Blessed to be a follower

This is the manuscript from my sermon today. It is, essentially, the product of my preparation for preaching. I preach from the aisle and there is no denying the Holy Spirit moves a bit differently in that space than she does in my study in front of a computer. Still in all, this is the message shared today.

If youd like to read the lectionary, you’ll find it here. We use Track 1.

I have no idea why, but several times this week I either saw or read about posters of idols on the wall.  You know the ones I mean.  Posters of favorite rock stars or actors, hung on the walls and sometimes on the ceiling.  Back when I was hanging posters, my room was full of posters of dancer Misha Baryshnikov.  Misha in a tour jete.  Misha in tour l’air.  Mischa in an entrechat. Misha on just about any surface.  It got me thinking: if I were to hang a poster today, who would it be?

My choice might be something of a surprise.  I’d hang a poster of President Jimmy Carter. He was the first presidential candidate who caught my notice, a few years before I was old enough to vote. You know me, so some of you at least, would guess that I admire his politics. You’d be right.  I do. But there are other reasons, too. He has done more good in his 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s than most people accomplish in a lifetime.

You might know that I have a bulletin board above my writing desk. On it I keep quotes, which are usually about things I need to remember. I have a couple of quotes from President Carter, including:

“I have one life and one chance to make it count for something… My faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I am, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference.” 

If these words sound familiar, it may be because I quoted them in my sermon last week when I talked about using all that we have to do good in the world, claiming our action as part of our Christian identity.

You see, it is not his activism or his politics that would cause me to hang a poster of him on my wall. It is the root of his activism, his core outlook on life and faith that moves me most.  Jimmy Carter is one of the most faithful and faith-filled people I “know.” I am amazed and humbled by his example of embodied Christianity, his model of Jesus-focused discipleship.

When I hear him talk or read something about him, I can imagine him listening with his whole self to Jesus’ invitation:

            “Will you come and follow me?”

I can imagine him saying, “I will follow you wherever you go. I will follow you wherever you lead me, Jesus. I will follow you to places I don’t necessarily want to go, to be with people I don’t necessarily want to meet, to do things I don’t necessarily want to do.  I will follow you, Jesus. I will follow you wherever you lead me.”

Today’s Gospel can be a hard one. Is Jesus really saying that burying one’s father is not important? I know how problematic that can be.  I invite you to think about it a bit differently.

Could it be that Jesus recognized this request: “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” as an opportunity for this man to move himself far enough from Jesus that the power of the invitation was lost. This invitation to transformational relationship would be forgotten in the details of daily life. I’ll be honest. I choose to believe that Jesus was responding to this eventuality, this likelihood.

Jesus knows that this invitation: “Will you come and follow me?” is not a simple or easy one. It may, in fact, be one of the most challenging invitations we will ever receive. It is one that, if most of us thought too deeply about, would send us hurrying in the opposite direction. It is, I dare say, one that many of us, myself included sometimes, would rather not examine too deeply.

And, yet, it is the most amazing invitation anyone could ever receive. Following Jesus, living into our call to Christian discipleship, requires that each of us be open to life-altering changes. Jesus does not -never has – invited us to comfortable discipleship.

The invitation is not to venture out of the comfort of our homes each Sunday morning to walk or drive to this beautiful building on this lovely parcel of God’s creation, to sit with people we love and people we like, to offer prayer and prayers, to seek comfort and strength, to be nourished by the fellowship of the Table. Don’t get me wrong. That is a part of the invitation, but only a part.

The true invitation is to take the chance to let your heart be opened, to let your very life be changed. It is about doing God’s work in the world, seeing God’s people as God sees them, perfectly made and loved by God.  This is not always easy.  Even those of us who venture out to do God’s work need a bit of encouragement and help to see as God sees.  For even the well-intentioned seeing of someone as a person who “needs help” means we are not seeing that person in all fullness, recognizing that person as God would have us do, as one of God’s unique and thoroughly beloved children.

Sometimes the challenge is in letting go of things we think we know about ourselves so that we have the space to see ourselves as God sees us.  A good example of that (to me and, I hope, to all of you) is how we ended up on this journey together.  If you had asked me five years ago if I would leave my life in Massachusetts to move to Millburn, NJ, I’d have dismissed the possibility out of hand.  To leave family and friends, to ask my husband and children to do the same, to leave behind the ministries I’d loved and nurtured since before I was ordained, would have been outside the realm of any likelihood.  And yet, here I am.  Here we are, discerning together how God’s Spirit is working in and through us as we seek to follow where Jesus leads.  

