a story of potential

Sermon for Grace Episcopal Church, Florence, KY

January 16, 2011

Lectionary Readings for RCL, Year A, Second Sunday after the Epiphany:

Isaiah 49:1-7, I Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42, Psalm 40:1-12, John 1:29-42

Jacob was an angel-faced, rotund little boy from a single-stop-sign, trailer park town in Harlan County. He had attended Reading Camp for one year already, and, as many returning campers do, he came back to Pine Mountain Settlement School feeling like he was king of the world. That Sunday afternoon, he approached the check-in table with gusto, his parents trailing behind him, and gave hugs to all the staff members he knew from the previous year. Those he didn’t know, he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Jacob,” with an air of “…and I’m someone to know.”

You could tell from watching him that he had looked forward to camp all summer long – if not all year long. He was jovial and affable, laughing and talking up a storm as he performed the rather mundane but necessary check-in tasks of visiting the camp nurse, taking his things to the dormitory, and decorating his “shower bucket” (which, for the boys, means writing your name on the bucket with a big black sharpie, sticking a few motorcycle or Nascar stickers on it, and then running off to the playground to play basketball).

For a child, he was particularly emotionally intelligent, able to immediately identify the new campers (who weren’t always the smaller ones, because some 11 year campers had been held back so many times they were just entering the fourth grade), give them a good pat on the back and say, “Well hey there. I’m Jacob. I been to camp before. It’s awesome. You’re gonna love it here.”

Mid-week that particular year, the staff was having quite the time dealing with a camper named John David. John David looked straight out of a 1950’s soda shop – small for his age; always wearing white t-shirts, cornflower blue jeans, and clean, classic tennis shoes; with startling blue eyes, and sandy blond straight hair that naturally curled into a little spiral cowlick at his crown. It was his first year at camp, and he succeeded in putting on the “tough-guy” routine for the first 24 hours.

Then, on Monday night when all the campers were running and laughing, playing water games in the field with their counselors – a perennial favorite that, if forgotten, dooms a camp to failure – John David was sitting with some of the camp teachers on the gravel walk, inconsolable. Whining and pouting, stubborn, and really, downright nasty, his face was streaked with tears that intermittently rolled down his cheeks whenever he found it particularly impact-ful to cry. The camp directors, teachers, and counselors tried without avail to tell him that, “No, John David, you can’t go home now. Camp has just started, and you have no idea how much fun you’ll have! We don’t want you to miss that.” And always the same response: “I don’t care. I want to go HOME.” While most of it was an act, we realized that John David was very nervous and frightened; he had never been away from home before, and he was terrified.

We went through this with John David through Tuesday’s learning centers, afternoon environmental education, and evening campfire, convinced that he might find something that he liked, and just change his attitude. He didn’t. He sulked right through the highlights of the day. On Wednesday morning, we were justifiably fed up. He was being such a pill that we all threw our hands up in the air, out of ideas.

And then, during lunch, I looked over at Jacob. Sitting at a table of campers and teachers, he was talking animatedly, adeptly bringing the other kids into the performance, and entertaining the teachers, who were laughing so hard that they had picked up their napkins and were either dabbing their eyes or fanning themselves. And I thought, “Jacob. That’s who we need right now. We need Jacob.”

During the mid-afternoon snack break, I approached Jacob at the lemonade cooler. “Jacob, could I talk to you for a sec?” “Sure, you want some lemonade?” he held a cup at arm’s length for me to take. “Thanks.” We sat down on the side of a small footbridge that extended over a sparkling creek that bubbled along below us. “So, Jacob, I need your help. You know John David, right?” “Um hmm. He’s been real sad.” “Yes, he has. Now, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to be a friend to him. He’s having a hard time, and I think you could help him.” He put down his lemonade and put his left hand on my shoulder, lowering his chin, furrowing his brow, and said, seriously, “Now, you don’t need to worry, Allison. I’ll take care of him.” And he got up, threw back his lemonade, and marched off to the playground. I shook my head and chuckled as I watched him walk off in determination.

A few hours later, he and John David – who, for once, was smiling – stood together in the dining hall, lining up to get their supper. I came over to Jacob and asked quietly, “How’s everything going?” Again, the hand on the shoulder as he led me a few steps away. “Well, he’s fine now. He just needed a good cry is all. He’s gonna be just fine.” He gave me a wink (what child winks?), turned on his heel, and rejoined the line beside John David. And I sat down in a chair, scratched my head, and thought, “Well, I’ll be darned.”

I thought about Jacob and John David as I was reading this week’s Gospel lesson and preparing for this Sunday. In the middle of the passage, we read that Andrew and Simon have been following Jesus, moved by his presence and motivated by a yearning to go with him. The last verse in today’s Gospel is Jesus’ re-naming of Simon, “You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas,” Peter. And in that small moment where Simon’s name changes, something much more incredible happens. Jesus calls him CEphas, but more importantly, Jesus calls him to discipleship. He calls him to spread the Good News of God and God’s kingdom here and abroad. And through that call, he transforms Simon Peter, knowing that by living out this call, Simon Peter will transform the lives of people around him. Not unlike Jacob transforming John David’s week of camp, helping him get rid of his unrelenting fear.

I wonder if Jesus saw in Simon Peter gifts and talents just waiting to be used for the glory of God, waiting to be used to transform the world. I wonder if he saw charisma, a fiery passion, nerve; or if he saw patience, determination, and gentleness. He undoubtedly saw his human failings, but called him despite his errors and mistakes, just as he calls us. He knew that Simon Peter had the potential for transformation, not only of himself but people around him. Potential to hasten the coming of God’s kingdom, transforming the world through small acts that intimately touched people: healings, prayers, and teachings that rid them of their fear and vulnerability, and told them of God’s inconquerable love.

The story of Reading Camp is a story of potential. Every year we serve children who have been held been held back repeatedly; whose parents are illiterate and who, statistics say, have little chance of becoming literate themselves; Children who come to camp with dire prognoses from their public school teachers: “NON-READER,” the forms say, and invariably, “Johnny has no support from home, Megan is a serious behavior problem in class, or I highly doubt Freddy will ever be able to read.”

