Tulips and Junk Drawers

“Don’t shine so that others can see you. Shine, so that through you, others can see Him.” C.S. Lewis

The sky is a bright hue of blue; the air is crisp and clean; the sun is shining everywhere; our tulips can now be seen!

Tulips. In February! Since temperatures dipped into the twenties last night (and may dip lower over the next few nights) I worry that the tulips’ premature arrival may result in their untimely demise. And yet … plants have survived much of the past billion years anyway, so maybe I don’t need to fret.

One of the things I notice about retirement, especially as a retired cleric, is that the rhythms of the church year have begun to fade. Oh sure, I’m in church regularly and do my part to keep the kingdom of God from falling apart at the seams (which is what I presume people mean when they tell me I keep them in stitches), but the daily routine of planning services, reading and studying scriptures, wrestling with angels and demons, visiting the sick and shut-ins, and all the rest has removed from me my sense of sacred time.

I have a clock that hangs on the wall above and behind my computer monitor that tells me the time AND the day of the week. My church calendar tells me we have just begun Lent, and I attended the Ash Wednesday service (so I wouldn’t have to repent for missing it), but I’m just not “feeling” it this year. In some ways I feel like I’m a trusty tool that has been moved from the tool chest and dropped into the junk drawer. Available if needed, but no longer essential.

I’m not telling you this as a moribund  soul looking for sympathy. No, quite the opposite. I expect I’ve got a few decades left under the hood. The gears in the old brain box still have most of their teeth, and I stay active enough to keep them more lubricated than gunky.

No, I’m just reflecting on the nature of mortal flesh – mine, to be more precise – and coming to grips with what it means. More than that, I’m learning how to get my eyes out of the rearview mirror and back onto the road where they belong. The sideview mirror reminds me that what is past is closer than what I think, but wisdom tells me I need to be looking forward. 

Lent isn’t about ashes and penitence. It’s about adjusting our focus. Too often we look at the past, and forget we cannot change it. We may wish we had done some things differently. We may regret some poor decisions, but there’s also a lot to celebrate. Each day is built upon a foundation of what came before it. We live; we learn, we adjust, adapt, and overcome. That’s all positive no matter how you cut it!

All calendars are arbitrary; time is a human invention. While we may use words to describe our lives in terms of past, present, and future, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and seasons, the only real time we have is now. “Now is the day of salvation,” says the Bible. God’s time is always “now” time. The biblical word is Kairos.

Were you bad yesterday? That’s OK. Now you’re clean. Will you make mistakes or do bad things tomorrow? I hope not, but that’s OK because now you’re clean. For God, it is always now, and for God, we always live in the now. Even when you put your paper down and think about what I just said, you’ll be thinking about that now, not before, and not later – now.

It doesn’t matter whether I am in the tool box or in the junk drawer, I am here now when needed. I am ready now, when needed. The tulips aren’t early. They’re poking their stems and leaves out now, and when the time comes, they’ll blossom and bloom just as they always have – in the fullness of time – Kairos.

I think I’m finally beginning to figure out that God isn’t like the objects in my sideview mirror. God isn’t near; God is now, and that’s an important distinction for me to remember here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Flashes of Insight - Flashes of God

Transfiguration

Sermon delivered to St. Paul’s (Mount Vernon, WA) 2/19/2023

Give ear O heavens, and I will speak. Let the earth hear the words of my mouth, for I will proclaim the Name of the Lord, and ascribe greatness to our God!

During the season of Epiphany, we hear the voice of God two times.

The first time we hear God’s voice is at Jesus’ baptism. Jesus rises up out of the waters of baptism and we hear a voice from heaven: “You are my beloved Son; in you I am well pleased.”

What God said to Jesus, Fr. Paul reminded us at the beginning of the season, God says to each of us, as well. “In you I am well pleased. And in you. And you. And you!”

What God says to Jesus, God says to each of us.

