Tonight we welcomed nearly 70 people - and more than 25 children - to our annual Saint Nicholas' Day Family Service and Potluck Supper. There was lots of singing, a rowdy call and response reading of Psalm 145 ("God is good, all the time!") and a homily about the humble generosity of Saint Nicholas - with bags of "gold" (foil wrapped chocolates) for all the kids.
Moments after the blessing and dismissal, Saint Nicholas - in his more familiar guise as Father Christmas - burst through the doors and handed out gifts to an excited crowd before leading the whole assembly to the undercroft for supper. What a feast it was, and the undercroft has never felt so bright and festive!!!
One of many heartwarming moments: In all the activity during the homily, some big clumps of foil confetti had fallen on the floor. I was going to move on with the service and clean it up later. But two of our youngest worshipers just weren't going to be happy as long as there was a mess in front of the altar. So, while the rest of us said the Prayers, they dutifully gathered up every strand with great care and placed it all in a neat pile next to the lectern. It was a touching example of heartfelt reverence for God's house.
And what a joy it is for God's house to be full of children like these!
Special thanks to Mary Ellen Blizzard, Don and Margie Fraser, David and Valerie Horvath, Karen Martin and Jimmy Tolfree for making this year's celebration a night to remember.
Faithfully,
Father Chris+
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Preparing our hearts for our Patronal Feast (October 26)
This coming Sunday, October 26, we will celebrate our Patronal Feast. This is a special Sunday on which we honor the saint after whom our parish is named, Saint James of Jerusalem, the brother of Our Lord Jesus Christ. It’s a little bit like a birthday party for the congregation, and so we’ll be thanking God for the gift of another year of parish life and ministry in the city of Long Beach.
But our Patronal Feast is more than just a commemoration. It’s also a time for us to remember who we are. Much as religious orders strive to express the charisms – the unique spiritual gifts for mission – of their founders, we are called to express the charisms of our church’s patron saint. In a very particular way, that means renewing our commitment to the vision that St. James of Jerusalem stood for. So, this Sunday, we'll reflect on that vision, asking his prayers, and God’s gracious help, to make that vision real in the world around us.
So, who was James of Jerusalem? What was his message? What charisms did he express?
The New Testament tells us that James was a near kinsman of Jesus who was favored with a special appearance of the Lord before his ascension (1 Corinthians 15:7). Eventually, he became the first Bishop of Jerusalem and presided there over the first church council, when conflict erupted over whether Gentile converts should be held to the letter of the Mosaic law. James, a strictly observant Jewish Christian, exercised visionary leadership on a breathtaking scale, confirming the council’s decision with these words: “My judgment is that we should impose no irksome restrictions on those Gentiles who are turning to God” (Acts 15:19). For his wise guidance, purity of heart, and liberality of spirit, he came to be surnamed "the Just".
In the epistle traditionally attributed to him, James urges us to the practice of real discipleship: Faith without works is dead. He warns us against destructive habits and attitudes that, if we don’t keep our eyes open, can creep in through the church’s back door: formalism, which clings to ceremony but forgets love and purity of heart (1:27); extremism, which uses religion as a pretext for violence (1:20); worldliness, which gives preferential treatment to rich people and gives poor people second best (2:2); false witness, which uses words to manipulate others (3:2-12); party-spirit (3:14); evil and divisive speech (4:11); showing off (4:16); and abuse of power (5:4). And, in turn, he exhorts us to be supernaturally patient – in trial (1:2) , through performing good works (1:22-25), when provoked (3:17), when oppressed (5:7), when persecuted (5:10) – knowing that there is nothing to fear, for the Lord himself is near.
James' epistle is also the chief biblical text for the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick. James writes:
"Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. And their prayer offered in faith will heal the sick, and the Lord will make them well. And anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven." (5:14,15).
How are we being called to express the spirit, message and vision of St. James of Jerusalem – James the Just! – in the year ahead?
