St. Michael's Church, Litchfield, CT

A Jew, born in Cyprus and named Joseph, he sold his property, gave the proceeds to the Apostles, who gave him the name Barnabas, and lived in common with the earliest converts to Christianity in Jerusalem. He persuaded the community there to accept St. Paul as a disciple, was sent to Antioch, Syria, to look into the community there, and brought St. Paul there from Tarsus. With St. Paul he brought Antioch’s donation to the Jerusalem community during a famine, and returned to Antioch with John Mark, his cousin. The three went on a missionary journey to Cyprus, Perga (when John Mark went to Jerusalem), and Antioch in Pisidia, where they were so violently opposed by the Jews that they decided to preach to the pagans. Then they went on to Iconium and Lystra in Lycaonia, where they were first acclaimed gods and then stoned out of the city, and then returned to Antioch in Syria.

Grant, O God, that we may follow the example of thy faithful servant Barnabas, who, seeking not his own renown but the well-being of thy Church, gave generously of his life and substance for the relief of the poor and the spread of the Gospel.

Feast of the Martyrs of Japan by Br. James Koester

We remember today (February 5), in this commemoration of the Martyrs of Japan, what for me at least, is one of the more fascinating chapters in the history of Christian missionary activity. It is not that I am so interested in the why and how’s of the actual martyrdom, as I am interested in what happened afterward.

My hunch is that few of us here know much about Japan. What we do know is that historically, Japan has been a closed nation. It has been difficult for, and remains difficult, for outsiders to become accepted in Japan. And that was part of, and continues to be, part of the challenge for the Christian Church in Japan. It is seen to be very much an outsider. Yet, in the Sixteenth Century, the Church, through the missionary activity of one of the great Jesuit saints, Francis Xavier as well as some Franciscans, a tiny foothold was made in Japan for the Church. Unfortunately that came to an end on this day in 1597 when six Franciscan friars and 20 of their converts were crucified outside Nagasaki. By 1630 what was left of the church in Japan had been driven underground. And that is what fascinates me.

As a people primarily of European heritage we have a long Christian memory. We live in a culture that has been shaped and formed by the Christian faith and the church. Our social, political and economic institutions have all been shaped by the church and the faith which it professes. The same is not true in Japan. Our art, literature and architecture are profoundly Christian, or are a reaction against that faith. The same is not true in Japan. In many ways the faith which you and I share is supported and undergirded by, at least the remnants, of a Christian culture. The same is not true in Japan.

The fascinating thing about the Japanese church is that 250 years after the death of those martyrs in Nagasaki, when Japan was again opened up to trade and commerce with the West, there were discovered families who carried on vestiges of the Christian faith. Without the support of an institution called a “church,” without contact with Christians outside of Japan; without the structure of authority or hierarchy; without the support of buildings or literature or art there were Japanese families who had continued to baptize their children and to pass on the rudiments of the faith. That’s what fascinates me about the Japanese Church.

And it all raises for me a question. Without the support of all this: institutions and buildings and vestment and liturgies, and even the culture of a “Christian” nation do you and I have a living faith that is so convincing that we could pass it on to our children and grandchildren for two and a half centuries? Or would our faith and theirs simply fade away and become an interesting footnote in the pages of history?

Today we give thanks for the Martyrs of Japan, giving thanks not so much for their deaths, but for their faith and for the faith which they passed on to future generations. May we all have such a faith.

David P. Oakerhater (born around 1850) was a warrior and leader of the Cheyenne Indians of Oklahoma, and led a corps of fighters against the United States government in a dispute over Indian land rights. In 1875 he and 27 other military leaders were taken prisoner by the U S Army and sent to a military post in Florida. There, thanks to the efforts of a concerned Army captain, they learned English, were encouraged to earn money by giving art and archery lessons to visitors, and encountered the Christian faith. David and three others were moved to become Christians and to go north to study for the ministry. David was baptized in Syracuse, New York, in 1878, and ordained to the diaconate in 1881. He returned to Oklahoma and there founded schools and missions, and continued to work among his people until his death on 31 August 1931. When he first returned to Oklahoma in 1881, he said:

“You all know me. You remember when I led you out to war I went first, and what I told you was true. Now I have been away to the East and I have learned about another captain, the Lord Jesus Christ, and he is my leader. He goes first, and all He tells me is true. I come back to my people to tell you to go with me now in this new road, a war that makes all for peace.”