Some years ago I did a funeral for a woman who had no church home; her family chose to hold the service at the funeral home, and the director there asked if I would come and do the service. Each of the woman’s grandchildren took a few minutes to talk about their relationship with Granny, and each shared a secret there that they had never shared before.

Their Grandma would take them each out to lunch every now and then – one at a time – and she would pull them in close and in a conspiratorial whisper she’d say, “I’ve got a secret, and you can’t tell anybody. Promise me.”

Each grandchild would lean in close and promise, “I won’t say anything, Grandma. I promise.”

Grandma would then lean in even closer and, in a very low voice, she’d say, “You know, I love all of my grandchildren. I love all of you equally. You know that, don’t you?”

Each grandchild would nod, “Yes, Grandma. I know that.”

Then Granny would add, “But here’s my secret. I love you all equally, but you’re my favorite.”

None of the grandchildren ever broke their promise while she was alive, but as they shared their stories, they discovered that what she said to one, she had said to each: “You’re my favorite.”

When they were done sharing this very special secret for the first time, and it was my turn to speak, I confessed, “If I had known her, I suspect I would have been her favorite priest.”

Granny wasn’t playing games. She meant what she said to each child. She loved each of them as her favorite, so they never had to compete for her love. They knew they had it from the get-go.

That’s a God-shot. I heard their story and I knew: That’s how God is. God is like Granny!

God says to Jesus: You’re my favorite. And God says to each and every one of us: You’re my favorite. And you. And you. And we know it.

We may look at Jesus and say, “yes, but he was perfect. He was sinless.”

That’s all true. But God doesn’t look at what we say or do (at least, not in that sense). God looks at who we are. You and I were created in the image of God. We may look a little worse for wear; we may stand before God a bit broken, chipped, or smudged, (maybe even downright smashed) but God says, “That’s OK. I don’t see them as they look, but as they are; my kids. Each (wink) is my favorite.”

That’s the heart of God, isn’t it? That’s the heart of a loving Grandma. That special love for you, and you, and you, and you.

That’s what God had to say at the front end of the Epiphany season. Here on the back end, on the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, we hear the voice of God again in a couple of stories.

The first one is the story of Moses being invited to spend a week with God on Mt Sinai, and he ends up staying there for 40 days. What’s that all about?

Generally we focus on Moses. Moses goes to talk to God there on the Mountain, and God gives him the tablets of the Law. Every time I hear that story, I can’t help but hear in my mind the crashing of thunder, and the flashing of lightning. Can you hear it, too? Can you see it, too? The Bible tells us the mountain was positively volcanic with smoke and fire. The children of Israel were down in the valley, and they looked up, and they could see the red glow of the flames, the dark, black smoke billowing up, the roaring thunder.

How could Moses live through that? How could Joshua live through that? How could anyone live through that?

When I think of that scene, I can’t help but think about my father. I always considered him as a disciplinarian, although for the life of me I don’t remember him ever laying a hand on me. I’m sure he did when I was very young. But I don’t think he had to. On those very, very rare occasions when I might have been ever-so-slightly out of line, my Dad would disappear and in his place an army Drill Instructor would materialize. If we had stood nose to nose, I have no doubt I would have melted into nothingness like the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I didn’t see it often, but when D.I. Fred showed up, it was time to straighten up and fly right!

I remember one time I had gotten into some sort of mischief at school. I don’t remember now what it was, but my Dad said to me, “Keith, you will do nothing to bring dishonor to the Axberg name. The name is rare and precious, and if you ever do anything to tarnish it, you’ll regret it. And if you ever go to jail for anything, don’t look to me to bail you out.”

I don’t know if he meant it, but I’ll tell you one thing. I was never going to risk trying to find out.

Now, I know my Dad may seem like a bit of a tyrant or ogre (the way I’m describing him here), but for the most part we got along just fine, and I knew down here (in my heart) that he didn’t just mean well. It was his way of saying, “I love you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to make bad choices.”

