A message from Rector McGurk on November 5, 2020:

Today I wish to offer a visual meditation, available at our website. This is a sample of over forty molas currently on display in The Gallery at St. Christopher’s. I pray for the day when everyone will be able to see the full exhibition in person! Many thanks to Bob and Sandra Bowden for loaning and hanging the show, as well as for sharing the images. Click here to peruse this remarkable collection.

A message from Rector McGurk on November 4, 2020:

I’m writing this message on Tuesday, as polls are still open, and we await the results of the election (perhaps we’re still waiting as you read this). No matter who is elected, this blessing from John O’Donohue is apropros for the one who fills this position.

For a Leader

May you have the grace and wisdom

To act kindly, learning
To distinguish between what is
Personal and what is not

May you be hospitable to criticism.
May you never put yourself at the centre of things.
May you act not from arrogance but out of service.
May you work on yourself,
Building and refining the ways of the mind.

May you learn to cultivate the art of presence
In order to engage with those who meet you.
When someone fails or disappoints you,
May the graciousness with which you engage
Be their stairway to renewal and refinement.

May you treasure the gifts of the mind
Through reading and creative thinking
So that you continue as a servant of the frontier
Where the new will draw its enrichment of the old,
And you never become a functionary.

May you know the wisdom of deep listening
The healing of wholesome words,
The encouragement of the appreciative gaze,
The decorum of held dignity,
The springtime edge of the bleak question.

May you have a mind that loves frontiers
So that you can evoke the bright fields
That lie beyond the view of the regular eye.

May you have good friends
To mirror your blind spots.
May leadership be for you
A true adventure of growth.

A message from Rector McGurk on November 3, 2020:

My Mother Goes to Vote
by Judith Harris

We walked five blocks
to the elementary school,
my mother’s high heels
crunching through playground gravel.
We entered through a side door.

Down the long corridor,
decorated with Halloween masks,
health department safety posters—
we followed the arrows
to the third grade classroom.

My mother stepped alone
into the booth, pulling the curtain behind her.
I could see only the backs of her
calves in crinkled nylons.

A partial vanishing, then reappearing
pocketbook crooked on her elbow,
our mayor’s button pinned to her lapel.
Even then I could see—to choose
is to follow what has already
been decided.

We marched back out
finding a new way back down streets
named for flowers
and accomplished men.
I said their names out loud, as we found

our way home, to the cramped house,
the devoted porch light left on,
the customary meatloaf.
I remember, in the classroom converted
into a voting place—
there were two mothers, conversing,
squeezed into the children’s desk chairs.

This poignant poem raises a whole slew of challenging questions: Does our one, small, seemingly impotent, vote even matter? Do the votes of “average” Americans really matter? (In this case it’s an “elderly” woman of modest means living in a small, “cramped house.” Three strikes against her!) Do our votes really change entrenched power structures (“things as they are”) for the greater good? Does our society marginalize some and treat them like children—i.e. “two mothers, conversing, squeezed into the children’s desk chairs”?

At first glance, I found this poem depressing—the hopelessness and the futility of an inconsequential woman casting an inconsequential vote. So, I buried this poem in a computer file and forgot about it—until today. On re-examining it, I was struck by this woman’s faithfulness to the mundane rituals of voting, and her commitment to Democracy writ large. She votes with the hope that her vote can and will change life for the better—even though, more often than not, that has not been the case. She vanishes behind the voting booth curtain and then reappears; her vote cast, her candidate of choice proudly pinned to her coat. A flicker of hope. In this ritual she is no different than the President of the United States.

Casting a vote reveals our hopes and dreams for our lives and the life of the world swirling around us. Our vote may, or may not, help to transform the world. Regardless, voting changes us. Casting a ballot can deepen our consciousness of what is morally and spiritually important—in God’s eyes. It is an invitation to grapple with the contents of our hearts and souls—love, kindness, compassion, self-sacrifice, faith, hope, charity, the common good, justice, generosity, and much more. To vote is an opportunity to release God’s will—which is Sacrificial Love—into our struggling world.

To my knowledge Jesus never cast a vote for or against the Roman or Jewish authorities. But he did cast a ballot of sorts. His voting booth was the cross. He inscribed his ballot with the blood of self-sacrificial love. Despite his impending death, he cast his ballot with the hope and the certainty that “the kingdom of God was at hand,” and with the conviction that the Love of God always comes out on top.

A vote cast from the depths of the human soul is a vote that matters eternally. It transforms our inner and outer worlds.

A message from Rector McGurk on November 2, 2020:

Today we remember and give thanks for “all the faithful departed.” Also known as “All Souls’ Day.”

The Episcopal Church describes this day as follows:

In the New Testament, the word “saints” is used to describe the entire membership of the Christian community, and in the Collect for All Saints’ Day the word “elect” is used in a similar sense. From very early times, however, the word “saint” came to be applied primarily to persons of heroic sanctity, whose deeds were recalled with gratitude by later generations.

Beginning in the tenth century, it became customary to set aside another day—as a sort of extension of All Saints—on which the Church remembered that vast body of the faithful who, though no less members of the company of the redeemed, are unknown in the wider fellowship of the Church. It was also a day for particular remembrance of family members and friends.

Though the observance of the day was abolished at the Reformation because of abuses connected with Masses for the dead, a renewed understanding of its meaning has led to a widespread acceptance of this commemoration among Anglicans, and to its inclusion as an optional observance in the calendar of the Episcopal Church.

~ Holy Women, Holy Men

A message from Rector McGurk on November 1, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on October 30, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

Recently I read a remarkable account of leadership and human suffering during the bombing of England by Hitler’s Germany in the early 1940s. The book by Erik Larson is entitled, “The Splendid and the Vile: A Saga of Churchill, Family and Defiance.”

Aside from the tenacious leadership by Churchill, the author describes the tremendous suffering of ordinary people—the nightly air raids, whole neighborhoods destroyed, electrical blackouts, severe rationing of the most common foods and, of course, multiple deaths. In reading this, I though about this story of human suffering, which is replicated over and over again in a variety of ways and circumstances. We watch people on television who have lost everything they own because of a hurricane or flood; we read stories of immense suffering imposed by slavery; we hear of an innocent child being shot a victim of gang violence. We could go on and on.

Truth be told, the present suffering most of us experience because of the disjuncture caused by responding to the virus is paled by these much larger stories. I have a friend who starts each encounter with me by saying, “isn’t it awful?” I am sorry he feels that way but I want to remind him that being inconvenienced is the lowest level of suffering. We need to remember that.

In any case, you and I as Christians are called to be hope bringers in the face of suffering. At the same time it is so easy to give in to whining and despair. So where do we find the hope we are called to express?

Our rich biblical tradition is a deep well of fresh water if we will lower our bucket and drink. The psalms which emerge from a multitude of human experiences are a good place to go. Consider just two psalms:

Psalm 46—God is our refuge and strength a very present help in trouble….

Psalm 91—He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High, abides under the shadow of the almighty…..

Are these just words? or are they the very foundation of hope?

A message from Rector McGurk on October 29, 2020:

Where is the light at the end of this (pandemic) tunnel?

I keep looking for it, but the tunnel is dark and long, and the light is faint. The development of a vaccine is moving at warp speed; but, with infections rising, its hope and promise seem like a faint flicker on a distant horizon. The lights are out for many businesses as a result of our up and down economy. Some schools have kept the classroom lights on, and the flame of wisdom burning bright, but for many students it’s the light of a home computer screen. Altar candles have been extinguished, but church Zoom accounts are sparking with meetings, services, prayers, and hope.

Perhaps the metaphor is not, “the light at the end of the tunnel,” but instead, “the light within the tunnel.” The light of Christ—which is the light of hope, courage, strength, grace and compassion—is found deep within the human soul. For precisely here, the kingdom of God “lives and moves and has its being.” Divine Light and Hope radiate from within.

The German mystic, Meister Eckhart, said that when we “sink down” into the depths of our souls—in prayer, silence, solitude, stillness; in the giving and receiving of kindness, love, and compassion—then and there we encounter and experience what St. Augustine referred to as “Divine Illumination.” This is the candle of Christ’s light and love burning bright with hope—illuminating both our inner souls and outer journeys through this world.

John Philip Newell lyrically describes the light within:

Light within all light
Soul behind all souls
at the breaking of dawn
at the coming of day
we wait and watch.
Your Light within the morning light
Your Soul within the human soul
Your Presence beckoning to us from the heart of life.
In the dawning of this day
let us know fresh shining in our soul.
In the growing colours of new beginnings all around us
let us know the first lights of our heart.
Great Star of the morning
Inner Flame of the universe
let us be a color in this new dawning.
(Praying with Earth)

The light within will guide us through the dark shadows of this present time.

A message from Rector McGurk on October 28, 2020:

Anger management. That’s what America needs right now! Our fears, anxieties, uncertainties, and sadnesses are breeding impatience and frustration, which are not “named” nor “owned.” More often than not, we project our inner turmoil out into the world or transfer it onto another person as pure, unadulterated Anger. Anger with a capital “A”! Or, conversely, we “bottle it up” until something or someone triggers it. (Most likely, a person of the “other” political persuasion.)

The apostle Paul issued a stark warning: Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not make room for the devil.” (Ephesians 4:26–27)

Yet, even Jesus lost his “cool” in the Temple, angrily overturning the tables of the “money changers.” In addition, he gave the Scribes and the Pharisees “holy” hell for their hypocrisy. (I won’t even mention the “Old Testament” God who seems to get ticked-off quite regularly!) So if the Son of God gets angry, then anger must have a place in our lives.

Franciscan priest, Richard Rohr, writes:

Anger is a telling and necessary emotion long before it is any kind of ‘sin.’ The power and intensity of our anger sometimes frightens us so much that we avoid expressing it at all, even when it is genuine and appropriate. Many believe that if we don’t express our anger, it will simply go away. Others are trapped in habits of constant anger and its manifestations. There’s nothing inherently wrong with anger. You shouldn’t get rid of your anger until you understand what you’re actually angry about. To understand anger and what’s causing it, you need to own it and work through it. Aimless anger helps no one, least of all the person feeling it.

There is and will be a great deal of “aimless” anger leading up to and following the presidential election. So let’s be clear about what we are angry about, how we are expressing it, and who is bearing the brunt of it.

Rohr gives us this excellent piece of advice: Feel anger, learn what it has to tell you; but do not identify with it, or it will kill you.

It seems like there is much more at stake here than simply an election!

A message from Rector McGurk on October 27, 2020:

The COVID-19 pandemic is a “life and death” challenge that threatens our physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual health and wellbeing—not to mention our very lives. The climate emergency is an “existential threat” to the Earth and the entire “community of life,” which is comprised of humans, animals, and plants; air, water, and soil.

The authoritative voice of physicians, epidemiologists, and public health officials, as well as scientists, environmentalists, and others must be heeded. The information, knowledge, and recommendations that they provide will literally prevent untold suffering, save countless numbers of human (and non-human) lives; and, in addition, preserve the health of the Earth—“our island home.” (as the Book of Common Prayer says). Ignoring science imperils our lives, the lives of our loved ones, and the foundation of all life—the Natural World.

The Anglican tradition holds scripture, tradition, and reason to be the “sources” of authority. And “reason” includes scientific knowledge, information, and rigorous logic and thinking. So, the words of Holy Scripture, 2000 year-old Christian Traditions (ideas and practices that are “handed down”), and the dictates of Reason (science and scholarship) must be heeded in order to adequately address the present crises.

There is a misperception that science and religion are at odds with each other. Franciscan priest Richard Rohr writes:

“When I was growing up, the common perception was that science and religion were definitely at odds. Now that we are coming to understand the magnificent nature of the cosmos, we’re finding that many of the intuitions of the mystics of all religions are being paralleled by scientific theories and explanations. If truth is one (which it has to somehow be, if it is truth), then all disciplines are just approaching that truth from different angles and levels and questions.”

Science does provide us with the knowledge and tools to fight pandemics and environmental destruction. Just as religion teaches us to live in the mystery and holiness of life with wonder, gratitude, respect, and reverence for the dignity of all of God’s creation.

The relationship of science and religion is awkward, like a teenage boy dancing for the first time with a pretty girl. Stiff and awkward at best—as they step each other’s feet! But who knows, they can grow up to be like Fred and Ginger, dancing with grace in the mysterious depths of life!

A message from Rector McGurk on October 26, 2020:

I am honored to share the following pastoral letter from the Rt. Rev. Alan Gates and the Rt. Rev. Gayle Harris to the Diocese of Massachusetts:

https://www.diomass.org/news/reflections/love-your-neighbor-pre-election-reflection-bishop-harris-bishop-gates

A message from Rector McGurk on October 25, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on October 23, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

Years ago, when my mother was living in an Assisted Living facility, she developed a friendship with a retired Episcopal priest. She dined with him daily. She loved his company as he challenged her intellectually and charmed her with his wit. They were on opposite sides of the political aisle but respected and listened to each other’s point of view.

One day, after a spirited discussion about the Church’s response to same-sex marriage, my mother retreated to her room to search the Bible for evidence to support her argument. On a good day, my mother weighed about 90 lbs.; her old Bible likely weighed as much. Upon lifting the Bible from the bookcase, she toppled over to the floor, Bible nestled with her like a football. She couldn’t get to a call button, so rested on the floor with a cracked rib until a nurse checked on her around the time she didn’t show up for dinner. All her children were concerned for her, of course, but also bemused knowing that the cause of her fall was her gathering evidence for her next debate. I mentioned to her later that she needed to be more careful and that her children now could fight her fights for her. She’d have none of this and, besides, she reminded me that she had rested on the floor with her go to comforts: God and her Bible.

This incident is an example of the robust spirit and mind succumbing to the fragility of body; nonetheless, the gift of God’s love and comfort is found in the midst of frailty.

Life can feel fragile these days. Something fragile can be viewed as vulnerable, breakable, lacking strength and force, flimsy. Yet fragility can also be viewed as delicate, exquisite, graceful even, needing special attention. How often have we wrapped a package containing a beautiful gift and marked it “fragile, handle with care.” The essence of fragility, the contents of the package, might be a gift.

Henri Nouwen writes that “the beauty and preciousness of life is intimately linked with its fragility and mortality.” If the pandemic has done nothing else, it has reminded us of our fragility and our mortality. We may feel fragile (vulnerable, breakable) as we continue to live with uncertainty, loss, loneliness, and even a sense of homesickness that arrives with memories of pre-COVID time. Lacking the key to complete understanding of these complex times, we may experience a waywardness of purpose or disconnected from God. This can all feel quite disheartening and uncomfortable unless, unless we try to find the gift within the fragility.

Believe me, there are many days when I have to dig deep to find the gift buried within my fragile feelings. I have to intentionally dig, travel from head to heart to soul, searching for what God is offering. Frankly, even with the heartiest of shovels, there are days I remain disappointed, having no clue what God has in mind for me (for us), what I am to learn, what gift is waiting for me (for us.) I try to just let go then, let God in, let him put the stamp on me: “fragile; handle with care.” Let us all follow suit, pray for one another always, and handle with care.

