, in her statement that even the dogs get the crumbs that fall from the master’s table, shows that she understands that God’s grace as available to all people—Jew and Gentile, male and female. She is claiming her place in the Kingdom of God, even if that place is small. And Jesus hears her!

This story is not about getting what we deserve. It is about faith in God’s grace providing what we need. But to receive this, we must be willing to step outside our comfort zones into places where we are needed, or as we heard last week, to step out of the boat. We are called to help the “dogs”—the “others”—of our day. Dare we show less courage and trust than this Canaanite woman whose daughter was healed?

Evil Comes to Our Small Town

One of the things I've enjoyed about living just outside the small town of Perry, Georgia, for the last nine years is its relative peacefulness. Yes, there is some crime, but it's usually been small-time, not terribly violent stuff.

That changed on Saturday, when evil came to Perry. Michael Lee Hill came to Perry from Atlanta to pick up his sons Richard, age 10, and Michael, age 7, at the home of his parents. They had separated and she had told him she wanted a divorce. He got a plastic bag out of the bed of his pickup truck. When the boys kept asking what was in the bag, he pulled out ear muffs, the headphone-like things you wear at a firing range. He said that was so the boys wouldn't hear their parents fighting. He asked them to look at their mother so they wouldn't see him crying. Then, shortly before 2:30 p.m., on Saturday, August 2, Michael Lee Hill pulled a 9 mm handgun and put the gun to the back of Richard's head and killed him. He then put the gun to the back of Michael's head and killed him. He then shot his stepfather in the chest. He chased his wife into a neighbor's yard and shot her in the back and leg. He then went back into his parents' house and shot and killed himself.

Richard died at the scene, as did their father. Young Michael died at the emergency room. Their grandfather, Andrew Hill, is in critical condition at the Medical Center of Central Georgia in Macon. Their mother, Bonnie Jean Hill, was released from the hospital to return to an empty house.

We will probably never know for certain what drove Michael Lee Hill to do these unspeakable things. He apparently left no note. We can only hope that the boys didn't have the chance to realize that their father was taking their lives. And I can't imagine the agony Bonnie Jean Hill's life has become.

On Sunday morning, at St. Christopher's Episcopal Church, we prayed for the souls of Richard and young Michael, and for the soul of their father, Michael Lee Hill. We also prayed for the healing of Andrew Hill and Bonnie Jean Hill. They don't attend our church and no one there on Sunday recognized their names. That didn't matter.

I ask your prayers for the souls of Richard Laurence Hill, age 7, and Michael Anthony Hill, age 10, and the troubled soul of their father, Michael Lee Hill. Pray also for the healing in body and spirit of Andrew Hill and Bonnie Lee Hill. Also, pray for the boys' friends and classmates at Tucker Elementary School. Richard was to begin first grade and Michael fifth grade today.

Lord of Life, you trampled death under your feet so we might come alive in your eternal light. We remember before you Richard, Michael, and Michael. In our anger and confusion, we need your help to find our way. When your own child, Jesus, suffered violent death, you acted through it to redeem the world. Help us live into that knowledge as we remember that they now live because of that great gift of your love. Help us release them to you. Show us that your hand has dried their tears and let us glimpse their joy in your face. Grant us strength and the spirit of healing and peace so that we may labor for your just and peaceable kingdom where all your children live in safety and fulfillment, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Pray for us all as we are reminded that no place on earth is completely safe.


Neighbors leave flowers Sunday afternoon at the mailbox at 640 Pine Ridge Street in Perry where Michael Anthony Hill, 7, and Richard Lawrence Hill, 10, were shot and killed by their father, Michael Lee Hill, Saturday. (Grant Blankenship, The [Macon] Telegraph)

Loaves and Fishes

[Our lessons this week were Isaiah 55:1-5, Psalm 145:8-9, 15-22, Romans 9:1-5, and Matthew 14:13-21.]

There were three mice who died and went to heaven. After a couple of days, St. Peter stopped by and asked them how they liked being in heaven. The mice said that it was OK, but since they had such short legs, it was hard for them to get around because heaven was so big. So St. Peter told them that he thought he would be able to help them. After a little while, an angel came to the mice and gave each of them a set of roller skates. Right away, the mice put the roller skates on, and they could zip around heaven, really enjoying themselves.