That’s God up there on the Mountain, talking to Moses. “Come on up. I’ve got a gift for you and the kids down in the valley. This whole situation is new for you and for them. I’ve got you covered. On days when you don’t see me, on days when you don’t feel my presence, follow these and you will do just fine.”

Forget that rough and tough exterior. Inside, God knows we’re going to goof up. 

“Don’t do it.” We’ve been warned. And maybe there is a side of us that is scared to death that God means it. But if we go behind the special effects, it’s clear what God is saying, “I love you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to make bad choices.”

That’s the heart of God, isn’t it? That’s the heart of a loving Pappa. That special love for you, and you, and you, and you.

We get to see the heart of God again in the Gospel. It’s the story of the Transfiguration. Have you ever wondered what that’s all about?

The Season of Epiphany is about revealing the heart of God to the world. 

For many, God is scary. I can’t help but think of Michelangelo's painting of God reaching out to Adam. Adam is all laid back and lazy, barely lifting a finger to reach God, and God is looking down at Adam, with furrowed, scowling brow and staring, glaring eyes. God looks like he’d rather toss Adam into the bowels of hell than give him life.

That’s the image so many of us grew up with: God as judge and jury, ready to pounce on each and every infraction of the rules. 

But when we look at the life of Jesus in the Gospels – God incarnate – we see him feeding the hungry, hugging the untouchables, healing the sick, or raising the dead. We see Jesus giving people second chances, third chances … as many chances as they need to change. 

And that’s a miracle! Jesus, Peter, James, and John went up onto a high mountain, and when they got to the top, Jesus was changed right before their very eyes. Metamorphosis - Transfiguration. 

Have you ever seen something far off and wondered what it is? You can do a couple of things. You can try to get to it, or you can grab your binoculars and try to bring it closer to you. Jesus became the binoculars or the telescope through which Peter, James, and Jon could look through and see the glory of God. And what exactly is the glory of God? What did they see?

The glory of God is God’s mercy! 

For just a moment, the disciples got to see God’s mercy. Peter, of course, wants to capture the moment. Let’s put up some tents and camp out. That’s the word that’s been translated “booths.” When God brought Israel out of bondage in Egypt, they camped out in the wilderness.

But Jesus said, "Peter, you ol’ boy scout, we’re not camping out here. This is a mountain top. People don’t live on the top of the mountain, but down in the valleys. The mercy of God goes with us down into the valley. That’s where we find people oppressed. That’s where we find people suffering. That’s where we’ll find people homeless. That’s where we’ll find people hungry, and lonely. That's where we'll find people sick, and in prison, and those out of their minds, heads filled with anger, fear, worries, or feeling of inadequacy. That’s where we will find injustice that needs to be challenged."

The mercy of God cannot be captured or caged or kept in a castle behind a moat, or within the confines of this church building.

The mercy of God cannot stay here (in the heart). God has declared the mercy of God shall be let loose. "The mercy of God shall die at the hands of evil and wicked people," (we'll get to that during Holy Week), but it will NOT be extinguished. The mercy of God will flare up again (we call that "resurrection," and we'll get to that when we get to Easter), but the mercy of God will flare up again and you will carry that flame down into the valleys and into the world.

And that is the miracle of the Transfiguration. It isn’t that Jesus was changed, but we got to see the light of God’s countenance in Jesus, and Jesus says, “It’s in you, too. Don’t stand still. Don’t be afraid. Even if others don’t see it, the light of God’s mercy burns brightly in you, too. And in you. And in you. And in you.”

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Fr. Keith+

God Helping

If the Lord had not come to my help, I should soon have dwelt in the land of silence. Psalm 94

The lights are on, but nobody’s home. That’s me at the moment. Thoughts, ideas, themes, issues, problems, solutions – they’re all running through my mind at near-light-speed – so fast I can’t grab ahold of even one of those ideas, one of those images, anything at all. I want sticky tape on my hands, but they’d been sprayed with non-stick cooking spray instead.

