Calendar

I’ve realized something, and it’s this:

New Year’s resolutions just don’t work for me. (I’m just curious and would love to hear if and how they work, for you? If they do, kudos!!!) As I grow older and travel around the Sun more and more, with each revolution, I am learning a bit better where to invest and focus my time and energy, and where not to. So I have accepted the fact that making a resolution or resolutions for 2025 is just not something I’m going to do. And it’s fine!!!

Instead, I’m going to try something new …

Two Sundays ago we celebrated the feast of the Epiphany. Once again, we imagined together wise ones who traveled a long distance to encounter God’s revelation in and through a child, guided by a single, bright star.

I’ve been dancing with this image, and it occurred to me that perhaps, instead of making a New Year’s resolution, I might identify a word of intention to be my own “guiding star” for 2025: a specific word of intention to help me focus my energy, to raise up in my consciousness when I feel lost or stumbling, to guide me along the way.

My word of intention — my guiding star — for 2025 is CLARITY.

Already, I am finding this to be much more helpful and effective than trying to make a new year’s resolution ever was!! Already, I have cleared away and sorted through several piles of accumulated stuff at home that had been sitting around accumulating dust for much too long. Already, I have brought to light certain relationships in my life that I want be sure to intentionally steward and nurture, and others whose season has passed. Already, in gatherings and meetings, I have raised questions and rephrased statements in order to be sure I and others understand and have clarity around what exactly is being said or decided, to help make sure everyone is on the same page moving forward.

I am curious, if this “experiment” appeals to or intrigues you? If it does, consider what your word of intention and “guiding star” will be for 2025. I invite you to write that word down on a piece of paper, cut it out in the shape of a star, and bring it with you to church this weekend to place in the offering plate. (I will also provide paper stars that you can write on, if you forget or if you decide at church that you’d like to participate.) We will decorate one of the big bulletin boards in the hall by the ramp with our stars. And if you’re not going to be in church this weekend, please feel free to bring in your star the next time you’re here and put it up on the board.

Together, guided by the light of Christ shining in and through each of us, we will find our way.

Love,
Cristina

“The shell must be cracked apart if what is in it is to come out, for if you want the kernel, you must break the shell.” Meister Eckhart

Dear Folks,

One of my Christmas treats was to read the book In the Ever After: Fairy Tales and the Second Half of Life by Allen B. Chinen, a psychiatrist, Jungian analyst, and teacher. These evocative stories, culled from over 4000, are pure gold for anyone and maybe especially for those over 40. Some elements are common: the protagonists are poor materially or otherwise, they live on the edge of a forest or beside the sea, and they are prompted to travel from their “marginal” place to encounter enchantment of some sort. The invitation is to embrace the darkness, life’s losses and “little deaths,” in order to become a wise elder instead of just being elderly!

The marginal location symbolizes the boundary between conscious life and the unconscious, and illustrates a central theme in elder tales: confronting neglected aspects of the self, buried in the unconscious. Often the protagonist is pictured “gathering wood” from the forest for a living or fishing in the sea, each action illustrating the recovery of lost spiritual material.

In these locations “at the edge of something,” a stranger is encountered, unbidden, and the elder’s task is to notice and accept his or her “magic.” If the protagonist rejected the stranger, or was hostile to or suspicious of him/her, nothing would happen. So, the wise one accepts the gift of the unconscious, which was previously neglected or hidden. The stranger acts as an ally for the protagonist, offering advice and revealing something important, inviting self-confrontation and reformation. And this incorporation of something lost invites self-transcendence.

From a Jungian perspective, the stranger represents the protagonist’s inner self, an image of psychological completion and integration. Further, the stranger offers an encounter with the Divine self and a way to access transcendent knowledge. In the elder tale, the protagonist’s response to this divine “gold” is the opposite of greediness or grasping; rather, she is trusting and free with the gift, in a way that an objective observer might call foolish. Yet, this freedom reflects the elder’s “emancipated innocence”: having confronted greed or acquisitive materialism and mastering it, she transcends herself, and so she is now able to trust her heart’s intuition. The elder realizes that the gift is not for herself alone, but for the world. Giving it away is the only thing that makes “sense.”

