Fellowship

by The Rev. Kate Atkinson

We talk about fellowship a lot at St. Paul’s – often including it in a list of three “F”s that describe a social event: Fun, Food and Fellowship. But Christian fellowship means much more than enjoying one another’s company at coffee hour, or a foyer group, or even our monthly “Fellowship Potluck.”

In his commentary on the Letters of John, the theologian, John Stott, describes what he calls “the divine order” – angelia (message), koinōnia (fellowship), and chara (joy) – highlighting the middle stage of that progression as vital to our Christian life.

(John R.W. Stott, The Letters of John, Pg. 71 © 1996 Inter-Varsity Press, Leicester, England)  

The apostle John wrote to the first century believers about the importance of living in fellowship with God and with one another, specifically so that we can live without sin, and ultimately so that “our joy may be complete.” (1 John 1:4; 2:1)

In order to do that, John writes, we have to take to heart the message that “God is light and in him there is no darkness at all.” (1 John 1:5)  Light represents God’s glory and splendor – the divine radiance we imagine permeating all of heaven. Light also represents purity and truth – divine qualities manifested in Jesus. And God’s light is offered to us, the children of God, as a source of power, salvation, and discernment.

Fellowship is the act of gathering with other Christians and sharing our common awareness of God’s light. It doesn’t necessarily require us to have deep, theological discussions every time we get together (although sometimes that does happen), but it does mean striving for purity and truth in what we say to one another and in our actions.  It also means acknowledging that we are stronger, safer, and wiser because of God’s presence with us.

That could mean talking about the times we’ve fallen short of what we know God expects of us; it could include occasions when we’ve struggled with Jesus’ teachings and ended up disregarding them; it could be the times we’ve given into temptation of various kinds. Being in fellowship with one another means recognizing that we all face similar challenges – and we all need God’s help, and one another’s, to respond to them.

Fellowship allows us to be utterly transparent about who we are and who we’re striving to be as children of a loving God.

To read more, please check out the full sermon on our website here. 

An interview with Joshua

by Jean Gillespie

Joshua Bruner came to St. Paul's last year to serve as an intern.  He is a student at Yale Divinity School, which he says is a phenomenal experience, working with his professors and clergy administrators.  An important part of the preparation for becoming a priest is to serve as an intern in a parish.  In seminary he gets the academic knowledge.  As an intern he learns about and experiences parish administration and leading worship, which is a vital part of the role of parish priest. Joshua is thankful that he can serve as intern at St. Paul's, in his sponsoring diocese.

At St. Paul's he is working with the Sr. High youth, as well as preaching and leading worship, and serving as a mentor in one of our EfM groups.  He is grateful for all the help he receives here.  He says Kate has been an excellent supervisor, mentor and friend, and Sarah has been a wonderful resource in his work with the youth.  He appreciates the help from Keith and Brother Charles in liturgical matters and all the help he gets from Kristin.  He is thankful for all the parishioners who have made him feel at home here at St. Paul's.  He says "I am extremely grateful to have found this wonderful place to do ministry while I complete my requirements for my degree and move along in my discernment process related to the ordination to the priesthood."

The people of St. Paul's are thankful for Joshua's willingness to share himself with us.  His intelligence, his kind listening ear, and his gift for sharing God's message in a truly personal way that many feel speaks directly to them and their own experiences has been a blessing.

Joshua's internship at St. Paul's will end soon, but I hope that won't end our relationship with him.  He will graduate from Yale in May 2016, and he hopes to find a call to a parish in Central or Southern New Hampshire, as that is where his family will be.  We will keep him in our thoughts and prayers as he finishes his requirements for graduation and ordination to the priesthood, and seeks a parish in New Hampshire.  He has contributed so much to our life at St. Paul's.

The Road to Emmaus

by Marjorie Hascall

It is a Saturday in Advent, a number of years ago; a Quiet Day is beginning, Bishop Walmsley speaks about this time together.  As he speaks my thoughts are drawn to the nave of the church and to one of the stained glass windows.  I hear little that is being said. Yet one statement dos come through: “We are mostly somewhere else.” Yes, I am somewhere else at this moment, visualizing a window – The Road to Emmaus.