Many of the things I’d like to talk about – write about – lie outside the carton in which this column is  usually located. That’s as it should be. I am not a political pundit or expert on societal matters. I’ve got my opinions, of course, and I can assure you they are all well thought out, cogent, and would be most persuasive if presented (at least they convince ME that I’m right), but my role is not to debate current events or pretend seven hundred words on any topic will change the opinion of any reader.

And yet. And yet.

Should I remain silent in the face of evil? Should I remain silent in the face of mass shootings that take place daily? Should I remain silent in the pool of the commingling blood of thirty thousand gun deaths in our nation each year? Yes, mass shootings get all the publicity. If it bleeds it leads, as they say. But how about the nearly twenty thousand suicides? Should I remain silent to the cries of those whose only solution to the hell they’re in is to kill themselves?

Should I remain silent to the ongoing violence suffered by people of color – at the hands of those whose job is to protect and to serve – regardless of color? It does not matter that most cops are good people doing good work most of the time for most of their communities, including communities of color. But should I remain silent when accountability appears to be the exception rather than the rule? 

Should I remain silent when the rights of half our population are brazenly taken away by the capricious decision of six people – out of 330 million? A body of nine is supposed to take care of us against the overreaching whims of executive and legislative branches of government, but who’s got our backs against those nine? Should I remain silent, or whistle my way through the graveyard?

Elie Wiesel, the Romanian-born American writer and survivor of the Nazi death camps says, “Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy … sensitivities become irrelevant.”

“Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” 

A priest was upset by some situation a few years ago and, in addressing the matter in her sermon uttered an expletive. While I have sometimes been less than pristine in my own preaching and teaching it, none-the-less, caught me off-guard. I reflected on the preacher’s choice and asked myself, “What’s worse: a bad word or the deaths of all those children? Which is the real obscenity?”

I can assure you, I don’t have all the answers. Human beings are complex creatures quite capable of taking any solution to any problem and either making them too complex to work, or giving them enough loopholes to drive an eighteen wheeler through. “In chaos there is profit,” declared the Tony Curtis character in Operation Petticoat. 

Heck, God gave Moses Ten Commandments, expanded them to 613 laws (Mitzvot) by the time the folks got to the Promised Land. Jesus tried to simplify things, cutting them to two: Love God, Love Neighbor & Self. At the very least he knew that hate doesn’t work. Getting even doesn’t work. Getting ahead doesn’t work. Being a doormat doesn’t work. Neither does silence.

Love requires that I speak out. Love requires that I listen. Humility requires we acknowledge that we can’t do it alone, but we can, God helping, do better together.

Now, back to my original question: what have I got to say about faith and life today? That’s a real puzzler here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Intinction: To Sip or to Dip. That is the Question

I would like to offer some thoughts on the practice of Intinction in the Episcopal Church – thoughts that arise from nearly sixty years of worship in Episcopal churches from coast to coast, and from nearly forty years of practice as an ordained priest in the Episcopal Church, leading people in their worship and celebrating the Eucharist in congregations both tiny and large.

Intinction is a term we use for the process of dipping communion bread into the wine. For most of Christian history (in the Western tradition), people have taken Holy Communion (also known as the Mass, the Lord’s Supper, the Divine Liturgy, or the Eucharist – among others) by receiving the bread first (in the hand or upon the tongue), followed by wine sipped from the Common Cup (Chalice). Over the past century or so, as the public has become more aware of things like germs, bacteria, and viruses, the practice of “intinction” has crept into religious life as a (theoretically) “safer” (more hygienic) option.

Setting public health matters aside for a moment, let’s talk about Communion. When Jesus instituted the Last Supper, he identified two specific things he wanted his followers to continue: Eat this Bread, and Drink this Cup. In Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians, he reminds the church there to continue the practice that he (Paul) had received (and has passed along to them), which was to eat this bread and drink this cup. In the New Testament, it is clear that there are two substances to be received (bread and wine) and two actions to be undertaken (eat and drink). Those were Jesus’ instructions, and so that is what the Church has done for the past twenty centuries.