In fact at this point in the tale, frequently the elder “loses” the gift he has been given, but in this loss, others are saved: the elder brings magic into the world in order to help the next generation.

Accepting life as it is, plumbing the depths of what one has hidden away, embracing loss and mortality are all nourishing crumbs on the Soul’s path, the way toward integration and healing, and finally access to self-transcendence. Fear not, says the divine messenger: Spirit’s light makes even the darkness visible. Do you see? The wise elder discovers that whatever gold he or she may possess is on loan and only has value when it is given away.

“I said to my soul, be still, and wait… So the darkness shall be light, and the stillness the dancing.” T.S. Eliot

Love,
David

Dear friends —

New Year’s greetings to you!

As we embark on this new year together, I invite you to envision yourself entering a house, borrowing from author and poet Jan Richardson, who writes: “[Imagine] the coming year as a house—a space in time that is opening itself to all of us. How will we inhabit the coming year? How will we enter it with mindfulness and with intention? How will we move through the rooms of the coming months in a way that brings blessing to this world?”

With these questions in mind, she offers the below as a blessing, a blessing I share with you alongside prayers and intentions for a 2025 abundant with hope and healing, courage and comfort, love and “ordinary grace.”

May we be agents and bearers of such grace, and Home for one another,
Cristina

The Year as a House: A Blessing

Think of the year
as a house:
door flung wide
in welcome,
threshold swept
and waiting,
a graced spaciousness
opening and offering itself
to you.

Let it be blessed
in every room.
Let it be hallowed
in every corner.
Let every nook
be a refuge
and every object
set to holy use.

Let it be here
that safety will rest.
Let it be here
that health will make its home.
Let it be here
that peace will show its face.
Let it be here
that love will find its way.

Here
let the weary come
let the aching come
let the lost come
let the sorrowing come.

Here
let them find their rest
and let them find their soothing
and let them find their place
and let them find their delight.

And may it be
in this house of a year
that the seasons will spin in beauty,
and may it be
in these turning days
that time will spiral with joy.
And may it be
that its rooms will fill
with ordinary grace
and light spill from every window
to welcome the stranger home.

—Jan Richardson

O little town of Baltimore,
How still we see thee lie.
The cars have left the JFX
For Santa Claus is nigh.

The Inner Harbor is being renewed
And Cross Keys shops are swell
The Domino sign is digital now,
Shining beyond the old Point Fells.

The Hon Fest is under new management
And ArtScape this year was a bust,
But B’more folks are a testament
That resiliency is always a must.

We’ve got Hopkins and Morgan and Coppin State,
Loyola and MICA, you see!
There’s Goucher, and Towson, and our Lady on Charles
And Maryland of Baltimore C.

The fathers have swagged the churches,
The children learned all their parts.
The mother and baby and manger
Have nestled their way in our hearts.

The Christmas pageant shepherds
Have whiskers drawn with paint.
When asked if reindeer really fly,
A third grader told me “They cain’t.”

And yet the magic kindled here
Of love and life transformed
Is real, if we will make it so,
For every child who’s born.

“Fear not” the angel said again
To any who would listen:
“Wake up! Reach out! Connect!” she says,
“There’s healing for our divisions.”

For in our dark streets shineth
An everlasting light
And eyes that see what could possibly be:
Dawning days after long troubled nights.

There’s ReBuild and there’s GEDCO
And our partners who are CARES,
Johnston Square Elementary where we go to read books,
Govans School and our first-grader pairs.

And the Day School sure is growing,
With leaps that follow bounds,
Early childhood development is spreading roots
Across town and into our grounds.

And meanwhile, have you noticed
There’s some football that will play on the morrow?
Ravens’ Jackson is at the ready,
So there’s no more time for sorrow.

There’s the Snapper and the Holder
And we need them every time.
Make every ball real steady
For Tucker’s toe to shine.

Give Henry, Flowers, and Bateman good health,
This silent night we pray:
Fast legs, strong arms, steady hands and stealth
‘neath the tree on Christmas Day!

And what should we talk about besides the game,
Round the table and opening gifts?
No politics please—maybe sports? Not the news!
Beyonce? Justin Bieber? Taylor Swift?