The ministry of Reading Camp is not easy; ministry never is. The volunteer staff people – teachers, support staff, counselors – we read these forms and we brace ourselves for the worst. It’s the strong bond amongst the staff members, and plenty of deep-breathing exercises, that assure us we can make it through the week with these little heathens we expect to receive.

But then, we meet the children – we see them in all their vulnerability as they get off the bus, having come to camp without their parents; as they say goodbye to mom, aunt, or foster parent, lips trembling, a few tears welling in their eyes and homesickness starting to creep in. We sit with them in the learning centers, coaxing them out of their reticence to read, the oppressive fear of failure, the hindrance of self-doubt and disappointment. We maintain an atmosphere of patience, encouragement, and enthusiasm for their progress and discoveries. And, the moment when one of the lowest readers reads his first sentence, when a child with comprehension problems answers every “who, what, when, where, why?” question perfectly, when a fourth grader runs to you and excitedly blurts out, “I just read two chapters in this book! I’ve never read a chapter book!” is enough to stop you dead in your tracks, bring tears to your eyes, and to marvel at that small miracle. To marvel at the untapped, unlimited potential of these children – these children who have been held back, whose parents are incarcerated, whose father cannot read, whose teachers haven't noticed their potential.

I have no doubt that God marvels at each of us – his beloved children – the same way that we at camp marvel at the children. We too are vulnerable, we are broken, we are hurting, we are hurtful – and yet that doesn’t stop God from calling us to discipleship and ministry, from calling us to progress and discoveries….just as it didn’t stop Jesus from calling Simon Peter.

I saw the potential in Jacob to help John David, and so, on my faith in his gifts, I called him to reach out. I knew he could be a friend. And, he was. And John David was no longer afraid.

The volunteers of Reading Camp see the potential in each child, and with unbending faith in each child’s creative ability and intelligence, we call them to use their gifts in ways they never thought possible. In ways that startle and excite them, and make them know, completely, that they CAN do it. They CAN read, they CAN learn, and they CAN relish the sense of accomplishment. The pain of past failures begins to fall away, as the child is empowered by his own sense of self-worth.

Reading Camp is a story of potential. The potential of the children, undtoubtedly, but more importantly, the potential of the volunteers to be conduits for God’s work in the world. To be witnesses to His love. And the most beautiful thing about the ministry of Reading Camp – YOU, as you are, are needed for . Whether you’re sixteen or 79, a certified teacher or an uncle who loves to read to his nephew; a teeball coach, a knitter, a guitarist, a poet; an energetic, bubbly personality or a calming presence and soothing voice; whether you can volunteer at a week of camp, help throughout the year or support this ministry financially – we need you. We need you to see your potential to change a child’s life. We need you to see the potential in the children we serve, but even moreso, the children need you to see their potential. To identify it, nourish it, and praise them for it. And our society has never needed these things more than it does today.

In the inner cities and poor rural areas, 68% of low-income 4^th graders cannot read at a basic level. (http://www.educyberpg.org/)

It is estimated that more than $2 billion is spent each year on students who repeat a grade because they have reading problems. (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services)

More than three out of four of those on welfare, 85% of unwed mothers and 68% of those arrested are illiterate. About three in five of America's prison inmates are illiterate. (Washington Literacy Council)

And, the reason Reading Camp began: that California, when determining how many jail cells it will need in 10, 15, 20 years, looks at the number children failing in reading in the 4^th grade.

I am so blessed to be with you this morning, by fellowship and worship with you, but also by the potential of this moment. This moment is a call; not unlike Jesus’ call of Simon Peter. A call to you to pray, consider, and identify your gifts and how you might claim a place in the life-giving ministry of Reading Camp. A call to you to see how, through impacting one child’s life, you are impacting the world. By empowering one child to read and complete his education, you are ending the cycle of poverty in his family, giving him the tools for gainful employment, and imbuing him with the ability and knowledge to “pay it forward” and help others achieve the same. You are a vehicle for the transformative power of Christ’s love.

I ask you: do you hear the call?

Glory to God, whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.

Amen.

the kingdom of god is among you

RCL Readings for November 14:
Isaiah 65:17-25, Canticle 9, 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13, Luke 21:5-9

The Gospel today presents us with an interesting predicament. Jesus is speaking about the coming of “the end,” the destruction of the Temple, the persecution of the disciples, all that must happen before the end-times, and the coming of the Son of Man. Did any of you happen to read the rest of Luke, Chapter 21 - the passages following what we read today? It is not a pretty picture - death, violence, destruction, wrath, and great distress upon the earth, and then Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place.” Jesus tells his disciples that this great conflagration will happen not only soon, but in their lifetimes, and that also within their lifetimes, he will return.

Scholars call this “the delay of the parousia,” and the early church fathers, as well as theologians and thinkers throuhgout history and to our present day, have grappled with this problem. ANd we have to grapple with it, too. What does it mean for us - for the CHristian community - that Matthew, Mark, and Luke write that Jesus proclaimed the nearness of the end-times? What does it mean that the earliest Christians believed that Jesus would come soon, but that we are all still waiting?

First, I believe one of Christianity’s responses to this problem was the creation of our cyclical liturgical calendar, which yearly calls us to return to Advent, and to live in a period of watching and waiting for the Lord. Advent returns us home to anticipation of Jesus’ coming, and to anticipation of the fulfillment of what he preached. Yearly, Emmanuel - God with us - comes to us. Yearly, we are reminded that God became incarnate in our human condition and lived alongside us.

Second, we are reminded when the lectionary is in the Gospel of Luke that Jesus preached that God’s kingdom was not so far off, but was actually readily available to his followers. Close enough to see.

In Luke chapter 17,

“Jesus was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God was coming, and he answered, ‘The Kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nore will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There it is!” For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.”

