Thank you for walking this Lenten road with us. We pray that it has lifted, strengthened, and challenged you. We hope you have found, wisdom, insight and some piece of your own reflection as a child of God.

We give thanks for our incredible authors and our faithful readers alike. If you are interested in contributing to a future meditation series, particularly if you are a young adult or minister to young adults, please click on the “Contributors Wanted” tab above.

May the coming celebrations of Easter find you renewed and more secure in the gifts God has blessed you with for his work in this world. For the wise, the knowledgable, the faithful, the healers, the prophets, the discerners, the speakers, and the interpreters, we are thankful. Together we are equipped by the Spirit to be Christ’s hands and feet in the world.

O God, Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the crucified body of your dear Son was laid in the tomb and rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the coming of the third day, and rise with him to newness of life; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (Collect for Holy Saturday – BCP 283)

Two young women testify on behalf of immigration reform in the form of the Dream Act at General Convention 2012

By Hershey Mallette

John 18:1-19:42

Oh, Peter, not again!

Every time…every year…you deny Jesus?!

If I were Peter, I’d claim Jesus!

Would I? Do I?

Wait…

Maybe I am Peter.

Oh no, I am Peter!

Every time I look the other way when I see someone in need.

Every time I fail to speak on my convictions for fear of what others may think or say.

Every time I choose not to act in love, but passively consent to popular judgment.

I deny Jesus. I am Peter.

Do you ever do the Peter thing? Do you ever miss an opportunity to speak up for the Jesus you know? Do you ever let a raging crowd silence you? Or stand quiet in the face of inconvenient inquiry from a stranger?

I do. I cower in the very moments I should be convicted. I walk away from situations thinking, “I wish I had said something.” I let the noise of zealots of every kind render me soundless because I fear the voice of little ol’ me won’t matter; or worse, speaking will cast the spotlight on me—talk about pressure!  I look with annoyance at strangers who want to be all in-my-business, asking me who I know? And how I know them?

When the truth is, sometimes even now, I am often scared to admit that I know Jesus: scared of what that admission might mean for me; scared because admitting that I know Jesus might change the trajectory of my life.

The thing about Jesus is he doesn’t need me to defend him.

If Peter acknowledged his affiliation with Jesus, it probably would not have saved Jesus. I can’t save Jesus. And it’s a good thing he wasn’t counting on Peter, and is not counting on me to save him.

But when I admit my affiliation with Jesus, when I proclaim that Jesus is my homeboy, I get to live with integrity and open my life to experience God’s grace. That grace is the very reason Jesus gave his life—to give me true life.

So the least I could do is give Jesus a shout out!

When it gets hard to give Jesus a shout out; when it seems inconvenient, or like the least expedient thing that one could possibly do; when I feel like Peter, I pray the words of this poem by Maltbie Babcock.

Be strong!

Say not the days are evil—who’s to blame?

And fold the hands and acquiesce—O Shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God’s name.

Be strong, be strong, be strong!

Amen. 

The end results of a baking lesson Grace gave at the Mission to Migrant Workers in Hong Kong (2012)

By Grace Flint

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Image Caption: The end results of a baking lesson Grace gave at the Mission to Migrant Workers in Hong Kong (2012)

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35)

Since Lent is a time of self-examination and confession, let me start out by confessing something to you: I’m obsessed with Downton Abbey. I love the clothes, the music, and the Dowager Countess’ witty one-liners. Unfortunately, the period drama both romanticizes and removes the viewer from the harsh realities of life as a servant. I work with foreign domestic workers in Hong Kong. Thousands of women leave their homes and families every day to go overseas to be modern-day servants for employers who are much less gracious and appreciative than Lord Grantham and his family. Extreme poverty in their home countries motivates courageous women to endure verbal and physical abuse, harsh working conditions, a complete lack of privacy, and almost total separation from their loved ones just to provide basic necessities for their families back home.