Now hark the herald angels sing
And tell the good news loud:
A baby’s born who is a king
To mother Mary mild.

The poor are fed, the prisoners freed,
God in our flesh to dwell,
Mountains lowed, valleys raised through Abraham’s seed
J.C., Emmanuel.

So happy Christmas, foe and friend,
Heavy burdens are being made light.
There’s nothing that Love cannot mend,
On this most blessed night.

 

Last night a group of us sat in a circle around the fireplace in the Parish Hall for our December gathering of Ruth’s Sisters (“women navigating midlife transitions of body-mind-spirit together in community grounded in faith, spirituality and experience”). The fire crackled to the sound of a Christmas melody being played on the organ, drifting in from the church. Each sister was invited to consider two questions: What is being born in you? And what burden are you carrying? The light and heat from the fire warmed our circle as we took the time to share and to listen.

Sitting by a fire with others or by yourself can soothe and comfort in a primal way. There is something about the quality of the light that differs from other kinds of light, and it’s not just about the heat. For me, it has something to do with the interplay of light and dark, illumination and shadow, and the dancing, living quality of the flames; and how even as a fire is dying, it gives off light, however dim.

A friend shared a poem with me recently, written by Irish poet, author and priest John O’Donahue. We will hear this poem read aloud this Saturday at our Dark/Light Service at Faith@Five, a service that holds space for the reality that this holiday season can bring up a host of different emotions for many of us, sadness and grief alongside gladness and joy.

Just as we find comfort in gathering together around a fire, so too we find comfort gathering together in community to listen, sing, pray and share a meal, offering ourselves and all that we carry within us — our burdens and hopes, cares and dreams — to one another and to our God, who is big enough to hold it All.

As we prepare once again to celebrate the light of the world made flesh, let us remember the kind of light that warms and nourishes, that we may be that light for others.

Cristina

Dear Folks,

Every Advent, John the Baptist bursts onto the scene with righteous indignation, fiery confidence, and a plan. “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? The One who is coming is going to clean house. God’s law will be the law of the land. Our enemies will be vanquished, and our man will sit on the throne. The Temple’s power will be challenged and rectified… Clean living will replace parties. Up with locusts and honey, down with wine and cheese!” John seems convinced that the One he is heralding will set the record straight, with a strong arm and unquenchable fire.

You can see why he would want this kind of Messiah: like the prophet Elijah, John has squared off against the royal authority and suffered for it. Eight chapters after his stirring opening salvo, John will be locked up in Herod’s prison for protesting the King’s marriage to his own sister-in-law. I imagine John hoped that Jesus would stick up for him, perhaps making a public protest against his unjust punishment or taking up the cause against Herod’s unlawful coupling. He doesn’t. John wants God or somebody to fix things, but the Holy One we call Jesus invites us to healing, instead.

“The kingdom is coming, and is here now,” Jesus says, but it doesn’t look like anything you’ve seen before. Barbara Brown Taylor describes the tension this way: “While John ate locusts in the wilderness, Jesus was turning water to wine at a wedding in Cana; while John crossed the street to avoid traffic with sinners, Jesus sought them out and invited himself home to eat with them… while John spent his whole life warning people to repent and save their souls… what they were really called to do was to love one another. Over and over John handed Jesus the ax, urging him to strike at the rotten wood of the world, and over and over Jesus declined, pointing out the new growth, the green places” that we often cannot or will not see. (Mixed Blessings, Taylor)

No person or power will swoop in to save us; rather, the kingdom of God is in our hearts and in our hands. We know that valleys of despair need to be lifted up, and that mountains built by greed need to be leveled, but that saving work is ours to do, with Spirit as frame and guide and nourishment. There is no quick fix, only the long road of reconciliation.

So we wipe our noses and hang onto each other: chop wood, carry water, and hope against hope. The way I understand the Incarnation, God is with us and in us, and we are each other’s last, best hope, if this old world is ever going to be made new. And this Advent hope should not be confused with fragile optimism. Real hope does not maintain denial. In fact, hope requires a “courageous facing of death and vulnerability.” (Martin Smith) Hope is not about making excuses, for God or anyone else. According to Irishman Vincent McNabb, hope is “some extraordinary spiritual grace that God gives us to handle our fears, but not to oust them.” Distilling hope is about the creation of meaning where you were sure there was none to be found. Hope knows that however dark the night may be, that new life comes in the morning, even when the dawn is forestalled.

