Lenten Meditations

Deacon Patricia Marks

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March 1

Ashes. Dead in the hand—dark and powdery, with a strange oiliness reminiscent of smoothing once living. Ashes. Indistinguishable remains of something, anything. The final end, when all is charred and reduced beyond recognition, beyond, it would seem, all hope.

Ash Wednesday is a reminder that we have died to this world, It is a reminder that we must die to our intemperate love of worldly things, our vainglorious exploitation of people and environment, our anger, envy, and hypocrisy.

And we die with a with a gesture. Look, we say, this black smudge on our foreheads has marked us as those who know what we have done. We have laid waste our Eden, twisted our enormous potential into war, disease, and hunger. On this day we acknowledge our wrongdoing and more: we acknowledge our impermanence. This smudge on our foreheads marks us those who have soberly looked Death in the face and called him Brother.

Today, we confess that we are dust.

Yet that smudge is the sign of the cross, the hope that arises from ground zero. The ashes with which we are marked were once vibrant and green; they are the remains of the palms we carried last year to hail the Messiah’s coming.

These palms, dried and burned, become the ashen crosses we carry into Lent, where the sign of death—the ashes—becomes the sign of life—the cross! And bowed down in penitence for giving our heart, soul, and mind to other loves than God, for loving ourselves more than our brothers and sisters, we are scrubbed clean and set back on our feet . . .

. . . so that we may go back on our knees in Eucharistic thanksgiving.

The wonder is that on the day of fasting that begins a forty-day trek into the wilderness of our own selves, we are fed abundantly. No matter how many wolves howl in that wilderness, we carry with us a promise. We have looked Life in the face and know that we are God’s children.

The ashes will wash off, but the cross is inscribed on our hearts. That is what gives us the courage to go into the world to love and serve the Lord, giving thanks for the power of his grace.

Bishop of Lichfield, 672

March 2

When Chad prepared to walk 200 miles to Lichfield, Archbishop Theodore was so horrified that he personally hoisted his humble but stubborn bishop onto a horse. God alone knew how much Chad’s heart had been shaped by the winds of holy Lindisfarne; yet he dutifully gave up his monastic life to go among those who questioned his training and his authority.

But he had a fine precedent—Jesus, who dined with the power-broker Pharisees.

"So," Jesus remarked to them, "When you are invited to a wedding banquet, do you sit near the host? Aren’t you embarrassed to be asked to move?"

"If you invite me to the feast," he added, "I’ll bring along those folks on your doorstep—the poor, the lame, and the blind. And they will be at the head of the table."

A wedding banquet! Surely his frugal monastic meals were feast enough for Chad, who for better or worse had taken unbreakable vows. So when he was deposed as Bishop of York because of his Celtic roots, Chad returned to holy poverty, happy to be on the bottom rung, where he served the poor, the lame, and the blind. There, contented, he walked in the footsteps of the One on the way to the cross.

And then he was called to Lichfield.

Perhaps it is appropriate to begin our Lenten journey with Chad, who, like us, felt the conflicting tug between private inclination and public duty. His life, grounded in ministry, reminds us that every feast and every event that puts us in the spotlight must begin in humility, in the darkness of Golgotha, at the foot of the cross. Only in that way may we bear the brightness of the resurrection glory.

Priests, 1791, 1788

March 3

Walking in the early morning before Morning Prayer: this is my new discipline, one that yields unexpected gifts—magnolias plump against the new sky, dew on the azaleas’ ruffled buds, and a rosy light shining through the church tower. Hardly the kind of walk that John and Charles Wesley took as they went about preaching and teaching. It is said that John Wesley alone averaged close to 8000 miles a year.

But that was after these Oxford-educated ministers had their well-planned lives turned upside-down. What a conversion that must have been for these two, whose discipline in following the Book of Common Prayer earned them the label of "Methodism." It wasn’t their ordination, or devotion to prayer, or experience in the colony of Georgia, but rather the Lord God Himself who sent them into the countryside, His flame polishing the soles of their feet and kindling the fervor in their hearts.

Scholars remember them for their renewal of the church, for John Wesley’s combination of erudition and insistence on "plain preaching." Theologians speak of their staunch faith in "sola scriptura," the Reformation idea that scripture, not the church, is the sole authority for faith and doctrine.