“Will you come and follow me?”

Will you live your faith with your feet, venturing into unknown places? Venturing into places you know you’d rather not go?

Will you live you faith with your hands, providing food for the hungry and clothing to poor? Medical care for the ill? Safety for those fleeing violence? Building houses for the homeless?

Will you live your faith with your heart? Will you offer a listening ear to one who desires to be heard? Will you offer your company to one who desires to be noticed? Will you do your best to see that person as God does?

And, yes, will you reach into your pockets and share your treasure as a sign of faith? Will you give generously to those causes that enable God’s justice and mercy to be enacted in our days?

In our tradition we have an understanding of saints as being those people who live their lives as extraordinary examples of embodied faith. They show us ways to live more deeply into the heart of God,as followers of Jesus. This is something we all can aspire to do. This is something we all are invited to do.

I’ve shared that Jimmy Carter is one of the people who challenge and invite me to live my life as a follower of Jesus, to accept with joy Jesus’ invitation to me. Perhaps you, too, have a “poster person,” someone who is an example or inspiration to you, someone you can look to for encouragement when accepting Jesus’ invitation seems too hard or unexpected.

Whether or not you do, or even want to, I encourage you to listen closely for Jesus’ invitation to you,

“Will you come and follow me?” I encourage you to answer with a resounding,

“Yes! I will follow you, Jesus. I will follow you wherever you lead me. I will do whatever I can, wherever I am, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference.”

I encourage you to let Jesus into your hearts and minds, into your lives wherever it is, however it is whenever it is, with whatever it is, that Jesus asks. I invite you to take that leap of faith to trust the Jesus will only lead you to the place you need to be to experience transformation and to move deeper into the heart of God.

The best kind of impolite

This is the manuscript from my sermon on the Day of Pentecost, June 9, 2019. The lectionary for the day is found here. We used the reading from Genesis as the lesson from the Hebrew Scriptures and then the reading from Acts as the lesson from the New Testament.

Today we celebrate Pentecost, sometimes called the “birthday of the Church.” It is the day the Holy Spirit entered the room in which the disciples and a few friends were gathered and entered into each one of them so that they could go out and become the Church.  When this happened, crowds of people were aware and astonished at what they heard.  After being assured that this was not the result of drunken exuberance, they believed in what was happening.  No matter where they were from, no matter the language they spoke, they all could understand each other.  God’s Spirit brought the people together to be God’s people, the Church, together.

Can you even imagine being one of the disciples?  Secluded in a locked room, trying still to figure out what has been happening?  You’ve spent time upending your lives to follow Jesus, believing him to be the long-prophesied Messiah.  You are eager, desperate, perhaps, for the kind of change he promised, the kind of change you saw and felt happening as you traveled with him through Galilee.  Then he gets arrested, tried, and executed.  He is resurrected.  He shows up again, reassuring you that all is well.  He offers you his peace, encouraging you to receive the Holy Spirit.  As John tells it in today’s Gospel, this is a rather nice conversation, comforting and reassuring.

The reading from Acts, on the other hand, tells it quite differently.  The Holy Spirit entered the room with “sound like the rush of a violent wind, and then there were tongues of fire.  I’m guessing this was a bit unsettling, to say the least.  Can you imagine looking around the room and seeing flames above the heads of your friends and then realizing those flames are above your head, too?  How shocking to realize these flames are not destroying everything.  You are not burned.  You do not perish.  Instead you are filled with the Holy Spirit and given the gifts you need to be able to share this good news with the whole world.  You look around and it is apparent this same thing is happening to everyone there.

And the people in the streets, people who don’t speak the same language, or share the same customs, gathered to celebrate Shavout, also known as Pentecost, the festival commemorating the giving of the Ten Commandments to Moses on Mt. Horeb.  These people all hear what is going on.  Wherever they are from, whatever language they speak, after being reassured this is not a drunken hallucination, understand that something life-changing is happening.

On that day over 2000 years ago, 50 days after the first Easter, the Holy Spirit descends upon the disciples and they are given the gifts they need to be able to share the Good News of God in Christ with the whole world.  They understand that following Jesus, a command they are have heard from him over and over again, means something more than following him around the countryside, participating in his ministries.  Following Jesus means listening to God’s Spirit.  They are empowered, enlivened, and emboldened to go out into the world sharing the radical love of Jesus the Christ with everyone they encounter.  They are, to paraphrase our Presiding Bishop, “The original Jesus Movement, sent out to change the world from the nightmare it is for so many, into the dream God has for it.”