O God of unsearchable wisdom and infinite mercy, you chose a captive warrior, David Oakerhater, to be your servant, and sent him to be a missionary to his own people, and to exercise the office of a deacon among them: Liberate us, who commemorate him today, from bondage to self, and empower us for service to you and to the neighbors you have given us; through Jesus Christ, the captain of our salvation; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The above is from Kiefer’s Christian Biographies and was printed in The Coracle, the blog for Christ Church-Roxbury. Thank you, Rob!  http://www.christchurchroxbury.org/

I have been wanting to write a fan letter to the St. Michael’s choir for a long time. There are certain ingredients that make the choir and this situation very special for its conductor. And as we are in the midst of a very busy season, I think it’s about time I told you what they are. This dedicated group of singers possesses creativity, intelligence and open-ness, all of which appear to be boundless. Every Wednesday evening and again every Sunday the choir comes together to sing, to work, to laugh and to enjoy the incredible fellowship of like-minded people who sing, not because they simply feel like it, but because they must. Every service, every rehearsal and every rendition of an anthem or part of the liturgy, even in the learning stages, wrong notes and all, all these are prayers. The consistently excellent, seemingly effortless music every Sunday requires a great deal of patient work and rehearsal. Members of the choir are remarkable generous with their time – besides Sunday services, we have extra-liturgical events (such as the upcoming December 5 Lessons and Carols) and have already sung two concerts this season. The combination of talent, creative spirit and, above all, deep faith uplifts, heals and brings us all closer to God. So thank you, choir, from a devoted fan.

Writing about music is particularly appropriate at this time of the year. November 21 we commemorate William Byrd (d.1623), John Merbecke (d.1585) and Thomas Tallis (d.1585), all musicians. Tallis was Byrd’s mentor and colleague. These friends, a Protestant and a Catholic, were responsible for the most beautiful and noble music for the rites of the Reformed English Church. To this day, we continue to be grateful for this inheritance. Merbecke (also spelled Marbeck) wrote the first setting to music of the English Liturgy (Book of Common Prayer) as authorized by the Act of Uniformity of 1549. It is interesting that the “noting” of versicles and responses was adapted from Latin plainchant sources; also, they form the foundation with which harmonized versions have been constructed, beginning with those of Tallis and Byrd.

November 22 is the feast of St. Cecilia, martyr at Rome c. 280. Honored in both Episcopal and Roman traditions, she is the patron saint of music and musicians. There is no evidence that she actually was a musician; it is thought by some, however, that she is patron of the deeper sense of harmony both within the individual human soul and among relationships with others. I’d say that includes choir singers and the blessed ties of faith and love that bind us together.

APRIL 29 CATHERINE OF SIENA: SEER & DOER, 1347-1380
Catherine of Siena
Andrea Vanni, St Catherine of Siena, San Domenico, Sie
Born 25th and youngest into the household of a Siennese dyer, Catherine Benincasa was a daughter of privilege whose visions and determination to devote herself to the Savior and his work in the world, caused turmoil in her family and forged one of the two women ever named Doctor of the Church. Catherine’s visionary zeal made lots of folks wonder whether or not she was just plain nuts; I must admit, I’m glad I never faced the parental challenge of what to do when your six year old has visions of Jesus, Peter, Paul and John and only wants to close herself away in a darkened room, fast, and sleep on boards.

When her family finally decided this wasn’t just a phase, they consented to her entering the Dominican Order. She continued to have visions, some ecstatic, some demonic (see below). She devoted herself to being a nurse and was particularly noted for her ministry to lepers and plague victims. But that’s not all, she was a chaplain to condemned prisoners, an arbitrator for family feuds (I’m glad she made good use of her experience), a pastor preparing people for confession, an inveterate letter-writer and advisor to popes, kings and princes Pretty much she urged the power brokers to get over themselves and restore unity in the Church, like God had always intended. Remember the Great Schism, one pope in Avignon, one in Rome? Catherine was against it and she was willing to play politics in order to change it.
But more than all of those courageous and tireless ministries, Catherine may be best known as the author of a great mystical work dictated in ecstasy and entitled, The Dialogue, which is a conversation between God and his Daughter, Catherine’s Soul. God says to her, “beyond the beauty I have given the soul by creating her in my image and likeness, look at those who are clothed in the wedding garment of charity, adorned with many true virtues: they are united with me through love…they are another me….” Through this conversation, Catherine comes to the understanding that the Son is the bridge between God and humanity, like a stairway that begins with the affections, then moves to love, then progresses to peace. She’s sustained to walk that stairway in being told, “ [my] divinity is kneaded with the clay of your humanity like one bread.” (There’s that unity thing, again. Consistency in thought and deed is virtuous.)

There are two portraits of Catherine that show her two sides:  one as beatified saint;  the other as woman tormented by demons.  The first image, as her serene holiness, was painted by an artist friend of hers.  He was someone from outside the church who knew her well so I’m assuming that by 14th century standards, it’s a likeness. She seems so still, so serene, maybe even a little remote, except for the hands, which are long and delicate and strangely alive.  Hands she kept so busy throughout her working life – her fingers seem to lovingly brush  the cheek of a supplicant who kneels before her.  Catherine meant to connect with the world and gave her life to it, even though she suffered from torments and inner struggles from time to time (those demons just love to torment people who love well). Still, it’s too bad she didn’t take as good care of herself as she did others; she died at 33 of anorexia and exhaustion. She said she was collapsing under the weight of the church. I guess she wasn’t joking.

Today is the feast of the Annunciation (March 25 is nine months before Christmas, precise human gestation time) and because of some peculiar conflation, I keep hearing Handel,  ”O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion, da da da de de de, etc.” I suspect it’s that little catchy orchestra part that has beguiled me and fixed me on the mental loop of hearing and/or singing that phrase over and over.  Or maybe it’s that I’m longing to hear good tidings, accompanied by a little catchy orchestra part, of course.