True hope is about never cutting corners, never confusing product with process, never letting the means justify the ends. Hope is about choosing love instead of fear, about embracing non-violence and seeing it through, about helping to create a world where power is not merely exchanged from one army to another but redefined altogether… finally power with and not power over. Hope is about being open enough to believe that there can be something new under the sun, and then working to reveal it.

Come thou long expected Jesus, born to set thy people free; from our fear and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee. Israel’s strength and consolation, hope of all the earth thou art: dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.

Love,
David

My friend Tracy recently shared with a group of us how she has developed a deeper appreciation of routine and ritual these days.

A favorite ritual is the one where she puts away her warm weather wear and takes out her favorite, comfy sweaters. This is soon followed by the dusting off of the wool blanket from her closet and placing it, folded, at the foot of her bed, where it keeps her toes toasty and is within easy reach, at night. Eventually, the blanket migrates to its permanent winter residence, sandwiched between her top sheet and comforter.

Another friend enjoys his routine of morning prayer, when he gazes at each of the many photographs of beloved family and friends close by his bedside, faces of dear ones near and far, including some who are now beyond the veil.

I myself am finding particular comfort and nourishment in my daily practice of yoga and meditation, along with my routine of stroking our cat Olmsted’s soft, white fur – from the top of his head, all along his back and down to the tip of his tail — when he greets me at the front door and purrs his appreciation of this kind of attention.

And then, of course, there are our routines and rituals, as we prepare to celebrate Christmas. Lists to make and check off, errands to run, gifts to select and wrap, treats and goodies to bake. Our family has begun taking turns each evening, giving a different person the chance to open a window of our Advent calendar and enjoy the tiny piece of chocolate inside after identifying its shape for the rest of us.

Here at Redeemer, the routines and rituals that signal a new season are well underway. Gone are the green altar hangings, now replaced by purple. The giant wreath suspended from the ceiling in the big church by the south transept (south wing) now hangs lower, with one candle lit and the other three soon to follow. Bert and choir are getting ready for Lessons & Carols; Robert and Connections, our Dark-Light Service. Our Dads’ Group is all set to green the church, and Mark Schroeder is ready to receive our Christmas trees.

Our rituals and routines can help point us, especially in times of change and uncertainty, towards that which our souls long for. There is a night prayer found in our Book of Common Prayer that gives voice to the grace offered by the Great Mystery That Is (which some of us call “God”) and remains steadfast as Presence, even when all else fades away

“Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the hours of this night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness.”

Wherever you are on your journey of faith, as we approach the longest night of the year, may you find comfort and reassurance in the knowledge that, as sure as day follows night, the longest night marks the beginning of our turning together towards more and more light.

Love,
Cristina

Dear Folks,

The oldest use of the word “peregrini” describes a person without a country, an alien or an exile, specifically non-citizens of Rome. In the empire’s orderly frame, they were “a little too free,” more likely to navigate by their own conscience than by Caesar’s decree. The singular form in Spanish and Portuguese, “peregrino” becomes our word for pilgrim, one who travels toward the holy, and freedom defines their path, as well. There is a restlessness in their wandering that unsettles the status quo, and maybe that’s the point: the spiritual traveler makes her path as she goes, adapting her steps as the road rises to meet her.

Some of the Celtic pilgrims built little round boats and set off on their watery paths to find “a place of resurrection,” and it turns out that wherever they landed would do. Their coracles were almost impossible to steer, bobbing hither and yon, subject to wind and playful currents, so they developed a sense of home that was portable. “Wherever I am is holy,” even if it is a lonely rock in the middle of the sea.

They also developed a sense of humor, probably to help them find meaning in a world that was often cold and dark and violent. One joke began circulating over 1000 years ago:

“Three penitents resolved to quit the world for the ascetic life, and so sought the wilderness. After exactly a year’s silence, the first one said: ‘’tis a good life we lead.’ At the next year’s end, the second answered: ‘it is so.’ Another year being run out, the third exclaimed: ‘if I cannot have peace and quiet here, I’ll go back to the world.’”