“Grant, O God, that, following the example of your servant James the Just, brother of our Lord, your Church may give itself continually to prayer and to the reconciliation of all who are at variance and enmity; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.” (Lesser Feasts and Fasts, collect for Saint James of Jerusalem)
Father Chris+
But our Patronal Feast is more than just a commemoration. It’s also a time for us to remember who we are. Much as religious orders strive to express the charisms – the unique spiritual gifts for mission – of their founders, we are called to express the charisms of our church’s patron saint. In a very particular way, that means renewing our commitment to the vision that St. James of Jerusalem stood for. So, this Sunday, we'll reflect on that vision, asking his prayers, and God’s gracious help, to make that vision real in the world around us.
So, who was James of Jerusalem? What was his message? What charisms did he express?
The New Testament tells us that James was a near kinsman of Jesus who was favored with a special appearance of the Lord before his ascension (1 Corinthians 15:7). Eventually, he became the first Bishop of Jerusalem and presided there over the first church council, when conflict erupted over whether Gentile converts should be held to the letter of the Mosaic law. James, a strictly observant Jewish Christian, exercised visionary leadership on a breathtaking scale, confirming the council’s decision with these words: “My judgment is that we should impose no irksome restrictions on those Gentiles who are turning to God” (Acts 15:19). For his wise guidance, purity of heart, and liberality of spirit, he came to be surnamed "the Just".
In the epistle traditionally attributed to him, James urges us to the practice of real discipleship: Faith without works is dead. He warns us against destructive habits and attitudes that, if we don’t keep our eyes open, can creep in through the church’s back door: formalism, which clings to ceremony but forgets love and purity of heart (1:27); extremism, which uses religion as a pretext for violence (1:20); worldliness, which gives preferential treatment to rich people and gives poor people second best (2:2); false witness, which uses words to manipulate others (3:2-12); party-spirit (3:14); evil and divisive speech (4:11); showing off (4:16); and abuse of power (5:4). And, in turn, he exhorts us to be supernaturally patient – in trial (1:2) , through performing good works (1:22-25), when provoked (3:17), when oppressed (5:7), when persecuted (5:10) – knowing that there is nothing to fear, for the Lord himself is near.
James' epistle is also the chief biblical text for the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick. James writes:
"Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. And their prayer offered in faith will heal the sick, and the Lord will make them well. And anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven." (5:14,15).
How are we being called to express the spirit, message and vision of St. James of Jerusalem – James the Just! – in the year ahead?
“Grant, O God, that, following the example of your servant James the Just, brother of our Lord, your Church may give itself continually to prayer and to the reconciliation of all who are at variance and enmity; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.” (Lesser Feasts and Fasts, collect for Saint James of Jerusalem)
Father Chris+
Saturday, May 03, 2008
"To an unknown god" - Sixth Sunday of Easter - April 27, 2008
What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. Acts 17:23b
In medieval Europe, a woman unable to care for an infant would sometimes place half a torn playing card among the child's effects before giving it over to the care of an orphanage, keeping the other half for herself. The card would be torn precisely so that there could be no question that the two halves belonged together. The mother hoped that, one day, she might be able to reclaim her child by reuniting the halves.
Imagine being such a child. If you knew what that torn playing card was for, it would be more precious to you than anything else you possessed, no matter how worthless it looked to anyone else. And if you didn't know exactly what it was for, well, you'd still treasure it, if only because it was something left with you by the one who gave you life. Either way, whether you knew it or not, it would be a priceless clue to finding the answer to the most important question of your life: Who am I?
When Saint Paul spoke to the learned Athenians at the Areopagus (Acts 17:22-31), his eye was drawn to one altar among the many dedicated to the pagan gods. Unlike the other altars, this altar was practically derelict: no elaborate sacrifices, no lush rituals, no myths to explain why it was there, no priests to maintain it. Someone, long ago, had set it up, maybe just in case some strange god was in that place, or maybe for some other reason... but who can remember?
And on that altar was engraved this dedication: To an unknown god. They might as well have carved a huge "?" in that stone. It was as if that altar was pleading, "For whom am I made?".
To anyone else, that altar would have seemed a worthless thing. But Saint Paul saw in it something like that torn playing card. He saw in it evidence that the pagan heart was aching with the question: Who am I? Which is really the question: For whom am I made?
And Saint Paul wanted those wise Athenians not just to ache with that question but to burn with it.