“Life is amazing. And then it’s awful. And then it’s amazing again. And in between the amazing and the awful it’s the ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That’s just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it’s breathtakingly beautiful.”

~ LR Knost

A message from Rector McGurk on October 22, 2020:

Today I would like to share with you a message from Debra Gebhardt, our Director of Children, Youth, and Families:

I’ve been a parent for many years now. Almost ten. In all those years, I count many milestones, many “firsts,” many precious moments, but if I had to sum it all up, I keep going back to one word: messy. Messy diapers, messy art projects, messy rooms and beds, messy explanations to difficult questions, messy lego projects, the list goes on. Add this pandemic thing to the mix, and life seems messier than usual.

A mere few days ago, life changed. All my children went to school. My baby went to kindergarten. I’m pretty sure it was just yesterday he was taking his first steps, and now it’s like I’m sending him off to college. You might think I’m being dramatic, because I am, but I’ve been dreading this day for the past five years. And he is so ready, and so happy to jump out of the car and run into that building. He barely says goodbye. So everyday I drive home to tidy up the mess. And everyday on that drive home I always say a prayer. Sometimes it’s a messy one, but I know God hears me.

A message from Rector McGurk on October 21, 2020:

I’m very disappointed.

Like many of you, I had hoped that—by now—we would be gathering in our beautiful church, kneeling around our altar, and sharing the sustaining presence of Christ in bread and wine.

I had hoped that—by now—I would be pronouncing a dozen (or so) young couples as “man and wife.”

I had hoped that—by now—I would have “splashed” a dozen or so babies into the life of the Church.

I had hoped that—by now—I would have gone through dozens of loaves of communion bread after placing a “bonus-sized” piece into the open hands and grateful hearts of our children.

I had hoped that—by now—we would have grieved the loss of the dearly departed and celebrated their lives in the “beauty of holiness.”

I had hoped that—by now—our various committees would be huddled around the table in our library solving all the problems of the world! (Well, maybe not all of them! Let’s say a dozen.)

I had hoped that—by now—we would be planning the services for the celebration of Thanksgiving, Advent, Christmas, and the New Year.

I had hoped that—by now—I could get together with family and friends.

(Well…that’s enough of my “I had hoped that—by nows!”)

All of us “had hoped that—by now—” … x, y, or z (you fill in the “blanks) had happened, or would happen.

All of us are experiencing the frustration, anger, sadness and disappointment caused by the non-fulfillment of our desires, hopes and expectations caused by the pandemic. One psychologist wrote, “…Disappointment is an unavoidable part of life. No life is without disappointment and its cousins, heartbreak, despair, regret and discouragement.”

Our Pastoral Associate, Judith Felton said recently that, “We have to support one another in our disappointments.” Disappointments are not going away. We can’t control them, but we can control our response to them.

The every wise and articulate philosopher and poet, John O’Donohue wrote: “Blessed be those [events that] have crossed your life / With dark gifts of [sadness, discouragement] and loss / That have helped to school your mind / In the art of disappointment.”

The Pandemic is senseless, discouraging, disappointing, and for some, tragic. But it does not have to be meaningless. Suffering and adversity can and do teach us something important about life. I think that is some of what John O’Donohue is referring to when he says, “School your mind in the art of disappointment.” Let’s look for the “gold” of wisdom in the “shadows.” Let’s search for the “silver lining” of meaning and purpose in the clouds of COVID.

There are lessons to be learned in the “school” of adversity and by the “art of disappointment”:

“[Disappointment] is a life lesson: Our lives don’t always move ahead in the manner we plan, and certainly not in the timeframe we expect. Patience, hope, flexibility and tenacity come from coping with adversity and managing disappointment. Managing disappointment and dealing with loss are stepping stones toward resilience.

“Finally, don’t ruminate or dwell. This can lead to feelings of depression, helplessness and bitterness. As grandma said, “Don’t cry over spilled milk.” Focus ahead. Redirect your energy toward new goals, plans and aspirations. Learn from the disappointment, mark the event in a new and different way, and work toward a bright future.” (Mark Reinecke in U.S. News and World Report)

In the words of Henri Nouwen, let’s look for “God’s guiding hand… not only in the gentle and pleasant moments but also in the shadows of disappointment and darkness.”

A message from Rector McGurk on October 20, 2020:

On October 1, 2016 the New York Times featured an “Opinion” piece entitled, “Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s Advice for Living; By Ruth Bader Ginsburg.”

The following piece of advice from the late Supreme Court justice jumped out at me:

Another often-asked question when I speak in public: “Do you have some good advice you might share with us?” Yes, I do. It comes from my savvy mother-in-law, advice she gave me on my wedding day. “In every good marriage,” she counseled, “it helps sometimes to be a little deaf.” I have followed that advice assiduously, and not only at home through 56 years of a marital partnership nonpareil. I have employed it as well in every workplace, including the Supreme Court. When a thoughtless or unkind word is spoken, best tune out. Reacting in anger or annoyance will not advance one’s ability to persuade.

“…It helps sometimes to be a little deaf…. When a thoughtless or unkind word is spoken, best tune out. Reacting in anger or annoyance will not advance one’s ability to persuade.”

Election Day is only two weeks away. In the days leading up to it, and in the days following, we are undoubtedly going to hear something we don’t like — some “thoughtless” and “unkind” word that will upset us, disappoint us, annoy us, anger us, push our buttons, drive us crazy, set us off, or push us over the edge, etc. etc. (There are others, but I’ll stop there!)

Instead, let’s follow the advice of RBG and simply develop a case of selective “deafness” and simply “tune out” the offending person and, along with them, the “thoughtless” or “unkind” word.

“Deafness,” “tuning out,” does not give anger and annoyance a place to “land” and take root in our hearts, minds and spirits. “Turning a deaf ear” is a way of letting go of an offensive or destructive word and all the ruminations and upsetness they unleash deep inside of us.

Mystics tell us that we grow into people of compassion and grace by “letting go” of our need to react and respond, and our compulsion to persuade and “win.” We grow by “subtraction” — by “surrendering.” The German mystic, Meister Eckhart, wrote: “God is not found in the soul by any kind of addition, but by a process of subtraction.” Being “deaf,” “letting go,” or “tuning out” hurtful, destructive words, and “surrendering” the needs and compulsions of our Egos opens some heart-space for peace of mind and serenity of spirit to take root and grow.

If it worked in the Supreme Court, it will work in the “court” of public opinion. And let’s add the dinner table as well.

***

RICHARD ROHR
Letting God as a Way of Life

“Authentic spirituality is always on some level or in some way about letting go. Jesus said, “the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). Once we see truly what is trapping us and keeping us from freedom we should see the need to let it go. But in a consumer society most of us have had no training in that direction. Rather, more is supposed to be better. True liberation is letting go of our false self, letting go of our cultural biases, and letting go of our fear of loss and death. Freedom is letting go of wanting more and better things, and it is letting go of our need to control and manipulate God and others. It is even letting go of our need to know and our need to be right—which we only discover with maturity.”

A message from Rector McGurk on October 19, 2020:

I am honored to share the following pastoral letter from the Rt. Rev. Alan Gates to the Diocese of Massachusetts:

Oct. 15, 2020
September came and went. October is well underway. Autumn is a time when congregational life – like much of the world around us – is normally marked by renewed energy and fresh beginnings: familiar worship schedules resume; choirs end their summer hiatus; church schools regather; parish events and groups of all sorts reappear on the calendar.

This year, instead, September found us hitting what’s been termed “The Six-Month Wall.” We are anxious, fatigued, frustrated, plagued by feelings of helplessness. Of course we are. The coronavirus continues to take its toll, passing horrific statistical milestones and dominating our lives with limitations never imagined. Parents with school-aged children face unbearable pressures and no-win decisions. The devastatingly fractious and nonfunctional state of our national leadership continues. Anxiety about the stability of our electoral process is unprecedented. Vulnerable members of society feel ever more vulnerable.

Meanwhile, we are engaged with what has been termed the second pandemic in our midst – that of racism in America. The coronavirus has underscored realities of inequality in virtually every sector of our society. Our searing national reckoning on race – essential, and sinfully overdue – demands our hearts and urgent energy. As we deal with the coronavirus, it has been suggested that we do not have the individual or collective energy to engage the work of antiracism at this moment. Yet we may not postpone this urgent engagement. We have delayed and satisfied ourselves with good intentions for far too long. The work is at hand.

Six months into the confluence of these two pandemics, we find our “surge capacity” depleted. Describing the adaptive ways we humans cope with stress and anxiety, one psychologist says, “the pandemic has demonstrated both what we can do with surge capacity and the limits of surge capacity. When it’s depleted, it has to be renewed. But what happens when you struggle to renew it because the emergency phase has now become chronic?” (i)

In the church, as in the wider world, the coronavirus has challenged us to adapt, to find new ways to do important things, to protect ourselves and one another, to create processes and methodologies, to maintain relationships, to keep on keeping on. “It’s important to recognize that it’s normal in a situation of great uncertainty and chronic stress to get exhausted,” comments the psychologist, “to feel like you’re depleted or experience periods of burnout.”(ii)

This exhaustion is showing up in our physical health and in our mental health. “The more accustomed you are to solving problems, to getting things done, to having a routine,” says another mental health professional, “the harder it will be on you because none of that is possible right now. You get feelings of hopelessness and helplessness.” (iii)

In the face of these realities, here are three ways I am trying to find strength for each day.

1. Have compassionate expectations. We expect so much of one another. We expect so much of ourselves. We expect so much of our churches. It’s right and good that we do – that we have high standards and aspirations. But right now, let’s also be patient with one another. Let’s not expect or demand more than we can individually or collectively manage. Even in our most vital endeavors, while striving for our best selves and highest ideals, let’s calibrate our expectations with the compassion demanded by the times.

2. Maintain our most important relationships. Lean on one another, and be there to be leaned upon. A popular cliché suggests that “God never gives us more than we can bear.” This is simply not born out by our experience of life, is it? Life’s burdens often become more than any of us can bear on our own. It is only by relying upon one another – those we love, and those who love us; our communities of faith and friendship; and even the kindness of strangers – these are the ways that we endure. God never gives us more than we can bear together: with this addition, the aphorism becomes true.

3. Live as people of hope. We cannot, of course, summon up faith by sheer dint of will. The “On Demand” button on my Comcast remote does not have access to the reservoir of hope for which I yearn. Yet I am convinced that there are times when I can and must exercise an element of choice in the posture with which I approach life. I choose to hope. For, to paraphrase Saint Paul, if we are only people of hope in hopeful times, what credit is that to us? But we are people of Resurrection faith precisely when resurrection is not what seems to appear before us. For “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1)

In the coming weeks we will face into further anxiety, further important work, and further adaptive challenges. Bishop Gayle Harris and I will be offering thoughts on the election, on our Diocesan Convention, on the essential work of antiracism before us, and more. Meanwhile, we live in the holy hope so well expressed by a sometime priest of our diocese:

“Perhaps … this prolonged period of unfulfilled desire will widen our hearts, increasing our empathy for those who live in a perpetual state of longing for what is denied them – peace, justice, equality, safety – all those whose deepest needs remain unmet. And perhaps now, having been deprived of people and connection and community for so long, we will appreciate anew how much we depend upon one another for our own flourishing.” (iv)

May this holy hope, by the power of the Holy Spirit, carry us through and beyond the limits of our surge capacity.

Faithfully and fondly,
+Alan
The Rt. Rev. Alan M. Gates

A message from Rector McGurk on October 18, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on October 16, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

As we look forward to the start of November, no doubt the most important event in our minds is the presidential election. But, there is something else which I think is more important and that is All Saint’s Day. There are two points I would like to make about this day in our community of faith.

The faith embodied in the historic church is that we continue to be in communion with those who have departed this life—it is called the communion of saints. All Saint’s s day is about relationships. In the risen Christ, we are one in an eternal bond. Simply put, we are not alone, even if sometimes we feel that way. The Proper Preface, which is used on All Saint’s at the Eucharist before we say, “therefore we praise you, joining with voices…” puts this belief very clearly:

For in the multitude of your saints, you have surrounded us with a great cloud of Witnesses, that we might rejoice in their fellowship and run with endurance, The race that is set before us….

The second point is to acknowledge that we are confused about the word “saint.” As church school children, we first discovered saints in awesome stained glass windows—the guys with halos. In common parlance, we say someone is a saint because of generosity or patience endurance.

Recently I have been reading, “His Truth is Marching On: John Lewis and The Power of Hope” by Jon Meacham. Meacham is a presidential historian and an Episcopalian. The overture in this biography contains one of the best discussions on sainthood that I have seen. He says that “John Robert Lewes embodied the traits of a saint in the classic Christian sense of the term.” He saw himself as “set apart” and his task was to put in harmony human life with the values of God. For this Lewis suffered not only in Selma but throughout his life. And Lewis never gave up living the vision which came from a clear and solid faith. Like all saints throughout history he was not perfect, but he knew who he was and what he was about.

For us, baptism is a sign that we are set apart as “saints” in our world. We are not just surrounded with saints who have departed this life, we are surrounded also with members of God’s church who are called out and empowered to be God’s people in our time and place: A hymn we sings says it all:

“For the saints of God are just folks like me-and I mean to be one too!”

A message from Rector McGurk on October 15, 2020:

“I’m sorry” are two of the most under-utilized words in our nation’s public discourse. Admitting a mistake, acknowledging the pain it has caused, apologizing to the wounded party, promising and endeavoring not to repeat it, and offering restitution—seem next to impossible. Our pride, self-righteousness, and rationalizations, must be dragged kicking and screaming to the point of an apology. “Righting” a “wrong” is painful—most of us would prefer to have a tooth pulled (or drilled)—without novocaine!

Yet, individuals, groups, and even nations, paradoxically grow stronger and nobler when they “own” their wrong-doing and issue a heart-felt apology. A repentant attitude pours grace and consolation into a raw wound. The editors of the Book of Common Prayer knew this to be the case; they understood human nature. The Daily Offices (of Morning and Evening Prayer) actually begin their respective liturgies with the Confession of Sin followed by the Absolution. This is not to say that we Episcopalians (or Americans) are bad and sinful people. The ritual of confession and absolution (a ritualized, “I’m sorry”) simply acknowledges that good people—and honorable nations—consciously and unconsciously, and from time-to-time, make mistakes, some innocuous, some painful, some costly, and some sinful.

Our nation in fact owes heartfelt apologies to groups of Americans who have faced disrespect, injustice, prejudice, discrimination and exclusion. To arrive at the point of an apology requires a great deal of collective soul searching, good will, honesty, courage, grace, and moral clarity. Apologizing is not un-American or un-patriotic. Its simply Christian.

If the Prime Minister of Australia can issue a collective apology, so can we. (See below.)

If anything I have said upsets you, then “I apologize.”