Of course, pilgrimages began long before the Irish built their boats. “Journeys of varying purpose have been made for thousands of years on that northerly bearing, along the sea road leading up from the Butt of Lewis to Sula Sgeir and North Rona. On first sighting the islands from the south, it feels as if you have sailed into a parable. There they are, forty or more miles out in the Atlantic and eleven miles apart. It’s implausible enough that land should exist there, in the empty water between Scotland and Iceland, and then surprising that the contrast between them should be so strong: green fertile Rona, (dark) hostile Sula Sgeir. At a distance they seem more allegorical than real, the Pasture and the Rock, a choice offered to the seafarer.” (The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot, Robert McFarlane)

The way I see it, each of us is a pilgrim, people without a country, because the meaning we seek is not grounded in empire or possessions or “power over.” The good news is that the place of resurrection that we long for is not defined by physical borders or what king sits on the throne. You see, the Holy One defines true authority as “power with,” a radical unsettling of the status quo, a vision of healing that sees every person’s essential worth. No wonder Jesus says, “My kingdom is not of this world.”

When I see the holy in the face of each of one us, then God’s kingdom has come.

Love,
David

cairn [kairn] n. a mound of stones piled up as a memorial or to mark a boundary or path

If you’ve hiked up a trail on a mountain, or in a park or preserve, you’ve probably seen them: stones or rocks stacked on top of one another in a small pile, to keep you on the right path and help you find your way. Cairns are especially important when the trail is difficult to discern as distinct from its surroundings, like when it is on a mesa or takes you across giant slabs of rock; when the trail is no longer in clear sight, and you find yourself a bit lost or wandering. This past weekend, I was gifted with three messages that feel like “cairns,” helpful at least to this pilgrim as I travel life’s way.

The first two came by way of Bishop Carrie Schofield-Broadbent last Saturday, as clergy and lay leaders of our Episcopal Diocese of Maryland were gathered for our annual convention. Many of us are familiar with Jesus’ teaching, “You are the light of the world,” and his related admonition, to any who would follow him, not to hide our lamps under a basket or our bed. Traditionally, this teaching has been interpreted to mean, “If you’ve got a light or lamp, then use it! It’s silly to hide it and not use it!” But Bishop Carrie took us one step further: “If you really think about it, to place a lantern under a basket or bed is not only silly and wasteful: it’s actually dangerous. In fact, doing so could set your whole house on fire.” Whatever light you have, whether it’s an itty bitty flame, maybe even barely flickering, or a great huge lantern or candle: use it, shine it, don’t hide it! Not to do so actually endangers the whole house. (Have you heard of “positivity resonance”? Click here to learn more.

Her second “cairn” began with a tongue-in-cheek statement followed by an attention-grabbing question: “We Episcopalians are not known for our evangelism. Did you know that the average Episcopalian typically invites someone to church once every ten years? It turns out we actually evangelize about lots of other things in our lives! ‘I found a great hairdresser!’ or ‘I just finished reading a great book …’ or ‘Have you heard about this great new restaurant?’ But when it comes to church? Zilch. Isn’t ‘evangelism’ simply one hungry person telling another hungry person where s/he can find bread?” Does our weekly Bible Study nourish you? How about singing in choir? Breathing, praying and stretching together on Wednesday mornings in the chapel or at monthly yoga church? Serving as an LEM, usher or reader? Reading to students at Johnston Square Elementary School? Going on neighborhood walks as a part of our work with BUILD? Why not share where you have found bread with someone who is hungry for it? And if you yourself are famished, why not come and be fed?

A third “cairn” was gifted to me on a morning walk around my neighborhood several days ago, as autumn sunlight mingled with golden-yellow and orange-reddish-brown leaves. I found myself in deep communion with my mother, conversing with her in an easy way, as she responded with a leaf falling here, and then, there; and with the faintest of breezes causing branches above my head to shiver and shimmer with light …

Stay the Course

She said to me

(in a constant steady whisper like the distant murmur of a life-giving stream)

Stay the Course

but how?
i asked
i do not know the way

then another voice
ancient and true
answered from deep
within

I am

the Way

the Truth

the Life

Stay the Course

May these cairns help you stay on track and find your way, as we make our way, together. Wherever you are on your journey of faith, you are welcome.