This, my friends, is the call to the Christian Church.  The Church was not born so that the Good News could be shared with an in-group or only with a select few.  The Holy Spirit descended upon the disciples, violently awakening in them gifts they needed to look beyond themselves and their communities so they could go out and do God’s work in God’s world.  Pentecost is the day the Church was born to be a beacon of hope in a broken world.

The Holy Spirit changed the disciples, just as she continues to change us.  The Holy Spirit gave the disciples the capacity to meet others where they are, relating across all kinds of difference, just as she continues to grow that capacity in us.  The Holy Spirit increased their understanding, opening their hearts and their minds to the realities of other people, just as she continues to do for us.

As much as I am grateful the Holy Spirit seems to work a bit more sedately and politely today, I admit that I do sometimes wonder what we would look like as the Church, as the household of God, if we took a page from the Holy Spirit who storms into the room to enter into the disciples as they sat together and prayed, separate and secluded from the world around them.  What would we look like if we trusted the Holy Spirit to ignite the power of God’s love in us as we set out to be a part of the healing the world?

And I’ll confess that I do love the image of the wild, untamed Holy Spirit surprising the disciples and changing them and their lives forever, changing them is a way that is so big, so powerful, that talk about it over 2000 years later.  This is the Holy Spirit who breathes new life into everyone who is open to receiving it.  The best kind of impolite, not waiting for an invitation but showing up to do what has to be done – filling each and everyone of us with the knowledge of God’s grace- changing us so that we can go out and change the world.

This is the Church.  It is a household filled to overflowing with the power of the Holy Spirit to make a difference in our own lives and in the lives of others.  We are called to reach out and gather together, to love and serve each other, striving for justice and peace, respecting the dignity and worth of every human being, seeking and serving Christ in all persons. 

As the disciples experienced firsthand, this does not always happen in the ways we expect, or even in ways we might want.  God really does work in mysterious ways, in uncomfortable, sometimes unwanted ways.  Being Christian is (and I quote theologian John Stott) “inconvenient because it requires a rethinking and reworking of all manner of things.”  It can be challenging to be open to hearing the Holy Spirit and even more challenging to listen to where and how she is calling us to be.  Knowing that and still be willing to listen and respond is an amazing gift.

The Christian Church is founded on the life and ministry of a radical man, who hung out with sinners, performed all sorts of awe-inspiring miracles, owned nothing, and offered outrageous hospitality to everyone he met.  A man who did this prayerfully, with an understanding that all that is comes from God.  Jesus, who lived as faithfully as it is possible to live, and refused to abide by rules that ran contrary to the will of God, that denied the reality of God’s love, justice, and mercy for all people, especially the poor and those on the margins.  Jesus who promised to be with us always, who gave us his peace and the gift of the Holy Spirit.

My hope and prayer for us as we celebrate this day and enter into the season of Pentecost, is that each one of us will be open to the wild, untamed Holy Spirit working in our lives and in our community.  May we be surprised by the joys, challenges, and inconveniences of life with Christ in ways that empower, enliven, and embolden us to go out into the world and be God’s Church.

With the heart of a child

My sermon from Easter, 2019.

I have a great niece, Ava, who is ten.  Ava is one of those bright, gregarious children who greet every day as if it is the best thing ever and created only for her.  She is witty and self-confident, with a child’s refreshing ability to speak the truth as she sees it.  There are times she drives her mother absolutely crazy for all the reasons a great aunt thinks she is absolutely delightful.  Ava soaks up love in incredible measure and is, in return, also an incredibly loving child. 