So Saint Paul gently but relentlessly unveiled for them the truth about that much neglected altar "to an unknown god" - that its very incompleteness is what made it the best and wisest and truest of all the altars. Why? Because of all the altars in the Areopagus, this was the only one that didn't pretend to be sufficient. It was the only one that left open the question: For whom am I made?
And it was therefore the only altar that left silence enough, and humility enough, for an answer to be given. That we are made for the God who raised Jesus Christ from the dead. That even though we grope for him, as if in darkness, he is truly very near us. That we are his offspring. That our calling is high - and to neglect it, perilous.
Every child born into this world has, among its possessions, a torn playing card. In its heart, there is built an altar upon which is written: To an unknown God. Worthless things, in and of themselves. Except that there is One who holds the other half. Except that there is One who longs to be known as much as you long to know.
Your incompleteness, your brokenness, is the only thing that God requires. If only you seek, God will give you everything else.
In medieval Europe, a woman unable to care for an infant would sometimes place half a torn playing card among the child's effects before giving it over to the care of an orphanage, keeping the other half for herself. The card would be torn precisely so that there could be no question that the two halves belonged together. The mother hoped that, one day, she might be able to reclaim her child by reuniting the halves.
Imagine being such a child. If you knew what that torn playing card was for, it would be more precious to you than anything else you possessed, no matter how worthless it looked to anyone else. And if you didn't know exactly what it was for, well, you'd still treasure it, if only because it was something left with you by the one who gave you life. Either way, whether you knew it or not, it would be a priceless clue to finding the answer to the most important question of your life: Who am I?
When Saint Paul spoke to the learned Athenians at the Areopagus (Acts 17:22-31), his eye was drawn to one altar among the many dedicated to the pagan gods. Unlike the other altars, this altar was practically derelict: no elaborate sacrifices, no lush rituals, no myths to explain why it was there, no priests to maintain it. Someone, long ago, had set it up, maybe just in case some strange god was in that place, or maybe for some other reason... but who can remember?
And on that altar was engraved this dedication: To an unknown god. They might as well have carved a huge "?" in that stone. It was as if that altar was pleading, "For whom am I made?".
To anyone else, that altar would have seemed a worthless thing. But Saint Paul saw in it something like that torn playing card. He saw in it evidence that the pagan heart was aching with the question: Who am I? Which is really the question: For whom am I made?
And Saint Paul wanted those wise Athenians not just to ache with that question but to burn with it.
So Saint Paul gently but relentlessly unveiled for them the truth about that much neglected altar "to an unknown god" - that its very incompleteness is what made it the best and wisest and truest of all the altars. Why? Because of all the altars in the Areopagus, this was the only one that didn't pretend to be sufficient. It was the only one that left open the question: For whom am I made?
And it was therefore the only altar that left silence enough, and humility enough, for an answer to be given. That we are made for the God who raised Jesus Christ from the dead. That even though we grope for him, as if in darkness, he is truly very near us. That we are his offspring. That our calling is high - and to neglect it, perilous.
Every child born into this world has, among its possessions, a torn playing card. In its heart, there is built an altar upon which is written: To an unknown God. Worthless things, in and of themselves. Except that there is One who holds the other half. Except that there is One who longs to be known as much as you long to know.
Your incompleteness, your brokenness, is the only thing that God requires. If only you seek, God will give you everything else.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Welcome Fr. Chris King
Fr. Christopher King has joined us as our new priest in residence. We at St. James extend him a warm welcome and look forward to his guidance as we begin a new era in the history of our church. We wish Fr. Tony all the best in his retirement and thank him for his invaluable service over the past years.
Monday, February 26, 2007
A Memorial - Remembering David Clark
Sunday, February 25, 2007
St. James, Long Beach
By Fr. Tony Jewiss
Some of you will remember the days when funerals and memorials were always very somber. The priest wore black vestments and the service of Holy Eucharist was called a Solemn Requiem. The relatives and friends who came all wore dark suits or dresses and the women would usually wear a hat and veil. All that changed in the late 1960’s when a new theology surrounding our deaths was introduced. The splendor of the pageantry of life was brought to the fore; the idea of celebration was introduced. For had not the person we had loved so much on earth now transcended all that is hard and miserable, had they not been freed from the suffering and pain of their terminal illness, had they not made that fantastic and fabulous leap into the waiting arms of the creator? This was not a time, then, for too much sadness, though a little was always allowed. But sadness has a selfish component, the new thinking reasoned. Our thoughts should be reconciled and indeed happy for the one who had died, and our own, if understandable, feelings of loss be somewhat suppressed. Now the priest would wear white or gold, the lessons would reflect the awaiting joys of heaven and the hymns would tell out the triumphant news of victory over death.