A message from Rector McGurk on October 14, 2020:

It seems to me that America is “out-of-sync.” Despite all of our strong, unwavering, and self-righteous opinions; despite all of the political “know-it-alls;” despite all of the self-proclaimed experts on public policies and pressing social issues (like, for instance, the environment, race, the Pandemic, etc.); despite all of the so-called public “servants” who claim to serve the common good (but don’t!)—America seems to be dancing to the wrong music. Said one groundbreaking, 21st-century “theologian:” America is “dancing in the dark.” (Bruce Springsteen)

We look like our (drunk) Uncle “Joe” making a fool of himself at the family wedding by dancing after having a “few” too many! Instead of following the lead of Jesus in the “Divine Dance” we are stepping on His toes, bumping into one another—tone deaf to the music of Compassion, Humility, and Self-sacrificial Love. The song He wants us to hear, and the steps he wants us to take, are simple and straightforward: Open your hearts and souls to the Living and Loving Presence of Jesus Christ, draw on the power of His Holy Spirit, and then — like him — work for justice (which means, the value, rights, equity, and inclusion of all people and of all the members of God’s Creation). This “Divine Dance” all boils down to Love and Justice—which are God’s right and left feet! This will make our are hearts sing, our spirits soar, and our toes tap in sync with God’s heavenly music.

A message from Rector McGurk on October 13, 2020:

Last week the American poet, Louise Gluck, was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. When I heard the news, I dusty off my copy of her book, “The Wild Iris.” I had purchased this volume back in 2007 on the recommendation of the (late) Peter Sanders — a dedicated parishioner and an exceptionally talented poet. Over the course of our friendship we exchanged a simple mantra, “Go deep.” For me, it meant “go deep” into poetry. For him it meant, “go deep” into theology. We helped each to hear the respective “voices” of poets and theologians.

Some literary critics have described Gluck’s poetry as “dark” and, true to form, the first two lines of the very first poem raise “dark” and morbid themes: “suffering,” “death,” and the ominous phrase,“buried in the dark earth.” Only four short verses into the poem and I was ready to flip the cover shut. “Too dark!” Then I remembered that the Voice of the narrator speaking these lines is an Iris — not a person named Iris, but a personified flower. This Iris, buried deep under the silence of dark dirt, and in a death-like state, sprouts up into the upper and outer chamber of our life and light-filled world. Here birds are “singing in the shrubs” and life is gloriously unfolding. (I heard Peter’s voice encouraging me to “go deep”)

The poet says:

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

This is a Resurrection of sorts: The passage from a dark, death-like state into a living and breathing state of conscious being. Its Jesus descending to the dead, rising to new life, and then appearing and speaking to his friends and followers, to you and me. The Resurrected Jesus is a voice that can never be silenced, a presence that can never be buried, and Love that can never be limited.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.

This voice rises from death (“oblvion”) and flows from the “wellspring” of the Soul (“the center of life”) which is the source of God’s Love. Here, “hope springs eternal.”

Admittedly, this all sounds so “spiritual” and perhaps even fanciful. But then on Saturday, at the graveside (burial) service I was performing, I heard the voice — joyful and buoyant — of the departed priest, whose life we were celebrating, and whose ashes I was committing to the earth. I heard his voice during the eulogy, when his son-in-law did a spot-on imitation of his father-in-law, capturing and raising the essence of this man’s humor, grace and presence. “Whatever returns from oblivion returns to find voice….” Beneath it all, I heard a Voice reminding me that Christ’s Love is always stronger than the oblivion of death.

“Go deep!” This poet did, and she shared it with us. Maybe that’s why she won a Nobel?

A message from Rector McGurk on October 12, 2020:

“Oops, I forgot….” How many times have we said that? As in: “Oops, I forgot where I left my keys, or my wallet, or my glasses, or that item at the grocery store.” Or, “oops, I forgot to mail that payment, or show up for that appointment, or renew my license, or send that birthday and/or anniversary greeting, or the title of that book, or the name of that person at church (‘you know… the one with the gray hair!’).” There is a lot of “Oops-ing” going on out there!

Here is (the former Poet Laureate of the United States) Billy Collins’ poem entitled, “Forgetfulness:”

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

“Everyday” forgetfulness is disheartening – be it a thing or a thought. But, “pathological” forgetfulness (dementias, Alzheimer’s Disease, etc.) is devastating. I will never forget the time when a close family member kept introducing himself to me, totally oblivious to our life-long and intimate relationship. We do and will forget things, details, and people. At its extreme, we may even be forgotten or forget those we love most dearly. “Tragic” is not too strong of a word to describe this devastating loss.

However…. The power of God’s Love penetrates the densest clouds of forgetfulness. The Mind of God never forgets us or those we love. Never! From his cross, adjacent to Jesus’ cross, the “good thief” said, “Jesus, REMEMBER ME when you come into your kingdom.” (Luke 23:42) Jesus’ response was direct and immediate, “Today you will be with me in heaven.” Divine Presence, Light, Life, and Love penetrate and illuminate the deepest, most isolated, inner chambers of a darkened mind.

The always wise Frederick Buechner said it this way: “… Remember me… There are perhaps no more human words in all of Scripture, no prayer we can pray so well.”

The Memory of God Almighty never forgets a person, a life, an experience, an event, a relationship, or any intimate detail experienced in our hearts, minds, spirits, and souls. The Good News is: God is closer to us than our deepest, most intimate, thought.

… And he even remembers where we left the keys!

A message from Rector McGurk on October 11, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on October 9, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

I swim, and when I’m not swimming, I dream of swimming with a sense of yearning. I imagine the blanket of silky water coating my skin, its musty or perfumed smell, the slivers of light that pierce its surface, the music that disturbed water provides. I am closest to God when I swim, and also to my mother (an avid swimmer in her own right.) I assume they are together. With every stroke, I offer a prayer for someone, often for someone from our community at St. Christopher’s. With every breath, I offer to God (and to my mother) a worry, or concern, or gratitude. And, I feel them near. This feels sacramental.

One cannot love the water and God without thinking of baptism. Save perhaps for a few faded photographs and a baptismal dress resting somewhere in an old rustic trunk, few of us remember our baptism, this sacrament of beginning, of joining the community of God, of being welcomed, all with a little dousing of water. Henri Nouwen writes that in the sacrament of baptism, “water is the way to transformation.” The one who is baptized is transformed, yet so is the community of witnesses. With water, the sacrament of baptism reminds us of why we stand together in love, through the joys and sorrows and challenges of our lives. With water, the sacrament of baptism reminds us of the promise of God as we promise to uphold the newly baptized and one another.

And so, I swim. I swim because every time I enter the water, I think of it as another baptism, another opportunity for transformation. I swim because every time I enter the water, I am reminded of the connection God provides for each and every one of us, even during days of loneliness and isolation, made more significant because of COVID-19. I swim because swimming, for me, offers freedom, just as sacraments do. Some of us find this when we walk, or bake, or knit, or create masterpieces through a paintbrush or with hammer and nail.

There will come a time when I am no longer able to swim; swimming will be a memory. As with baptism, I will remember the transformative power of water; I will remember, as the blessing of baptism states, that I, all of us, are “sealed by the Holy Spirit…and marked as Christ’s own forever.” What a gift, what a mantra to remember whenever we feel disheartened or delighted; what a mantra to remember when we ache for the touch of a loved one no longer with us or the intimate gatherings possible prior to the pandemic; what a comforting blessing…we are connected through baptism, through water, and “marked as Christ’s own forever.”

A message from Rector McGurk on October 8, 2020:

Before the COVID-19 pandemic I took a great deal for granted. In those pre-pandemic, “good old days” I took for granted life’s simple pleasures; like, going to the grocery store without a mask; or going out for a bite to eat in the interior of a restaurant; or hosting friends inside our house; or going off-Cape to do something (anything!); or visiting grandchildren face-to-face, hug-to-hug; or meeting “incarnated” friends (instead of the Zoom “pixelated” versions); or planning a “big” trip to Hawaii to visit my son. Amazingly, I even took church for granted—gathering with dear friends to experience God’s presence in prayer, worship, meditation, sacrament, outreach, and fellowship. I took for granted the peace and quiet of sitting in our beautiful church and experiencing the “lingering” presence of Christ and all of those persons who have made it such a sacred space and place. I even took for granted the natural beauty of Cape Cod—its sea, sand, and sky.

Looking back I can now see that I suffered from the attitude—really the malady—of “Taking for Granted.” One commentator wrote this after her death: “The poet Mary Oliver never took life for granted. She celebrated the daily discipline of paying attention to the world around us, which is essential to conscious living.”

When we “pay attention” and refuse to take the gift of life for granted, then we live our lives in the depths of love, meaning, wisdom, and purpose. And, as a result, we experience our one, precious life not as a “tourist” or “visitor” (see below) on a whirlwind trip through European capitals, but as a person on The Soul’s Journey through this world and into the next.

A message from Rector McGurk on October 7, 2020:

I miss all of your pets! This year, I missed blessing your dogs, cats, mutts, birds, or whatever else, on (Sunday, October 4) the Commemoration of St. Francis of Assisi—that great lover of all God’s creatures “great and small; bright and beautiful.”

Even though I hold my breath each year hoping that none of our four-legged friends mistake a pew, or the chancel rail, for a fire hydrant, I miss watching them meander, sniff, and bark, their way up our church’s center aisle on their merry and noisy way to the front lawn. There, I miss laying my “paws” on them and saying, “Fellow creature and friend, I bless you in the name of God who created you, and who loves and protects you…” I also miss giving them a “sacramental” treat, otherwise known as “dog communion”! I miss the opportunity to honor the “furry” and “feathered” handiwork of “God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth…”

This year—in the midst of the present climate emergency—let’s follow in the footsteps of St. Francis by blessing and honoring the Maker of heaven and earth with our gratitude, respect, reverence, and responsibility for the beauty and wonder of the good earth.

Richard Rohr is a Franciscan, as such his spiritual “father” and guide is Francis of Assisi. He shares this recent homily given in Assisi, by Father Michael Perry, the Minister General of the Franciscans, who articulated his vision of Francis’ message and legacy for our time:

“Brothers and sisters, the call to repentance, conversion, to open our minds, hearts, and lives to a new way of living together on this planet is more urgent now than in any other moment in human history. [As Pope Francis teaches,] conversion requires that we hear “Both the cry of the earth and the cry of the Poor.” But is this not also what Francis of Assisi intended when he prayed that all people, and I would add, all of the created universe, might be admitted to paradise, might come to an experience of what St. Matthew calls the “Beatific way of life,” (Matthew 5:1–11) defined by living in just and right relationship with one another and with all of creation? . . .

“In the Canticle [of the Creatures] Francis celebrates God’s loving presence in all of creation. He looks to nature for guidance on how we are to model our relationships with God, one another, and with the natural world. . . . This one [community], this common home, has been created by God and given the vocation to love, serve, and honor the Creator by loving, serving and honoring one another. Humans and the creaturely world have as their vocation the duty to support and complete one another, not to compete against and destroy one another. We are co-responsible with and for one another, especially for the poor and excluded. We are co-responsible for the life of the natural environment, showing gratitude and respecting nature’s proper limits, not pushing the planet to the brink of ecological disaster.”

Let’s listen for and hear the “cry of the earth and the cry of the poor.” And, this time, let’s DO something about it!

A message from Rector McGurk on October 6, 2020:

Last October, Mary Evelyn Tucker, the Director of the Yale Forum on Religion and Ecology was our esteemed and honored guest. Along with Dr. Phillip Duffy, the Executive Director of the Woods Hole Research Center, Dr. Tucker was the keynote speaker at the Faith Communities Environmental Network’s (FCEN) Faith and Science Forum, which was hosted by our parish. The next day she preached a wonderful sermon at our Sunday Eucharist.

A great deal has happened since last October. Much of it unforeseen just a year ago. The COVID-19 pandemic, racial conflict and strife rocking our nation, the rapidly increasing number and the ferocity of environmental disasters, the deepening of political partisanship and polarization, as well as the anxiety generated by this election season.

In the midst of this, Mary Evelyn shares this beautiful and hopeful poem:

Autumn Is Here
By Catherine de Vinck
(written on Labor Day 2020)

The day opens it first page
As the sun lifts itself out of the East.
No story yet, only the brief fluttering
of a passing bird, winging to the horizon.
Newly awake, the mind turns on its hinges
opens the door to its storerooms to find
shining thoughts, amulets of good luck
and the bones of memories abandoned
in the long corridors of our living.
No need to hurry. We listen hard:
We can hear the earth singing
in the chorus of morning glories
while water words wash us clean.
Time never stops, it goes on writing
a catalog of names and numbers:
phases of the moon, directions of the tides.
Autumn is here with baskets full of apples
gifts for the white ghosts of winter –
It goes on like this, day in, day out
until metaphors shed their disguises
and we stand in the full truth of ourselves
and we find and are found.

May the beauty of this autumn gently remind us that as we “live, move, and have our being,” in the Living Presence and Power of Christ’s Love, we will “find” and we are “found” by God Almighty.

A message from Rector McGurk on October 5, 2020:

After the announcement of President and Mrs. Trump’s positive test for COVID-19 some newspapers ran a headline similar to this:

“President Donald Trump’s coronavirus infection draws international sympathy and a degree of schadenfreude. (USA Today, 2 Oct. 2020)

The Merriam Webster (Dictionary) website reported that “Lookups” for the word “Schadenfreude” spiked 30,500% on October 2, 2020. “Schadenfreude” is defined as “enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others.” The English word was borrowed from German in the middle of the 19th century. In German it comes from Schaden (“damage”) and Freude (“joy”).

President Trump, his wife, and all those afflicted with COVID-19, need our prayers, and not our Schadenfreude—regardless of what our opinion of them may be. Human suffering must always be met by prayer and compassion. Jesus healed saints and sinners, which is good news, because not many of us are in the former category!

A message from Rector McGurk on October 4, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on October 2, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

This meditation is a bit different from others I have written. It is about a book that I have just read and suggest that you read also. Many of you belong to book groups or simply enjoy reading. In either case I think that this autobiographical novel (if there is such a phrase) is well worth your time and attention. It is entitled, “Growing Up White,” by Dwight Ritter. It is available through Amazon and I am sure other places.

The story is fascinating and provocative. Its setting is Indianapolis in the 1950s. The main characters are a young boy named Ricky and a matronly black maid named Georgy. Ricky is the son of a physician who is willing to treat black people and a mother who is a classical concert pianist. They live in an all white section of town where the Ku Klux Klan have a presence in posh country clubs and the high school.

The novel follows Ricky from about ten years of age through the first years of high school. Georgy is a strong force in Ricky’s home. She is a member of the Church of the Holy God and has no reluctance to pray openly and directly in every circumstance. This provides quite a humorous and poignant clash with Ricky’s Easter and Christmas Presbyterian family. She lives in a totally black section of Indianapolis.

On Saturdays, when Georgy is off work, Ricky often goes to her home to study. While there he makes friends with black boys and girls including Arkie, who is a best friend through the ups and downs of the story. From a child’s point of view, these friends encounter two distinct histories and cultures. There are moments of intense pain and amazing joy as we follow Ricky and his friends. Georgy is always there with her ready prayers and wisdom. I think she is a Christ-like figure, but you will have to make your own judgement. What is truly wonderful in the novel is the transformation that takes place among members of the black and white communities as they encounter each other. There is no sugar-coating here, but real humanity struggling with suspicion, anger, and ambiguity.