As each of the periods for meditation begins I enter the church and sit where I can study and focus on the window.  It is a particular favorite of mine.  Jesus sitting there with two people, appearing in conversation.  I notice the marks of the nails on his hands.  The woman in the scene seems to be reaching out to touch those hands in a caring, soothing, healing way.  Do they see who this person is or are their eyes still clouded.  I look beyond the foreground to the village and hills beyond.  The stars in the sky are so brilliant, they almost seems to be twinkling.

The ‘caption’ to the window states ‘He broke bread and gave it to them, then their eyes were opened.’  Where is the bread?  Have they eaten?  Are they now seeing Jesus for who he is?  Do I see Jesus? Are my eyes opened after I receive the consecrated bread and wine?

What always draws me to this window?  What does it represent to me that I don’t see?  What is there that I do not see?  On the surface there is the night sky with the stars shining brilliantly. The hill with its many earth tones, the village and the foreground with Jesus and this couple.  They have welcomed him into their home.  He is the Risen Christ, who they don’t recognize until he breaks bread and gives it to them.  I am on the outside looking in on the scene.  What would it be like if I could step into the scene and join the group?

Would I have recognized Jesus and welcomed him as my Lord; or would it have taken the act of blessing, breaking and giving me bread to have recognized him, for me to know him as the Risen Christ, 

My eyes are drawn time and time again to the marks of the nails on his hands.  It I were in the scene would I have seen them.  They tell us who he is.  They are reminders of the agony he has suffered.  Is the woman now reaching out to touch those marks in hopes of healing them?  There is a look of concern on the man’s face.  What is he thinking?  This is the resurrected Jesus – the Savior, the Redeemer.

I look to the sky and the stars.  They shine this night as they shone the night Jesus of Nazareth was born.  They are the same stars that shine now on this earth 2000 years later.

There is a bowl between Jesus and the couple.  It appears empty – the bread must have been consumed.  That may be the answer to the look of concern on the young man’s face.  He wonders – “How can this be?”  He was taken from the cross and buried; yet here he is with us.  He fed us, he opened our eyes, he is our Lord.  He has returned from the dead.  How can this be?”

The woman reaches out as if to touch those wounded hands.  Does his garment reveal evidence of his pierced side?  No, and the hands are not blood stained only the marks of the nails are revealed.  Jesus, who was fully human, now reveals his full divinity in human form.  Yes, all those years from the time he was born he was both fully human and fully divine.  He enters into the bread that he blesses breaks and gives.

This couple are truly blessed to be in his presence.  The presence of God.  And to this day aren’t we all truly blessed and in the presence of God.  That Jewish couple represents all believing Christians.  They know they are in God’s presence.  Receiving the Holy Bread from that Holy man who is God and has opened their eyes.

Why just the two of them, where are the throngs who welcomed him to Jerusalem just a few short days ago?  But this scene might have lost its power if throngs had gathered.  God doesn’t need throngs of people to reveal himself – He does it best it seems to the few at a time.  Perhaps that is the  reason the quiet service of Holy Eucharist with few in attendance is for me the more Holy Service.  Where I feel the strong presence of God, where I feel truly fed.

It is as if at those times that I have entered this scene for the quiet private time with God that I seem to yearn for.  This is where and when I feel that I can best talk with my God.

Maybe I am sitting there with the others talking with this stranger that we met on the road to Emmaus.  We were returning from Jerusalem, after that terrible Friday.  When the man we had known as the Teacher was crucified.  He appeared to be lonely as we met him on the road.  It was growing dark – not really all that safe to be traveling alone.  We greeted him, and invited him to join us as we walked toward our home.

There was something strange about this man.  There was both a look of defeat and triumph about him,  and those deep scratches on his forehead and the marks on his hands, what were they?  He somehow seems lost and lonely yet he moves with purpose.  He tells us nothing about himself yet we find ourselves sharing fully with him our lives, our hopes and our dreams, our cares, our worries.  How strange!  How can this be?