Love,
Cristina

Dear Folks,

On election day in Reservoir Hill, the polling place was full of familiar people, some who are friends and some who are strangers. Three older women sat at the exit table, giving out “I voted” stickers and offering thanks. One whispered to the other, “That’s the pastor who lives around the corner,” and then more loudly, “Hey neighbor.”  At the check-in table was a fellow I’ve had beers with a few times. Coming out was the president of our neighborhood association who works from home, happy to be away from her computer for a few minutes and taking part in the democratic process. We were old and young, single and partnered, mostly Black and some White. The air felt heavy and unsettled to me, perhaps because of Tuesday’s unseasonable warmth, or maybe it was something else: exhaustion, anxiety, wonder?

Wednesday was eerily quiet, unusual in an area pierced by North Avenue. But a glorious sunrise brought out old friends, and a few meaningful conversations shaped my walk with our dog. Kenneth was back at his spot at the top of our pocket park, in his wheelchair with a cigar and a friend, slow jams pulsing his boombox. We’re still here, his circle proclaimed: sober, ready, resolved. A retired doctor said, “There’s no way around being worried, but I am trusting that age-old principles can sustain us.” And Angelo, the crossing guard, who hugs me and my wife every morning said, “Nothing to do but keep on keeping on.” Amen.

How are you feeling? What are you doing to ground your feet on solid ground? I am repeating the prayer I offered last Sunday: Love and vote and listen, and then love and listen some more. Healing is more important than winning.

We help to create a country where voting is a right for every adult by voting our conscience and ensuring that others can do the same. But winning is not the point, healing is. Reconciliation is our highest value as human beings and people of faith, and so we work and organize for justice. That work never ends, and it will always be beyond political party or expediency. Followers of the One from Nazareth will always dedicate and re-dedicate themselves to the common good, for the last and the lost and the least likely, and so we commit ourselves again to their well-being and our own.

Breathe. The Spirit of the One who sustains us, by loving us into loving each other, is as close as your next breath. Here are some poems that might help:

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow. (“Dreams,” Langston Hughes)

…When this ends
may we find
that we have become
more like the people
we wanted to be
we were called to be
we hoped to be
and may we stay
that way — better
for each other
because of the worst. (Laura Kelly Fanucci)

Heal us: the overly content, the malcontent,
the skilled and sere of heart, the secret weepers,
the self-defeated, the defaulters, the proud of place
drinking the empty wind of honor.

Help the workhorses slow; speed the laggards, give back to routine and rote their lost soul.
Institution, constitution, order, law—O kiss the dead awake!
Your Holy Spirit, come! (Daniel Berrigan)

Last night as I lay sleeping,
I had a dream so fair . . .
I dreamed of the Holy City, well ordered and just.
I dreamed of a garden of paradise,
well-being all around and a good water supply.
I dreamed of disarmament and forgiveness,
and caring embrace for all those in need.
I dreamed of a coming time when death is no more.

Last night as I lay sleeping . . .
I had a nightmare of sins unforgiven.
I had a nightmare of land mines still exploding
and maimed children.
I had a nightmare of the poor left unloved,
of the homeless left unnoticed,
of the dead left ungrieved.
I had a nightmare of quarrels and rages
and wars great and small.

When I awoke, I found you still to be God,
presiding over the day and night
with serene sovereignty,
for dark and light are both alike to you.

At the break of day we submit to you
our best dreams
and our worst nightmares,
asking that your healing mercy should override threats,
that your goodness will make our
nightmares less toxic
and our dreams more real.

Thank you for visiting us with newness
that overrides what is old and deathly among us.
Come among us this day; dream us toward
health and peace,
we pray in the real name of Jesus
who exposes our fantasies. (“Dreams and Nightmares,” Walter Brueggemann)

God loves us into loving each other.

Love,
David