If you use this book in a group be warned that it has some very “spicy” parts. So if your group has prudes, it best not be used. Apparently, this novel is being considered for a movie. Stay tuned on that one. The author lives in Brewster and is available to discuss the novel.

Usually, I am reluctant to recommend a restaurant or book because you may not experience it as I did. Nevertheless, I feel confident in recommending “Growing Up White.”

A message from Rector McGurk on October 1, 2020:

The first presidential debate was a seething cauldron of anger that spilled over the rim of the debate stage, seeped through my television screen into our den, and began to flood and drown my spirit.

Anger is contagious, and, like the presidential debaters, I, too, became angry. I was angry at our President. I was angry at the former Vice-president. I was angry at the Moderator. I was angry at America. I was angry at myself for being so angry. I was “cranky” (I am choosing my words carefully!) with my wife, Diane, all because she was so upset and angry. I was even frustrated at my dog, Archie, who slept through it all, and acted like nothing bad was happening! Anger is contagious and, beyond this, it is toxic. Anger jeopardizes the health of our spirits and is hazardous to our souls. Spreading and venting our “righteous” anger into our interactions with those on the other side of the political fence is downright destructive. Here is Frederick Buechner’s take on anger:

“OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back—in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.”

If you are feeling frustrated and angry during these trying times, take a breath, sit for an extended period of time in silence and stillness, and then pray the following prayers written by Henri Nouwen and St. Francis:

O Lord, Life passes by swiftly. Events that a few years ago kept me totally preoccupied have now become vague memories; conflicts that a few months ago seemed so crucial in my life now seem futile and hardly worth the energy; inner turmoil that robbed me of my sleep only a few weeks ago has now become a strange emotion of the past; … thoughts that kept my mind captive only a few hours ago have now lost their power and have been replaced by others. . . . Why am I continuously trapped in this sense of anger, urgency and emergency? Why do I not see that you are eternal, that your kingdom lasts forever, and that for you a thousand years are like one day? O Lord, let me enter into your presence and there taste the eternal, timeless, everlasting love with which you invite me to let go of my time-bound anxieties, fears, preoccupations, anger, and worries. . . . Lord, teach me your ways and give me the courage to follow them. Amen.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me bring love.
Where there is offence, let me bring pardon.
Where there is discord, let me bring union.
Where there is error, let me bring truth.
Where there is doubt, let me bring faith.
Where there is despair, let me bring hope.
Where there is darkness, let me bring your light.
Where there is sadness, let me bring joy.
O Master, let me not seek as much
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love,
for it is in giving that one receives,
it is in self-forgetting that one finds,
it is in pardoning that one is pardoned,
it is in dying that one is raised to eternal life.

Pray these prayers, and then go pet your dog, kiss your wife (any loved one will do), go to bed, dream the dream of better days, have confidence in the words of that “dreamer” Martin Luther King, Jr., who said that “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” and trust in your heart of hearts, that the Love of Jesus Christ is stronger than the forces of sin and death—even a force as potent and prevalent as anger. Then wait for Grace to well up in the well-spring of your soul. And, finally, go change the world!

A message from Rector McGurk on September 30, 2020:

The Irish poet and Nobel laureate for Literature, Seamus Heaney, gifted us the beautiful and poignant poem, “Follower.” This poem reveals the profound influence a father’s presence exerts upon his son:

My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hobnailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always.

Heaney struggled to follow the strong example set by his farmer father. Franciscan Richard Rohr said this about fathers:

“From their mothers, boys [and girls too] want nesting, nurturing, talking, and listening. However, it is the father’s job to lead children into the outer world and provide the vision, the security, and the confidence that allows them to venture beyond the nest.”

A father is called to lead children into the “outer” world with all its joys and sorrows, challenges and opportunities. Again listen to Richard Rohr:

“A young man [and woman] left to enter the larger world unsupported and unguided by his father’s encouragement seems to experience a lifelong gnawing sadness. You can see the nervous twitch of the mouth and haunted look in the eyes of a man—even an older man—who didn’t receive this from his father. They never forget.”

Even after Heaney’s father was long dead, he was not “gone.” His fatherly presence continued to follow Heaney into all the nooks and crannies of his subsequent life:

…But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

Jesus said, “Follow me.” What he meant by this, I think, was “follow me into the ‘inner’ life and depth of your own soul, and there encounter and experience the love of your Heavenly Father. Without Divine Love inflaming our hearts and inspiring our souls and spirits, we end up “stumbling” through life with a “nervous twitch of the mouth” and a “haunted look in the eyes” as we unceasingly, and more often than not, unconsciously, search for meaning, wisdom, and love in our lives and world.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 29, 2020:

The Irish poet and theologian, Padraig O’Tuama, shared a story (on his podcast “Poetry Unbound”) about a notable conversation on a flight from Dublin. He and his seatmate—a young American man—struck up an interesting and engaging conversation about poetry. As the plane lifted off, this young man—naturally and unselfconsciously—blessed himself, by making the Sign of the Cross on his forehead and chest. Not a word was uttered about his action; and, the conversation did not skip a beat. For a brief moment Padraig took note, before resuming the conversational “flow.”

As the plane was just about to land, this young man—once again—blessed himself by making the Sign of the Cross. And—once again—nothing was explicitly said about it by either of them. But his actions left an impression on Padraig, who, in retrospect, referred to it as a “Physical Prayer.” He said:

“Part of me wanted to say, ‘Do you believe in God?’ But I think that’s unnecessary, because it kind of doesn’t matter. Using his hand to bless himself was a physical reenacting of something that was holding all of us together in that plane, that hurtling piece of tin, flying through the air.”

What we DO with our bodies is prayer. Ritual actions of all types welcome into our lives God’s Living and Loving Presence. Somehow, someway, they settle us, center us, and hold us together. Some anonymous “wit” referred to the Anglican Liturgy as Anglican “aerobics,” referring to the relentless commands to—stand, sit, kneel, bow, etc. Nevertheless, there is spiritual power in these wordless, physical actions.

Recently, I baptized a few babies. Fun stuff! With a little dab of consecrated oil I make the Sign of the Cross on their little bald heads and pronounce, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever.”

This is a reminder that the Love of Christ, which is indelibly marked in the depths of our souls, is what “seals” and holds all the pieces (body, mind, spirit, and soul) of our lives together as we take off and land—hurtling through the space of our existence.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 28, 2020:

I’m addicted to the writing of Frederick Buechner. You all know it, and I admit it! I am a compulsive quoter of F.B., and, more often than not, I find myself musing, WWFS? (“What Would Freddy Say?”). Of course that comes after my first thought, WWJD?—“What Would Jesus Do?”

Why all the hoopla over F.B.? Well….his writings speak to the human condition, revealing the living and loving presence of Jesus Christ in the mundane routines of daily life. The beauty of his prose (at times rising to the level of poetry) reveals the beauty and mystery of the human heart and soul. Poignantly he speaks to the joys and sorrows of life in our beautiful and suffering world. He is a wise fellow pilgrim on our journey through life and death, who draws on his “lived” and “earned” experiences of success and failure, and offers it to us as “bread for our spiritual journeys.” His words articulately dig out the “gold” in the “mines” of Holy Scripture. With the stroke of his pen, he evokes deep emotions and inspires epiphanies that stick around for a life time. He embodies and inspires hope at time when events and circumstances don’t. If you are looking for spiritual “guru,” he’s your guy. And, he is very funny! Take a look at his meditation on prayer. And let me know what you think.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 27, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on September 26, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a lovely and comforting hymn arrangement of the well-known hymn, Abide With Me (Eventide). This was recorded at Boe Chapel on the campus of St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 25, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

Of late, I have been focusing quite a bit of my energy on the process of “emptying;” emptying cupboards, closets, drawers, the pantry, the basement…all those cavernous areas that hold treasures, keepsakes, and just plain junk. It is a journey toward purging the material, those items that I no longer need and that I know my children do not covet. The journey is tedious and tiresome at times, but also provocative. So many questions come up with each item I might release, memories too. Pulling out a silver-plated serving dish, with inlaid crevices to catch the juices of a roast, brings to mind the carving talent of my father and the joy this brought him. Then there is the box of all his journals; what to do with those? He was a voracious writer and reader; his journals reveal the ordinary and the complex, they reveal him.

And then there is my mother’s china and her red crystal goblets, all of which dressed the table of any holiday that announced with a hint of red. How she loved to dress a table, quietly, silently, with reverence. I’m not sure I can part with these items; to let go of the dish or the journals or the china or the red crystal means letting go of a bit of memory and memory really is the closest thing to the presence of those we’ve lost. Letting go sometimes requires an emptying of the precious.

Through his writings and teaching, Brian has introduced us to the concept of kenosis, the process through which we empty ourselves of thoughts, beliefs, and practices that challenge our sense of humility before God, that block us from humbly connecting and serving others. The passage from Philipians that will be read this Sunday (spoiler alert) reveals, and I quote from Brian, the kenosis of Jesus, the emptying of Jesus in order to humbly offer obedience to God.

Well, it is one thing to practice kenosis when emptying the hutch; it’s quite another to practice kenosis of our inner selves as a means to humbly connect with God. What is inside of me that needs to be emptied in order to create the space for God, the space needed to be receptive to God’s call, God’s grace, God’s love? At this moment, I can almost hear God saying, with humor and great love, “let me help get you started.” God knows what inner furniture I need to release in order to create space for the holy. As Psalm 139 begins: “Lord, thou hast examined me and knowest me. Thou knowest all, whether I sit down or rise up; thou hast discerned my thoughts from afar.” Oh, what a relief it is to know that I am not alone as I seek to empty, to let go of the emotions and ego-driven burdens which hide what God wants for me. How comforting it is to know we can all humbly take a knee before God, offer praise and service, and we will be received in love, always.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 24, 2020:

The 1963 documentary film, Robert Frost: A Lover’s Quarrel with the World, won an academy award. This is how The New Yorker described the film:

“The poet was in his late eighties—and, as it turns out, the last years of his life… This is a patient, revelatory portrait of him in his calm, oratorical radiance. Extended sequences of Frost’s public appearances give rise to sublimely comical asides bearing hard-won wisdom; more intimate talks elicit nuanced yet harshly frank remarks on political issues…”

Frost loved the world, so when it came to politics, Frost could be harsh and frank, as well as cranky and quarrelsome. So too were the great prophets of Israel. Listen to the prophet Amos:

I can’t stand your religious meetings.
I’m fed up with your conferences and conventions.
I want nothing to do with your religion projects,
your pretentious slogans and goals.
I’m sick of your fund-raising schemes,
your public relations and image making.
I’ve had all I can take of your noisy ego-music.
When was the last time you sang to me?
Do you know what I want?
I want justice—oceans of it.
I want fairness—rivers of it.
That’s what I want. That’s all I want.
~Amos 5:21-24 (The Message)

Frederick Buechner said, “There is no evidence to suggest that anyone ever asked a prophet home for supper more than once.” In the absence of “justice” and “fairness,” the prophets—speaking and acting on behalf of God—became impatient, quarrelsome and cranky. They did not make good dinner guests! Instead, they created a great deal of controversy, and were—more often than not—social pariahs. After all, most of us get very uncomfortable when a (true) prophet proclaims God’s demand for truth and justice, and exercises a “preferential option for the poor.” A case in point: Simply look at the current resistance and push-back to the cry for racial justice. Prophets speak hard truth to power. And hard truths—uncomfortable truths—are hard to hear. As an unfortunate result, prophets don’t last too long. Martin Luther King, Jr.—a true prophet for our modern times—was murdered and martyred because he spoke more truth to power than the spirit of the times could hear and bear.

However, when we turn a deaf ear to the Biblical cry for justice, we do so at our own peril. Quaker, Parker Palmer, writes: “Avoid the bad habit of domesticating the prophet of your choice, turning him into a cheerleader for your way of thinking and way of life. Remember that all the great prophets were courageous and outrageous folks who railed against the powers-that-be, challenged self-satisfied piosity, threatened the prevailing social order, and would find you falling short in some significant ways.”

There are modern prophets out there. They are the ones compassionately speaking out for justice and equity for all Americans, for our planet, and for all the marginalized of our world. They are the “quarrelsome” ones who have the courage to condemn injustice, prejudice, hate, and greed. They are the ones that have a “lover’s quarrel” with America. Frederick Buechner said it best:

“Like Robert Frost’s, a prophet’s quarrel with the world is deep down a lover’s quarrel. If they didn’t love the world, they probably wouldn’t bother to tell it that it’s going to hell. They’d just let it go. Their quarrel is God’s quarrel.”

Let’s not take the easy way out by spurning those who speak the truth about what is broken and sinful in our world—as uncomfortable as that may be to hear. Instead, why don’t we even invite a modern-day prophet over for dinner, and maybe even quarrel a little! Who knows, they may turn out to be a Robert Frost, or a Martin Luther King, or an Amos. Or maybe even the Spirit of Jesus Christ in disguise!

A message from Rector McGurk on September 23, 2020:

“It’s my right!” We hear this often, don’t we? After all, America is a democracy that blesses us with an abundance of “rights”—first and foremost, “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Yet, when our individual rights are exercised selfishly, rather than generously and graciously, and for the “common good,” then the exercise of these rights lose their value, power, and purpose.

The Apostle Paul said to the Philippians:

“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death–
even death on a cross.

When we appropriate the “mindset” of Jesus Christ—humility, self-sacrifice, and service to others (servanthood)—then, and only then, can we claim our “rights” and entitlements. Here lies the difference between an “entitled” person, who is in it for themselves, and the humble soul who gives without the thought of receiving.

There is a Jewish midrash—a lesson in parable form that tells the story of passengers on a boat. As the boat pulled away from the dock to begin its voyage, one passenger opened his bag and took out a drill. The other passengers became alarmed as he put the drill bit against the floor under his seat and began to make a hole in the bottom of the boat. The other passengers, in fear and astonishment, pleaded with him, “Stop! What are you doing?” The man was surprised by their objections. He calmly said, “What business is it of yours? I’m only drilling under my own seat. I have no intention of drilling under yours.” The other passengers frantically told him, “The seat might only be yours, but the water will rise up to drown us all!” The story reminds us that nothing we do is really separated from others. We are all in the same boat.

So when we board the ship named the U.S.S American Democracy, let’s not drill a hole with our entitled rights.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 22, 2020:

As a priest, I have spent more time than the “average” person (read: the “non-priest”) in graveyards. Priests simply can’t avoid them! My former church in Virginia (the third oldest church building in the commonwealth) is surrounded by a cemetery with gravestones dating back to the 1600’s. The 30th rector of St. Peters, the Rev. David Mossom, is even buried under the altar! (He is most famous because he officiated at the marriage of George Washington and Martha Dandridge Custis. I was the 60th rector and did not marry anyone of note!) Every day I walked past the graves of parishioners on my way from the Parish House to the Church. As I look back, this daily experience was one of beauty, tranquility, and presence. Yet, a graveyard evokes a wide gamut of emotions—from profound grief and sadness all the way to a deep and abiding sense of peace and serenity. And, of course, every emotion in between.