We invite him into our dwelling where he joins us in conversation.  The lamp is lit to break through the darkness of the place.  Over the courtyard wall we can see the village close at hand and the hills looming high in the distance.  The sky is so blue tonight, a dark, dark blue that allows the stars to shine brightly.

Bread and wine are prepared and brought to where we sit.  This man, this stranger now seems to be larger than life.  Without a word he takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and offers it to us.

Suddenly we realize who this stranger is.  He is the Risen Lord who had been crucified just days before.  He is here with us.  Our God and our Savior.  We say nothing for a while, we are in awe of this man, who is no longer a stranger or a man but is our God.  We recall all those other times that we were with him.  All too soon he prepares to leave to continue his journey.  He rises blesses us and moves out of the circle of light and out of the door of our dwelling.  We watch as he continues along the road into the mist and out of sight.

I now feel that every time I approach the altar rail, where I kneel to

partake of the bread and wine at a celebration of the Holy Eucharist I enter this scene.  Where again the Lord feeds me with the food of pardon, solace strength and renewal.

We are mostly somewhere else!!

The Road to Emmaus 2         by Daniel Bonnell

Good Friday Reflection

by Tim Frazer 

I earned my living teaching English, and I thought I would contribute to the blog by writing about John Donne’s Good Friday poem.   But while the poem enters in here, I find I got nudged in a different direction.

The title of Donne’s “Goodfriday 1613. Riding Westward” always aroused a powerful visual image of a Good Friday sky, with a rider heading into a wet, west wind, the setting sun mostly clouded over.

I never cared much for the poem itself. I never tried to teach it. Its imagery is complex. I usually quit after the first few stanzas.   But on Good Friday of 2013 I literally found myself riding westward, in this case through southern Vermont and beyond, so I could spend Easter weekend with my mother in Illinois.   Here was another darkish, Good Friday sky lowering over the Green Mountains. I remembered that it was the 400^th anniversary of Donne’s original Good Friday journey.

Remembering Jerusalem, site of the Crucifixion, Donne writes:

Hence is’t, that I am carryd towards the West/ This day, when my Soules forme bends towards the East. / There I should see a Sunne, by rising set, and by that setting endless day beget.

In Wilmington, Vermont, I saw a Catholic church open. Services were not due to start for a few hours, and while I could not stay for that, I was at least able to enter, sit alone in front of the altar, and be quiet until time to hit the road.

  

The Gospel writers’ accounts are brief as to details, but Mark tells us of the “Darkness from the sixth hour over the whole land.”     After the rising “Sunne” and “endless day,” the rest of Donne’s poem is darkened by sin, guilt, shame. It is Good Friday. Hope of Resurrection lays hidden in darkness.

My 2013 Lenten journey ended, of course, on Easter morning, this time in the same church – the same congregation at least – where my Mom had worshipped since 1940 (she will be 100 this June!)   After the service we talked about poetry, and about Resurrection. My father passed away in 1993, and Mom reminded me about the experience she encountered during his funeral. Dad suddenly appeared to her, smiling and warm, and spoke. He said “I have to go now. But don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”   That was like a bright light on yet another dark day.

Mom has led a rich life. Years ago, she lobbied her community to provide breakfasts for kids who were coming to school hungry, and ran the kitchen.   She wrote poetry. Even into her nineties, she preached a number of times in her church. Like others who live long lives, she has had to live with the loss of family members and friends.   She has had to put up with health problems and gradual loss of independence.   But she can still say when I call her, “Tim, I’m doing pretty well.”

To explain the faith that has brought Mom through this long and incredible life, I turn again to poetry – not John Donne’s this time, but Mom’s:

I always knew there was a force

That kept the planets in their course.

And gave the moon authority

To draw the tides across the sea.

And as I contemplate with awe

This absolute and holy law

I know with perfect certainty

This holy force abides in me.