The kingdom of God is among you. For those who heard Jesus speak, it was close enough to see - the kingdom was incarnate in Jesus. Today, we, as very members incorporate in the mystical body of Christ, we are part of that mystery, too. The kingdom of God is among us.

What does the Kingdom of God look like? What does it feel like?

In Isaiah today we read:
“I am about to create new heavens
and a new earth...I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy,
and its people as a delight.
no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it,
or the cry of distress.
They shall not labor in vain,
or bear children for calamity;
for they shall be offspring blessed by the LORD-- “

In the kingdom of God, justice will run in the streets. There will be no inequality. People will “not labor in vain or bear children for calamity.” There will be no crime, no imprisonment, no prostitution, no unwanted pregnancies, no drop-outs, no unemployed parents, no hungry children, no lack of imagination, no death of creativity, no vulnerability, no exploitation, no despair, no lack of hope, no meaninglessness. No powerlessness, hopelessness, or disempowerment.

In short, there will be literacy.

Reading Camp, a ministry of our diocese that has touched hundreds of children, is about so much more than teaching a struggling child to read. Far more than that, Reading Camp and its mission of universal literacy are about preparing the way of the Lord, and hastening the coming of the kingdom. It is about ensuring that there is equality, that people are not disempowered by circumstance, but emboldened and encouraged by their ability to read, empowered to be actors in our society who can impact the world for good, instead of dependents who live in constant vulnerability.

Reading Camp is about ensuring that all children have the ability to dream, to imagine, and to create. It is about giving children who would never have the adventure of a summer camp experience an experience that will impact them and their families positively, that will give the child the skills he needs to finish his education and be able to support himself and family in the future.

It is about the people of our diocese coming together to transform the lives of children and families in communities across our state. It is about living out our Baptismal Covenant to “respect the dignity of every human being.” It is about ensuring that our most vulnerable members of society are given the same opportunities to thrive as our most secure and stable members. It is about hastening the coming of the kingdom.

On the bulletin board in my office, there is a small piece of paper pinned in the bottom right corner. I look to it every once in a while when I need to remember.

Dear Allison
I hope Clay comes back next year. I hope you have a good time when we have ice cream and s’mores. Thank you for making camp fun and letting me come to camp. I hope I can come back next year.
From Billy.

Billy and his twin brother Patrick live in Pineville (pahn-vuhl) with their father Bill, and they attended Reading Camp at Pine Mountain for their second year this past summer. I have notes from my first conversation with their father, back in 2009, when I was calling all the campers’ parents and preparing for camp:

(grumbling): “This’ Bill.”
“Hi, Bill, this is Allison, the director of Reading Camp. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine. That lady done filled out those papers for the boys. They’re comin’ to yer camp.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And I’ve got it down that they’ll be on the bus.”
“mmm hmm. Now, I want to tell you ‘bout my boys. I’m the only one who’s raised ‘em, and they’re good boys. But, if you need to, you use a switch to make ‘em mind. If they wuz ever hateful, you tell ‘em I told you you could use a switch.”
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t have to do that.”
“Well, if you need to.”
“(haha). Alright. Well, Bill, you just call me if you have any questions.”

From the time I received Patrick and Billy’s applications, I knew the boys and their father would be some of the most interesting people I had worked with. The boys’ teacher forms read, in all caps, “NON-READER.” On the part of the application where teachers can check each child’s strengths and weaknesses, the boys had no strengths. Every weakness was checked, and then those words, “NON READER.” The parent-guardian form had been filled out by “that lady,” (Deb Obermann from St. Mary’s in Middlesboro) because Bill was illiterate and could not fill it out himself. His signature was simply, “Bill,” not “William Miracle or even Bill Miracle,” just “Bill,” in a scrawl-like cursive that looked like a first grader’s.

The boys arrived at camp on Sunday very sullen, shut-off, and internal. They were gruff, they were abrasive. Most volunteers had an immediate reaction of “uh oh, these kids are trouble.” I have to admit, I didn’t particularly like them. However, part of the transformational nature of Reading Camp is that there’s this quiet understanding that permeates the staff, that informs how you treat the children, speak to the children, and eventually feel about the children: the ones who are the hardest to handle, the easiest to dislike – those are the ones that you commit to loving, the ones that you don’t give up on. Those are the ones who need the encouragement and patience of a caring adult the most.

Patrick and Billy remained gruff and mean until Wednesday morning, when it finally seemed to “click” for them that everyone at camp cared desperately about them, that no one cared that they struggled so much to write their name, and that the teachers were ecstatic when they finally named all the letters of the alphabet. They formed a close bond with Aaron, a young man who was a writing center teacher – and Aaron worked patiently and tenderly with the boys on their writing. Billy and Patrick really wanted to write letters to Marcie, a young woman who was our Pleasure Reading “librarian.” It took Aaron’s coaxing, prodding, encouragement, and help with every letter of every word, but by Friday morning, the boys had written their letters to Marcie, and they beamed when they handed them to her. It was a sobering moment for the whole staff – an awe, a “hush,” and not a few tears that these boys had been able to achieve something their public school teacher never thought possible. And I guess, an awe at the fact that in the course of a short week, we had fallen in love with those two stubborn boys.

The year passed, and the majority of our volunteers from that first summer returned again in 2010, and all of them wanted to know if the twins were coming back. And, they were! I picked Patrick and Billy up in Pineville and brought them to camp – and I cannot describe to you the level of excitement that was pouring out of those two. They knew what they were coming back to – an environment where it was okay to make mistakes, where people were patient, where people really cared about them, believed in them, and were going to help them to learn. A place where they could be children: curious, joyful children who wanted to learn. And I’ll tell you, their approach to camp this year was a 180-degree turn around from 2009. They were telling the other kids how to behave in the learning center. They were focused and engaged with each teacher, working SO hard to write more letters, stumble through simple books.