And we in the pews have our hearts lifted by the legacy that Charles Wesley left: a host of hymns whose words inspire us to set out an apostolic journey, living out the good news both near and far.

That the first week of our Lenten journey includes a celebration of the Wesleys’ life and witness is heartening. But it is also thought-provoking. These pleasant morning strolls, gilded with God’s natural glories, are not the be-all and end-all. As we lace up our Reeboks or Nikes, let us pray that through eloquence of speech or song or action, we may indeed inspire other travelers to help fulfill Charles Wesley’s prayer:

Readings: Isaiah 49:5-6; Psalm 98:1-4(5-10) or Psalm 103:1-4,13-18; Luke 9:2-6
(Images: www.joyfulheart.com/christmas/hark-herald-angels-sing.htm; academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/history/virtual/portrait/wesley-j.jpg)

March 7, 2006

Today, we pray that we may "win the palm of victory." Those of us who are well-fed and under-exercised may hesitate at that. "Win the palm"—doesn’t that take discipline? Doesn’t that mean a 5 a.m. wake-up, weight-lifting and knee-bends, bran flakes and tofu? How easy in light of what Perpetua and her companions endured! For us the thought of arenas and wild beasts may conjure up visions of gladiators and memories of Spartacus, but in the third century, these were realities.

What makes Perpetua’s martyrdom so stunning, so telling through the ages, is that little in her background prepared her for such a leap of faith. Born of prosperous parents, a beloved and indulged daughter, by the time she stood before Emperor Severinus she had been married and widowed, had borne a daughter—all by the age of twenty-two. A true visionary, she saw where the path led, yet God’s light blazed so clearly through the menacing shadows of the Roman state that her companions freely followed her into prison and then the arena. At least two were slaves, and one, Felicitas, prayed to be delivered of her baby so that she might be martyred with the others.

There on the field drenched with libations to the gods they met both death and redemption. Legend says that they faced four wild animals. The boar, identified with Christ’s persecutors, reputedly refused to leave its cage; but the bear, a symbol of gluttony, lust, and the devil incarnate, attacked voraciously. Saturus, one of Perpetua’s companions, was mortally wounded by the leopard, which for the Romans stood for destruction. Finally, in an ironic counterpoint, a wild cow—the symbol of fertility—was set loose on the women. They died, after a final farewell kiss of peace, on the swords of the young Roman soldiers.

Cruel and brutal times indeed. Thank God we can practice our faith safely in the field of our lives. But because we don’t hear the snarling of the leopard or the bellow of the cow doesn’t mean that these dangers aren’t around in other forms. Winning the palm of victory may mean facing far more insidious threats—our willingness to take the easy way out, our want of determination in the face of what we know is wrong. Perhaps, as we begin Lent, we might ask what is so dangerous about faith that it caused an emperor to persecute a widow, a mother-to-be, two slaves, and their companions?

March 9, 2006

When we hear God’s call, some, like Paul in his letter to the Philippians, answer immediately, saying joyfully with St. Benedict, "we shall run on the path of God’s commandments, our hearts overflowing with the inexpressible delight of love." Others, like me, hear the call with holy terror and for a time at least flee in the other direction.

Gregory of Nyssa was like that, among the most reluctant bishops on record. Unimpressed with Christianity as a child, he was so inspired by relics transferred to his family’s chapel that he became a lector; but the twin call of marriage and career took all his heart. He was horrified when his brother, Basil, insisted that he become bishop of Nyssa. Despite his qualms, he agreed, and then found himself embroiled in an exceptionally divisive argument about the nature of Christ. He rose to the challenge, and at the First Council of Constantinople, Gregory, along with Basil the Great and Gregory of Nazianzus, was steadfast in maintaining the understanding of the Trinity expressed in the Nicene creed:

After the death of his brother Basil and sister Macrina, herself the founder of a religious community, Gregory devoted himself to writing. His influential books include commentaries on the life of Moses and Song of Songs, where his mysticism illumines the texts.

No wonder we commemorate Gregory of Nyssa’s life with the preface to Trinity Sunday, when we are reminded in our readings that God Himself, who walked the earth as Jesus, is with us still as the Holy Spirit. May we this Lent run with joy to follow God’s commandments, so loving our brothers and sisters that we become a paragon of Wisdom, "a reflection of eternal light, a spotless mirror of the working of God."