 ----Barbara Frazer

Lent, the Holy Spirit, and Selma

by Bishop Arthur Walmsley           March 25, 2015

Ava DuVernay's film, Selma, is a powerful portrayal of the movement by black citizens to transform the struggle to confront racism in the law and public accommodations, one increasingly public and in the face of violent resistance. Martin Luther King, Jr. was thrust on the national stage during the organized boycott of buses in Montgomery, Alabama, which began in 1955 when Rosa Parks refused to sit in the back of a bus. The movement was vindicated a year later, when the Supreme Court condemned segregation in public accommodations.

The pressure for change continued to mount in the next years. One major event was the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, held on August 28, 1963. It is remembered annually for the "I have a dream" speech of Dr. King which so powerfully captured the vision of a nation beyond segregation, one built on insuring economic well-being for its citizens. Such an event would not have happened without the sacrifices of the civil rights struggle.

Barely two weeks after the march, on September 15, four young girls in a Sunday School in Birmingham, Alabama, were killed by a bomb. The next year and a half was punctuated by demonstrations, violent beatings of demonstrators, a growing sense that the nation would not move short of action by the Congress. The movie Selma captures both the continued affront to the nation's well-being, but what one reviewer of the film characterizes as the elusive "feeling and dynamic of a collective movement." I was at home in our apartment in Brooklyn when the television pictures of the bloodshed on the Pettus Bridge on March 7, 1965. I knew that I would be on my way to Selma the next morning, and I sensed that Selma would be a turning point.

After receiving the blessing of John Hines, our Presiding Bishop, the next day I was able to book a seat on an Eastern Airlines flight from Newark to Montgomery; by hook or crook I would get to Selma from there. The flight originated in Boston, and was substantially full of others on the same mission. I had a long and thoughtful conversation with one of them, a Unitarian pastor named James Reeb. Two nights later he would be bludgeoned to death - he had made the mistake of eating in a restaurant in a white neighborhood.

The attempted march had been held on Sunday. On Tuesday we lined up behind King and the others planning the march, and left the cordoned-off area where we had been secure behind national guardsman, and reached the approach to be bridge. King stopped, we prayed, what seemed like an eternity we just stood. And then, led by King, we knelt, turned and went back to the safe area. The stakes were high; another assault on marchers would have been very bloody. I managed to find a seat on a chartered airliner back to Washington, DC, and during the hiatus prior to the march itself, I worked the phones and twisted arms to lobby members of Congress to support the Voting Rights Bill which Congress would ultimately pass.

The stalemate which ensued gave time to pressure the White House to insure security for a march, not easily achieved with the resistance of the Governor as well as that of Jim Clark, the police chief of Selma. During this period, the numbers of people in Selma kept changing, but morale remained high as the community developed closer ties with local residents, as a good number had to be housed in people's homes. One sign of how important a national event the Selma to Montgomery March had become is the day on which a chartered planeload of church leaders came, to celebrate the life of James Reeb and to encourage the potential marchers.

An agreement was finally achieved for troops to guard the march, and out of the thousands who had gone to Selma, a representative group hiked the 54 miles to Montgomery. On March 25, 1965 a huge throng surrounded the steps of the capitol, signaling the success of the march. Its goal was now guaranteed: on August 6, President Lyndon Johnson would sign the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

There is another significant date in that month. On August 14^th, Jonathan Myrick Daniels, native of Keene, seminarian at the Episcopal Theological School, a young man who chose to return to the South after the passage of the bill to help enroll voters, was assassinated at the hands of a deputy sheriff by a shotgun blast in Hayneville, Alabama. Most of us know his story. He is listed in the liturgical calendar of saintly persons, St James' in Keene has yearly commemorations of him, as do the dioceses in Alabama, a statue of him has been placed in Westminster Abbey along with those of other twentieth century martyrs. If you do not know his story, or even if you want to refresh your memory, there is abundant material available through the internet and elsewhere.

He, it seems to me, epitomizes what it means to be called as a person of hope and transformation. I doubt than any of us will face death as he did. But we do need to read the signs of the times, and I do hope and pray that each of us will play our part in facing the struggles we must confront.