Billy and Patrick are like so many other Reading Camp children - forgotten by the system, disempowered by their circumstances. Children that we would never know, never come to love, and who may never learn to read were it not for Reading Camp But God works in mysterious ways, and uses us as vehicles to transform His world. Billy and Patrick are now receiving weekly reading tutoring from a member of St. Mary’s in Middlesboro, we are in contact with their school guidance counselor and principal, and a Reading Camp volunteer from New Jersey has become their anonymous benefactor, and will be until they complete high school. Because of Reading Camp, these boys are not forgotten. A very small piece of the kingdom has come into their lives. And they brought a piece of the kingdom into ours, too.

So, even though Christianity might be waiting for Jesus’ return and the coming of the kingdom of God, we cannot forget that Jesus said : “The kingdom is among you.” And, we cannot forget what that kingdom looks like: a transformed world without pain, sorrow, despair, or impotence, a world of justice, hope, respect, joy and eternal peace.

The medieval rabbis of the Kabbalah developed the concept of Tikkun Olam, or the healing or repairing of the world. It was believed that the Messiah would not come until all persons worked together with God to heal the world, to care for the poor, the widow and the orphan.

Perhaps that is what God is waiting for. Perhaps God wants us - his children - to work with him to heal the world of its pain, to care for its most vulnerable members, to bring into the lives of those around us a glimpse of the coming kingdom of heaven.

There are glimpses of the coming kingdom of heaven every summer at Reading Camps throughout our diocese. Won’t you join us in bringing the kingdom into the lives of children and their families? Through support of Reading Camp, I promise you - not only will you heal the world, but you will be touched as well. You will glimpse the coming of the Kingdom.


The Kingdom of God is among you.


Amen.

the kingdom of god is among you

RCL Readings for November 14:
Isaiah 65:17-25, Canticle 9, 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13, Luke 21:5-9

The Gospel today presents us with an interesting predicament. Jesus is speaking about the coming of “the end,” the destruction of the Temple, the persecution of the disciples, all that must happen before the end-times, and the coming of the Son of Man. Did any of you happen to read the rest of Luke, Chapter 21 - the passages following what we read today? It is not a pretty picture - death, violence, destruction, wrath, and great distress upon the earth, and then Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place.” Jesus tells his disciples that this great conflagration will happen not only soon, but in their lifetimes, and that also within their lifetimes, he will return.

Scholars call this “the delay of the parousia,” and the early church fathers, as well as theologians and thinkers throuhgout history and to our present day, have grappled with this problem. ANd we have to grapple with it, too. What does it mean for us - for the CHristian community - that Matthew, Mark, and Luke write that Jesus proclaimed the nearness of the end-times? What does it mean that the earliest Christians believed that Jesus would come soon, but that we are all still waiting?

First, I believe one of Christianity’s responses to this problem was the creation of our cyclical liturgical calendar, which yearly calls us to return to Advent, and to live in a period of watching and waiting for the Lord. Advent returns us home to anticipation of Jesus’ coming, and to anticipation of the fulfillment of what he preached. Yearly, Emmanuel - God with us - comes to us. Yearly, we are reminded that God became incarnate in our human condition and lived alongside us.

Second, we are reminded when the lectionary is in the Gospel of Luke that Jesus preached that God’s kingdom was not so far off, but was actually readily available to his followers. Close enough to see.

In Luke chapter 17,

“Jesus was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God was coming, and he answered, ‘The Kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nore will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There it is!” For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.”

The kingdom of God is among you. For those who heard Jesus speak, it was close enough to see - the kingdom was incarnate in Jesus. Today, we, as very members incorporate in the mystical body of Christ, we are part of that mystery, too. The kingdom of God is among us.

What does the Kingdom of God look like? What does it feel like?

In Isaiah today we read:
“I am about to create new heavens
and a new earth...I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy,
and its people as a delight.
no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it,
or the cry of distress.
They shall not labor in vain,
or bear children for calamity;
for they shall be offspring blessed by the LORD-- “

In the kingdom of God, justice will run in the streets. There will be no inequality. People will “not labor in vain or bear children for calamity.” There will be no crime, no imprisonment, no prostitution, no unwanted pregnancies, no drop-outs, no unemployed parents, no hungry children, no lack of imagination, no death of creativity, no vulnerability, no exploitation, no despair, no lack of hope, no meaninglessness. No powerlessness, hopelessness, or disempowerment.

In short, there will be literacy.

Reading Camp, a ministry of our diocese that has touched hundreds of children, is about so much more than teaching a struggling child to read. Far more than that, Reading Camp and its mission of universal literacy are about preparing the way of the Lord, and hastening the coming of the kingdom. It is about ensuring that there is equality, that people are not disempowered by circumstance, but emboldened and encouraged by their ability to read, empowered to be actors in our society who can impact the world for good, instead of dependents who live in constant vulnerability.

Reading Camp is about ensuring that all children have the ability to dream, to imagine, and to create. It is about giving children who would never have the adventure of a summer camp experience an experience that will impact them and their families positively, that will give the child the skills he needs to finish his education and be able to support himself and family in the future.

It is about the people of our diocese coming together to transform the lives of children and families in communities across our state. It is about living out our Baptismal Covenant to “respect the dignity of every human being.” It is about ensuring that our most vulnerable members of society are given the same opportunities to thrive as our most secure and stable members. It is about hastening the coming of the kingdom.

On the bulletin board in my office, there is a small piece of paper pinned in the bottom right corner. I look to it every once in a while when I need to remember.

Dear Allison
I hope Clay comes back next year. I hope you have a good time when we have ice cream and s’mores. Thank you for making camp fun and letting me come to camp. I hope I can come back next year.
From Billy.