For anybody else, Mary’s good tidings might have been the worst news ever: unplanned pregnancy for an unmarried adolescent.  Fear. Shame. Loss. Change.  You have to hand it to her, though, she questions, hears one surprising and out-of-this-world explanation and instead of exclaiming ”Say WHAT!?” she trusts that with God, it really is true that nothing is impossible.  And because God never does it alone, she sure did her part in that impossibility stuff, too.

So today sing a song for Our Lady and for all those favored souls who trust God’s impossible possibilities, too.

But what about the snakes and the green beer?  That’s all myth – though I never seriously believed my friend, Molly, who insisted that Patrick was the inventor of green beer…I was curious about the snakes, though.

Patrick, called Sochet, was born on Britain’s northwest coast about 390.  He made the third generation of Christians in his family (grandad was a priest, and dad was a deacon and held an important position in the late Roman Imperial government).  When Patrick was sixteen he was kidnapped by slavers who put him to work in Ireland as a shepherd.  After about five years of captivity, he escaped back to Britain and with him he took a newfound faith that enabled him to see life’s giftedness and God’s goodness and generosity —don’t know, maybe he got this revelation from the angel he spoke with every week and whom he witnessed ascend from the Rock of Scirit (leaving an imprint on the stone  –what do you think angel tracks look like?  My best guess:  this is a mythic story of the blessed saint.  We call them pious legends — the fancy name is hagiography.)

Back home Patrick devoted himself to the study and practice of the Christian faith and was ordained as both presbyter and bishop — though without a see, which is a tad peculiar.  Maybe it was the set up for his see being the whole world because on March 17, even folks with names like Abe Bernstein become Irish (though maybe it’s the green beer).

(more…)

March 12

The first Gregory who was Bishop of Rome, died on March 12, 604.  Only he and Leo the First, get the tag “the Great” and apparently both got Great by popular acclamation (could it be that the world and the gospel are in sync here? Occasionally that happens and we get a tease of the kingdom come.)  Anyway, I think the point is that sometimes the people just can’t help but bestow greatness – some undersecretary didn’t dream the title up as a publicity ploy or campaign slogan.

In just considering Gregory’s obit, what was so great about him was his bold, compassionate, energetic leadership through one of those ‘end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it’ times.   It’s something about the nick of time that seems appealing to God raising up leaders through history in just such times.  Sometimes it’s a surprise who will emerge to assume some responsibility they had neither intended nor sought.

In spite of barbarian invasion, plague, pestilence, and famine, Gregory organized Rome’s defense against the Lombards, opened the papal granaries in Sicily importing grain for Romans, initiated the ordering of the Church’s liturgy and encouraged the development of chant (as in Gregorian), authored Pastoral Care, what’s been called, ‘a classic on the work of the ministry’, AND he sent missionaries to preach the gospel to the English people (Augustine, first Archbishop of Canterbury was one of them). Why, that alone ranks a star in the Anglican family tree (the Venerable Bede called him, “the Apostle of the English”).

But what really made Gregory great was the integrity with which he lived the title given him when he assumed office, “Servant of the servants of God”.

“…whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant…” Mark 10: 43b

Today commemorates John and Charles Wesley, priests, 1791, 1788, and the founders of Methodism.  (Methodists was the name given to the gathering of the brothers and their evangelical friends at Christ Church, Oxford, because they were determined to strictly adhere to the worship and discipline of The Book of Common Prayer).  They were reformers and besides that, they were early tourists in ‘the colonies’ and praised God through word, deed and music.  Over 6,000 new songs were composed by Charles (I guess when you’re the eighteenth child (!), new compositions might be a survival technique). However, anyway you look at it, the sheer volume of sacred music, easily sung, is a whole lot of holy hymning.

Some famous musician is attributed as saying, “[the person] who sings, prays twice.”  Just think how many prayers that was for Charles.  Not only did he compose his own praises, but offered them for the benefit of all who seek God or a deeper knowledge of God which is why John and Charles gathered with their friends in the first place.

Every good reform movement as well as any good living of life needs lots of prayer.  We all need to learn a new song.  Consider for a moment some of the theological insights and most deeply held convictions upon which you set your heart that come in sound bytes of tune and lyric.  (My theology was first formed by hymns like, “All things bright & beautiful”, “I sing a song of the saints of God”, etc., etc.  I have so many favorite hymns I’m planning an intermission at my funeral.)

In the 16th century, St. Ignatius introduced the idea of the examen in his most famous work, The Spiritual Exercises. The examen is a prayer practice used with nature or our daily life experience (though there’s no reason it couldn’t be used with hymns, too) that focuses on the immanence of God, the God close by, near us,  dwelling in us and with us always. Ignatius says, “whereas silent prayer seeks to move us beyond this world of ours, the examen assists us in finding the God who is moving toward us, who is reaching into our world to save us.”

Could it be that through a new song of paying attention to our life and how it connects with the life of God that God reaches into our world to save? Could it be that in singing one of those new songs we develop a sense of God moving toward us?

It might just add new meaning to being lost in wonder, love & praise.