God So Loved the World

by the Rev. Kate Atkinson

“God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” John 3:16

Which part of that promise is hardest for us to accept?  We may find it easy to say that Jesus is the Messiah.  But in order to achieve a life-changing shift in understanding and acceptance, we have to believe the first part of the promise: the part that reminds us of how profoundly God loves the world.

That indescribable love is what compelled God to live among us; and it’s why Jesus overcame death and made it possible for us to live with God for eternity. It’s love freely given, poured out without reservation. It’s ours for the taking; but too often we fail to take it.

God can’t possibly love me, we say.  Look how imperfect I am.  Look at all the mistakes I’ve made, that I keep making.  Look at the people I’ve hurt and the opportunities I’ve wasted.  Look at the darkness in my heart and the sins that control me.

Isn’t it interesting that we don’t struggle nearly as much with the idea that God loves other people? Our ministries are rooted in a desire to help other people believe they are beloved children of God.  But when it comes to ourselves, we have such a hard time believing it.

Our Mission of the Month for March is our Mission with Jamaica—a mission that’s been a part of this parish for almost 20 years, capturing the attention – and the support – of hundreds of parishioners. 

Our latest medical mission team recently returned from a week in Jamaica.  They tell amazing stories of the breaking down of racial, social, and religious barriers – of relationships that were forged on shaky ground but have grown into something solid and enduring, and life-changing.  These are stories about God’s unconditional love in action.

Geoff Forester has been on four of the mission trips now, taking literally thousands of photographs.  He’ll be telling the story in words and pictures over the next few weeks, in the Concord Monitor – so we’ll be able to see for ourselves the effects of God’s love, channeled through God’s people. 

There may have been a time, more than 20 years ago, when the residents of Chantilly doubted that they re beloved children of God.  It’s a community characterized by chronic unemployment, and grinding poverty.  Health services, utilities, and education are seriously under-resourced; the people struggle daily with hunger, sickness, hopelessness, and fear for their children’s future.

You may be thinking that the people from St. Paul’s arrived on the scene like a band of superheroes and saved the people of Chantilly.  That’s certainly part of the story.  They brought medicine and medical equipment and expertise; they provided dental care; they helped repair houses and improve living conditions; they refurbished the Basic School and raised funds for uniforms, books and meals for the preschoolers in the village; they offered Vacation Bible School programs—and recruited older children to help with them; and they generated scholarships for high school education that would otherwise be inaccessible for the youth of Chantilly.

Our mission teams brought many things to Chantilly but the main thing they brought was their presence.  Returning year after year, Mark and Jan Carney and the other team members established a deep connection with the people they’d initially chosen to help.  Helping them became loving them; loving them brought transformation.  And it wasn’t only Jamaican lives that were transformed.

Geoff Forester says, “In Jamaica the hugs last longer and the tears flow harder.” 

The people of Chantilly grew to love and trust their friends from New Hampshire.  Before long they were looking forward to their visits not just for the care and assistance they received, but because of the deep relationships they had formed.  When our team arrives in the village, “enthusiastic” doesn’t begin to describe their welcome!  And when they leave to come back home, the grief is overwhelming – on both sides.

God loved the world so much that he gave us his Son to show us what love means.  And God gave us Jesus to show us not only how to love others but how to receive love from others.

When we respect the dignity of our outreach clients, or encourage children in our Sunday school, or take our Ministry of Presence into hospital and hospice rooms, or pray for a fellow parishioner in distress, or open our hearts to the people of Chantilly, we’re both expressing and discovering what Jesus meant when he said, “God so loved the world.”  And by sharing our love wholeheartedly with others, and receiving their love in return, we catch a glimpse of how it will be when eventually we claim our gift of eternal life.

Lents that have been a gift to me

by Bishop Stewart Wood, shared at the Bevy of Bishops Lenten series March 18, 2015

I asked my wife, “Do you remember any Lent that was special for you?”  She said, “No,” and I wasn’t really surprised.  Mind you, not remembering something special in no way suggests all of those Lents went for naught.  Most of us eat three meals a day, most of them enjoyable and nourishing our bodies in some way; but it’s not likely that we can recall many of the meals we’ve eaten as truly special. 