Billy and his twin brother Patrick live in Pineville (pahn-vuhl) with their father Bill, and they attended Reading Camp at Pine Mountain for their second year this past summer. I have notes from my first conversation with their father, back in 2009, when I was calling all the campers’ parents and preparing for camp:

(grumbling): “This’ Bill.”
“Hi, Bill, this is Allison, the director of Reading Camp. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine. That lady done filled out those papers for the boys. They’re comin’ to yer camp.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And I’ve got it down that they’ll be on the bus.”
“mmm hmm. Now, I want to tell you ‘bout my boys. I’m the only one who’s raised ‘em, and they’re good boys. But, if you need to, you use a switch to make ‘em mind. If they wuz ever hateful, you tell ‘em I told you you could use a switch.”
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t have to do that.”
“Well, if you need to.”
“(haha). Alright. Well, Bill, you just call me if you have any questions.”

From the time I received Patrick and Billy’s applications, I knew the boys and their father would be some of the most interesting people I had worked with. The boys’ teacher forms read, in all caps, “NON-READER.” On the part of the application where teachers can check each child’s strengths and weaknesses, the boys had no strengths. Every weakness was checked, and then those words, “NON READER.” The parent-guardian form had been filled out by “that lady,” (Deb Obermann from St. Mary’s in Middlesboro) because Bill was illiterate and could not fill it out himself. His signature was simply, “Bill,” not “William Miracle or even Bill Miracle,” just “Bill,” in a scrawl-like cursive that looked like a first grader’s.

The boys arrived at camp on Sunday very sullen, shut-off, and internal. They were gruff, they were abrasive. Most volunteers had an immediate reaction of “uh oh, these kids are trouble.” I have to admit, I didn’t particularly like them. However, part of the transformational nature of Reading Camp is that there’s this quiet understanding that permeates the staff, that informs how you treat the children, speak to the children, and eventually feel about the children: the ones who are the hardest to handle, the easiest to dislike – those are the ones that you commit to loving, the ones that you don’t give up on. Those are the ones who need the encouragement and patience of a caring adult the most.

Patrick and Billy remained gruff and mean until Wednesday morning, when it finally seemed to “click” for them that everyone at camp cared desperately about them, that no one cared that they struggled so much to write their name, and that the teachers were ecstatic when they finally named all the letters of the alphabet. They formed a close bond with Aaron, a young man who was a writing center teacher – and Aaron worked patiently and tenderly with the boys on their writing. Billy and Patrick really wanted to write letters to Marcie, a young woman who was our Pleasure Reading “librarian.” It took Aaron’s coaxing, prodding, encouragement, and help with every letter of every word, but by Friday morning, the boys had written their letters to Marcie, and they beamed when they handed them to her. It was a sobering moment for the whole staff – an awe, a “hush,” and not a few tears that these boys had been able to achieve something their public school teacher never thought possible. And I guess, an awe at the fact that in the course of a short week, we had fallen in love with those two stubborn boys.

The year passed, and the majority of our volunteers from that first summer returned again in 2010, and all of them wanted to know if the twins were coming back. And, they were! I picked Patrick and Billy up in Pineville and brought them to camp – and I cannot describe to you the level of excitement that was pouring out of those two. They knew what they were coming back to – an environment where it was okay to make mistakes, where people were patient, where people really cared about them, believed in them, and were going to help them to learn. A place where they could be children: curious, joyful children who wanted to learn. And I’ll tell you, their approach to camp this year was a 180-degree turn around from 2009. They were telling the other kids how to behave in the learning center. They were focused and engaged with each teacher, working SO hard to write more letters, stumble through simple books.

Billy and Patrick are like so many other Reading Camp children - forgotten by the system, disempowered by their circumstances. Children that we would never know, never come to love, and who may never learn to read were it not for Reading Camp But God works in mysterious ways, and uses us as vehicles to transform His world. Billy and Patrick are now receiving weekly reading tutoring from a member of St. Mary’s in Middlesboro, we are in contact with their school guidance counselor and principal, and a Reading Camp volunteer from New Jersey has become their anonymous benefactor, and will be until they complete high school. Because of Reading Camp, these boys are not forgotten. A very small piece of the kingdom has come into their lives. And they brought a piece of the kingdom into ours, too.

So, even though Christianity might be waiting for Jesus’ return and the coming of the kingdom of God, we cannot forget that Jesus said : “The kingdom is among you.” And, we cannot forget what that kingdom looks like: a transformed world without pain, sorrow, despair, or impotence, a world of justice, hope, respect, joy and eternal peace.

The medieval rabbis of the Kabbalah developed the concept of Tikkun Olam, or the healing or repairing of the world. It was believed that the Messiah would not come until all persons worked together with God to heal the world, to care for the poor, the widow and the orphan.

Perhaps that is what God is waiting for. Perhaps God wants us - his children - to work with him to heal the world of its pain, to care for its most vulnerable members, to bring into the lives of those around us a glimpse of the coming kingdom of heaven.

There are glimpses of the coming kingdom of heaven every summer at Reading Camps throughout our diocese. Won’t you join us in bringing the kingdom into the lives of children and their families? Through support of Reading Camp, I promise you - not only will you heal the world, but you will be touched as well. You will glimpse the coming of the Kingdom.


The Kingdom of God is among you.


Amen.

redirecting

In its most advanced and competitive form, Irish dance is highly technical, requiring years of study, weekly hours of practice, the psychology of an athlete, and the spirit of an artist.

The upper body must be still and tall and straight; below the midline, a dancer must have formed herself to do a multitude of things at all times and in all dances. The toes must point, the knees must be straight, the legs must turn-out from the hip, not the knee. The feet must not pronate or supinate - you must be perfectly balanced. The legs must cross. You must think extension, feel extension, and dance with extension. Nothing can be "choppy" or rushed. Give every movement, every moment, its due. Don't "slap" the ground. Give weight to your steps. Do it again. Be high on your toes. Higher. MOVE. Keep your body over your legs. Stop moving - your sound is muffled, aloof, lost. Where did your sound go?

Where did my sound go? For the past several weeks, I have been trying to find it, trying to reclaim it. My teacher's most recent class with us brought to light things I thought I knew, and lessons I thought I had learned. However, in my dancing, as in my recent life, I have been throwing my energy to the wind, expending precious stores of kinetic and mental resources, burning an inordinate amount of calories - and forgetting the most important technique: keep my feet beneath me.