At St. Christopher’s I have performed over 200 funerals. I was acquainted with some, loved others, and never laid eyes on the rest. So—emotionally—every service was different. Entering a graveyard as a priest is one thing, entering a graveyard as one of the bereaved is another. With my clerical collar off, I have experienced the depth of grief, just like everybody else. Twenty-one years after the death of my grandmother, I still feel a pang of loss when I remember our relationship and recollect her life. Over time and with some “inner reflection” on my part, the sense of profound loss (“the sting of death”) has been replaced by a deep sense of gratitude and joy. When I visit her grave I feel her presence, and I experience a deep sense of joy and gladness for all the goodness and love which has passed from her life into mine. Her loving presence is an unbreakable, enduring, endearing, and eternal connection. Love is indestructible. Love is always stronger than death.

John O’Donohue writes, “May we reverence the village of presence / In the stillness of this silent field.” Let’s celebrate the lives of our loved ones that are now “changed but not ended.” Let’s reverence the village of presence, and trust that the Love of Christ will transform our grief and suffering into a deep and abiding sense of peace, beauty, and gratitude—especially when we enter “the village presence.” And let’s not forget the members of this “village of presence” who live, dwell, and have their being deep in the “ground” of our souls.

May perpetual light shine upon
The faces of all who rest in the ‘village of presence.’

A message from Rector McGurk on September 21, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a sermon given last week by Presiding Bishop The Most Rev. Michael B. Curry. This sermon was delivered last week, and is on the subject of the role of the church in voting and in political and social reconciliation.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 20, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on September 18, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

I saw a poll the other day that indicated that about 76 percent of the American people believe that our country is headed in the wrong direction. I cannot vouch for that poll, but I do know that many of us right now are very unhappy. The threat of COVID-19 has seriously restricted our activities. Children and grandchildren cannot visit us at all or with unnatural distancing. The news makes us unhappy; the words of scientists are at war with the proclamations of politicians. We are not sure we can trust our leaders or each other.

Somehow all of this flies in the face of a basic American belief that we should be happy—the “pursuit of happiness.” We want to be happy not just on our birthday, but every day. In this regard, it is interesting that the word “happiness” is rare in the New Testament. It is not much in our liturgies. There is a reason for this, I think. “Happiness” is a feeling word and it is fickle. I can be at a wonderful social gathering and be very happy and then go to my car and have a flat tire—happiness gone! Happiness is quite superficial and it is fleeting.

A much better word is the word “joy.” This word is often in scripture. In the Gospel of John, Jesus says, “I have told you this that my joy may be in you and your joy complete.” Notice that Jesus does not say happiness, but joy. In the Burial Office of our church, we proclaim “you will show us the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy.”

Joy is deeper than happiness; it is not fickle. It is the assurance that beneath everything we encounter—happiness, sorrow, fear, despair—there is a bedrock of love that will not let us go. For many years I lived close to the Brandywine River, which runs from Pennsylvania through Delaware to the sea. At times the river was calm, almost glass-like. At other times, it was rushing crashing over rock and waterfall. Sometimes is was full of debris–old tires, tree trunks, trash. Its surface was like happiness up and down, always changing, never predictable. But, underneath the changing condition of the surface, there was bedrock, firm and holding the river in place. That bedrock is like joy. We can mourn and cry and still have joy; we can be afraid and discouraged and still be called back to joy. We believe that our relationship with God through Jesus gives us, not happiness, but joy that no one can take from us.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 17, 2020:

Back in 2015 I spent the four months of my sabbatical in Palo Alto, California. In the evenings I took a class at Stanford. During the day I enjoyed Northern California’s spectacular winter weather—brilliant sunshine; crystal clear air; temperatures in the low 70s by day, cooling down at night; beautiful blue skies without the trace of a cloud in sight. Herein lies the problem: In four months, not one drop of rain fell on the brown hillsides surrounding the Stanford campus. The snowpack in the mountains that year was close to zero. Drought conditions prevailed. Happily there were no forest fires. In desperation, most people hoped for rain, and some, I am sure, prayed for it.

Today, California, along with Oregon and Washington, are ablaze. To breathe its air is to breathe ashes. The sun is unable to penetrate the dense smoke. And high noon is an orange nightfall that resembles the surface of Mars. Ashes have replaced the beauty of the forests.

The suffering unleashed by these fires coupled with the current pandemic and other adversities and uncertainties have brought our nation to a difficult, even desperate place. America is facing the “dark night” of its collective “soul.”

Let’s not allow the “thickness of the air” to “wall off” acts of love, empathy, compassion, and grace. Let’s engage our “mumbling lips” and pray, give, and work for the common good—especially for those most affected and marginalized by the great suffering inflicted by natural disasters, COVID-19, racism, and more.

God’s love, like rain, will “wash away” and “drown out” the cloud of affliction. God promises: To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified. (Isaiah 61 KJV)

Let’s not despair. The spectacular beauty of California will return. But only with our help!

A message from Rector McGurk on September 16, 2020:

A few days ago I lost my eyeglasses while walking my dog, Archie. When I realized they were missing I searched for them by backtracking—twice—along the route from my house down to the saltwater pond. But with no luck!

I was just about to give up when my mind filled with an abiding reminiscence of my grandmother. When she would drop, or lose, something small, she would say to me, “Brian, you have eyes like a hawk—can you look for it?” More often than not, I would get down on my hands and knees, crawl around, and inevitably come up with the lost prize!

As I began my third search and rescue mission for my glasses, I silently said to my long-dead grandmother, “Mers, (her maiden name was Demers) help me find my glasses.” Sure enough I found them on the side of the road. “Thank you, Mers!”

Do I honestly believe that my deceased grandmother can’t find better things to do in Heaven than help me find what I lost? Quite honestly, I don’t know. What I do know is this: Every time I pray these words in the Apostle Creed—I believe in the Holy Spirit…the communion of saints…the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting…—I am reminded that the Spirit of God holds both the living and dead together in an eternal bond of love.

And furthermore, every time I participate in the Holy Eucharist and come to the words—“Therefore we praise you joining our voices with Angels and Archangels and with all the company of heaven, who forever sing this hymn to proclaim the glory of your Name…—(once again) I am reminded that the Love of God connects us to people from long ago and far away, to Angels and Archangels, and to all the living and the dead. More than anything else, I am reminded that the power of Divine Love is indestructible.

Eternal love and connection is God’s promise to all of us who have lost loved ones, and a consolation to those who have lost loved ones during this COVID time of physical distancing, which has prevented many families from gathering to celebrate and grieve.

God, Angels and Archangels, you and me, are the “communion of saints.”

I no longer possess “eyes like a hawk.” But my eyes remain focused on my grandmother, and her eyes are still focused on me.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 15, 2020:

A sign of these times: Broken teeth!

In an article entitled, Dentists Are Seeing an Epidemic of Cracked teeth. What’s Going On? Dr. Tammy Chen, D.D.S. said, “I’ve seen more tooth fractures in the last six weeks than in the previous six years.” The underlying reason: “The COVID pandemic-related anxiety is affecting our collective mental health. That stress, in turn, leads to clenching and grinding, which can damage teeth. The body’s fight flight mechanism is kicking in and people are not sleeping well.” Dentists often prescribe a guard or retainer that provides a physical barrier, absorbing and dispersing pressure, keeping the teeth in proper alignment; thus, preventing grinding away in the wee hours of the night. Admittedly, there is a lot of bad stuff to “grind” about.

The apostle Paul also had plenty to grind about — he was in prison, his life was at risk, so he had compelling reasons to be anxious about everything. Yet, from his cell he gave this “half-time, locker room, inspirational speech” to the Philippians: “The Lord is at hand. Have no anxiety about anything… But in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.”

As one commentator said, “Paul was a realist. He did not deny that the worst things will happen finally to all of us, as indeed he must have had a strong suspicion they were soon to happen to him. He does not try to minimize them. He does not try to explain them away as God’s will or God’s judgment or God’s method of testing our spiritual fiber. He simply tells the Philippians that in spite of them even in the thick of them they are to keep in constant touch with the One who unimaginably transcends the worst things and who unimaginably transcends the best. ‘In everything,’ Paul says, they are to keep on praying. Come Hell or high water, they are to keep on asking, keep on thanking, above all keep on making themselves known.”

So before you turn out the lights at bedtime with all of the anxieties and worries of the day buried somewhere deep inside of you and weighing on you, slip on the guard your dentist may have prescribed, AND say this simple prayer: Guide us waking, O lord, and guard us sleeping; that awake we may watch with Christ, and asleep we may rest in peace.” And take to heart the promise of Jesus, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest… for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

Do this and save your teeth, and your peace of mind as well.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 14, 2020:

On September 11, 2001, at approximately 11 am, I was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Beltway that circles Washington, D.C. On my car radio I listened to the surreal reports of terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center towers. Simultaneously, I watched as a ghostly plume of smoke rose up from the Pentagon, clouding the day’s pristine blue sky.

I never completed the journey from my home in Virginia to a funeral service in Fairfield, Connecticut, but my life went on. Yet, on that day, many “life-journeys” were cut short—never to be completed—and others were irrevocably changed.

Nineteen years have come and gone since that tragic day; yet, no explanation has arisen that addresses or answers the “why” of this tragedy and the tidal wave of suffering that followed. September 11th is an event that continues to shake the foundations of the human psyche, and it continues to raise many profound, “existential” questions that may never find answers.

The poem, Photograph from September 11 by by Wislawa Szymborska, (whose imagery is raw, troubling, and tragic) states in the very last line that we cannot and we should not provide inadequate explanations (“not add a last line”) to the unimaginable suffering of 9/11.

Here is the entire poem:

They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.

There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.

They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.

We can’t add a satisfactory “last line” to the mystery of tragedy and suffering. There is no rational answer, no explanation, no logic to Evil. The human mind and heart is unable to penetrate great mysteries like these.

However, there is a “last line,” consisting of five simple words, that does apply. They are: “Love is stronger than death.” They are God’s words promised to all who suffered and continue to suffer as a result of 9/11. The Love that raised Jesus Christ from death to life is God’s “last line” promised to all of humanity.

Theologian Paul Tillich articulately describes the power of Love:

“But death is given no power over love. Love is stronger. It creates something new out of the destruction caused by death; it bears everything and overcomes everything. It is at work where the power of death is strongest, in war and persecution and homelessness and hunger and physical death itself. It is omnipresent and here and there, in the smallest and most hidden ways as in the greatest and most visible ones, it rescues life from death. It rescues each of us, for love is stronger than death.”

In the face of evil, suffering, and death, “life is changed, but not ended.” Eternal Love is the “last line” and central mystery of life.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 13, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on September 11, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

On my tree outside the window of my study, there is one burst of color, a swath of yellow leaves the color of old lemons, amidst the dull green leaves of late summer; color announcing an ending, a closing, a loss. The color will spread to each leaf, and I will witness the leaves hanging on before they fall, one by one, to the earth, becoming nourishment for new life.

Hanging on, letting go. Endings, beginnings. Lost, found. These words come to mind as the summer season comes to a close and hints of autumn give us a wink. In spite of the knowledge that the short days of winter will follow, the fall remains my favorite season. The season encourages a mixed response; it is a season of mixed messages. There is such beauty painted on the dying leaves, such brilliance in the landscape of decline. No wonder it’s a favorite of mine, given my propensity to analyze the complex and dive into the mysterious.

Precisely for this suggested symbolism, the transition from summer to fall can be a particularly difficult time for those who are grieving. The intense beauty of the season may evoke a mournfulness, a yearning, much like a feeling we get when listening to a beautiful piece of music, or resting our eyes on an astounding painting, or absorbing the poetry of T.S. Eliot. Those who have experienced great loss (which most of us have) are uniquely attuned to great beauty, I find. And great beauty can be found in the evocation of our loss.

So, I look at the leaves out my window turning color. I think of the many endings in my life and the beginnings that ensued. Some beginnings were harder to embrace than others, and I certainly didn’t ask for them. Letting go is hard; one is afraid of the fall. But the grace of God, our trust in God, and the companionship of Jesus comforts and heals, helps us live in a new beginning. Let us help each other be reminded of this during the dark times. Let’s help each other look for bursts of color in our landscape.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 10, 2020:

The disciple Peter once asked Jesus, “‘Master, how many times do I have to forgive a brother or sister who hurts me? Seven?’ Jesus replied, ‘Seven! Hardly. Try seventy times seven.'” That’s a lot of forgiveness!

Granting forgiveness to a person who has hurt you—really hurt you—is difficult and for some seemingly impossible. Nevertheless, it is absolutely essential. According to Nelson Mandela withholding forgiveness and holding on to resentment, “… is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies.”

So where do we start? Author, Anne Lamott, acknowledges this difficulty and offers this advice:

“I went around saying for a long time that I am not one of those Christians who is heavily into forgiveness. That I am one of the other kind. But even though it was funny, and actually true, it started to be too painful to stay this way. They say we are not punished for the sin but by the sin, and I began to feel punished by my unwillingness to forgive. By the time I decided to become one of the ones who is heavily into forgiveness, it was like trying to become a marathon runner in middle age—everything inside me either recoiled as from a hot flame, or laughed a little too hysterically. I tried to will myself into forgiving various people who had harmed me directly or indirectly over the years, four former presidents, three relatives, two old boyfriends, and one teacher in a pear tree. But in the end I could only pretend that I had. I decided I was starting off with my sights aimed too high. As C.S. Lewis says in Mere Christianity, ‘if we really want to learn how to forgive, perhaps we had better start with something easier than the Gestapo.’ So I decided to put the hard forgiveness cases on hold and to start with someone I barely knew whom I only dated for a while.”

Start small. And get rid of some poison.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 9, 2020:

After watching the daily newscasts, or after reading the daily headlines, it is easy to wonder, “Where is God in all of this?” We may even find ourselves begging the age-old question, “Why does an all-loving and all-powerful God allow suffering and evil in our world and in our lives?”

Woody Allen said, “If it turns out that there is a God…the worst that you can say about him is that basically he’s an underachiever.” In the midst of fear and uncertainty, and in the face of pain and suffering, the last thing anyone needs is a silent, under-responding, underachieving Savior.

The truth be told: God is not an underachiever. God is “with us” (“Emmanuel”) and God is in us. That’s where God “is.” Furthermore, the first action Jesus performed after his baptism by John in the River Jordan was a compassionate act of healing. At every step and juncture in his ministry, Jesus brought healing and wholeness to the bodies, minds, spirits, and souls of men and women. He faced the evil of human suffering—in all its myriad forms—head-on. Who better to understand our pain and suffering, than the Son of God, who suffered on Cross, so that all the world could be embraced in the arms of Divine Love.

Richard Rohr said, “The problem of evil cannot be dealt with on the theoretical or universal level, where there is never a satisfying answer. Evil is addressed one person and one day at a time, exactly as Jesus did in his lifetime.”

