Days 11-14: Duck, Duck, Goose

The term “Mass” comes from the Latin word missa, meaning dismissal. In more recent years it has come to be understood not just as a dismissal, but, instead, as a sending forth to perform the mission of the Church. The dismissal is normally sung or said by the deacon at the end of the Sunday morning service or at weekday services when we have the privilege of a larger altar party. When only a priest celebrates Holy Communion, he or she offers the dismissal. When a deacon performs the Deacon’s Mass, he or she dismisses us. Whoever sings or says it, it goes something like one of these:

Let us go forth in the name of Christ.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit.

Let us bless the Lord.

Our reply is always “Thanks be to God!,” with an Alleluia or two thrown in for good measure during Eastertide.

Speaking of the mission of the Church and the Deacon’s Mass, a little history lesson will tell us that, while the deaconate was formed in the very early days of the Church (Acts 6:1-7 – the 1st reading yesterday – Happy "Anniversary" Deaconate!), and celebration of the Deacon’s Mass in the Episcopal Church became popular in the 1950’s and 1960’s, it was not until the old 1928 Prayer Book got a facelift in 1979 that the Deacon’s Mass was “formalized”, and, even then, it could only be performed with the blessing of a Bishop.

Thankfully, such celebrations are now commonplace at St. Peter’s and throughout the Episcopal Church. I am thankful not only because they help me to realize my inbound mission of taking Communion on a daily basis, but because they keep me ever mindful of the outbound mission of the Church, as their dismissal sends me forth in service.

These men and women offer freely their gifts of time and talents as unpaid stewards of the table. (I remember clearly the surprise this non-cradle Episcopalian experienced when I first became aware that they were not paid to serve.)

For some reason, as I reflected today on celebrations of Holy Communion, my musings became entwined in the name of a childhood game – Duck, Duck, Goose, and became, instead, Deacon, Deacon, Priest, Deacon, Deacon, Priest…such was the Tuesday – Sunday rhythm of recent days.

The rules of Duck, Duck, Goose say, “The more players involved in this game, the better. The minimum number of players for this game is 7.” While I would agree that the more people involved, the better, I would also note that we’re jolly lucky the rubrics of the Episcopal Church don’t include a similar minimum, or we’d have locked the doors a few times and my batting average would have dropped to .643, more than good enough for pro baseball but hardly in the Major League of Communion Seekers.

Of greater note, however, is the role the deaconate played in my personal mission to take Communion as many days as possible in a year. Had it not been for the deacons and the celebration of the Deacon’s Mass, I might well have been relegated to the Minors.

So, for both the mission and the deaconate – Thanks be to God!

Day 10

Eucharistic Gospel for the day - John 3:16...do I need to, could I possibly, say more?

Day 9

A recent report shows that slightly more than 2 ¼ million people in the United States declare themselves to be Episcopalian – a tiny number, if you consider that the Episcopal Church Welcomes YOU!! What’s more, nearly 70% of our members, myself included, come from other denominations. (Imagine if we converts had not turned tiny Charlotte, NC into a Houston-sized boomtown?)

What drew us here in the first place? Most of us would say that we do, indeed, feel welcome in the Episcopal Church. But, does our need to feel welcome mean we choose to stay here because we worship ourselves in proximity to God or because we truly worship God? We are often criticized for making God in our own image and for reinventing scripture to suit ourselves. For a small denomination, we certainly do know how to stir things up. Do our rainbow flags, often borne by female clergy, find themselves planted in a New Jerusalem or do we, instead, seek to create God’s Kingdom on Earth as one in which the smoke from the censing obscures, only faintly, mirrors that reflect, not heavenward, but on our own images?

I remember singing, not so long ago, the lovely aria from Handel’s Messiah – He Shall Feed His Flock. Except, nearly every time I sang the words from memory, I found myself singing, “He shall lead his flock”. Now, any country girl worth her salt (and I earned my salt both here and on the pecorino-producing hillsides of Tuscany) knows that a shepherd doesn’t feed sheep – a shepherd leads sheep. Yet, a shepherd would never lead sheep to a place where they cannot find sustenance, where they would not be safe. A frightened flock does not feed. And, so, by leading his flock to a place of safety, he enables them to feed.