The world's best Irish dancers fly around the stage effortlessly, bodies long and straight and tall, their legs in concert with the energy emanating from their core, with the strength of their posture giving form, substance, and balance to their movements. Nothing is rushed, nothing is overemphasized, overexaggerated, or over-baked. Everything is fluid. Everything is natural. Everything flows. And, while leaping and bounding across the stage, the dancer's legs remain perfectly poised underneath her body, toes point, legs straight and crossed. No energy being thrown outside the dancer's sphere, no limbs falling outside the column of her form. Everything is pulled toward the center, balanced, collected, calm.

And her feet remain underneath her. She never loses her grip on reality because her feet continue to touch down throughout her reverie, taking firm grasp of the ground and helping her find her center. And she returns again and again to the ground, to feet firmly planted and balanced beneath her, to a homing, grounding force that allows her to spring up again and continue her dance.

The student dances differently. The student has yet to learn to calm her mind, focus her thoughts, and remember the ground. The student has yet to refine the art of dialogue with the ground, to refine the art of foot-music-making, to refine the art of graceful and elegant boundless power. The student has yet to realize that all her rushing, all her running, all her pushing, and all her forcing are counterproductive; that they will eventually produce a backlash so great that she'll have to pause for days to get her bearings.

The student has yet to realize the beauty of keeping her feet beneath her. Of the richness and depth of the sound she can produce when her feet are beneath her; of the gorgeous crescent of a lift, leap, and landing she can enjoy when she takes off for the jump with her feet squarely beneath her. Of the breathtaking ease of dancing when you take the time to collect runaway bits of energy that your un-focused dancing has left floating about the studio: when you collect it, bring it back to yourself, back within yourself, and redirect it toward the proper channels.

Redirect it toward the ground beneath your feet. Nothing but you, the ground, your feet in dialogue with the ground, and the music to define the day's, the dance's, conversation.

Where did my sound go? It went to the wind.


Where can I find it again? In the ground beneath my feet.

learning

I used to think that it was necessary to leave home, leave the mundane aspects of my life, and enter into a whole new world in order to learn important life lessons. Leaving home is still instructive, and new people and new places still put me in a place of complete vulnerability, which opens my eyes to newness all around me. Just being - still and motionless and at a loss for words - in a different culture is enough to teach you things. It's why I love to travel. But, recently, I've begun to feel that home can be just as exotic, and just as foreign, and can teach just as much as the world abroad.

I serve in many leadership roles in my life; I'm really pretty lucky. I never had to struggle or connive as did my classmates who wanted to be student body president; I never campaigned to be on Transy's SGA (Student Government Association) or to lead anything. Leadership roles just tumbled out of the sky and into my lap, opportunities that were both too good to pass up and also ones that I couldn't, in good conscience, dismiss. I was fifteen and my dance coaches moved to Georgia. There was no one more advanced in the dance school to coach in our teacher's absence, so another young woman and I became the de facto coaches for the school. I've been coaching for eight years now, watched little children grow into beautiful, accomplished young women. Of the things I've done in my life, being a dance coach is one of the things that I have loved the most, from which I have learned the most, and that I will miss the most when I have to move on - or when my students move on.

I started volunteering with Reading Camp when I was fifteen, as well. (A momentous year, that 15th year). This, too, was happenstance and an unexpected opportunity. I really wanted to be a counselor because it was cool, but I was too young. The Cathedral Domain wouldn't let me be a counselor yet (they ended up needing me, too, but at first this wasn't the case). Reading Camp was struggling to create a viable staff for its first year, so they let me in. And, I caught the "bug," as so many Reading Camp volunteers do, and I continued volunteering, year after year after year. I planned my summers around camp. When I was 19 I was asked to serve on the Steering Committee, which was my first experience on the "board" of any organization. And this was a great organization to be a part of - growing so quickly, it was so dynamic, so exciting, so fraught with passion and soon, fraught with angst. I watched adults quibble, squabble, and lash out in anger, deceit, and violence. I watched cruel words fly through cyberspace in an all out email battle; I was studying abroad in Morocco and watched and read from afar - never engaging in the fury of it all. Thank goodness. It was madness, and I decided I never wanted to be an adult. I still don't.

Reading Camp continued to present more leadership opportunities to me, from Steering Committee to head counselor for Pine Mountain, to, again, the de facto position of camp director alongside my friend, Rob. That came out of the blue, too, just like the dance coach position fell out of the sky. Two beloved directors decided not to direct the Pine Mountain camp anymore, and in the void they left, Rob and I were asked to step in. Wow. We were just children, directing a staff of thirty or more ranging in age from 16 to 75, with thirty campers. And, with much preparation, much communication, much planning, lots of stress, sweat, tears, and a lot of self confidence, we directed our first camp. And there were bumps in the road and troubles along the way, but we did it. And we did it two years ago and did it again last year - and we've learned with each camp how to communicate better, how to organize better, how to create a structure that is agreeable to all the staff members and allows each of them the freedom to be themselves, use their gifts to benefit the camp community, as well as allows time for reflection and quietude. There's always things that can be done better. And we keep on doing it- well, I keep on doing it, - because we love to learn. I love to learn. I love to analyze my behavior, my plans, my thoughts, and to improve upon them. I love to listen, to watch, to study others and their views of issues large and small. Most of all, I love the continually unfolding process of becoming. Of self-realization and self-actualization through self-analyzation and self-criticism.

Self-realization and self-actualization through self-analyzation and self-criticism. If that's not the name of the game of the spiritual quest, then I don't know what is. Of course there's a lot more to the climb to nirvana, salvation, heaven, and the abatement of meaninglessness, hell, and the void, but the self-realization/actualization-self-analyzation/criticism cycle is a crucial part of all of that. How can you fight the creeping-on of meaninglessness without analyzing yourself and the many activities of your life that you imbue with meaning? How can you create wholeness and defeat the void without recognizing the combatant whole versus void within yourself? How can you abate the vacuum of hell without learning from those great teachers, prophets, martyrs, and gods who came before and analyze your own life, criticize your own follies, and realize, actualize your own SELF?