A few years ago, when Ava was six, her mother, Kelly, posted a Facebook picture of her posing and gazing thoughtfully at herself in the mirror.  Kelly said it was the 50th time that morning.  As I laughed at Kelly’s comment, I felt my heart smile, in part because I miss those days when my own children were drawn to check themselves out in the mirror or eager to be photographed with some cheesy smile.  I miss those days when my own children would come running to me with one of their discoveries:  “Mommy, did you know….?”  “Mommy, look what I found….”  “Mommy look what I did…”

There is something compelling, in a joyful and gentle way, to be given the opportunity to witness such a life.  The innocence of childhood.  The simplicity of life. The complete, unadulterated acceptance of the love you are given. The sheer joy in seeing what life has to offer, jumping in, not just with both feet, but with the whole body, mind, and soul.  Having an apparently endless capacity to tell a story with unadulterated enthusiasm and wonder.  And approaching each situation – even if it is the 50th time you’ve looked at yourself in the mirror in a single morning – with the same energy, excitement, and enthusiasm as if it were the first time.   And at the same time, somehow, seeming to live each day as if it might be your last.  Using that same energy, which can drive a mother crazy, to share the news with the world, your world, in pictures or honest spoken truths.  Somehow helping the adults in your life see the world a bit differently than they did the day before.

When I saw that Facebook picture of Ava, I was reminded of how refreshing and life-affirming it is to have the confidence and the courage to speak the truth, in words or in pictures.  There is something captivating about the raw energy of a child’s exuberance.  There is something positively evangelical about a child’s awe and wonder.  Seeing the world through a child’s eyes it is as if one were seeing the world for the very first time.  It is as if life were new each and every time. 

Today is Easter, the day in which we celebrate the divine Love poured out for us and conquering death.  It is the day in which we share the culmination of the Gospel story, which is ours to soak up in incredible measure, just like a child soaks up and then revels in the love in her life.  It is the day in which we listen again to the fulfillment of the promises God made to us at the beginning of all creation.  Although in history Easter was a distinct event, it is, paradoxically, new for us each and every day.  That, too, is God’s promise.

Jesus life, his death, and his resurrection were all about love.  Jesus was the incarnation of God’s self-giving, unconditional love for the world. He reached out time and again to those others ignored, to those others excluded.  He brought them: poor, homeless, ill, women, into his life, God’s life, loving them fully and well, giving them hope.  He died because he preached a radical and counter-cultural message of love that threatened the political and religious authorities.  He rose because God’s perfect love can never be overcome by death or anything else of human making. 

Jesus was, is, and will always be the expression of God’s perfect love in the world. 

He showed us through his words and his actions how to live as God intends, loving our neighbors as ourselves.  He taught us how to respond to God’s indwelling love by offering it out to others. A love like this must be shared over and over and over again.  It is the source of all that is, a comfort in our sorrows, the joy in our hearts, our peace of mind.  It is the promise of our past, present, and future.  It is all of that and more.  Indescribable. Unimaginable.  Undefinable. Unconditional. Unequivocable.  It is both supremely constant and deliciously new each and every day.

There is more to today’s story, however, than just a retelling of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.  It is impossible to separate Jesus’ story from our stories: from your story, from my story, from the stories of all those who have come before and those yet to receive the breath of life. 

Jesus lived, died, and lived again so that we might live our lives- that we might live God’s love – with the sheer exuberance of a six-year-old child, who knows who she is and still chooses to greet herself 50 times in a morning as if she will discover something new. 

My prayer for all of us is that we experience the Easter story with joyful abandon, a child’s perspective on life and the world. May we always embrace God’s love for us, and have the willingness to tell the story over and over again as if it were the first time it were ever told. 

Jesus lives!  Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

In the presence of God…

Earlier today I gathered with my diocesan clergy colleagues for the annual Renewal of Vows.  Our bishop, The Rt. Rev. Carlye Hughes, preached to us in her quintessential loving and deeply pastoral way.  She started out by talking about how much she loves being our bishop, how “delighted” she is to know all of us.  She spoke encouraging, honest words, clearly reflecting her understanding of what it is like to be in parish ministry.  Partway through the sermon she said something that caused me to gasp – audibly, perhaps.  She said, “Our job is to put ourselves in the presence of God and then let God change us.”  She went on to say that, in her experience, it is easier to “let God judge us,” but, nonetheless, that is not our job.  We are to let God work on us, in us, and through us because we are created to be doing what we do, in this particular time.

I know she said a whole lot more than that, some of which I remember, though I’m sure she will forgive me for not retaining too much of what she said after the “put ourselves in the presence of God and then let God change us” part.  When she spoke those words, which came after she first mentioned being created for ministry in this time, something in me shifted, something broke wide open.  It felt in that moment as if she were speaking directly to me, speaking about experiences I have had over the past several years, some of which she knows nothing about.

The journey toward ordained ministry, even if it goes as smoothly as it can go, does not leave one unscathed.  I’m not sure that is should.  I believe there is something about how we experience God through the dark times, the challenging times, the times we’d rather not experience if we had our druthers, that changes us in ways that bring us closer to whom it is we are created to be.