I like to think of the Episcopal Church as a church of reason, a light in the fight against bigotry, intolerance and hatred, but, I am also deeply touched to think of it as a safe haven where He will carry, in his bosom, those whose delicate faith needs to be nurtured and protected until they can, without fear, eat and flourish.

For the day has not yet come when the wolf and the lamb can live together. But, in the meantime, the Episcopal Church will welcome you, and me, and all who seek to feed and, when strengthened, to lead.

Day 8

From the Eucharistic Gospel reading for today, John 3:8: “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.”

This reference to the Spirit could easily have applied to the young woman riding her bicycle at top speed the wrong way up my street, except for one minor detail. I didn’t hear her. I didn’t hear her, and, almost before it was too late, she was upon me.

I am normally derided for having both feet firmly in the “Susie, the Safety Queen’’ camp, but tonight I was in a hurry. I looked to the right, that being the direction from which a car going the right way up the street would have come. Then, I stepped out, only to hear a voice exclaim and find a bicycle and its rider embracing my left. Too surprised to do more than gaze at her in consternation, I listened as she asked twice, “Are you okay?” I’m afraid my answer had little to do with my state of being and rather more to do with what she was doing going the wrong way up the street. She sped off.

I raced on to mass, arriving late and distracted. As my mind spun, I missed most of the import of the first reading, can recall little of the Psalm and only managed to focus on the point of the Gospel reading in its final phrases.

I’d be hard pressed to say that I’ve ever heard the sound of the Spirit, but I am aware, somewhat after the fact, that it has hit me, coming unbidden and without regard to the direction from which I would have expected it. Unlike the woman on the bike, it didn’t stop to ask, “Are you okay?” It had much better things to do than listen to a piece of my mind, chastising it for surprising me and putting me at risk. It, too, sped on, knowing I’d eventually get the point.

Days 6/7

There’s a delightful clip from the Vicar of Dibley series when Alice goes on, rather more than a bit, about I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter (http://tinyurl.com/krjcyo). It seems she’s found a similar product and, in a rather confused explifactionation, determines that, because she can’t believe I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter isn’t, in fact, butter, and she can’t believe the other product isn’t I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, they must both be butter (and, perforce, there is obviously a whole lot more butter around than anyone thinks!). Were it only so!

It makes me laugh each time I see it, but it also makes me wonder, now, if I’ve made a terrible mistake. Imagine what would have happened if Julie had initiated her year-long quest to prepare food created by the Queen of Cholesterol, Julia Child, at a time when there was so little demand for butter that the local grocer and chains across the country had simply stopped stocking butter. Would she have managed by making believe that oleo margarine or Crisco would soufflé, flambé and velouté as well as the real thing?

I fear I’ve come to the table at a time when the Episcopal Grocer has decided that a lack of demand for bread means, in most places, it need only be proffered once a week, if then. I wonder, though, if the resurgence in interest in Mastering the Art of French Cooking occasioned after the success of the Julie-Julia Project isn’t really a reflection of pent-up demand for real food, slow food style? If so, is it not equally possible that decades of low-fat Jesus have created a population that doesn’t know how good the full-flesh version tastes?

MMM...something to consider this week as I return, hungrily, to the land of the daily Eucharist…welcome back, my friends, to the table of the King of Heaven and the feast that never ends. Bring it on – and Bon Appetit!

Days 4 & 5

Today I’m posting what I would have posted yesterday (when I was not able to partake…see Parallel Blog for details) and what I am posting today.

Day 4. Thirty-six years ago yesterday, I was confirmed into the United Methodist Church. A hip, cool and groovy Bible of that period (The Way) was inscribed by my dear mother and given to me that day by my parents. The inscription reads, “To our darling daughter, on her Confirmation Day. 1974 – April 7. Love to you – Mother & Daddy.” Ironic in its absence is a note of my baptism on that day….as most churches (including most in the Episcopal Church, of which I am now a member) require only baptism to come to the table, this was perhaps the most important of all the vows I would take on my journey to this place.

Day 5
Today at 11.55, I walked rapidly up 4th to Christ Church Cathedral, Cincinnati to celebrate mass. Of the two of us working the show at the Convention Center, I had been chosen to go, and I was grateful to embrace the briskness of both the walk and the morning air.