March 17, 2006

Today is fast day and feast day—what a perfect allegory for the Christian life! Lenten renunciation leads to affirmation; darkness gives way to the brilliant paschal candle. This is the paradoxical "joy of Lent," a time when our exile from overindulgence prepares the way for a joyous reunion with the one who is true food and life.

Few experience Patrick’s six-year "Lent," when he was captured and enslaved as a shepherd in Ireland. What did he see, up there on the hills and fields, with little to eat or wear, and nothing to do but look ever more sharply into his own heart and into the eyes of God? It turned his life around, this disbeliever, so much so that after he was freed, he voluntarily returned as Bishop of Ireland.

Perhaps he did chase the snakes out; more likely he eradicated a host of pagan practices. In any case, many who wear the green shamrock on March 17^th know only the legend, not the rocky course that Patrick walked through the groves and dingles of the Emerald Isle.

And what about our own Lenten path? Fasting is a material and a moral act, a gesture of repentance and a spiritual feistiness that overcomes the manifold temptations of good chocolate or heady aroma of freshly-made coffee or whatever our weak point is. It is a way of clearing the head and clearing the air, of making space for other things inside of and around us—God’s voice, for instance, and His presence.

Without Patrick’s enforced exile, we make that space for ourselves by withdrawing from the usual round, considering what we really hunger and thirst for. It is a time to dwell on not what we usually do, but on what we should do.

Then we see that our own lion’s share is exactly what our less fortunate brothers and sisters need; then we rid ourselves of the delusions and desires of our material-laden lives and bind to ourselves God’s power, wisdom and word. Then we put on the Lorica, St. Patrick’s breastplate, and pray

"Christ be with me"!

That is when we celebrate the true feast, feeding those in need, sharing God’s food with the starving of body and soul, and becoming, like Patrick, God’s own apostle.

Readings: Psalm 97:1-2,7-12 or Psalm 96:1-7; 1 Thessalonians 2:2b-12; Matthew 28:16-20

March 18, 386

Some time ago, I saw a billboard advertising a church. It said, "The church where all your questions are answered." Perhaps Cyril needed just such a congregation, obedient, sure of itself and its doctrine. After all, he was caught in one of the fiercest battles of his day over the Nicene Creed, and he was deposed from his bishopric because he chose to think through the question instead of taking the answer at hand.

Today, the Nicene Creed is an unquestioned part of the liturgy. But in Cyril’s day, how to incorporate Thomas’s epiphanic recognition of the divinity of Jesus—"My Lord and my God"—was a burning question. For the Arians, Jesus was God’s first created creature, who was neither entirely human nor entirely divine. The Athanasians, on the other hand, believed that Jesus and God were one and the same.

It wasn’t until 381 that Cyril, disturbed by the divisiveness of the argument, decided to side with the doctrine expressed in the Nicene Creed, a doctrine known as homo-ousios, that the Son is both human and divine, "one in being" with the Father. We may thank him, as well, for the oldest known essays on the Christian faith, essays in which he discussed preparing for baptism and outlined Palm Sunday and Easter liturgies we use today.

Cyril, a faithful bishop who was strong enough to maintain his integrity in the midst of a contentious argument, understood what he had to give up. His days in the desert—his exile from his bishopric—teach us what the price of steadfastness may be: renouncing home and position rather than acceding to the howling crowd.

But we all know what the pattern is and who walked the Way first. May we in this Lent be so aware of the Paschal Mystery that we see the glory of the resurrection at the end of the darkened path.

March 20 (transferred)

When St. Joseph makes Time magazine, perhaps we should sit up and take notice—he’s well on his way to becoming a cultural icon. Through the centuries he has, as the writer suggests, gone through a number of evocations—"The Chaste Caretaker"; "The Alienated Cuckold"; "The Adoring Protector"; and "The Modern-Day Evangel." And there are, it seems a number of new books, all of which are said to fill in the details of his life. Holding Heaven, Christ the Lord, and The Forgotten Man of Christmas: these are Amazon.com versions of the Apocrypha, based on tradition, myth, imagination, all leavened with a grain of truth.

Who is St. Joseph, really, the one whose love for his betrothed overcame his allegiance to the law?

Matthew calls him "righteous," without guilt or sin. But when Joseph discovers Mary’s pregnancy, he ignores Levitical law and decides to separate privately rather than exposing her to public disgrace—a compassionate choice in those days.