Don’t get me wrong.  I also believe that how we experience God through the mountaintop experiences, the exciting times, the uplifting times, changes us in ways that bring us closer to whom it is we are created to be.  This is true, too, in the neutral times, the more mundane times, the times we probably won’t recall in months or years.  All of it is essential because in all of it we are in the presence of the God who created us in the divine image for no other reason than love. God works on, in, and through us in all of it, whether we are aware or not. It’s just that sometimes it is easier to put ourselves -or maybe it’s that we don’t stop ourselves from wandering – into God’s presence during those times we are most aware of needing God’s help.

Parish ministry, even if it goes as smoothly as it can go, does not leave one unscathed.  This, I think, may be hard for folks who have not experienced it to understand.  How is it that a calling – doing the thing God wants or needs you to do in a particular time and place, with particular people – ever be scathing?  The short answer is that being in relationship, even with people with whom you fall deeply in love, as I have with the people I’ve served,  is hard. All of us are deeply human, even those of us in collars.  And as humans we sometimes struggle to be our best selves with each other.  It can be hard not to experience every shortcoming, every failure, every lost hope, as a personal failure. It can be hard not to move to that place of being in the presence of God for God’s judgment, rather than God’s life-giving love, when things don’t go as we or the congregation think they should.

My journey to ordained ministry included a number of challenges, some of which seemed at times to have little or nothing to do with me in particular.  Some of the challenges felt and were deeply personal. The journey to where I am today in ordained ministry included calls to two beautiful, faith-filled congregations where I served for less time than I had planned, though, in retrospect, for just the right amount of time.  I find myself now in a relatively new place, again a beautiful faith-filled congregation, and there is something about this call that seems different in ways that compel me to wonder, to unleash my curiosity in ways that feel new.

No doubt my awareness of what I have learned along the way from all of the people who have journeyed with me to this place and time has something to do with this new feeling of hopeful anticipation.  And, since this morning, I am aware that some of this change is because one of the things I have learned along the way is to go more readily into the presence of God to be changed, trusting that God’s creation of me to be in this place at this particular time is a process of creation that is ongoing and sure.

Interrupted by grace

If you receive the weekly newsletter from St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church, Millburn, this will be familiar.  It is the message for March 1, 2019.
This week in the office has been “one of those weeks.”  You get my meaning, right?  A week in which it seems that nothing I set out to do went without a glitch.  We had computer and phone issues.  We needed to call in the locksmith to fix a broken emergency egress lock.   We were working on all of the somewhat mundane behind the scenes stuff that is necessary to keep the parish going. And, to top it all off, it is also the week the annual parochial report is due.  This is the mandatory reporting to the diocese and national church about membership numbers, attendance at Sunday services, and finances.  Although it is important to our understanding of health and vitality of The Episcopal Church and one of the data sets that is used to decide mission strategies and such, it is probably fair to say it is one of the least favorite parts of parish ministry for most clergy.  And yet it has to be done so we do it.

 

While working on it this week and, if I am to be truthful, doing so with less than a joyful heart, with thoughts that this is not why I went to seminary and jumped through all the hoops on the way to ordination running through my head, I was interrupted by a woman who came in to talk to me about a personal concern.  I’d never met her before, so I was a bit surprised and had absolutely no way of anticipating where the conversation would go or how it would turn out.  And I am aware that the sudden transition from the highly detailed work I had been doing to talking with someone didn’t feel as seamless as it usually feels for me.  At first I found it hard to ignore the ticking clock that was reminding me so loudly of all the things I needed to get done.

 

And then it happened!  The wise, wild, and wonderful Holy Spirit cracked it wide open, cracked me wide open.  Suddenly I saw – in that top-of-your-head-to-the-tip-of-your-toes ways of seeing – that this time with her is exactly why I went to seminary and jumped through all the hoops on the way to ordination.  The privilege to just be with someone, to listen to them with your whole heart, to acknowledge their pain and their hope, is what makes all of the mundane daily, weekly, monthly, and annual work worth doing.  True, the gift of getting to be with people often means the work we planned to do gets pushed aside or delayed and we need to rethink our plan.  True, too, the gift of connection to others is one of the surest signs of God’s grace.