The Centennial Chapel (well sign-posted, once I learned that this was where I was to go) is an absolutely gorgeous space (okay…this is only the 7th espici space I’ve entered…and I’m beginning to think we’ve got the corner on appropriately awe-inspiring architecture and art work…wow…!).

The presider was delightful and the congregants welcoming – all 3 of them, together. No, I’m not going to digress into a rant on the absence of partakers at the celebration (twice weekdays) of the Eucharist at the cathedra in the Southern Diocese of Ohio (although I’m tempted; I don’t have the energy tonight). I’m going to say that this extremely hospital trio led and contributed to a beautiful service, with wonderful reflections by the presider/homilist on the transition to the “Resurrection Peter’’ (Acts 4) from the timidity and clumsiness of the Gospel Peter (John 21).

The Peace was passed, and, in this welcoming and informal environment, where I was from became a point of interest….after all, a 25% increase in attendance would be noteworthy at any gathering…even if that increase was only by 1 body (digression suppressed again). After saying I was from Chicago, the presider said cheerily, “Well, it’s obvious you do know what you are doing.”

We celebrated Communion together and, as a first for me, passed the elements from one to another. I did know what to do…although not licensed to serve, I do have a rather natty way with the napkin (lest anyone feel compelled to leap about pressing keys at this hour, I do know that it is more appropriately called the Purificator)…and the words, while not tripping off my tongue, did not stumble noticeably.

Tonight, at the end of a lengthy day of work at the Convention Center, we journeyed back to our room at the Cincituckey Airport, ready to have a light meal of appetizers in the room and tumble into blogs and bed. Unfortunately, neither the spicy chicken wings nor the calamari we’d enjoyed in the bar last night were on the room service menu…..so we donned shoes that tightly hugged tired feet and headed down to order what we knew we wanted. Second best would not do…neither room delivery of an over-priced steak nor a Chinese salad with cashews could fill the void we’d created as we anticipated a peaceful and sustaining dinner in the room.

The barman offered us the menu, but we already knew what to order. We dined comfortably in a hospitable environment and left sustained. As we left, he said, “You know the food!” It had been that way all day.

Day 3

Since the alarm rang this morning, I’ve been in 5 states – Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio and exhaustion. All this darting around the countryside can wear one out!

Before hitting the road, we attended mass at Atonement – an absolutely gorgeous setting for a beautiful celebration enhanced by warm hospitality. The first reading (Acts 3) spoke of Peter’s and John’s healing of the lame man at the Beautiful Gate of the temple. How magical it must have been for the lame man, having spent a lifetime at the gate prevented from entering due to his deformity [those were the rules], suddenly and miraculously to be allowed to enter sacred space. I wonder if similar rules applied in our churches of today, if we would seek to bar the lame in spirit, troubled of mind or broken-hearted. The irony of my easy access to a place of great beauty, sitting welcomed and comfortable, was not lost on me. Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.

The Gospel for today (Luke 24) was the account of, on and beyond The Road to Emmaus. Themselves in a state of exhaustion, tormented by grief and confused by events, the two disciples encounter a transformed Jesus – himself healed from the deformity of his humanity. He shares extensive knowledge of the scripture, but they do not recognize him until he breaks bread with them. Sometimes all the exegesis in the world won’t reveal Jesus. Sometimes He is most easily found in communion – communion of those healed and invited to enter a sacred space, fully aware of how long they lay begging at the gate before the divine in someone passing the same way revealed all.

Day 2

Today was easy – a quick shuffle down the alley to St. Peter’s and the pleasure of celebrating the Eucharist with Rev. Norma. Richard read…Acts…it’s always Acts in Eastertide…strange that all the Old Testament – law, history & prophecy, and normally our first reading of the service – is pushed aside to prepare us for the miracle of Pentecost. We stumble into the formation of the Church while still reeling from the revelation of the resurrection. I find it a bit jarring, but I’m still getting used to so many things.

With Easter, things are, to a point, rehearsed on Passion/Palm Sunday. We begin with the triumphal entry into Jerusalem (although medieval art always makes me wonder if that donkey can bear the burden – Balaam’s ass spoke; did Jesus’ little colt find its burden too heavy to speak out, to say, “Please, I can’t carry this through? Stop! We must not go any further. Turn back!!”) Less than an hour later we, at least we Episcopalians, are at the foot of the cross witnessing the death.