The only underachievers are those followers of Jesus Christ who do not confront the ignorance and ugliness, the pain and suffering of our world with arms of compassion and love. In the midst of the mystery of evil, that’s what we can all do—one step at a time, one day at a time. Like Jesus, let’s overachieve!

A message from Rector McGurk on September 8, 2020:

I can’t say that I am a big fan of country music, but this lyric from singer Toby Keith grabbed my attention: “I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.”

Toby is speaking about love gone cold, a relationship on the rocks. But I associated it with aging, as in: “I wish I didn’t know now at age 64 (and gaining!), what I didn’t know then (at, say, age 24)—about getting old!”

As you are well aware, one of my “heroes” is the (spiritual) writer and clergyman, Frederick Buechner. He’s not a country music star who can effortlessly belt out song lyrics with a twang, but his lyrical writing is as beautiful as any song. Here is what he has to say about getting old:

“OLD AGE IS NOT, as the saying goes, for sissies. There are some lucky ones who little by little slow down to be sure, but otherwise go on to the end pretty much as usual. For the majority, however, it’s like living in a house that’s in increasing need of repairs. The plumbing doesn’t work right anymore. There are bats in the attic. Cracked and dusty, the windows are hard to see through, and there’s a lot of creaking and groaning in bad weather. The exterior could use a coat of paint. And so on. The odd thing is that the person living in the house may feel, humanly speaking, much as always. The eighty-year-old body can be in precarious shape, yet the spirit within is as full of beans as ever.”

The apostle Paul said it this way: “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” When the Spirit is strong, then inspiration, creativity, imagination, and enthusiasm don’t disappear when we hit the codger-y side of life. I was roped into co-chairing the Faith Communities Environmental Network by a self-proclaimed octogenarian, who enthusiastically and energetically used his three Yale degrees to found this network (of more 30 faith communities) with the goal of protecting “our fragile earth, our island home.” Octogenarians are decidedly not codgers! Aching joints and hearing aids do not preclude any of us from making this world a little better in the name of Jesus Christ.

When I accepted the position as Rector of St. Christopher’s I realized that I would be moving from a church where the average age was about 40 to a church where the average age is, let’s say…..“seasoned.” The problem was—all of the 40-somethings and younger were busy, busy, busy and very tired by Sunday. Whereas here at St. Christopher’s, our parish is blessed with the resources of time, experience, wisdom, gratitude, and compassion.

In Christ, the wonder and curiosity of the 8-year-old is alive and well in the 80-year-old. So…let’s go to that youthful place “where our deep gladness meets the world’s deep hunger.”

This is what I know now, that I didn’t know then.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 7, 2020:

I hope you are enjoying this beautiful Cape Cod Labor Day weekend. Here is A Collect for Labor Day, from the Book of Common Prayer, to add depth to your fun:

Almighty God, you have so linked our lives one with another that all we do affects, for good or ill, all other lives: So guide us in the work we do, that we may do it not for self alone, but for the common good; and, as we seek a proper return for our own labor, make us mindful of the rightful aspirations of other workers, and around our concern for those who are out of work; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

We are all called to work for the “common good.” Thomas Merton offers this advice on how we can show something of Christ to the world:

“(S)He who attempts to act and do things for others or for the world without deepening his (her) own self-understanding, freedom, integrity, and capacity to love, will not have anything to give others. (S)He will communicate to them nothing but the contagion of his (her) own obsessions, his (her) aggressivity, his (her) ego-centered ambitions, his (her) delusions about ends and means.”

Have a blessed day!

A message from Rector McGurk on September 6, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on September 4, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

The headline read: “The Season of Fearmongering Begins.” The article following described the intentional arousal of fear by politicians of both parties. You know how it is: if you elect my opponent, it means the end of civilization—stupid talk, yes; effective sometimes, unfortunately.

Fear is one of our basic emotional responses, shared by animals, birds, maybe even plants. Sometimes fear is a good thing; it can keep us safe from destructive behavior such as touching a hot stove or not obeying a traffic signal. But, often, fear is irrational setting off emotional responses which are harmful to us and others.

Fear of the unknown and unfamiliar is well known and it can paralyze the mind and human spirit.mWhen I was in my early twenties, I was the Assistant Director of the summer camp and conference center in the Diocese of Connecticut. One evening as we did a count of campers prior to dinner a boy of ten years old was missing. This caused immediate alarm and a frantic search. I went with another staff member behind one of the cabins and suddenly we saw the boy. He was standing, almost frozen, on a large boulder.

As we approached, he started to cry. Soon we learned that he had gone when he was not permitted and while there he saw a huge snake. In fear he climbed a rock and became petrified. Fear can do that to us—not by seeking a snake—but by fear of change, fear of new leadership in church or nation, fear of a new idea, fear of a neighbor of different ethnicity.

A wise counselor once told me that when I felt anger rising within me, I should count to ten and ask: what are you afraid of? I wish I had the discipline to do that every time I felt anger. Deep beneath anger is often the fear of being excluded, fear of rejection, fear of being embarrassed, fear of isolation. To put it simply, it is the fear of not being loved.

Our holy scripture, God’s word, speaks of fear frequently. To the Shepherds, the messengers of God (the angels) say “Fear not, I bring you news of great joy….” A huge change is happening, to appreciate it, to know it: fear not. The author of 1 John states, “there is no fear in love; perfect love casts out fear.” What he means is that in all things the final word is not fear, but love which surpasses our understanding. Saint Paul says that nothing can separate us from the love of God.

Fear is as natural as breathing. How we handle it depends on our vision of who we are to whom we belong.

A message from Rector McGurk on September 1, 2020:

From the Cross, Jesus, the Crucified One, forgave his Crucifiers saying, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Even from the hardwood of the Cross — precisely from a place of unspeakable cruelty, pain and suffering — Jesus embraced, loved, and forgave the sinful, mistake-prone, and imperfect men and women of our world.

At present, America is an unforgiving nation. Among our political leaders as well as rank and file Americans, forgiveness is (for the most part) neither requested nor granted. Missing is the humility and grace that enables and fuels forgiveness. Yet, without a steady stream of love, embodied in the act of forgiveness, our nation will continue to languish in the mess that we are presently experiencing. Forgiveness is an essential virtue that can and will rebuild the soul of our nation.

When Jesus exhorts us to “Love our Neighbors as Ourselves,” he is asking each and every one of us to grant and receive forgiveness. The Lord’s Prayer reads, “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Jesus knew that forgiveness is an essential act that needs to be transacted daily. Henri Nouwen wrote that forgiveness fortifies love:

“Forgiveness is the name of love practiced among people who love poorly. The hard truth is that all people love poorly. We need to forgive and be forgiven every day, every hour increasingly. That is the great work of love among the fellowship of the weak that is the human family.

I know that there are people who will never forgive me — my words, my actions, the hurts I have inflicted on them both consciously and unconsciously. I can’t control that, aside from expressing regret and sorrow, and asking for forgiveness.

But, I can kick my pride and self-righteousness out of the way, and grant forgiveness to those who have wronged me. Releasing them and me. And, I can do this every day.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 30, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on August 28, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

My dishwasher died a few weeks ago. Consequently, I have spent quite a bit of time engaging in the tedious labor of washing every glass, plate, utensil, and pot by hand. The chore is ritualistic, beginning with the donning of an apron (yes, I still wear an apron), rinsing and stacking the dishes, lathering up the sponge: mugs first, then glasses, then bowls, then plates, then pots, finally utensils. I start this chore with a sense of annoyance, but before long the annoyance lifts and a certain sense of calm sets in, as the familiarity of the ritual comforts. As I wash, I look out my window and notice bits and pieces of life that I hadn’t noticed when merely loading the dishwasher. I notice the diversity of birds that come to my feeder. I notice the rapid-fire speed of a dragonfly’s wings. I notice the way a maple leaf will spin in the wind. And then I notice what must be the presence of God. This ordinary task of washing the dishes has journeyed me to the contemplative. The ordinary as sacrament.

I have vivid memories of my mother washing the dishes, for a family of seven, glass by glass, spoon by spoon, all the while silently viewing the majestic San Gabriel mountains from the kitchen window. Upon completion of the morning dishes, she would iron. She ironed everything, as I recall, even the bedsheets. There was so much to iron that she had a designated “ironing” room. The only noise from that room was that of the iron smoothing material. I imagine the task of quiet ironing encouraged a slow journey to the contemplative for my mother; I feel certain that during her quiet daily chores, she emptied herself to God. I love to iron for the same reason. The sacrament of the ordinary.

Jean-Pierre De Caussade, in his book The Sacrament of the Present Moment, writes: “To discover God in the smallest and most ordinary things, as well as in the greatest, is to possess a rare and sublime faith. To find contentment in the present moment is to relish and adore the divine will in the succession of all things to be done and suffered which make up the duty to the present moment.”

Due to COVID-19, many of us have relinquished our time that was once full of all kinds of activities to time that may feel empty. This can contribute to a sense of feeling adrift, even to a physical sense of inertia. My children have recently teased me because when they call and ask me what I’m doing, my consistent response these days is “I’m just staring out the window.” Yet, by letting myself stare out the window, I can discover God “in the smallest and most ordinary things.” I can “relish and adore the divine” by savoring the empty time, by acknowledging the sanctity of the present moment. And, if I dare, I can let the present moment take me deeper to the depths of my thoughts, feelings and spiritual discoveries that await. If I dare, I will let myself entertain the questions that arise in the depths, the questions that hold mystery. Staring out the window, while washing the dishes, noticing God’s detail and artistry…sacramental.

However, in the spirit of true confession, I do want my dishwasher fixed.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 25, 2020:

Last week I enjoyed a “stay-cation.” It was a time for gardening (which for me means the sweaty, toiling, “manual labor” side of yard work); a visit to my father in Connecticut; engaging in errands and chores that have been placed on hold; celebrating my wife’s birthday; a paddle in the kayak; fishing (caught 3 stripers, one even a “keeper”!); and beach time — sand, water, food, and, best of all, time to read.

I decided to set aside my usual fare of books on (“heavy”) subjects like environmental ethics, racism, theology, etc. My (left) brain was too tired to absorb any more information or knowledge. Instead, I opted for poetry (David Whyte) and fiction (Moby Dick), because they touch, expand, and inspire our hearts and souls, as well as our minds. I desired to read, but to read “spiritually” (and not “informationally”).

Henri Nouwen explains:

“Spiritual reading is not only reading about spiritual people or spiritual things. It is also reading spiritually, that is, in a spiritual way! Reading in a spiritual way is reading with a desire to let God come closer to us. . . . The purpose of spiritual reading . . . is not to master knowledge or information but to let God’s Spirit master us. Strange as it may sound, spiritual reading means to let ourselves be read by God! . . . Spiritual reading is reading with an inner attentiveness to the movement of God’s Spirit in our outer and inner lives. With that attentiveness, we will allow God to read us and to explain to us what we are truly about… As we read spiritually about spiritual things, we open our hearts to God’s voice.”

Nouwen continues, “Sometimes we must be willing to put down the book we are reading and just listen to what God is saying to us through its words.”

An August summer day, spent on the beach, is a wonderful time and place to read, spiritually, the books that inspire and inflame our spirits and souls and transform our consciousness and experience of life. It is also a wonderful opportunity to put down our book and allow God to enter into our lives, riding the waves of words that are streaming into the depths and currents of our souls. Happy summer!

A message from Rector McGurk on August 23, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on August 22, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you an inspirational and timely aria by Handel from Messiah: If God Be For Us.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 21, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate the Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

Betty and I were married on June 19, 1965 at St. Paul’s Church in Huntington, Connecticut. So, June 19 is our anniversary celebrated in many ways over the years. As with anniversaries, we focus on our day largely ignoring that anything else of significance may have happened on that date.

It was only this year that we discovered that a major event in American history took place exactly 100 years before our marriage. It is called Juneteenth and it is a major holiday in the African-American community, which recalls the date when slavery was actually ended in the United States—in Galveston, Texas. It is a major holiday that includes parades, family events, speeches. But, here’s the thing: I never heard of this holiday until this year. What is even more ironic is that I was a history major as an undergraduate and never heard of Juneteenth. Obviously, the history I was in contact with was “white history,” which ignored “black history” as something foreign. This is a problem for us which is being manifested today.

Separate communities, all American, but some more important than others. This got me thinking about my life. I grew up in the city of New Haven, Connecticut, multi-racial and multi-ethnic. I was assigned to go to a high school that had no black students, African-Americans went to another school. My distinctly working class neighborhood had no black families. Who made these decisions?

I could go on and on. The Episcopal Church I attended had no black members. Even the state college I attended, as far as I remember, had few or no black students. Remarkably, it was not until I was in seminary in my early twenties that I knew and became friends with Alan Ford and Frank Turner, two African-Americans.

Despite my lack of personal relationship with African-Americans, I supported the civil rights movement, read James Baldwin, mourned the murder of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., rejoiced in the election of Barack Obama and have been appalled by revelations of police brutality aimed against black Americans.
The Old Testament tells us of our God who liberates slaves in Egypt and still sides with the oppressed.

My philosophical and theological identification with the black community comes from this perspective.

I do not believe that I am consciously a racist; but I am acutely aware that I am the product of a racist culture—a culture that purposefully kept me out of contact with African-Americans. In this cultural model, whites are superior, blacks are stereotyped as less human and we have the racial troubles that manifest themselves over and over again.

I know many do not want to hear this, but it is estimated that by 2040, white skinned people will be just another minority group in this country. Efforts to deny or to politicize these trends are not helpful going forward. For me, I am trying to understand black history; I have just finished Begin Again by Eddie Glaude, Jr. Of course, reading is not going to take the place of a life of encounter.

What I do know is that the future will require white people who understand the racist nature of their experience and who listen to another history with patience and compassion. St. Christopher’s had a course recently on racism. I think the church can take a leading place in the healing of the nation. To do this, we must be courageous and honest and empowered by God’s Holy Spirit.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 16, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on August 15, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you an inspirational and timely video created by Hyannis Sound:

A message from Rector McGurk on August 14, 2020:

Today I wish to share a message with you from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

A gift of the pandemic is the possibility of reconnecting with old friends. Recently, I zoomed up with three old friends from elementary school, two of whom I had not seen for over 50 years. Surprisingly, we were recognizable to one another, voices familiar, and as the conversation continued, we slipped into the old vernacular of girlhood. Memories were shared, yet I seemed to remember little of their shared storytelling. I wondered: where had I been?

Following the call, one of my old friends sent us old class photos. I zeroed in on the class photos from the third, fourth, and fifth grades. These had been painful years in my childhood. In these photos, my younger self in her plaid dresses and Mary Jane shoes looked as I remember feeling: a bit confused, disconnected, alone, a tad sad. Yet, not defeated.

As the youngest, I was the silent and vigilant observer to the complex dynamics of my household, as may be true for many of us. I observed and absorbed. I analyzed. I endured. This is where I’d been, making different memories than those of my old friends.

Endurance: the act of bravely bearing pain, facing hardship, continuing through the unexpected in spite of fatigue and fear. Endurance implies a gift of resilience, tools of stamina, a bit of optimism, perhaps some moxie, certainly faith. How did my nine-year-old self endure? What can I learn from her in order to live with grace and hope during these unprecedented times?