Then he discovers he must not only make her an honorable woman, but also take her child into his house and heart! And with this irrevocable step, he is reborn as a new person, one who chooses love over law.

This new person receives a name that guarantees his lineage: he is called the "son of David." He will have the privilege of naming the baby "Jesus," which means "Messiah," or "God save us," or, as one Jesuit translator puts it, "Yahweh, Help!"

The child’s other name, as prophesied in Isaiah, is Emmanuel, or "God is with us." And with that, we know who Joseph really is. Through the ages the artists and writers have all been right in their various depictions. Young and old, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief; CEO and Wal-Mart janitor, gas station attendant and college professor—Joseph is all of these, and more.

We have seen Joseph, after all. He is everyone we look at. God is with all of these Josephs. And if we have the strength and courage to choose love, as he did and Mary did, then the annunciation is no dream, it is real. God is with us too.

Psalm 89:1-29 or 89:1-4, 26-29; Samuel 7:4,8-16 ; Romans 4:13-18; Luke 2:41-52

(Image: www.bridgebuilding.com/images/mi727x.jpg)

March 21

Living in a small town, I have no fear that a king will ask me to house his mistress, as William of Orange did of Bishop Ken. Or that I’ll be imprisoned for refusing to sign a Declaration of Indulgence, which is what James II ordered. Or that I’ll be directed to break an oath of allegiance, which is what William and Mary insisted on. My life, this Lent, is tranquil and safe.

Or is it?

Surely Simon and Andrew, James and John, mending their nets, thought they faced an ordinary day. Surely Nathaniel, meditating under the fig tree, expected a quiet day studying Torah. So it went, until . . .

Jesus walked by.

And they said, "Yes." Yes, I will disrupt my entire life, leave it behind, and follow. Yes, I will turn against evil, whether it is those small evils that ride in the wake of inattention or those larger evils that selfishness and insecurity foster. Yes, while my friends scoff and my enemies triumph, I will follow whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, whatever is worth suffering for.

Bishop Ken, like the first disciples, was in the limelight; most of us are not, and perhaps thereby lies the greater danger. Who, this Lent, will know that we have cleaned house, so to speak; that our intentional giving up, whether of food or habit, stands for a giving up of old ways, a willingness to step out into the wilderness in the footsteps of Christ? Who, this Lent, will know that we have rededicated our lives?

If this Lent we empty our self-will so that the Holy Spirit comes pouring in, we can rejoice wholeheartedly as Bishop Ken has taught us to do in one of his best-known hymns:

March 22

There are, according to one teenager’s tee-shirt, at least twelve good reasons to be an Episcopalian:

12. Free wine on Sunday
11. Male and female he created them; male and female we ordain them.

10. No snake handling
9. You can believe in dinosaurs
8. One free foot washing per year
7. You don't have to check your brains at the door
6. Church year is color-coded
5. All of the pageantry - none of the guilt
4. Directions included in BCP
3. Pew aerobics
2. You don't have to know how to swim to get baptized
1. No matter what you believe, there's at least one other Episcopalian who agrees with you

Of all these, nos. 3-6 are the ones James De Koven—were he in an especially genial mood—might have smiled at. Known for his love of high-church liturgy and gesture, he was a professor of church history at Nashotah House and Warden at Racine College. There, in rural Wisconsin, he sought to impress upon his students the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist and taught that ritualistic gestures—bowing, crossing oneself, kneeling—were ways to honor that presence.

Known for his love of high-church liturgy, he was church history professor at Nashotah House and Warden at Racine College. There, in rural Wisconsin, he taught that ritualistic gestures—bowing, crossing, kneeling—were ways to honor the real presence of Christ. To many, he was like that householder in Matthew, "who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old."

Many of us are embarrassed by demonstrative religion, preferring to button our coats and hearts, lest anyone see Love peeping out. Only Christ matters: that is the Lenten lesson De Koven teaches us. As the stewards of His house, may we be so forgetful of our own selves, so willing to give up self-consciousness, so focused instead on what really counts—Christ’s presence—that we abandon ourselves to that moment, bowing with heart, mind, and soul. That is how we cancel out the "I" by making the sign of the cross; that is when we wholeheartedly throw ourselves on the knees of our hearts before our Maker, saying with the Psalmist, "Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and all that is within me, bless his holy Name."