So, I am puzzled, and adrift in a foreign world - in my own hometown, my own highly scheduled lifestyle, my own structured rubric of a life.

Because, when I live my life in a constant state of self-teaching, self-learning, self-analyzing, self-deconstructing, and self-building, I am utterly bewildered, dumbfounded, and stopped DEAD when I encounter adults, who, by all accounts, are mature and self-sufficient individuals, but who are again, utterly INCAPABLE of such self-processing. Who do not see their effect on other people, or, who do not care. Who do not acknowledge that their view of reality is NOT REALITY, but is their construction of it. Who cannot seem to grasp that others might see the world differently, and have just as valid a view as they do. And even, MORE valid.

Who cannot see that they exhibit what Friedman referred to as "emotional regression," who deal in anxieties, personalities, and the blaming of others - instead of learning to criticize themselves, perhaps blame themselves, learn from their mistakes, and develop the disciplined practice of reforming their behavior.

I have little patience for myself when I am this way, so I feel justified to say this: that I have little patience for people who find no utility in processing their own behavior, finding their own faults, and reforming themselves to become something more useful, more efficient, more consistent, more accurate, more graceful, more compassionate, and more loving.

So, to conclude, God HELP me to return to this spiritual practice of self-betterment when I fall along the way. God HELP me to remain patient with those who fall as well.


and God HELP all of us who are in relationships with those who are utterly incapable, and perhaps always will be, of the aforementioned self-process.

St. Raphael's sermon

I have been blessed these past few weeks with the opportunity to delve into the Gospel of Luke as I’ve prepared a few sermons. And what has struck me most about Luke’s writing is his focus on the human, on faith, and on relationships – and, how all of these intersect our relationship with God.

Three weeks ago, there was this curious reading. Jesus spoke of faith, saying that if we had faith the size of a mustard seed, we could say to the mulberry tree, be uprooted and planted in the sea. I’ve mulled over this passage for weeks. It’s not today’s reading, and I could easily just let it go, but I couldn’t. It’s so enigmatic, so puzzling, so beguiling. As worshipping members of Christ’s body, we consider ourselves people of faith, but we don’t go around asking trees to toss themselves into bodies of water. And so, this ambiguous passage has been with me for several weeks – and as I prepared for today, I puzzled over how it might relate to Jesus’ parable about the Pharisee and the tax collector.

I sat. I thought. I scratched my head. And finally, my thoughts brought me to a memory. I thought of an older and wiser friend of mine who once told me this about faith:

He said, “Allison, to consider “faith” a noun is missing the point entirely. Faith is not a noun, not a concrete entity from which you can subtract or to which you can add. Faith is a verb, dynamic, malleable, plyable, lived in relationship. It undulates, climbs, dips, advances, retreats, and through it all, matures: an active verb, not a passive noun. You know, changing the grammatical construct could change how you live your faith – how you live as a Christian.”

When I remembered this conversation, a few pieces of this puzzle of a parable fell into place. Jesus told us that, if we only had faith the size of a mustard seed – and let’s fancy, for a moment, that we might – we could move things, which indicates faith’s activity. That faith is an actor – it will uproot the tree. It will not be uprooted.

Now, given the constraints of the English language, I can only flesh this idea out in the most cumbersome way. Please bear with me.

In the former model, where faith is a noun, transitively acted upon:
The world has diminished my faith. The world could/can/or has attacked my faith. My faith is waining.

But in the new model, where faith is an active verb, acting upon:
Faith fills my being, so that when I speak – faith is speaking through me. When I love, faith is loving through me. When I listen, when I learn, when I change, when I grow – faith is acting through me. Most importantly, when I learn , my faith is learning. It is maturing. Faith is lived. Faith transforms us. It transforms us in relationship.

But, I think: one major caveat: we have to LET it.

In today’s reading, Jesus tells a parable to some who “trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and regarded others with contempt,” that is, he was speaking to people who had a system, as we do, of “us” versus “them,” of “me” versus “those people.” These people to whom Jesus is speaking obviously placed little value on relationship with those people whom they considered “less than”: less educated, less cultured, less wealthy, less dignified, less respectable. More sinful. Perhaps poor.

In light of the memory of my friend who described faith as active, I saw that Jesus was talking to people who were distorting active, dynamic faith by deciding that those people were not worth their time or their relationship, that they had nothing to offer. That there was NO WAY they might actually teach them something. And Jesus says quite plainly (this is not an enigmatic parable), that “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” The Pharisee had a great deal, then, to learn from the tax collector. But he thought too highly of himself to “stoop” down to be in relationship with that tax collector, and to learn from him.

How often have I been guilty of the same thing? Too many times to number. And you know what – it’s because I continue to fall back into this horrible but very human habit that I am grateful for Reading Camp. Because the children of Reading Camp, the families of Reading Camp, the relationships I’ve formed with other volunteers at Reaidng Camp – they help me to remember. They call me back to remembrance of this parable. They call me away from a stagnating piety back to an active faith.

On Friday morning as I was preparing this sermon, I looked up and stared at a small piece of paper pinned to my bulletin board.
Dear Allison
I hope Clay comes back next year. I hope you have a good time when we have ice cream and s’mores. Thank you for making camp fun and letting me come to camp. I hope I can come back next year.
From Billy.

Billy and his twin brother Patrick live in Pineville (pahn-vuhl) with their father Bill, and they attended Reading Camp at Pine Mountain for their second year this past summer. I have notes from my first conversation with their father, back in 2009, when I was calling all the campers’ parents and preparing for camp:

(grumbling): “This’ Bill.”
“Hi, Bill, this is Allison, the director of Reading Camp. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine. That lady done filled out those papers for the boys. They’re comin’ to yer camp.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And I’ve got it down that they’ll be on the bus.”
“mmm hmm. Now, I want to tell you ‘bout my boys. I’m the only one who’s raised ‘em, and they’re good boys. But, if you need to, you use a switch to make ‘em mind. If they wuz ever hateful, you tell ‘em I told you you could use a switch.”
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t have to do that.”
“Well, if you need to.”
“(haha). Alright. Well, Bill, you just call me if you have any questions.”