This is what I remember about her, this is what she can teach me:

She loved to walk the paths of Eaton Canyon near her home, let her thoughts go with the river streams. She would write stories, soothed by the consistent presence of nature, comforted by the ordinary amidst the extraordinary. Sometimes she would climb a tree, witness the connection of earth to sky, feeling accomplished.

Well, I can do this, we all can do this to get us through, to endure; engage with nature and beauty. I’m sure I won’t be climbing any trees, but I can remember the wonder of it all.

When she was privy to the pain of those around her, she danced to musicals in her bedroom, to the music of the Beatles and Beach Boys, swirling away all her cares, singing out loud.

Well, I can do this, we all can do this to get us through; listen to music, if able, dance away, and sing out loud, (following CDC guidelines, of course.)

Finally, at the end of most days, she would recite the Lord’s Prayer, our go-to prayer, the prayer of comfort, compassion, and assurance. The prayer that reminds us that God is for all of us, heaven surrounds us, and by saying God’s name, we name holiness. The prayer that reminds us that though we might trespass or cross a boundary with others, and they might do the same to us, forgiveness is God’s gift. The prayer that holds the gentle petition, “give us this day our daily bread,” as an acknowledgement that we do have enough; God is not a God of scarcity. The prayer that ends with “for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever;” the promise of endurance.

This is how my nine-year-old self is encouraging me these days. I wonder how the child in you is offering guidance.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 11, 2020:

Recently, I began (re)watching the Ken Burns documentary, The War. The film’s promotional material describes it as: “A seven-part series … [that] tells the story of the Second World War through the personal accounts of a handful of men and women from four quintessentially American towns.” One of these four “quintessentially American towns” featured is Waterbury, Connecticut — the town where both my wife, Diane, and I were born. In addition, it is the birthplace of all four of our parents, and from my estimation (at least) four of our (eight) grandparents.

As we viewed the first episode, I recognized — in the archival footage of Waterbury — the very familiar city green, the factories that churned out the machinery of war, the wartime headlines splashed across the local newspaper, the Waterbury Republican and American, and even the accents and mannerisms of those Waterburians interviewed. I listened as these ordinary citizens articulately described the (not-so-ordinary) depth of evil and suffering that they had witnessed and experienced during those war years — the Nazi concentration (death) camps, the machinations of the Satan-like Adloph Hitler, the tragedy of Pearl Harbor, the vicious fighting in Europe, Africa, and the Pacific, the devastating impact of two atomic bombs dropped on Japan, and of course, there is much more. This documentary “explores the most intimate human dimensions of the greatest cataclysm in history — a worldwide catastrophe that touched the lives of every family on every street in every town in America — and demonstrates that in extraordinary times, there are no ordinary lives.”

By the time Episode One had ended, I felt depressed by the scope of evil I was witnessing — second hand. Then a realization: My grandparents and other family members witnessed and experienced this horror firsthand — as they struggled with it, lived through it, and ultimately endured it. My grandparents worked in those factories, three of my father’s older brothers fought in the Pacific (one even tried to land his plane on his aircraft carrier, but it had sunk! Another was an Army Ranger, who never spoke a word about his experience.) These were ordinary people living in extraordinary times. Yet, they found the wherewithal to endure! And some even prospered and flourished. I was recently reminded (in an email) of what the New York Timescolumnist, David Brooks, wrote: “Endurance is the knowledge that the only way out is through and whatever must be borne will be borne.”

These “Pandemic times” are difficult, challenging, and trying times. Make no mistake: this disease has wrought great suffering and loss for many Americans. Nevertheless, it must be “borne” and overcome by keeping the interests of the “common good” front and center. Let’s remember the great sacrifices and courage of those who persevered through catastrophic events like WWII. And let’s ask ourselves this question: How difficult is it for us to love our neighbors through the simple sacrifices of physical distancing, wearing a mask, washing our hands, putting the health and interest of the vulnerable before our own, limiting our exposure to others, and temporarily forgoing some of our “rights” for the greater good? Like past generations of (ordinary) Americans, we can and will endure this Pandemic. The Apostle Paul said, “Suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”

“[This] film honors the bravery, endurance, and sacrifice of the generation of Americans who lived through what will always be known simply as ‘The War.’” Let’s honor their examples and get through this “COVID war” by grace. Afterall, it is no match for the compassionate love of Jesus Christ, which has been poured into the hearts of “ordinary” people. People like you and me.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 9, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on August 7, 2020:

I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate John Martiner:

Recently I re-read a series of essays by Walter Brueggemann, an Old Testament scholar and teacher.

Citing the Pslams in particular, Brueggemann reminds us that the Hebrew relationship with God was very direct, emotional, sometimes blunt, and often expressed by complaint, lament-like “where are you God? Did you forget us?”—and by exuberant joy. Reflecting on our modern culture, Brueggemann says that much of our troubles are due to denial and that denial leads to despair.

Denial is like a cancer. It resides deep within individuals and societies. Often the task of the psychotherapist or counsellor is to gently help a client identify dark issues which have been repressed or denied. The hope is that health and freedom come by facing issues head-on, articulating them like the ancient Hebrews in the Pslams.

Each of us, I think, can look inside ourselves and identify things denied, which often lead to sadness and despair. On a larger scale, it is fairly easy to see how denial leads to despair. I don’t mean to be political in a partisan way, but denial and avoidance of Covid-19 and its devastating potential, despite professional warnings, delayed, confused, and inhibited a coordinated, creative response. The result of such denial has led to the chaos and despair which we experience presently. Likewise, denial of the racist history in our country by white people cripples any purposeful movement toward wholeness. The hurt and violence, the division and misunderstanding go on and on—and will until we reject denial.

I know many people use the Christian faith as a shield of denial or even as justification for clearly “unchristian” attitudes. However, leaving that aside we can affirm that at the heart of our faith is the Cross. It means that life is tragic, unfair, disappointing, violent—not always, but frequently enough. To deny that is to miss something essential. Associated with that is the reality of sin—like it or not, we are not as good, or capable or intelligent as we often pretend to be. We know that something weighs us down, something is not quite right.

I know that this may sound very negative. But, I think, to deny the Cross and human sinfulness leads to a life of illusion and a pathway of sadness. To honestly acknowledge our human state leads us to a place of humility, acceptance, openness, hope and healing—a place where God can and does act.

Denial is trouble; honesty, direct encounter, clear vision leads to experience life in all its fulness—life God wants us to have, life as a gift, life shot through with love beyond our understanding.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 4, 2020:

Reading, watching, listening, or even discussing the news of the day, is torture. It’s simply a litany of very BAD news: The latest hurricane; the number of COVID cases rising all across the country; political partisanship—instead of collegiality, cooperation, and the “common” good; racist words and acts, the climate emergency; division over when and how to open our schools; and let’s not forget the daily disagreements (and actual “fists-to-cuffs”) over the simple act of wearing a mask in public, etc., etc.

Frederick Buechner said that even the Gospel is bad news before it is good news. (For example: Jesus suffered terribly before the power of God’s love raised him from death to new life.) We must keep informed, but without becoming overwhelmed and depressed by the onslaught of negative headlines. But how?

Matthew Fox, an outstanding Episcopal priest, ground-breaking theologian, and acclaimed author, suggests that we “pray the news.” He writes:

“…Employ the four paths: Look for the Via Positiva news and dwell with that; the Via Negativa news that calls for grieving and other actions and dwell with that; the Via Creativa news—what are people giving birth to that is useful? And the Via Transformativa news—where is justice and therefore peace really happening? And [ask] how can I contribute to that? Turn the news over in one’s heart therefore.”

God’s love, dwelling in our hearts and souls, is transformative—not only for our individual lives, but for the life of the world surrounding us.

A message from Rector McGurk on August 2, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on July 31, 2020:

I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

A few days ago, Franciscan priest Richard Rohr shared a writing by Episcopal priest Cynthia Bourgeault. In her writing, she describes a moment of, what we might call, spiritual surprise when she heard anew the story of Mary Magdalene sitting vigil at the tomb of Jesus. She confesses that in all her years of ministry, she had not adequately acknowledged this act of love, courage, and devotion expressed by Mary. Cynthia Bourgeault admits to absorbing only certain aspects of Mary’s story, at the expense of others.

I read this at a moment when I was struggling, spiritually and otherwise, with the need to forgive someone who had hurt me long ago. The hurt runs deep and has colored who I am and how I respond to life’s offerings in a variety of ways. The act of forgiveness brings freedom, lifts the load, lightens our journey. So, why is it so hard?

Perhaps the act of forgiving is hard because, as Cynthia Bourgeualt states, we often see only one aspect of a person’s story at the expense of others. We zero in on an initial understanding of a story, an understanding that fits neatly into our view of ourselves, fits squarely into a square shape of our own perspective. I wonder if, in order to forgive, we have to embrace the whole of the person who hurt us, turn a flashlight on to the potential strengths and gifts this person had, explore our own potential for empathy and compassion toward them. Jesus did this; he forgave those who betrayed and hurt him. Martin Luther King did this, John Lewis did this, so many martyrs have done this. Love personified.

Of course, as a wise spiritual director once told me, before I can forgive others, I need to forgive myself. He guided me in a two- week process of confession. On the last day, he asked me to list all that I sought forgiveness for. I’m hard on myself, so the list was long. He then led me to the altar, took my list, and placed it on the altar. He said, “God has it now. God forgives.”

In some ways, we are all sitting vigil at the tomb of Jesus, witnessing and experiencing different stories of dark and light, especially during the long and uncertain days of Covid. Given the limited ways we can communicate and visit, we may realize that the stories of others may be far more rich and complex than we had formerly realized. We may find that we aren’t holding on to old perceptions of someone, tired resentments. We may find a new narrative emerging, a new understanding, a new prayer for love of self and others, empathy for self and others, forgiveness for self and others; with God in the heart of it all.

Amen and Alleluia (St. Augustine)
All shall be Amen and Alleluia.
We shall rest and we shall see,
We shall see and we shall know.
We shall know and we shall love.
We shall love and we shall praise.
Behold our end which is no end.

A message from Rector McGurk on July 28, 2020:

In the midst of grappling with the angel of God an entire night, Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’ ~ Genesis 29

Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature nine times, Nikos Kazantzakis was the author of many books, among them, Zorba, the Greek, and The Last Temptation of Christ. In his autobiography, Kazantzakis shared the story of his experience with an old monk who possessed a great reputation for holiness.

He asked this monk: “Do you still struggle with the devil?”

“Oh, no,” the old man replied. Adding, “I used to struggle with him, when I was young, but now I’ve grown old and tired and the devil has grown old and tired with me. We leave each other alone!”

“So it’s easy for you now?” asked the young Kazantzakis. “Oh no,” replied the old man, “it’s worse, far worse! Now I wrestle with God!”

“You wrestle with God, and hope to win?” “No,” replied the old monk. “I wrestle with God and I hope to lose!”

For Kazantzakis, “losing” meant the stripping away of his ego, and all its misplaced agendas and values (“my will be done”), through an intimate, face-to-face struggle with God’s will (“thy will be done”). (According to Joan Chittester) this is the “spirituality of struggle.” Frederick Buechner calls Jacob’s night-long wrestling match with an angel of God, the “magnificent defeat of the human soul at the hands of God.” When our wills are “defeated” by God, divine love floods our souls, and we are blessed.

Poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “This is how we grow: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater things.” Our human struggle with God is never easy, and yet within that struggle we experience divine blessing.

This was the case for Jacob. This was the case for Jesus. This was the case for Kazantzakis. And this is the case for you and me. Love always wins.

A message from Rector McGurk on July 26, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on July 25, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a short video of a beloved hymn, It Is Well, recorded by the Wartburg College Choir. The words and music inspire peace in our troubled times:

A message from Rector McGurk on July 24, 2020:

I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

The awkwardly open time provided by the Covid crisis spurred me to join a writing group. The last time I was part of a writing group was in the fourth grade; I was the founder and only member of the Creative Writing Club at Noyes Elementary School in Altadena, Calif. Since then, I’ve been too distracted, afraid, or dispirited to take the risk. But, grace happens. There was a knock on the door and I answered it.

Each week we are given a prompt. The prompt for this week, perhaps fed by the isolation that some of us are feeling, is “Who do you miss?” I first thought about my mother, then my children, then my siblings, then all of you, then my life with the children when they were young, then my own youth. The list grew as I visited the many connections I’ve had over my lifetime. In the muddle of this myriad mind, I remembered a time when I missed God.

Years ago, during a particularly painful time in my life, I closed the door on God. Parts of my life were unhinged in a torrent of brokenness following a painful divorce. I was challenged by the tightrope balancing of child-rearing, working, and traveling back and forth to California to assist with the caring of my aging parents. Undoubtedly, I ignored many aspects of self-care, especially spiritual nourishment. I turned away from God.

During this time, on a return flight from California following an excruciating visit with my ailing mother, I was overwhelmed by the memory of God. I noted in my journal, “I miss God.” I then buried my head in a fashion magazine and let the thought go. But God stayed. God waited. Patiently.

Over the years that followed, the memory of God continued to brush up against me, catch my attention, pull me back to the sanctuary now and again. It was a memory of a spiritual home, yet I wasn’t quite ready; I had so much soul work to do, I thought, before I could face God again. But God waited. Patiently.

And then, unexpectedly, I had a vivid vision during a meditation. I was standing in my kitchen sweeping my floor. (I love to sweep.) There was a knock on the door. I opened it and standing before me was Jesus. Politely, I invited him in. He said, “It’s about time you let me in. How can I help you?” He took the dust pan and collected the messiness of my life. He said, “I’ll take care of this now.” I responded “I’m sorry I didn’t invite you over sooner,” to which he replied, “I was always here.” God waited. God stayed. Patiently. I no longer miss God; God is here, a living presence.

God takes care of the messiness. God sweeps up the broken glass from the unrest in our streets and offers a new pathway toward peace. God sweeps up the shards of the broken hearts grieving from the many losses stemming from Covid-19 and offers love. When we open the kitchen door, God is there with the offering: “How can I help you?” God is everywhere. This is grace.

Blessings,

Judith

A message from Rector McGurk on July 21, 2020:

When I was the Rector of St. Peter’s Church in New Kent, Virginia, every month I would enjoy lunch with one of my predecessors — the Rev. Edward Eanes. I was the 60th rector of that church; he was the 57th. Rev. Eanes was known to all as Colonel Eanes, because he had served as a WWII military chaplain in France. He was 93 at the time that I knew him, ordained in 1929, and had earned a master’s degree in sociology from the University of Rochester. He had flourished in both military and religious life.

Every month, I would visit him at his very nice apartment in an assisted living community in Williamsburg, VA. Here we would enjoy lunch with his tablemates — a retired college professor and a retired prep school headmaster. I called them the “Sunshine Boys”! They were my teachers and I was their student — the lucky recipient of their collective wisdom. All 255 years of it!

All three were widowers and each in their own way had experienced suffering, loss, and disappointment. Yet, all three had come out the other side with compassion. Each was fully engaged with life — interested in world affairs, busy with volunteer work, partakers of the cultural events offered by the College of William and Mary, etc.