In reality though, it is not so simple is it?
In fact, we are torn, and stretched dreadfully.
Of course we are happy that our loved one suffers no more, and of course we know that they are now at peace. But we don’t really know much about heaven do we? Jesus used allegories over and over to give us an idea of what heaven is like, but he did that because we simply don’t have the capacity to really comprehend. And the new theology simply does not provide what we who are left behind really need. It does not provide anything to fill the emptiness, to make the noises in the void that our special “he” or “she” used to make. It does nothing to justify setting the second place at the table, fluffing the pillows or shopping for something special for dinner. It cannot fill the emptiness in our arms, and it provides nothing for our hands to stroke.
It is a theology of good intention, and it is a theology of hope, but it is a poor theology of consolation. It is a theology that works in the long run, but not in the short term.
That is why we have to try to hold both in some kind of tension as our emotions take us on a roller-coaster ride that seems to last forever.
One thing is certainly true; we cannot and should not rely on those old clichés, you know the ones. “Try to forget”. “Get on with your life”. That is very bad advice; Better advice is to let the memories flood in, painful as they are. Let the sense of loss overcome you in waves that no sooner recede than they come again. Cry without shame or provocation. Those times call for Kleenex. That’s what they are for. In time, those memories become treasures. They could not become treasures if they are suppressed, but small and great wonders they will indeed become if allowed to mature, and find their own comfortable place in your life and in your heart.
Everything is a stretch at first, and so be it.
Our service today is something of a stretch, too.
Today is the first Sunday of the Lenten season. It is a time during which we are advised to reflect, to make some time available to ponder our lives, to take stock of where we are on our own journeys, to think of our own mortality and to re-examine our relationships. It is a somber season. We wear dark colors and the lessons remind us of the need to repent, a word which has a street-corner-preacher ring to it. It comes, though, from the Greek word to turn around, which gives it an entirely different perspective. We do not simply cast a glance of the shoulder to see what might be coming up behind us. We make an intentional turn, so that we might see clearly in a new direction, a direction we may never have noticed before, or possibly a direction down which we may have been reluctant to travel in the past.
I do not think it is at all inappropriate to allow the somber and reflective tones of Lent to inform the sense of loss we feel at the death of one of our own parishioners. We welcome the new born in the context of the Sunday service, bringing them into the family of believers in the company of parents and god-parents and friends. Sometimes, quite a few years later, they marry or join in commitment within the context of a Sunday Service, in the company of family and friends and all the parishioners who have always known them. Today we say farewell to David, whose ashes are before us.
That tension continues, because only last Wednesday we heard the words “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return” and we wore a smudge of dark dust on our foreheads to remind us and all who looked at us that we had had an encounter with reality. This dust is all that remains of the David upon whom we could once look, the David who used to come here so full of energy, so entertaining, so sure of himself. The David who had no intention of letting his cancer get the better of him. The David who had a kind of cavalier past, who had been to lots of places and done many things, who, when he was physically able, could build things, jump into the breach and work with friends to accomplish great things and who would think nothing of supporting them financially as well as physically. The David who was the equal and opposite of his Sally. Together they made a couple that was a kind of stretch in itself. So different, yet so complimentary. So opposite yet so polarized. So opinionated yet so conciliatory. So loving, yet so…loving. What a pair! So interesting and so compelling to all who knew them as a couple.
The dust in the urn here today is precious, but it is not the David we knew, it is not the David who was the other part of Sally. The ashes here are the respected remains, but the person who inhabited that body in good times and then very bad times, is gone.