A little later, a cat died and went to heaven. After a couple of days, St. Peter stopped by and asked the cat how he liked being in heaven. The cat answered by saying, “Oh, boy, do I like being in heaven! I’m having a great time and I’m really enjoying myself. And most of all, I love those meals on wheels.”

Jesus has just learned of the execution of John the Baptist. He has just taught in his home town and been rebuffed: “Is this not the carpenter’s son?” Quite understandably, he has tried to withdraw from the crowds to “a deserted place by himself.”

But the crowds follow him. When Jesus sees this great crowd, bringing their sick people for Jesus to heal, his compassion does not let him turn them away. As evening came on, the disciples advise Jesus to send the crowd away so the could buy their suppers in the nearby villages. (That assumes that these mostly poor people could buy their suppers. I rather doubt the rich of Palestine were well represented in the crowd.)

Instead Jesus tells the disciples, “No, you feed them!” Can you imagine what runs through the disciples’ heads at that? Feed five thousand men and the unreported number of women and children with five loaves and two fish? But after Jesus blesses the bread and broke it (and where have we heard of that before?), they do just that and have twelve baskets of broken pieces left over! How can this be?

I have heard many explanations, ranging from the supernatural where the food magically multiplies to the story of the first church potluck lunch, where the crowd produced the food that they were carrying themselves. But I think these all miss the point. Focusing too much on the mechanics of how can cause us to miss what it means: God provides for his people! He has acted to feed the hungry!

The disciples’ reaction to the crowd, like ours would be, was one of anxiety (“that’s not in the budget!”). Henry Ward Beecher wrote, “Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it with the handle of anxiety or the handle of faith.” While we reach for the handle of anxiety, Jesus approached the problem with the handle of faith. When we take the handle of faith, the results can seem miraculous, even when no supernatural forces seem involved.

Father Bill [Bill Anderson, our rector] often tells Hurricane Hugo stories, so here’s one in his honor:

After months of hard work and years of saving, the day came for Reb and Jackay to open their own restaurant. All that was needed was the final health inspection and the issuing of their business permit. That was scheduled for first thing that morning; then “Our Place,” as they called their restaurant would be in business.

But that morning the winds and rains of Hurricane Hugo hit, unexpectedly making its way 200 miles inland to their North Carolina town. Trees were uprooted, power lines were down, homes and stores were destroyed. Reb and Jackay hurried to their restaurant. Everything was intact.

A deputy sheriff pulled up and told them that their restaurant, the fire station next door and a service station down the road were the only ones that had electricity. Reb and Jackay called the health inspector to come immediately so they could open, but because of the power outage, he couldn’t get into his office to issue the permit. No permit, no business opening. With a refrigerator stocked with 300 pounds of bacon and beef and bushels of tomatoes, lettuce and bread, there was only one thing to do: give the food away.

They told the deputy, “Tell your coworkers and other emergency people you see that we’ll have free BLT’s and coffee for anybody who wants to drop by.” Soon firemen, policemen, linemen and other workers were filing into Our Place. When the couple heard that another restaurant was scalping people by charging ten dollars for two eggs, toast and bacon, they placed a sign in their window: FREE BLT’S—FREE COFFEE. Families, travelers and street people were welcomed.

Then something began to happen. People started to clean counters and sweep floors. Volunteers took over the dish washing from Jackay and helped Reb at the grill. Hearing about what was going on at Our Place from the local radio station, people from a neighboring town that had not been too badly hit by the storm brought food from their freezers. Stores and dairies sent over chicken, milk and foodstuffs of all kinds.

And so the long day went. Those first cups of coffee and BLT’s somehow stretched to 16,000 meals. The restaurant’s small stock increased by 500 loaves of bread, cases of mayonnaise, 350 pots of coffee and bushels of produce.

And this is the real meaning of the story: Out of scarcity can come God’s abundance. Whenever Jesus is with us, there is enough. There is enough to eat and drink, enough to heal and care for, and enough to teach. And whenever Jesus asks us to act, all we need will be provided.

Death of the Nicest Alabama Fan

From Tuscaloosa came the news today of the death of John Mark Stallings, son of former Alabama football coach Gene Stallings at the age of 46. The news is indeed sad for the stilling of the heart of a man that by all accounts never had an unkind thought in his life, but who stayed with us on earth far longer than anyone expected.