I must confess that when I tried to remember something about the seventy-two Lents I’ve experienced since becoming an Episcopalian only a few really stood out. 

My family was introduced to the Episcopal Church at St. Stephen’s Church in Edina, Minnesota in 1943.   We had attended the Congregational Church in Detroit.  That’s where my sister and I were baptized and where my parents were active. What attracted us to St. Stephen’s was its neighborhood quality.  We could easily walk to it, and lots of our neighbors belonged.  I think you’d call that “Birds of a feather” evangelism.

I got drawn in to its youth programs pretty quickly and loved serving as an acolyte.  My parents relate the story of my coming home one Sunday for lunch when I was twelve and announcing that when I grew up I wanted to be “an erector.” 

All of that is simply to say I loved the Church as a young person.  Lent had a special power because of its mystic length, forty days set apart from the rest of the year.  For me and my friends it was the season of anticipation of Easter.  It was the end of winter’s grip and the promise of spring.

As a seminarian I was drawn to Grace Church, Alexandria, Virginia.  I was intrigued by its patterns of worship and by Edward Merrow, its Rector.  He was a big fellow, had played semi-professional football and sung in opera before being ordained.  With that great voice and imposing body he was something to behold in the pulpit or at the altar.  During Lent he took on a serious discipline of fasting, so much so that by Easter he seemed a shadow of the man we knew on Ash Wednesday.

As Holy Week was approaching that first spring in seminary I signed up for the 2:00 AM to 3:00 AM portion of the Maundy Thursday watch that lasted through the night in anticipation of our Lord’s crucifixion.  To my deep embarrassment I fell asleep in the midst of it.  Like the disciples in the garden on the night of our Lord’s betrayal I had been unable to keep my eyes open.  I was ashamed and felt judged.  That was a jarring experience. I doubt I counted my discipline that Lent to have been very successful.

The first Lent that stood apart from its predecessors was in the late seventies and early eighties while I served a congregation in Glendale, Ohio.  Susan Lehman, my associate, was wonderfully gifted and imaginative.  This particular Lent she took a beautiful crystal bowl that must have been a wedding gift and placed it in the center of their dining room table filled it with dirt.  She had reflected on the phrase used as ashes are imposed on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  For her this was a very realistic message, an encouragement to go easy on yourself.  Lent is a chance to pull back from all that frantic activity that marks our lives and remember we’re mortal.  Take a breath, stop pushing so hard.  Realize you are beloved of God without having to produce something. That has been a lasting counsel, a Lent for which I give thanks to God.  Susan had read our congregation accurately and knew the kind of tonic we all needed for that Lent.

What might Lent be for you the next time around?  What advice can I offer?

I’d say first off, be really careful about what you take on or give up.  Lent is not like going to a fitness club to get in shape.  It’s not intended to be “no pain – no gain” enterprise.  Instead I believe the Church offers it as an opportunity to deepen our awareness of God’s love for us just as we are.  Guilt is easy to come by, and given the demands on most of us the risk of taking on something too burdensome is that it will only generate more guilt.  At the risk of sounding sacrilegious I’m for a “guilt-free Lent.”

Second, I’d encourage you to find a way to share the season with others.  A Lenten series like “A Bevy of Bishops” is one example.  And there are any number of Lenten programs available on the Internet – such as “Stop, Pray, Work, Play, Love” from SSJE (http://ssje.org/ssje/time/).  Engaging in a communal Lenten discipline has the benefit of encouraging you to stay with it and opens you to gifts and challenges not of your own making.

Finally, I’d encourage you to seek several partners with whom you can make the Lenten journey together.   Whatever vehicle you choose will likely be a blessing, but the act of sharing what difference it’s making for you and the others is an even greater blessing.

So here’s to a guilt-free season of discovery with others, one that deepens your awareness of God’s love for you.