We shall go, too. One of the messages of the Lenten season is this reminder. We shall go too. As we grieve, so we will cause others to grieve. As we seek meaning in loss, so we will in turn cause others to seek meaning in loss. As we struggle to sense the grandeur and pageantry of human life even as it slips away, so we will in turn cause others to struggle to sense the grandeur and pageantry of human life even as our own slips away. Yet there is indeed triumph. Not always easy to see or sense. The modern theology sees it and sometimes we have to try to focus through the tears to see it too.
“I am resurrection and I am life, says the Lord”.
These are the words we use to greet the remains of the departed one at the beginning of the Burial Office. They remind us of the great destination to which we can all hope to arrive safely. At this time in the Church’s year those words also remind us of the “how” and the “why”. One of the wonderful things about the cadence of the Church’s year is the way in which the events in human life gain their true relevance through the life, death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ. These next few weeks will lead us almost relentlessly towards the events of Holy Week, during which we will hear on two separate occasions the story of the Passion and Death of Jesus Christ. The drama of those days will tear at our hearts, as with modern ears and imaginations we try to place those ancient events into our consciousness.
We are not strangers to injustice. “I see nothing wrong in this man” says Pontius Pilate “so I will have him flogged and then set him free”. How many modern examples of similar injustice have we known? It does not take much imagination to translate everything that happened to Jesus into events of our own time. Ruthlessness, injustice, inability to forgive, righteous demands for vengeance and revenge, the demands of the victims’ relatives to be present at the execution for the sake of “closure” – we know all about these things. Lent and Holy Week simply place before us the very need to seek transcendence from our base inclinations.
That transcendence comes on Easter morning, but first we must walk the way of the cross.
So it is as we prepare to commit our brother David to the ground. His journey is over and he has been transformed into that new life – a mystery to us, but very much a part of our hope in the Lord. “In death, life is changed, not ended” our Prayer Book reminds us. The life in which all that David Clark ever might have been is now fully realized.
St. James, Long Beach
By Fr. Tony Jewiss
Some of you will remember the days when funerals and memorials were always very somber. The priest wore black vestments and the service of Holy Eucharist was called a Solemn Requiem. The relatives and friends who came all wore dark suits or dresses and the women would usually wear a hat and veil. All that changed in the late 1960’s when a new theology surrounding our deaths was introduced. The splendor of the pageantry of life was brought to the fore; the idea of celebration was introduced. For had not the person we had loved so much on earth now transcended all that is hard and miserable, had they not been freed from the suffering and pain of their terminal illness, had they not made that fantastic and fabulous leap into the waiting arms of the creator? This was not a time, then, for too much sadness, though a little was always allowed. But sadness has a selfish component, the new thinking reasoned. Our thoughts should be reconciled and indeed happy for the one who had died, and our own, if understandable, feelings of loss be somewhat suppressed. Now the priest would wear white or gold, the lessons would reflect the awaiting joys of heaven and the hymns would tell out the triumphant news of victory over death.
In reality though, it is not so simple is it?
In fact, we are torn, and stretched dreadfully.
Of course we are happy that our loved one suffers no more, and of course we know that they are now at peace. But we don’t really know much about heaven do we? Jesus used allegories over and over to give us an idea of what heaven is like, but he did that because we simply don’t have the capacity to really comprehend. And the new theology simply does not provide what we who are left behind really need. It does not provide anything to fill the emptiness, to make the noises in the void that our special “he” or “she” used to make. It does nothing to justify setting the second place at the table, fluffing the pillows or shopping for something special for dinner. It cannot fill the emptiness in our arms, and it provides nothing for our hands to stroke.
It is a theology of good intention, and it is a theology of hope, but it is a poor theology of consolation. It is a theology that works in the long run, but not in the short term.
That is why we have to try to hold both in some kind of tension as our emotions take us on a roller-coaster ride that seems to last forever.
One thing is certainly true; we cannot and should not rely on those old clichés, you know the ones. “Try to forget”. “Get on with your life”. That is very bad advice; Better advice is to let the memories flood in, painful as they are. Let the sense of loss overcome you in waves that no sooner recede than they come again. Cry without shame or provocation. Those times call for Kleenex. That’s what they are for. In time, those memories become treasures. They could not become treasures if they are suppressed, but small and great wonders they will indeed become if allowed to mature, and find their own comfortable place in your life and in your heart.