From the time I received Patrick and Billy’s applications, I knew the boys and their father would be some of the most interesting people I had worked with. The boys’ teacher forms read, in all caps, “NON-READER.” On the part of the application where teachers can check each child’s strengths and weaknesses, the boys had no strengths. Every weakness was checked, and then those words, “NON READER.” The parent-guardian form had been filled out by “that lady,” (Deb Obermann from St. Mary’s in Middlesboro) because Bill was illiterate and could not fill it out himself. His signature was simply, “Bill,” not “William Miracle or even Bill Miracle,” just “Bill,” in a scrawl-like cursive that looked like a first grader’s.

In my years volunteering with Reading Camp, I had met many families and many children whose way of living, way of speaking, and way of being were different from my own. But, Bill, Billy and Patrick Miracle were a whole new type of foreign.

The Miracles stopped me dead in my tracks, and I felt before camp even started, that they might affect me more than any other Reading Camp family ever had. I wasn’t wrong.

The boys arrived at camp on Sunday very sullen, shut-off, and internal. They were gruff, they were abrasive. Most volunteers had an immediate reaction of “uh oh, these kids are trouble.” I have to admit, I didn’t particularly like them. However, part of the transformational nature of Reading Camp is that there’s this quiet understanding that permeates the staff, that informs how you treat the children, speak to the children, and eventually feel about the children: the ones who are the hardest to handle, the easiest to dislike – those are the ones that you commit to loving, the ones that you don’t give up on. You make a purposeful decision to be patient. You intentionally take deep breaths. You pray for active faith. And, there’s a collective sighing prayer that Reading Camp might be a conduit for the Holy Spirit – because you know, you’re sure gonna need him.

Patrick and Billy remained gruff, mean, and monosyllabic until Wednesday morning, when it finally seemed to “click” for them that everyone at camp cared desperately about them, that no one cared that they struggled so much to write their name, and that the teachers were ecstatic when they finally named all the letters of the alphabet. By Wednesday, they started opening up. They formed a close bond with Aaron, a young man who was a writing center teacher – and Aaron worked patiently and tenderly with the boys on their writing. Billy and Patrick really wanted to write letters to Marcie, a young woman who was our Pleasure Reading “librarian.” It took Aaron’s coaxing, prodding, encouragement, and help with every letter of every word, but by Friday morning, the boys had written their letters to Marcie, and they beamed when they handed them to her. It was a sobering moment for the whole staff – an awe, a “hush,” and not a few tears that these boys had been able to achieve something their public school teacher never thought possible. And I guess, an awe at the fact that in the course of a short week, we had fallen in love with those two stubborn boys.

The year passed, and the majority of our volunteers from that first summer returned again in 2010, and all of them wanted to know if the twins were coming back. And, they were! I picked Patrick and Billy up in Pineville and brought them to camp – and I cannot describe to you the level of excitement that was pouring out of those two. They knew what they were coming back to – an environment where it was okay to make mistakes, where people were patient, where people really cared about them, believed in them, and were going to help them to learn. A place where they could be children: curious, joyful children who wanted to learn. And I’ll tell you, their approach to camp this year was a 180-degree turn around from 2009. They were telling the other kids how to behave in the learning center. They were focused and engaged with each teacher, working SO hard to write more letters, stumble through simple books.

They were transformed. We were transformed. Faith asked us to be patient, asked us to open ourselves to those boys. And we soon realized that Patrick and Billy had just as much to teach us and to offer us in relationship as we had to offer them. We helped them write their names and read simple sentences, but they taught us humility. They taught us not to take our literacy for granted. To acknowledge children like them, families like theirs – people who perhaps don’t read, don’t speak English like we do, and have radically different lifestyles – as complete as we are, worthy of dignity, brimming with potential, full of things to offer in relationship. They taught us that all those letters that were either behind our names, or that we were trying to get behind our names through decades of school, didn’t matter. They taught us the meaning of grace. And they taught us to be grateful.

I am a proud follower of St. Raphael’s on Facebook, and so I know that your congregation raised $12,000 at the recent Mediterranean Gala – a significant portion of which will go to support Reading Camp in South Africa. Fundraising can be a very trying endeavor, especially when economic times are hard. What you have done for the children of Reading Camp in Grahamstown will transform their lives. And not only that, but the experience of working with those children will call the volunteers to remembrance of active faith – it will nourish and deepen their spiritual journey, and sustain them in dark moments. It will be with them throughout their walk with God.

I want to invite you to have the same experience in summer 2011. I don’t know of any budding travel plans amongst members of your congregation (though I hope Mary Jane will be returning to Grahamstown as a nurse and will be sending me pictures from her iPhone), but I want to invite all of you to a transformative week of Reading Camp. The Cathedral Domain and Pine Mountain camps sustain vibrant Reading Camp communities with interesting and passionate volunteers – who learn as much from the children and from each other as they may impart.

There’s another reason I want to invite you to volunteer at Reading Camp next summer. It comes from the wisdom of the rabbis of the Talmud:

They taught that Gemilut Chesed (loving-kindness) is greater than charity. For charity is done with one’s money, while loving-kindness may be done with one’s money or with one’s person.
You have fulfilled gemilut chesed through your Mediterranean gala, raising money so that children and volunteers in South Africa will be transformed by their experience. Won’t you consider fulfilling gemilut chesed again by joining us next summer?

One of the Pine Mountain volunteers wrote me after camp this summer, saying, “I received more than I gave at Reading Camp.” That is grace, and that is Reading Camp. You give all of yourself, and yet, at the end of the day, you have always been given more. There’s always a net gain.


So this “active faith” stuff, this loving kindness…. ....

isn’t that bad, eh?