Psalm 103:1-4, 13-18 or Psalm 84:7-12; 2 Timothy 2:10-15, 19; Matthew 13:47-52.
(Image: anglicanhistory.org/images/dekoven1.jpg)

Gregory the Illuminator, Bishop and Missionary of Armenia, c.332

March 23

Almighty God, whose will it is to be glorified in your saints, and who raised up your servant Gregory the Illuminator to be a light in the world, and to preach the Gospel to the people of Armenia: Shine, we pray, in our hearts, that we also in our generation may show forth your praise, who called us out of darkness into your marvelous light; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

In the Middle Ages, illuminators would sit for hours, adding curly serifs to capital letters, drawing beasts and birds, flowers and fruit, saints, devils, and mortals to adorn the pages of the Word of God. And those who would meditate over scripture or devotionals called Books of Hours would find both refreshment for the eyes and instruction for the heart in these sometimes whimsical and vibrant works.

That, I thought, when some years ago I first heard of Gregory, is what he did, and so I looked forward to reading the life of an artist who recreated the world with pen, brush, and paint. Instead, I discovered, he is venerated for bringing the Gospel to Armenia. It was Gregory who brought light to the people; Gregory who re-created Armenia. Gregory, who so illuminated the people that they became a refreshment for the eyes and instruction for the heart.

Legends abound about this well-known saint. In an effort to preserve Armenia’s independence, his father murdered the king, and young Gregory was spirited away to Cappadocia. When he returned, he was tortured and confined to a pit of vipers for years. Eventually, his luminous faith carried the day, converting the king and his subjects. He then traveled extensively. The Holy See of the Cathedral of Etchmiadzin, said to be founded near Mt. Ararat in in accordance with Gregory’s vision, is the residence of the Supreme Patriarch and Catholicos of Armenia.

Walking with Gregory on this shadowy path of Lent, we pray that we may become God’s torch-bearers, running ahead unafraid of the darkness. May we be so illuminated by the Creator’s own hand that we become the expression of his Word, shining with the luster of his love and the vibrant tones of his Passion.

March 25

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s 1850 painting "Behold the Handmaid of the Lord" raised a storm of protest. No luscious folds of satin or delicate handmade lace for Mary; no feathery wings or artful posture for the Angel—only a frightened teenager in a plain white nightgown.

The commonplace details make the scene real. In that small room, Mary is presented with a choice. It is a visitation, all right, one that cannot be ignored.

This is a liminal moment for Mary, when may choose to reach for the future with its agony and its promise, or to remain as she is. In this slender figure, a person of no wealth or social status, lies the future of the New Covenant, lies the very possibility of our own salvation.

But is it just Mary who is pictured in Rossetti’s painting? The Latin version of the title "Ecce Ancilla Domine" comes from the Angelus, a devotional prayer that commemorates the Annunciation. To the invitation "Behold the Handmaid of the Lord," we respond "Fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum," or "Be it done to me according to thy word." Now, that’s a powerful prayer; it puts us right in the middle of the painting.

For us, Lent is a threshold, a time to reach out, to accept the coming promise. With us lies the future of the New Covenant. Like Mary, we must choose, and like her we cannot remain innocent; we know. We know that the joy of new birth culminates in the pain of Good Friday. And we know that if we choose new birth in faith and hope, the terrible waiting that follows the crucifixion will blossom into a glorious Easter promise.

(Image: www.victorianweb.org/painting/dgr/paintings/2.html)

 March 27

"We must have unity, not at all costs, but at all risks." That’s radical love indeed. A unity at all costs is one that is closed; restrictive; law-bearing. A unity at all risks opens its arms, with a hug before a question, food before the form is filled out. That is the rule by which Charles Henry Brent lived his life.

Ordained in Toronto, he eventually moved from a Boston slum parish to being Missionary Bishop of the Philippines. There, his parishioners were Americans as well as native Ingorots. He worked with the Chinese, Muslim, and mountain peoples. Appalled by the opium traffic, he led an international campaign against it. What a varied life he lived: he became Senior U.S. Chaplain for the European Armed Forces and then Bishop of Western New York. And he was instrumental in organizing the first World Conference on Faith and Order, the seedbed of the World Council of Churches.