My memories from a Methodist childhood are of Palm fronds and happiness on Palm Sunday…I don’t remember anyone dying and often wonder if the sneak preview is worthy of the story…a spoiler, don’t you think? As a child, I went home content that all was well, that Jesus was indeed King. I don’t remember hints of death – perhaps I was simply shielded from them until the Easter Bunny left momento mori in the form of jellybeans and chocolate eggs and we put on our finest raiment and celebrated His resurrection.

We Episcopalians seem to take a perverse pleasure in wallowing in the death. I don’t mean to denigrate sensibilities here – I myself can hardly breathe each year as the choir follows the cloaked crucifix down the narrow hallway from the Guild Room, jubilantly proclaiming, “Benedictus qui venit!!”, knowing (spoiler here) that we are ushering an innocent man to his death. Still, I find, we often go beyond Lent to death far too quickly. The Stations of the Cross observance available in many churches during Lent does present one, not with the wilderness initially intended to be observed during this period, but with the morbidity…our own, to be sure, but still a morbidity that removes the opportunity for reflection and replaces it with fear. Are we to stand in fear of or to be reconciled with death? Mmm…I’ll take the latter, thank you. But, (with apologies to Eddie Izzard), I’m a cake kinda girl.

This year, we decided to attend Eucharist each day during Holy Week. (I know. A pattern seems to be emerging.) On Monday, instead of grieving at the base of the cross, we inhaled scented oil and joyed in one of my favorite lines, “Leave her alone!”. On Tuesday, we danced in the light of the world. With “Do quickly what you are going to do” on Wednesday, the pace picked up a bit, as we moved on to Thursday and the footwashing and agape feast, ready to face the Triduum.

Although we race stoically ahead through the Passion on Palm Sunday, ever the hospitable Episcopalians preparing for our Sunday-to-Sunday guests, feeling the need to ensure everyone is on the same page when they appear again on Easter, are we really doing anyone a favor to push through in human time what can only be embraced in divine time? By going to Mass each day of Holy Week, I slipped into a more controlled unfolding of the story – the way it was intended to be understood when the church year was set up so long ago. While I still lived in earthly time, my spirit was being molded into the story in God’s time. So, instead of living the death of Christ for five days, I experienced more intensely the final days of Christ and was ready to wait with Him in the garden Thursday night.

In years past, when I came to the church for my hour of waiting at 5 AM, I was not in the garden but at the foot of the cross. This year, I went planning to be again in Golgotha, equipped with the symbols of the passion in art and Taize laments. But, the hour was not bitter. Instead, I found myself resting in that mysterious time between the Last Supper and the darkness of Good Friday, drawn not to kneel and read the crucifixion accounts but, rather, the prophecy of Isaiah. The hour passed quickly and I only got as far as “She will give birth to a son and call him Immanuel.”

God is indeed with us….and I indeed had a sign. (Isaiah 7:14)

Day 1

Easter Monday, 2010. Yesterday our priest preached a fabulous homily about practicing resurrection. I had, just the day before, decided to do just that: for each of the next 365 days I would partake of Communion on a daily basis. And, I would reflect on what Communion means across the communion of Christians and how the daily discipline altered how I came to the altar.

The bread is God’s; the mistakes in interpretation, terminology and grammar are mine. I am not a trained theologian or liturgist or, for that matter, writer. I am confident, perhaps more confident than I am about how I will fulfill this mission, that gentle correction will find its way to these pages. I am, however, equally confident, that an enquiring mind and an open heart will reveal answers years of training could not uncover. And so, I begin seeking, in a disciplined way, to understand the daily bread for which I pray.

Give us this day our daily bread: the first of the requests enumerated in the Lord’s Prayer. Give me this day a slice of spirituality, a multi-grained awareness marbled with scripture and prayer. Let it rise and, if it falls, let it be crisp and flavorful. Give us this day our daily bread. Make it hearty and nutritious and wholesome, so that sustained by this bread, I can move on…to forgive…to resist temptation…and to enter the heavenly kingdom. Alleluia, amen!