It is Maundy Thursday. Scripture and tradition dictate that we pause today and examine how we serve one another. John 13 describes Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. In a time when walking in sandals was the main form of transportation, it’s hard to imagine a much more humbling act of service than feet washing. And yet, as I listen to the stories of the women who come to the walk-in center where I work requesting advice and counsel, crying as they tell their stories, and seeking shelter from harmful situations, the more and more I’m convicted that service is sacrifice. Being a servant is more than just getting dirty, or taking on a job that no one else wants to do; it’s about loving someone else so much that you’re willing to sacrifice—really sacrifice time, talent, and treasure—for that other person’s well-being and betterment. Jesus calls us to love one another. He goes so far as to say that we will be known as his followers if we love each other.

Today we observe service. Tomorrow we observe sacrifice. Love binds those two concepts together. Without love, service and sacrifice are meaningless. As we reflect on Jesus’ call to service and to love, may we remember those who sacrifice more than we can imagine with the simple desire of providing for their families.

O God, your unfailing providence sustains the world we live
in and the life we live: Watch over those, both night and day,
who work while others sleep, and grant that we may never
forget that our common life depends upon each other’s toil;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (Book of Common Prayer, p. 134).

By Charles McClain

Philippians 4:1-13 

“Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” (Philippians 4:8)

Paul has a great way of addressing his readers. Beloved!

One of the trade-offs we often overlook in the maturation process is our loss of innocence. It is an essential part of becoming an adult in some sense. If we went through life with the same naive positivism we had as children, then we would likely be prone to being taken advantage of. We often do well in our skepticism, and we sleep well at night, wrapped in the warm blanket of cynicism that insulates us from the cold of a world filled with possible betrayers masquerading as friends.

Paul encourages us to be open to another way. We can remember a time when we were absolutely sure that there was truth, honor, justice, and purity. Halfway through the verse, he introduces a concept that we are far more familiar with: the ever-present ”if”. We know that there is an “if” hanging out there just beyond the wounded part of our experience. If there is excellence… If there is something… anything you can think of that is worthy of praise… positive to think about… to say to someone you love, to encourage a stranger… do that, and share your belovedness with the world. The good news of the gospel is the satisfaction of the ever-present ”if”. It is the antithesis of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow”. The gospel says, “Yes, you are beloved, here, now, and so is the person standing beside you. Tell them so today.”

Almighty Father, you called your own beloved Son to suffer with us. Grant us hope enough to find the good news in the belovedness of your creation, heart enough to realize our own beloved nature, and courage enough to suffer with your people in this life, and in the age to come grace enough to know it was all worth it. Amen.

By Adam Pike

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

In today’s reading, Paul describes God’s wisdom not as a virtuous trait, or a well of knowledge built by experience and time. Rather, it is a living thing, autonomous, personal, and at times, elusive. Even more, it is nothing less than Jesus himself: the cosmic being who formed the universe; the slain lamb who will judge the world; the humble servant who, this Friday, leads us to the foot of the cross.

As we learn to see wisdom as Christ, trusting less in our own perceptions of wisdom and foolishness, we let go of our blinding egotism. We see the world as it is, rather than merely how it relates to our own self. The tension held between wisdom and folly becomes the mechanism for our healing, bringing us to a place we could never find if we tried: humility. We see wisdom anew: alive and beautiful. Whether it lives in us or in our neighbor, we do not seek to capture it for our own, but cherish its presence as the very presence of Christ.

Our costly lesson instructs us to let go of all that we love, apart from God, of all that keeps us from emptying ourselves completely that we may be completely filled. This emptying is the paradoxical story of Christ, who keeps secret from his left hand the good works done by his right; the might of whom is displayed in its fullest glory at the moment of his greatest weakness; his royalty awarded not by conquest but rather through ultimate charity.

This paradox is the same companionship of wisdom and foolishness that is the daily drafting of our own story, a story we hear but only later understand. The interplay of wisdom and folly becomes a force as elemental as the light spoken into existence by the tongue of God—a light espoused to darkness, and setting the rhythm of our world. The tides move in and out; flowers bloom and close; we breathe out and in; we build; we rest.

Loving God,

grant us trust

that we would know you

as the keeper

of our true selves.

May we learn soon

that we find ourselves

only in finding you.

Amen.

by the Rev. Jonathan Melton

Luke 19:28-40

“After Jesus had said this, he went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem” (Lk 19:28)

The “this” that Jesus said, before he went on ahead, up to Jerusalem, is the familiar parable of the talents, which ends with the nobleman’s ominous lines: “‘I tell you, to all those who have, more will be given; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. But as for these enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them—bring them here and slaughter them in my presence’” (Lk 19:26-27).