Being a Christian is a risky business, making us part of an extended family that includes everyone: black sheep and philanthropists, crazy cousins and intellectuals, whiners and comforters, the light-fingered and the honest. It calls us to lend a hand to anyone who stumbles on the path—and it requires us, when we stumble, to accept the outstretched hand—no matter its color or class.

Brent’s familiar prayer—"Lord Jesus Christ, who didst stretch out thine arms of love upon the hard wood of the Cross, that all men everywhere might come within the reach of thy saving embrace"—tells us just whose grace it is that energizes hands reaching out in love.

Psalm 122 or Psalm 133; Ephesians 4:1-7,11-13; Matthew 9:35-38

(Image: episcopalwny.org/images/brent.jpg)

March 29

John Keble, a born teacher, exhorted us to study that we may "live as we pray." That can be a scary proposition for those of us who, this Lent, try to move from self-centered prayer that flows from a "me, me, me" attitude to selfless and open-handed prayer. Let me see Christ in others; let me be Christ to others. What would that entail?

Keble believed that a prophetic church fostered such a lifestyle. To that end he wrote The Christian Year, a series of poems appropriate for Sundays and feast days. And while we sing some of those poems as hymns (see nos. 10 and 656, for instance), Keble made history with his sermon "National Apostasy."

In that sermon he roundly attacked the idea that the church is an arm of the state or of society and defended it as the vehicle as God’s prophetic voice. Surely his integrity and courage contributed to his fame; today he is hailed as the father of the Oxford Movement, a religious revival that reinvigorated the Established Church. As movements do, this one generated all sorts of concerns—that Anglicans were becoming too "Catholic"; that "smells and bells" were more important than heartfelt devotion; that the Church was in direct conflict with the state.

Through the brouhaha his stance created, Keble continued his pastoral ministry, trying to live the message of the beatitudes. Perhaps he would agree with the Northumbria Community meditation taken from Joshua 4, which expresses a longing to

To pray that God’s kingdom come is to step out of that mediocrity. Even more, to pray that God’s will be done means that we have the courage to take what God gives us to do and bear, asking that we may have forgiveness for our sins and deliverance from evil. To do that, we need our daily bread; and that is exactly what Keble argued was necessary for all—the sacrament of redemptive love in Christ Jesus, whose path we are trying to follow this Lent.

(Image: anglicanhistory.org/images/keble2.jpg)

March 31

"No man is an island," writes John Donne; "all mankind is of one author and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language."

As a poet Donne steeped his life in words and images that he wove into patterns that heart and blood grasped while the brain, poor child, was several steps behind. We are all one volume—that is bound to appeal to anyone who has hefted the comfortable weight of a leather-bound volume, who has luxuriated in the texture and deckled edges of hand-made paper, who finds a quiet hour curled up with a book one of God’s own pleasures. Eliot elaborates on the idea, seeing words "dancing together," seeing "every sentence . . . an end and a beginning":

It is that kind of connection that Jesus elaborates on in the Gospel of John, when he gives the assurance that if we hear and believe, we have eternal life. "Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee," says Donne. Walking this Lenten path, we die with the dying; and we are reborn with the one whom the Father loved.

But that understanding entails hard work: it means becoming "a spotless mirror of the working of God." It means sweeping away the comforting laws that bolster our sense of righteousness. It means loving God and our neighbor: nothing more, nothing less. And nothing, perhaps, harder for those of us hemmed in by the fences of our own making.

We pray we may break down those fences, to see that whatever has being is a page of the volume, a peal of the bell, a reflection of God.

 

Frederick Denison Maurice, Priest, 1872

April 1

What is wrong with this picture? On the front page of the New York Times, an African man in Malawi is prepares to pay for a small measure of corn. In the the "Dining Out" insert, New York chefs are interviewed. recipes highlighted, and Belgian chocolates, truffles, and imported olive oils tastefully advertised and reviewed. On the front page, we read that Africans pay a premium for imported grain; in the inner section we are asked to pay a premium for gourmet delights. On the front page, Malawians, tormented by drought and forgotten by their wealthy brothers and sisters, are facing starvation. There, the clinics are overwhelmed with malnourished and dying babies. In the inner section, readers—we—are temped by delicacies and assured that our epidemic obesity may be cured by tummy tucks and counting calories.