Everything is a stretch at first, and so be it.
Our service today is something of a stretch, too.
Today is the first Sunday of the Lenten season. It is a time during which we are advised to reflect, to make some time available to ponder our lives, to take stock of where we are on our own journeys, to think of our own mortality and to re-examine our relationships. It is a somber season. We wear dark colors and the lessons remind us of the need to repent, a word which has a street-corner-preacher ring to it. It comes, though, from the Greek word to turn around, which gives it an entirely different perspective. We do not simply cast a glance of the shoulder to see what might be coming up behind us. We make an intentional turn, so that we might see clearly in a new direction, a direction we may never have noticed before, or possibly a direction down which we may have been reluctant to travel in the past.
I do not think it is at all inappropriate to allow the somber and reflective tones of Lent to inform the sense of loss we feel at the death of one of our own parishioners. We welcome the new born in the context of the Sunday service, bringing them into the family of believers in the company of parents and god-parents and friends. Sometimes, quite a few years later, they marry or join in commitment within the context of a Sunday Service, in the company of family and friends and all the parishioners who have always known them. Today we say farewell to David, whose ashes are before us.
That tension continues, because only last Wednesday we heard the words “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return” and we wore a smudge of dark dust on our foreheads to remind us and all who looked at us that we had had an encounter with reality. This dust is all that remains of the David upon whom we could once look, the David who used to come here so full of energy, so entertaining, so sure of himself. The David who had no intention of letting his cancer get the better of him. The David who had a kind of cavalier past, who had been to lots of places and done many things, who, when he was physically able, could build things, jump into the breach and work with friends to accomplish great things and who would think nothing of supporting them financially as well as physically. The David who was the equal and opposite of his Sally. Together they made a couple that was a kind of stretch in itself. So different, yet so complimentary. So opposite yet so polarized. So opinionated yet so conciliatory. So loving, yet so…loving. What a pair! So interesting and so compelling to all who knew them as a couple.
The dust in the urn here today is precious, but it is not the David we knew, it is not the David who was the other part of Sally. The ashes here are the respected remains, but the person who inhabited that body in good times and then very bad times, is gone.
We shall go, too. One of the messages of the Lenten season is this reminder. We shall go too. As we grieve, so we will cause others to grieve. As we seek meaning in loss, so we will in turn cause others to seek meaning in loss. As we struggle to sense the grandeur and pageantry of human life even as it slips away, so we will in turn cause others to struggle to sense the grandeur and pageantry of human life even as our own slips away. Yet there is indeed triumph. Not always easy to see or sense. The modern theology sees it and sometimes we have to try to focus through the tears to see it too.
“I am resurrection and I am life, says the Lord”.
These are the words we use to greet the remains of the departed one at the beginning of the Burial Office. They remind us of the great destination to which we can all hope to arrive safely. At this time in the Church’s year those words also remind us of the “how” and the “why”. One of the wonderful things about the cadence of the Church’s year is the way in which the events in human life gain their true relevance through the life, death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ. These next few weeks will lead us almost relentlessly towards the events of Holy Week, during which we will hear on two separate occasions the story of the Passion and Death of Jesus Christ. The drama of those days will tear at our hearts, as with modern ears and imaginations we try to place those ancient events into our consciousness.
We are not strangers to injustice. “I see nothing wrong in this man” says Pontius Pilate “so I will have him flogged and then set him free”. How many modern examples of similar injustice have we known? It does not take much imagination to translate everything that happened to Jesus into events of our own time. Ruthlessness, injustice, inability to forgive, righteous demands for vengeance and revenge, the demands of the victims’ relatives to be present at the execution for the sake of “closure” – we know all about these things. Lent and Holy Week simply place before us the very need to seek transcendence from our base inclinations.
That transcendence comes on Easter morning, but first we must walk the way of the cross.
So it is as we prepare to commit our brother David to the ground. His journey is over and he has been transformed into that new life – a mystery to us, but very much a part of our hope in the Lord. “In death, life is changed, not ended” our Prayer Book reminds us. The life in which all that David Clark ever might have been is now fully realized.
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