The connection between these earlier words and today’s reading swells with an unresolved tension. Plainly, the nobleman’s words do not prepare us to see the heralded, new king slaughtered. But God’s rejection of the evil wrought by “these enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them,” lands squarely on Jesus.

Palm Sunday reveals Jesus as at the same time God’s elected and rejected one. This is meant to be Good News for us, but it is still hard to see Jesus slaughtered in the presence of God and God’s enemies. Harder still to hear the words on our lips – “Crucify him!” – and realize that we are God’s enemies, the ones “who did not want me to be king over them.”

I do not like to think of myself as an enemy of God, but my not liking it does not by itself make it untrue. I am like the double agent who sometimes forgets whose side she is on. But I have found grace in Jesus’ hard words to his disciples, “Love your enemies” (Lk 6:27).

“Love your enemies” is what we do when we imitate God’s love for us.

Admittedly, I need God’s help to love my enemies. I pray that knowing I need God’s help to love my enemies makes me less of an enemy to God, but who can tell for sure if that is not the double agent talking?

I used to think of an enemy as the worst thing a person could be, but enemy status has not proved enough to keep God from us and our being found in Christ. Instead, love without expectation or personal gain is arguably known only with the help of enemies to love. So I have learned to ask for God’s help in loving my enemies, and also to pray for more enemies to love.

Maybe loving enemies is how we go up, with Jesus, to Jerusalem. Maybe this is a piece of the surrender, the sacrifice, by which we learn the friendship of the crucified King.

A prayer for today:

God of the cross, sear these words of your Son on the hearts of your people, so we may live the love by which you have called us friends: “…love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return. Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High; for he is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.” Amen.

Photo by Nils Chittenden

by Rachel Jones

Acts 17:22-31 

Saying someone has the spiritual gift of discernment is a short way of saying that they are good at helping people make hard decisions and offering support to them; that they tell the truth, as they know it, with an attitude of humility and forthrightness, being as honest as they can be about their own biases.  Most often, in church-world, we see them working in groups, usually with folks who believe they have a call to ordained vocation.  We also see them on vestries, on committees, in places where wisdom and temperance are best employed.  In non-church-world, we see them as consultants, strategic planners, and counselors of all stripes.

If you’re someone who is a natural discerner, you probably know better than anyone how tightly you must keep your ego in check, because your job is to see the pattern in the tea leaves, without adding your own Sweet-n-Low residue.  But in practice, discernment is not reading a cup of cold tea—there’s no deep magic (but something transcendent does happen when it’s practiced well); it’s about listening more than talking:  it’s about collecting information and, then sitting with that information for what seems like an excessive amount of time before making a decision (or having a plan of action or an answer).  Sometimes, it also means making quick decisions with little information, which means that good discerners think fast on their feet, and cannot lack in intestinal fortitude.  Being a good discerner means you know the difference between the time to wait and the time to act.

The best discerners I know are people who live deeply into their lives, who have a wide variety of interests and friends and experience, and are rooted in a deep expression of faith and spirituality.  All of them deeply love being with people, hearing stories, spending time playing and visiting and discussing with their friends, family, and colleagues.  They are widely-read, well-spoken, and generous with their time; they are intensely compassionate and empathetic. They are, above all, discreet.   And they are few and far between.

Discerners know, and hopefully try to convey the understanding that time is a construct to help us understand stories, and not something to run our lives by.  They will tell us very honestly that the answer, whatever answer it is we’re looking for, comes when it comes. We will know it when we see it.  Discerners hold our hands and love us, helping us see and hear more clearly, whether the answer is “yes”, “no”, or somewhere in between.

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves …
Don’t search for the answers,
which could not be given to you now,
because you would not be able to live them.
And the point is, to live everything.
Live the questions now.
Perhaps then, someday far in the future,
you will gradually, without even noticing it,
live your way into the answer.