Unwitting prayer

daffodils and hyacinths

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

This poem is one of my favorites by the poet and Episcopalian, Mary Oliver. I’ve been thinking about it this week as I’ve been preparing for my parish’s Day of Pentecost celebration on May 20th, when one of the readings, from Romans 8, includes one of my all-time favorite passages in Scripture:

Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. (vv. 26-27)

The photo is one of several I’ve taken this past week or so.  As I’ve driven up my street after days that have felt long and a bit stressful, as a crazy busy schedule with a new job can often feel, I have noticed the daffodils and other spring flowers blooming in my yard.  And I’ve felt my heart sing and realized I have a big, goofy smile on my face.  All the thoughts I’ve been ruminating about, all the cares and concerns of my heart and my mind, seem to fade away in that good and life-giving way that is gratitude and a sense of abundant blessings. As I have driven up the street and caught my first glimpse of the simple beauty of spring flowers, it is if God is saying, “This. This is what you need.  This. Just this.”

God is right, as God is. This is what I need.  I need to feel less burdened as I move from work-me to home-me, as I move from bi-vocational-me to just-me.  I need to be reminded of the importance of being present to the beauty and grace that surrounds me.  Mostly, I need to know that Paul and Mary Oliver are right:  God does not need me  to pray with special words.  God desires simply that I pray as I am.

 

 

 

Simple presence, radical Hospitality

This post was written at the end of March, though for reasons I don’t quite remember, not published until today.

Last week, at a gathering of church folks, in a workshop about telling our stories, the facilitator asked us to remember a favorite meal.  She then guided us through a meditation.  We were invited to remember as much as we could about the meal: tastes, sounds, smells, people, place, occasion, etc.  As soon as I closed my eyes, I was re-experiencing some of the best hospitality I have ever experienced in my life.  And, though it is now five days since the workshop, I can still feel the warmth in my heart and soul I felt when asked to remember a simple meal about five years ago.  It is as if I am still sitting at the table with my friend.

This morning, as I listened to the Austin Police Chief talk about the recent bombings and heard him say that one of the most important lessons he has learned these past few weeks is the importance of taking the time to get to know your neighbors.  In the midst of the crisis gripping his city, the chief speaks to a profoundly simple truth: we are made to be in relationship and so we flourish and thrive when we connect with others. Throughout the ages, people have known it.  Prophets have proclaimed it. Jesus showed us how to live it.

Tonight, as I sat in prayer, I found myself wondering how can it be that in a world and a time of instant connection, what with texting and cell phones, with instant messaging and video calling, we are as disconnected as we are?  It sometimes feels as if we are never alone, so how can we be lonely?  Why is it that we choose to be separate, to make living this life we have so much more difficult? It seems so hard  to carve out the time from the usual busy-ness of daily life to slow down and just be.  It seems harder to think about making the time to spend time with someone else, unless of course there is a specific purpose to the visit.  And then there are the logistics: What do I cook? Do I cook?  What if she doesn’t like the same foods I like?  Or has a food allergy? Do we go out for coffee or a beer?  What if he doesn’t like coffee, or beer?  What if we have nothing in common? Nothing to talk about?  What will I have to give up or not do to take a few minutes or hours to begin to get to know someone else?  How do I know this is a person I would even want to get to know?

Again I was taken back to a simple meal five years ago.  I don’t remember the specifics though I know there was fish and salad and wine. It was in a tiny kitchen on a cold, rather gloomy day, on the second floor of a three family tenement in a crowded Boston neighborhood. It is the first time and only time I was in that apartment and the first meal we shared, just the two of us.  The invitation came with a work-related question, both of us being priests and chaplains, though I don’t think we ever got to that question. What I remember is the experience of good, honest conversation and the sense of hospitality that infused our time together with true grace.

My friend, a priest and one of the most spiritually grounded people I have ever known, had an amazing gift of hospitality.  He was the guy who made everyone he met feel like the most magnificent, fabulous person he’d ever met.  He was quirky and eccentric and more real than it seems possible to be.  He was irreverently reverent, something he and I had in common.   I remember feeling like a little kid at Christmas when I described myself this way and he, in his quintessential way, leaned in, thought for a minute, laughed his huge laugh, and asked my permission to “borrow” this description.

So, today I am grateful.  Grateful for the question that prompted me to go back to this one simple meal.  Grateful that I have had this and many other opportunities to learn about the gift and grace of connecting with others, and to know that this does not have to be a grand gesture or the result of a tragedy. Grateful for the friendship and hospitality of a good friend and fellow pilgrim.