Our chaplain in seminary used to
say that it was God's cruelest joke that so many clergy are introverts. God
gets you into this ministry-you imagine quiet moments of prayer and solitude,
mulling over sermons and preparing liturgies. Then you get thrown in front of a
church and your inner panicker goes into high gear. Church is great-but there
are people everywhere. I love my work but I will say that a quiet room and a book or a blank page are high on
my list of favorite things.
It is, then, maybe God also getting
a kick out of our discomfort with a new movement in the Episcopal Church: ashes
to go. No music, no liturgy, not even a roof: clergy and lay people taking to
the streets and standing in prayer with anyone who comes by. Last
year, I remember hearing about churches doing it, and it seemed like a nice,
but impractical, idea. We Episcopalians have not often aligned ourselves with
people walking around the sidewalks announcing the end of the world-are we
slipping into some apocalyptic rabbit hole? Surely we don't want to be
unnecessarily confrontational, do we?
Maybe, maybe not. I am inclined to
say, though, that we make an awful lot of assumptions in thinking that all that
is right and true can be found within our four walls. We may be
intellectually open to the strengths of other traditions, but when it comes to
participating in church, we expect people to get with our program. I recently
read a piece by the Rt Rev Stephen Lane, the Bishop of Maine, in which he asks
the question: where is the "frontline" of your church? It got me
thinking-most of what we do at my church happens, well, at my church. It's wonderful and grace-filled, but we also tend only to
share that with those who come to us, rather than going out to meet people where they are.
That was not exactly Jesus' style.
Last night, as the parent helper in my daughter's Godly Play class at Grace
Medford, where my husband is the rector, we heard the parable of the Great
Banquet. Putting out the familiar pictures and green felt, the storyteller
began. Someone wanted to have a party, and invited all of his friends, but they
wouldn't come. They had to take care of their property. They had just gotten
married. Another had to check on some livestock they were buying. So what does
the host do? Get more people to come in. The poor, the blind, the sick, the
outcast. And when there's still room, he casts the circle wider. The banquet
grows and grows. No longer confined to those they already know-the ones with
the right job and the right views-now, absolutely everybody gets in. I realize now also that the story doesn't say anything about the guy being mortified at having to talk with new people.
Too often, the church does not tell
the story of a Great Banquet-too often, we are an intimate dinner party,
entranced by our own cleverness and style. I don't know what Jesus would have
said about taking our ashes to the streets-I don't know what he would have said
about ashes in the first place, since he was pretty clear on instructing people
not to look dismal about fasting and prayer-but I am confident that whatever
the church can do to come near to others is the path that Jesus would have us
walk on. Would it be "better" if people came to an hourlong liturgy
and had time for music, reflection, and a sermon about the tradition and
theology of the day? Quite probably. The liturgy for Ash Wednesday is a great
service. And surely, I hope all of you who are reading this go to church...
Church is my job, so I know I'll be there. But for the person getting on the train who still needs eighteen more cups of coffee, for the homeless person as they walk from the shelter to breakfast at
the Salvation Army, for the man who stopped going to church after his wife
died, for the boss who has to fire someone and the employee who's worried the
pink slip is coming, for the mom who is worried that her kid will get sick at
school and she'll have to leave work early-for all of those people, I think the payoff for me feeling a little silly will be worth it. So I and a few other intrepid souls will be there on Carter Street. No judgments, no strings, no gimmicks. Ashes are startling in their simplicity--we'll go out with just the dust we
came from and a prayer for God's grace. An opening of our hands and one deep
breath of hope.
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