–Rilke

by Zack Nyein

Matthew 13:47-52

As a newly minted postulant for the priesthood in the Episcopal Church, the word “discernment” carries a lot of baggage.  I think about the discernment process, my discernment committee, our diocesan discernment retreat, and even the discernment paperwork.  However, when we look at this word apart from its context and connotations in the institutional church, we know that it’s about far more than a protocol for calling clergy.

As young adults, we are faced with daunting decisions to be made at every juncture.  Where should I to go to school?  What do I want to do with my career?  Who do I want to spend my life with?  What is God’s will for my life?  As great a challenge as it can be to make these choices and wrestle with these questions, I am reminded this Lent that the fact that I have any choices at all is truly a gift.

I am reminded of those in our world for whom, because of their poverty, gender, race, nationality, cultural expectations, war, or any number of circumstances simply do not have the choices that I do:  Those who can’t choose where to go to school because the opportunity to attend school at all doesn’t exist;  Those who can’t pursue a career because society calls them “illegal”;  Those for whom marriage isn’t an option because of the gender of the one they love; Those who look at their lives and determine that if there is a God, God’s will for them must be sorrow.

In the midst of life’s worries and the work of discernment that consumes us, I pray that we would have grace to receive the gift of discernment that frees us.  For me, this gift comes not through weighing pros and cons, completing aptitude tests, applications, or interviews.  It’s not a process, committee, retreat, or paperwork.  For me, the gift of discernment happens when I look up, look out, and see the need of those around me.  When I’m able to do that, I realize that ultimately, most of the things I agonize over aren’t really that important.  For the voice of the One who calls us comes to us saying, “My will for your life is always this:  You shall love your neighbor.”   It’s a right choice that’s always available.

O Lord,

I do not know what to ask you.
You alone know my real needs,
and you love me more 
than I even know how to love. 


Enable me to discern my true needs
which are hidden from me.


I ask for neither cross nor consolation;
I wait in patience for you.


My heart is open to you. 


For your great mercy’s sake,
come to me and help me.


Put your mark on me and heal me,
cast me down and raise me up.


Silently I adore your holy will
and your inscrutable ways.


I offer myself in sacrifice to you
and put all my trust in you.


I desire only to do your will.


Teach me how to pray
and pray in me, yourself.

(Vasily Drosdov Philaret, c. 1780 – 1867)

Photo by Nils Chittenden

by the Rev. Jessie Vedanti

Luke 2:25–35

Simeon, a man whose only credentials were his piety, was ready to face death knowing God had provided a savior.  The Holy Spirit rested on him and he was gifted with incredible discernment to find such comfort and relief in the fear inducing challenges of life and death’s approach.

Simeon although comforted, does not paint a rosy picture of the path of the Christian faith: Mary, with her child in her arms, hears the words no parents ever want to hear: ‘your child is the answer to so many questions, and because of that he will know great heights and awful depths.’  Nothing might trigger a defensive, protective reaction more than such a prediction.    “A sword will pierce your own soul too” Simeon continues to inform Mary, with whom we are called to stand as modern bearers of Christ in this world.  Mary learns early on that the path of Christ is not a safe, or an easy path, but one of ‘falling and rising’.

What we hold in our arms with Mary standing in the temple is more than salvation, but a holy light by which to discern our path- a path that will lead us with Christ past the temptations of security and the distraction of fear, which often rule this world, but were ultimately defeated by Christ.   That means that like Simeon whose only hope was not his defense, but the existence of a savior, we also are called to disarm ourselves; both literally and metaphorically.

The Episcopal Peace Fellowship’s Commitment Pledge is a song not unlike Simeon’s recognizing the truth of Christ and the relief we have in Jesus as our savior;

In loyalty to the teaching, and person of Jesus Christ, my conscience commits me to the way of redemptive love: to pray, study, and work for peace, and to renounce, as far as possible, participation in war, militarism, and all other forms of violence. In fellowship with others, I will work to discover and create alternatives to violence and to build a culture of peace. I urge the Episcopal Church in accordance with our baptismal vows “to renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God”, and to wage peace across all boundaries, calling upon people everywhere to repent, to forgive, and to love.

This Lent, ask yourself what path of peace is the light of Christ offering you in the face of fear?  Is your salvation from fear your own defense, or is Christ calling you with a promise into the dangerous and freeing work of the faith? What song are you committing to this Lent?