Over time, questions about certain details have arisen about how we “do” communion. Bread and wine are reserved and taken to the sick and shut-ins, for instance. The Church has recognized that Christ is really present in those elements as they are distributed by the laity or clergy. 

Christ is really present. That’s important to remember. “Where two or three are gathered together in my Name, I am there,” said Jesus. Communion isn’t just the bread and wine, it is the Body gathered, breaking, praying, and sharing. Communion is our being together “in Christ.” 

A person who may only receive the bread (or wine) is presumed to have benefited from having received both. For instance an alcoholic may choose to forgo the wine, and one with Crohn’s disease may forgo eating the bread, and one on a ventilator may forgo receiving either kind; each will still have received communion “in full.”

Practices have varied over the years. In some places the faithful receive only the bread, while the priest receives both. In our Episcopal (or Anglican) tradition, we receive in both kinds. The bread is most often placed in the open palm of the recipient, while the wine is distributed from a common cup we call the chalice. The person with the chalice wipes the cup after each person drinks from it, using a fair white cloth called a purificator (that which purifies). They wipe the rim both inside and out. Studies have shown that silver has some antiseptic properties, and a properly used purificator does an excellent job of cleaning the cup.

Intinction was rarely, if ever, used until the public became more aware of sanitation and hygiene. Personal intuition suggests that intinction (dipping the bread into the wine) is simply more sanitary than drinking from a common cup. Obviously a purificator can’t get “all” the germs, so dipping has just GOT to be safer. But, alas, such is not the case, primarily because of, well, people. Hands and fingertips tend to be much more dangerous (from a hygienic perspective) than the mouth. Leaving toileting habits aside, our hands are in constant contact with things other hands have touched. No matter how “clean” one may feel they are, they simply aren’t.

Secondly, while an individual may be careful in how they dip the bread ever so slightly into the wine, the same cannot be said for everyone. 

There are some who barely touch the wine with their bread, and there are those who do a deep dive as if looking for an oyster that’s promised a pearl of great price. Some are careful to avoid touching the rim of the chalice, where others use the rim as a steadying platform from which to do their dip. Scientific studies have confirmed that intinction is the least sanitary option for consuming communion wine. So while intinction has become very common, especially during the recent pandemic, it is not hygienic and is being increasingly discouraged by those responsible for guiding our liturgical life.. 

This, of course, grates against our American ethos of the individual getting to choose to do it their way like Frank Sinatra and, if challenged, threatening to let their boots do the walking like Frank’s daughter, Nancy (Sheesh, if I ain’t dating myself here)! “You can’t be the boss of me” is America’s true National Anthem.

While Episcopalians, like most Americans, try to avoid being legalistic or slavish to the letter of the law, we do have practices that serve to unite us in our worship. We are guided by the Pauline dictum that all should be done “decently and in order.” Chaos is antithetical to the love of God in Christ, so we have practices which have stood the test of time in helping us worship God in Spirit and in the beauty of holiness. 

We serve bread and wine, each in a distinct manner, not because them’s the rules, but because we are followers of Jesus who gave us this very special sacrament to unite us to him and to one another. We eat the bread and we drink the wine because those are the two actions that Jesus prescribed. 

We may dunk our donuts into our coffee and we may dunk our Oreos into our milk, and all food and drink will make its way over our tongues, down our throats and into our digestive tracts, but Jesus wasn’t interested in any of that. Jesus reminds us in other places that it’s not what goes in that defiles us, but what comes out. 

A question one may want to ask is, what is coming out of our hearts if Jesus tells his followers to eat and drink, but we decide we know better? Isn’t our goal to unite with Jesus – with one another? If my dipping poses a danger to my brethren in a way that eating and drinking don’t, how does that unite? How does that show love? If I refuse to follow Jesus’ simplest instructions regarding the way I receive (or distribute) Communion, what does that say about my relationship with him? 

Will we go to hell if we intinct? Of course not. Our task, as lovers of the Lover is to show the world our love for God and one another by dining with each in the manner that was prescribed, not childishly, but thoughtfully, prayerfully, meditatively, carefully, and lovingly. 