What is wrong with this picture? What has happened to the psalmist’s blessing—

This grain, this fruit is on our hilltops; our hands are running over with its goodness. It is a picture that Frederick Dennison Maurice would have deplored, and more. He would have acted upon it. His background prepared him for that. As a child, he went with his father, a Unitarian minister, to meetings of the Anti-Slavery Society and became acquainted with the social reform movements of the day. In adulthood he wrote the influential Kingdom of Christ, in which he argued that social questions are the domain of the church. If God is indeed to "deliver the poor who cries out in distress, and the oppressed who has no helper," then the economics of competition make no sense. His life is a model of social action. He helped to establish Queen’s College, which educated women—a contentious issue of his time; he supported Chartism, a working man’s reform movement that called for political reform, including universal male suffrage; and he helped establish the Working Men’s College.

If we have fasted this Lent, we have experienced only a negligible percent of the want and deprivation of our brothers and sisters, and we have done so by choice, not by necessity. If we have followed, even once, in the footsteps of Christ as he visited the poor and the needy, we have tasted the passion for justice and truth that motivated Maurice. May God give us the strength to open our hands fully to those in need, and may we be among those who hearken to Jesus’s voice.

Readings: Psalm 72:11-17 or Psalm 145:8-13; Ephesians 3:14-19; John 18:33-37
(Image: www.wmcollege.ac.uk/images/historic_pics/maurice.jpg)

4 April 1968

"Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?" asked Moses. "Who am I, tongue-tied and trembling? Who am I, the son of a pastor—a Black pastor—in the deep South?" Martin Luther King might have asked those questions. He might have found his calling at home in Atlanta, Georgia, instead of leaving the imprint of his footsteps across the hearts and souls of all Americans.

He moved us all, marching in Alabama and in Washington, desegregating the Montgomery busses, establishing the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and providing hope to those who asked for equal rights—to vote, to work, to settle their families in decent housing.

It was a tumultuous time, when anything seemed possible, even the electrifying news that a southern-born African American named Martin Luther King, Jr. had won the Nobel Peace Prize. Popular sentiment remembers the sixties for its psychedelic culture, for those who took the words "freedom" and "love" to their extremes, a time of Woodstock, drugs, and flower-power. But others were energized by a movement that promised to bring into actuality the phrase, "love your neighbor." We believed—really believed—that here at last was a movement of the people, a movement that would help to bring God’s love to all his children. Brothers and sisters from all walks—rich, poor; black, white; north and south—rolled up their sleeves and moved into the slums. They set up soup kitchens and shelters, became teachers, and helped to register voters; they joined the Peace Corps and Doctors Without Borders. The work King inspired was God’s love in action, a commitment to building a community of tolerance, with enough food, housing, and work for everyone.

Did Martin Luther King change the world? Can we now rest on his laurels, comfortable that our own wealth is a fair share, that we are living our lives not to our own glory but to God’s?

Well. The streets may be quiet, but the march really does go on.

"Who am I?" we may ask.

"God’s own, marked by Him forever" . . . and we may look to Dr. King as someone who had the courage to acknowledge that identity.

Readings: Psalm 77:11-20 or Psalm 98:1-4; Exodus 3:7-12; Luke 6:27-36.

I invite you to travel on a meditative journey, stopping at each of the stations of the cross. As Jesus said on another occasion, you may not take your purse or any baggage, you may not take an extra pair of sandals. You may take only yourself.

╬ First Station. "I am innocent of this man’s blood. Look to it yourselves."

╬ Second Station. "They stripped us of the purple cloak, dressed us in our own clothes . . ."

╬ Third Station. "And carrying the cross ourselves, we go out to what is called the Place of the Skull."

╬ Fourth Station. "Standing nearby are our mother and those we love . . ."

╬ Fifth Station. "They press into service a passer-by . . ."

╬ Sixth Station. "They will look upon us whom they have pierced."

╬ Seventh Station: "The people stood by and watched; the rulers . . . sneered at us and said, "You saved others, let you save yourself . . ."

╬ Eighth Station: "Do not weep for me; weep instead for yourselves and for your children."

╬ Ninth Station: "You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it . . . save yourself . . ."

╬ Tenth Station: "They took our clothes and divided them into four shares . . . [and] cast lots . . ."

╬ The last four Stations: "They crucified him. . ."