John Mark Stallings had Down Syndrome. When he was born in the early 1960s, his father was an assistant coach at Alabama. His mother, Ruth Ann Stallings, discussed what it was like to raise a child with Down Syndrome then in Gene Stallings' book, "Another Season: A Coach's Story or Raising an Exceptional Son":

“Things were different back then. People didn’t know how to react to the news,” Ruth Ann Stallings said. “Some didn’t acknowledge his existence; others would look away in his presence. I’d dress him so cute, his blonde hair shining, blue eyes so excited when he’d meet someone. Often, they’d compliment the girls, never looking his way.” She sighs. “You remember the people who stepped forward and those who didn’t.”

His father told a reporter earlier this year: "I had a whole lot less tolerance for the gifted and a whole lot more tolerance for the guy that wasn't quite as gifted. With Johnny, I saw him struggle to walk, struggle to kick a ball, struggle to do everything that he did. So, I had a little tolerance for the guys that had to struggle. If you had talent and didn't lay it on the line, I didn't have much tolerance for you. The less talented guy can't play on Saturdays. But he can get you ready to play on Saturdays. I wanted the guys who played on Saturday to have an appreciation for that guy who got them there."

During his father's tenure as head coach at Alabama from 1990-96, John Mark was a constant presence, accompanying his father to every practice and game. After an Alabama touchdown, the TV cameras would cut to John Mark and his mother in the skybox and the joy on John Mark's face could light up the stadium. The football equipment room at Alabama is named in his honor.

The Alabama athletic director said today: "For someone who never played or coached a game, I think John Mark may have touched more Alabama fans than any other person ever did. I would like to thank the Stallings family for sharing their love for John Mark with all of us."

A Note of Sadness

I have never met the Rev. Elizabeth Kaeton, whose blog "Telling Secrets" is listed to the right, and whose recent story "Which Way Africa?" was the basis for my last posting. As she is in New Jersey and I am in Georgia, the odds are we may not ever actually meet face-to-face. But, as is so often the case, life (and death) can form the basis of shared experiences.

Elizabeth was in Canterbury, England, for the 2008 Lambeth Conference of Anglican bishops from around the world. She has posted several excellent stories, many of which at least made me feel like I was actually there beside her, seeing what she saw. A rare gift of poetry, indeed!

Late Tuesday night, while she was in England, her mother died back here in the States. She had some time previously mentioned her mother's illness, but she said in "Goodnight, Mother" that her actual death was a surprise.

If you are one of the two or three charter readers of my blog, you may see the parallels with the death of my father almost six months ago ("Ralph S. Davison (Feb. 8, 1921-Feb 5, 2008)"). The ages weren't that different; the suddenness of death; and the distance from our loved ones, although I wasn't nearly as far away.

I try never to claim that I truly know how someone feels or will feel, but I think I may have some idea in this case. My initial reaction was shock, because, although my father had been ill for two years, there was no obvious decline before he died. Mixed with that was the sadness that someone who had been a part of my life for all of my life was gone and I could never again tell him how things were in my life. Relief came for two reasons, because I knew he had been terribly unhappy in his body's weakness and that had now been healed and because I had made the time the previous summer to go to Illinois to see him. I really didn't have any regrets that I hadn't done this or that sooner and I knew that he loved me and he knew that I loved him.

Six months on, the shock has lessened and I am reminded of the lesson I learned when my mother died 23 years ago. You don't actually "get over it" in the sense that it quits hurting. You become more accustomed to the point of sadness now in your life and you learn to live with it as time goes by; it becomes a part of you. The sharpness of the pain lessens, but now and again, a memory, a word, a random thought, brings it back with surprising suddenness and tears come again. (In fact, they're not far off as I write this.) And that is as it should be. I would not want to forget Dad and his life and his love, because how could I do that without forgetting a part of myself? If the tears are the price we pay for love, they're a bargain!

As I said then:

I feel relief that his suffering and sickness are over and I am reminded that healing can mean release and not always curing. He now can be reunited with those who went before him, his parents, his sisters, my mother, and many more... and he now waits patiently for my stepmother and eventually my sister and me.

Elizabeth, a fellow pilgrim on the road, I pray that with God's you find strength and comfort as you walk down this part of the road, about six months behind me.

O God, who brought us to birth, and in whose arms we die, in our grief and shock contain and comfort us; embrace us with your love, give us hope in our confusion and grace to let go into new life; through Jesus Christ. Amen.

And for all of us

Support us, O Lord, all the day long of this troublous life, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then, Lord, in your mercy grant us a safe lodging, a holy rest, and peace at the last; through Christ our Lord. Amen.