A person may decline the cup as he or she wishes. The Chalice bearer will never ask "Why?” The Minister will never ask those who decline the Bread “Why?” If one chooses not to receive the bread because of health or sin, the priest will offer the person a blessing. If one chooses to decline drinking from the common cup, the chalice bearer will simply pause and lift the cup as a sign of blessing (a practice from which toasting at weddings and special meals comes).

That’s the wonderful thing about God’s grace as we practice it in the Episcopal Church. We have our practices (rites and ceremonies) and people are invited to participate as fully as they are able. Most may, few must, and all will be blessed. There will be times and situations where intinction may be preferable, but for now, knowing that Covid is an airborne problem and not one of touch, it’s time to return to the ancient, historic manner of receiving Holy Communion in a manner Jesus prescribed - He who is the Great Physician.

The Rev. Keith Axberg, Retired

God and His Branch Manager

Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid … (Book of Common Prayer, Collect for Purity)

It is a cool gray morning outdoors. The weather folk suggest it may rain later. There is some yard work that needs doing; there are some leaves I missed last fall (they’re easy to miss when one makes every effort not to go looking for them), and there are a couple of bushes out front that aren’t very pleasing to the eye. 

In fact, I thought one had died last year when we had a killer deep freeze that dropped us into the single digits for about a week. The bush never showed signs of life throughout Spring and early summer, so I hacked it down with plans to dig it up. I got sidetracked for a couple of weeks and when I got around to digging it up, lo and behold, it began to show signs of life. That is, it leafed out and sent out fresh shoots, but my handiwork ensured it would never be the bush it once was. Sad, but true.

Now, I want to assure the reader that I do not judge plants by their beauty or ugliness (nor even by how they smell – are you reading this, Anise?). All plants give us oxygen, without which we would become Smurfs, but not all plants grow where we want them to. Sometimes they are a safety issue (such as when they reach out to snag pedestrians who spend more time looking at their phones than their surroundings). Since trees and bushes can’t jump out of the way of careless passers-by, we property owners have to do our part in either trimming them or transplanting them.

I will confess, too, by the way, that I am not much of a gardener. I don’t care to do yard work, so when it was suggested that today would be a good day to take care of those few outdoor matters, I found myself nodding in affirmation to the one with whom I share the home, while simultaneously rapping the side of my head and offering a silent prayer for rain, finishing my prayer with, “Knock wood.”

Now, that’s not the most reverent way to end a prayer, but it goes back to my growing up in an unchurched household, watching the Three Stooges (from which influence my brother and I would regularly refer to the other as either a blockhead or knucklehead), and either crossing fingers or knocking on our heads if we didn’t have any wood nearby from which to draw luck.

Knocking on wood has a pagan history, but for me, it has always been family history. So it comes naturally. Even in conversion and baptism, we don’t always lose who we once were – or at least I haven’t. Faith is woven into the fabric of our being, but it seems our superstitions aren’t done away with. They’re there, but their role is diminished.

I knock wood out of habit, but I do so knowing full well that’s not what gets the “job” done. The rain will neither draw near nor stay away based upon my predilection for banging on timber. Knuckling my skull, in lieu of rapping my desk, signals my heart’s desire, and God knows what that is. God knows.

I find great comfort in knowing that God knows the secrets of my heart, the weakness of my flesh, the condition of my soul. God knows I mean it when I call him “Almighty” while, seemingly also inviting a wood nymph to help me avoid doing a job I, deep down, don’t want to do.

Well, God knows, and I know that God knows, and reflecting on my relationship with the One I call “the Almighty,” I believe God knows that when I tap my head, that’s an Amen arising from my mother tongue, the language of my tribe, so to speak.

The yard needs work, and I’ve got the health, tools, and intellect to handle it. Once I get past my blubbering, the spirit of this branch manager is willing, too. It is for that reality I give thanks to Almighty God here in this, our valley. Amen!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)