Wind, Fire, and Newness

Parts of our country have seen a lot of wind and fire lately.  I think of the images of Joplin, Missouri, a town turned to toothpicks by a fierce twisted wind.  I think of the scene in Arizona, where hundreds of thousands of acres are being consumed in the start of the wildfire season predicted to be the worst in decades.    The people in these affected areas are encountering life as uprooted, broken, uncertain, devastating, and unpredictable.  Fire and wind change things, and for those in their paths, life will never be the same.  Yet, somehow the spirit of the people prevails in the desire to rebuild, to start anew, to begin again, to hope again.

Fire and wind are key symbols of Pentecost, which we find in the first reading on Pentecost Sunday from the Acts of the Apostles.  (Acts 2:1-11) The “noise like a strong, driving wind,” and “tongues of fire ” usher in the Holy Spirit .  And like those affected by tornadoes and fires, life for the Apostles, and indeed the future Church is changed forever.   

Because of this event, Pentecost is considered the founding of the Church and is often called the birthday of the Church.  At most birthday parties, the person celebrating their birthday blows out candles on their cake and makes a wish.   We have had the paschal candle lit in our sanctuary for the past 50 days, symbolizing the light of Christ, crucified, dead, risen and present among us.  This weekend the candle’s fire will be blown out.   But, the Spirit of that fire, the Spirit of Christ, lives on in us.   In a sense, we could say that Pentecost is also the Birthday of the Holy Spirit, that God is blowing out the candle and that God’s wish, to be with us and among us forever is fulfilled in our midst.   Let us pray that like the people devastated by wind and fire,we might heed the Spirit’s prompting to create the world anew.

O God, ignite our hearts with the desire to hope.  AMEN.

 

Mass Mission

I used to produce the travel show at CNN.   At that time, Travelguide was hosted by one of the network’s meteorologists, Valerie Voss.  I remember asking Valerie how meteorologists forecast the weather.  She talked to me about synoptic meteorology, a method of forecasting large-scale weather systems.  It uses sophisticated satellite imagery, intricate weather plots, complex prognostic charts, and elaborate computer programs to determine things like pressure tendencies, precipitation, air masses, sky cover and wind speed.  But as Valerie said, any good meteorologist will always remember the last and perhaps most important method of forecasting, “Don’t forget to look out the window.”

I often think of this example whenever I reflect on the connection between liturgy and mission.  We make a point of having elaborate liturgies, opulent buildings, lavish rituals, luscious symbols, beautiful music.  But, if we are not looking out the window to see what is happening in the world, and considering how we can connect the radical love we experience in the liturgy to the needs of the world, what’s the point?  

 The last words we hear at Mass, “The Mass is ended... ” translated from the Latin literally mean “Go, you are sent!”    The feast of the Ascension of the Lord celebrates the connection between the work done in the liturgy and the work done in the world.   It is a strong reminder that as Christ has been lifted up, we are sent forth to continue his mission on earth. 

The word synoptic means more than just a way to forecast the weather.  It means to view together or to view at a common point.   The liturgy unites us so that we might view the world together, through the eyes of love and compassion.  Perhaps this is why our Jewish ancestors wrote in the Talmud, “Never pray in a room without windows.”  

O Lord, give us a keen eye to see the needs of the world, and a heart that embraces it all.  AMEN

Table Talk

 

I recently went to New Orleans to visit my four year old goddaughter.   We spent a lot of time at the table making arts and crafts.   We created and we related.  Our creations became an expression of the relationship that was also being formed at that table.   Tables are all about relationships.   I think of the table at my Grandmother’s house where she would tell me stories of “The Old Country,”  the lunch table at my high school where my friends and I would nurture our relationships as we noshed on lunch and lunchtime gossip, the Ping-Pong table in my basement where my brother and I spent many a night challenging each other’s game, the picnic tables at the state park that became the centerpiece of national holidays for my family, the tables in the workplace where my colleagues and I have gathered to make decisions that would influence not only our relationships but the relationships of the wider community.

The Church knows well the connection between table and relationship.  Both the altar and the ambo are considered tables.   At the ambo, we hear about the relationship between God and God’s people.  At the altar, our relationship with Jesus and one another are re-created in the Eucharist.  Realizing the intimate link between these two furnishings, the Church directs architects to design the altar and ambo so that they bear a “harmonious and close relationship” to one another.  For, from the ambo, where the covenant is proclaimed, the Church grows in wisdom and from the altar, where the covenant is renewed, the Church grows in holiness.  (Lectionary for Mass:  Introduction)

Last week, we blessed a new altar and ambo in our church.  Let us pray that these tables in all our churches will be a source of our spiritual nourishment.

O Lord, bless all the tables in our lives.  May they nourish and sustain all our relationships.  AMEN.

Silence is.... liturgical

 

As a former intern coordinator in Washington D.C., I had the opportunity to visit Gallaudet University.  Gallaudet is the only university where all programs are specifically designed for deaf and hard of hearing students.    I saw students communicating, collaborating, asking and answering questions, interacting, socializing, storytelling,  yes, even laughing—all in complete silence.  I have never experienced the power of silence as I did that day.

Perhaps my experience at Gallaudet was magnified because most of us seem to thrive on noise.   The first thing many of us do after starting our car is turn on the radio.  Often, the first thing I do when I walk into my house is turn on the radio or the television.   When I go for a walk I often see people not enjoying the sounds of nature, but listening to whatever is coming through their iPods.   It’s become a challenge even to have a conversation with the person sitting next to me on an airplane, as most  passengers are now equipped with headphones or ear-buds.

At the same time, the hunger for silence seems to be growing.  Bookstores are filled with patrons seeking a hushed atmosphere to read.  Silent retreats are booked with visitors trying to get away from the noise and chaos of every day life.

We could say our liturgy is jam-packed with “holy” noise, words, prayers, sacred music.  Yet, the liturgy also calls for silence—especially after the proclamation of the Word of God, the Homily and Holy Communion.    As in life, we need a balance of sound and silence in our liturgies.  Our Mass is so rich and overflowing with meaning, we need silence to digest it all.  The liturgy invites us to be quiet, not only as individuals, but as a corporate body  who, like the student body at Gallaudet, know how to be with and for each other—even in silence.

O Lord, help us to be still, that we may know that you are God.   Amen.

Can we really be one body?

 

As we were preparing for our Holy Week liturgies, a colleague came up to me and said, “I think the Good Friday liturgy is so boring.  I mean, how many times can we sing Jesus, Remember Me?”   That same week, a parishioner came up to me and said, “I can’t wait for Good Friday.  That’s my favorite liturgy!  I could sing Jesus Remember Me all night!”   

As this example illustrates, we all perceive sights, sounds, indeed the world around us very differently.  With this in mind I often plan liturgies wondering, what moves people?  I myself have come out of Mass less than satisfied with the particular preaching that day only to hear someone exclaim to the priest or deacon, “Thank you, the words in your homily were exactly what I needed to hear today.”

What moves people?  The Holy Spirit moves people.  The Spirit moves as it wills, mysteriously and beyond the grasp of our intellect or imagination.   Because we are so different, it’s no wonder we pray during Mass for the Holy Spirit to make us one:  “Grant that we who are nourished by his body and blood, may be filled with his Holy Spirit and become one body, one spirit in Christ.”

In liturgy, especially our Eucharistic liturgies, it’s the oneness of the body that counts.  So, the next time you sing your least favorite song at Mass or think that some element of the liturgy was too dry, too long, too boring, too repetitive, too  (you fill in the blank).  Rejoice!  Chances are your brother or sister in Christ was deeply inspired.

O Lord, make us one in you.  Amen