Col. Eanes was 93 at the time. Each month he would share — never complain — about how busy he was. As clergy, he was the unofficial chaplain of his community — people called on him night and day for any and every kind of pastoral concern and need. In addition, he served on that facility’s medical ethics panel. And there was more. “They won’t let me retire,” he would say. Quickly adding, “but I really don’t want to.” He had a passion for people and life.

I learned a great deal from him. I was in my early 40’s and he was in his 90’s. He passed a great deal of wisdom on to me — the wisdom of a mature life. A life that faced suffering, ambiguity, struggle, uncertain times, and difficult questions.

In these Coronavirus days, I continue to draw on his compassion for people, his passion for life, his wisdom for living, and his hope for the future. His voice continues to speak to me — somewhere down deep inside of me.

Congressman John Lewis, who died the day before, worked until his death from pancreatic cancer at age 80. Tirelessly, he shared his Love and Wisdom for the world. Beaten and jailed he risked his life getting into “GOOD TROUBLE” — that is, speaking out in love against injustice and hate, self-sacrificing his own body for the “WORLD HOUSE,” always without a trace of violence or hate.

Retirement was not a word in either man’s lexicon. Neither stopped being a disciple of Jesus’ love — always reaching out with compassion to all. To me.

The Priest, MATTHEW FOX wrote:

“Older people carry too much wisdom and experience to be put out to pasture or to be told to play the golf course or the stock market or watch television for the rest of their years.”

And Henri NOUWEN adds:

When we retire we make a passage from a life of clearly defined work to a life asking for new creativity and wisdom.

The term “retirement” needs to be retired. There is no retirement in Christ’s world. One year I asked my friend, Dean Ervin, to serve on the Organist Search Committee or perhaps it was the Visioning Committee — or maybe both! I sensed he was getting ready to say something to the effect of “been there done that! I am now retired.” So I hit him with, “Dean, there is no retirement in the Kingdom of God — or in the Church.” He served. And he served well. Maury is witness to this.

MATTHEW FOX says that we should replace the idea of RETIREMENT with the terms, REFIREMENT and REWIREMENT.

REFIREMENT asks the question: “What passion flames in you after your job of putting food on the table or raising the children … is finished? Refirement is about — Inspiration, passion, energy, and enthusiasm. If you have lost it, it’s time to find it! Seek the fire — seek your passion — and follow it.

REWIREMENT means that decades of labor in your given vocation or avocation are done. Now it’s time to develop a different side of you. It’s time to rewire and develop the Right Brain — the intuitive brain, the spiritual brain, the creative artistic brain. Learn, contemplate, meditate, pray, experience nature, reach out, serve, create, teach…etc.

Refirement and Rewirement quicken the flow of compassion, joy, creativity, and wisdom — IN YOU! Frederick Buechner defines vocation as the place “where your deep gladness meets the world’s deep hunger.” The world is very troubled right now. The Coronavirus pandemic, the destruction of the environment, political and racial discord, just to name a few. The wisdom of ELDERS is needed. Your experience is needed. Your guidance is needed. Your participation is needed. The generations following us need all of this.

MARY OLIVER wrote this:

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

TELL ABOUT IT…. Imagine what a witness you can be by investing your MATURE WISDOM and COMPASSION in the generations that come after us.

Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!” The Lord is in this place. The Lord is in your heart and soul. And he wants us to use them — to transform our world.

Let’s not think of ourselves as RETIRED. Let’s think of ourselves as REFIRED, REWIRED and RIPENED with the compassion of Jesus Christ for the sake of this world.

The world Jesus Christ gave his life for.

A message from Rector McGurk on July 19, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on July 17, 2020:

I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

The Blessing of Being Wrong

May my mind stroll about hungry
And fearless and thirsty and supple
And even if it’s Sunday, may I be wrong…….

e.e. cummings

The greatest fear for many of us is being wrong; we see it as a failure and we are horrified if our failure is at all public.

From infancy we are told to strive for success; it is a sign that we are right in what we are doing. Schools and businesses reward or punish on the basis of this view. Even churches, which should know better based on the story of the Cross, are infected with the material values of success and correctness.

It is hard to argue with the desire to succeed and the be right. On the other hand, we suspect that there is more to life than the right/wrong, success/ failure duality. Actuality that simplistic view can be cruel and dehumanizing for ourselves and others. When confronted with failure, many of us deny reality, make excuse or blame others—something displayed daily in our present political atmosphere.

Giving others and ourselves the grace to fail and to be in error is actually a very loving thing. Rather than excluding, it opens possibilities for the future. Also, it allow us the gift to be fully human, forgiving -even funny. Jesus never demands success or correctness—just faithfulness along life’s way. His way is simple and powerful—follow me with a generous, open, trusting heart. That is where we find life in all of its fullness.

A message from Rector McGurk on July 14, 2020:

Who doesn’t love a good story?

Is there anything better than the image of a young child sitting entranced — as an adult reads them a bedtime story from a beloved book?

I am also aware of the great many Book Groups that gather regularly to discuss books of all kinds, and to share their unique and personal stories. During the Summer months, I notice groups of old guys gathered together early on summer mornings at many of the Cape’s coffee shops. I am sure the problems of the world are solved, the Red Sox discussed, strong opinions expressed, and some interesting and colorful stories are shared. Some tall tales as well. The memoirist and poet, Mary Karr, wrote a book about her father and his friends, who gathered regularly to tell and retell their tall tales. She entitled her book, “The Liar’s Club!” (That’s a little harsh, but there is some truth in her observation!)

It would be difficult to imagine what human life would be like without stories. Frederick Buechner writes: “The power of stories is that they [tell] us that life adds up somehow, that life itself is like a story. And this grips us and fascinates us because of the feeling it gives us that there is meaning …” There is meaning and purpose in our lives and in our world. And this is,“leading us not just anywhere but somewhere.”

Jesus was a “story teller.” His method was to share simple stories in order to make a moral or spiritual point. Some of his most profound and inspirational lessons are contained in parables such as, “The Sower of the Seed,” the Good Samaritan, and The Prodigal Son, among many others. They contain deep wisdom and spiritual inspiration via simple stories. Matthew’s gospel points out that: “Jesus told [his disciples] many things with many parables…”

And this is a point I would like to make: Jesus shared many wonderful stories to explain the meaning of the Divine Mystery. He did not repeat the same story — he told many, many different stories — each a brushstroke creating the painting of God’s Kingdom.

In a 2009 TED Talk, entitled The “Danger of a Single Story,” the Nigerian author, Chimamanda Adichie, describes the powerful impression that British story books made on her as a young girl growing up in Nigeria. The stories she read were about white, blue-eyed, children, who played in the snow and ate apples. This was not her story — her’s was the story of a black girl growing up in Nigeria. What was true for children in Britain was not her experience in Nigeria.

When she discovered Nigerian books — she was saved from the “Single Story.” And the breadth and depth of life grew — her worldview expanded. Conversely, she realized that the Western stereotype of Africa — “starving children,” “war-torn societies,” and other scenes of deprivation and scarcity — was not accurate. She said, “The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete…. The single story leaves the diversity of people, worldviews, and experiences out of the equation. The single story is simplistic and shallow.

Adiche realized that, “One story is NOT the ONLY story.

Frederick Buechner writes:

“It is precisely through ALL of these stories in all their particularity, … that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally. If this is true, it means that to lose track of [the variety and diversity of] stories is to be profoundly impoverished not only humanly but spiritually.

So… Let’s tell our stories. Individually and as “belonging” groups. Let’s listen to each other’s story. And between them –a great deal of wisdom and compassion will rise.

America does not possess one single narrative or story. America’s greatness is found in the many stories of the many different people who made us what we are. Black and white, men and women, Native American and immigrant, Christians and Jews, Muslim and Buddhist, rich and poor, conservatives and liberals, Republicans and Democrats — these stories — together — make us what and who we are.

Jesus told many stories. But they had only one theme: “Love the lord thy God with all of heart, soul, strength and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” This is God’s story.

But it’s our story to tell.

A message from Rector McGurk on July 12, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on July 10, 2020:

I wish to share with you a message from Pastoral Associate Judith Felton:

Just after dusk recently, I drove by our church. A dim light shone through the stained-glass windows facing Main Street, light defining holiness. I felt a yearning, a sense of homesickness that settled with a hollow ache in my stomach. The feeling was unsettling, yet familiar, reminiscent of truncated childhood sleepovers, those times when my mother would have to pick me up in the middle of the night from a friend’s because I could not shake the feeling of wanting to be home. Yes, I am homesick for the physical home of St. Christopher’s, the home where I touch God through the intimacy of our community.

In the bereavement group that I facilitate, we often speak of “the presence of absence,” the sense one has, when faced with great loss, of an absence that is everywhere, taking up space in one’s home, mind, body, spirit. The absence is an uninvited guest, at first unwelcome, often avoided and denied entrance until we realize it is here to stay. So, we befriend the absence, acknowledge our new companion, travel through our days with intense awareness that life has changed.

This requires that we surrender to what is and let go of what was; easier said than done. Being mindful of what is, surrendering to the present moment, getting through the present day with faith and hope takes courage, a feeling and action that is often hard for me to rouse. But, as author Henri Nouwen reminds us, the word courage comes from the Latin word cor, meaning heart. Therefore, when we are told to “have courage” when faced with adversity, perhaps we can hear “have heart.” Have heart that the presence of absence will someday hurt less, have heart that there will be a time we can worship together, sing together, hug one another, see and embrace our children and grandchildren, have heart that we will boldly and lovingly face a new future. The heart is where our life lives, holding the love of God.

As I write, I wonder if intermittent yearning can be translated to a prayer of seeking, of faithful exploration of what’s next. There is hope in seeking, there is courage in seeking, there is heart in seeking, and thankfully, we seek with the guidance of God next to us.

From the hymn God of Grace and God of Glory:

God of Grace and God of Glory
On thy people pour thy power;
Crown the ancient church’s story;
Bring its bud to glorious flower.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
for the facing of this hour,
for the facing of this hour.

A message from Rector McGurk on July 7, 2020:

Over and over again, Jesus says, “Fear not.” He doesn’t say this because there is nothing to fear. Quite the contrary, there is a great deal to fear in today’s world — viruses, the degradation and destruction of Nature, our unstable political climate, violence and war, evil in the form of hate and rampant racism (and all the other “isms” as well). The list goes on and on… The poet, Jean Valentine, said that, “We live between [fear]and the ultimate reality of Love.” The Psalmist said that we “walk through the valley of the shadow of death.”

Jesus did not (repeatedly) say, “Fear not,” because there was nothing to fear. After all, he experienced the worst humanity could dish up. He exhorted all his followers — right up to you and me — not to fear, because God’s love is always present with us, in us, and for us. Psalm 23 was well-known to Jesus: “Thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…” “THOU,”, says the always wise Frederick Buechner, is the “center of faith.” “THOU” is “where faith comes from.” “THOU” is why Jesus said, “Fear not.” “THOU” lives and dwells and has its being deep inside the human soul. “Fear not!”

A message from Rector McGurk on July 5, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on July 3, 2020:

I wish to share with you a message from Priest Associate The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

A few weeks ago, I asked for responses to these questions: What have you learned in our present COVID-19 experience and what do you think will change going forward? There were many thoughtful responses; some were very personal. Here a just a few of your thoughts:

• I have learned to be more generous. Some of us have more money than we really need; I am giving especially for those needy and less fortunate.
• Time affluence (a new term to me). I have learned to relish in having more time—fewer appointments, deadlines. I have had time to read, cook, contact friends far from home and appreciate new ways to be together with my spouse.
• A very long and thoughtful response came from a member who spends winters in Florida. He mentioned with great appreciation the efforts taken by Brian to keep connected. He wondered if we might have discovered technology to be used in expanded venues going forward. He wondered if we might provide a Sunday service by video for members who are away seasonally or who are home bound. He offered that Stewardship education, which has been deficient recently, might by provided by video, thus reaching far more people than those at a Sunday service.
• I have become more aware of the need for personal contact and a heightened sense of the importance of caring for one another and being in community. Radical individualism challenged.
• One member told me of the birth of her first great-grandchild and her burning desire to simply hold her. In the midst to death and fear, new life is born.
• But here is my all time favorite! A woman told me that she dyed her hair many years ago and always regretted doing that. I wanted to let my hair be natural, but was afraid to change. Guess what? No hairdresser appointments and her roots are gray. The time has come to be brave and to let my natural hair grow in! Returning to nature is always a good thing!

We are experiencing profound change not just because of the virus but now in response to police brutality in the African-American community. In my opinion, we are just beginning to see major shifts in our society.

How we enter into understanding and adapting to so many changes will be a major test for our Christian faith and action. As above, many of us are learning important lessons in personal ways. There are larger things happening too. We can respond to these by looking backwards and in anger or we can be people of courage and hope. What do you think God calls us to be?

A message from Rector McGurk on June 30, 2020:

We are living in “touchy” times. Daily life is a “touch and go” proposition as a result of the coronavirus pandemic. Some of us get “touchy” when others don’t follow the rules — physical distancing, wearing a mask, no handshakes and no hugs. Others are “touchy” because these requirements limit their entitled rights and liberties.

Another “touchy” problem: To “physically” touch another (even those we love) risks infecting them with a deadly virus. So, even the act of “touching” must obey the rule of “do no harm.” Yet, frontline workers have provided a “healing” touch that has meant the difference between life and death. Their courage has “touched our hearts.” Dr. Fauci, and others like him, have “the touch” — the compassion and expertise to steer us through our present plague.

Zoom has kept us “in touch” with each other, although, skin-to-skin, and face-to-face is far better than talking heads-to-talking heads.

Thomas (known throughout history as “Doubting” Thomas) refused to believe that Jesus had risen from the dead — until he could literally “touch” Jesus’ wounds and feel the heft and heave of his resurrected body. Jesus obliged this doubter’s request — inviting him to touch his flesh and blood body. But Thomas never did. Yet, he believed, exclaiming, “My Lord and my God!”

Thomas never did touch Jesus, because Jesus’ Love had already touched Thomas’ heart and soul. From that point on, Thomas saw God’s fingerprint on and in every living thing. There is no person, no event, no experience, no thing that Jesus Christ has not touched and blessed. This is why we worship the God of Touch — especially in these “touchy” times.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 29, 2020:

Please click here to read a message from Bishop Suffragan Gayle E. Harris.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 28, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 23, 2020:

The Reverend Howard Thurman (1899–1981) was an African-American author, philosopher, theologian, educator, and civil rights leader.

Thurman had been a classmate and friend of Martin Luther King, Sr, when they both studied at Morehouse College. Later, when Martin Luther King, Jr. was a doctoral student at Boston University, Thurman, the Dean of the Chapel, mentored, and served as spiritual advisor, to the younger King and many other (eventual) leaders of the Civil Rights Movement.

Thurman was also a prolific author, writing twenty books on theology, religion, and philosophy. The most famous of his works, Jesus and the Disinherited (1949), deeply influenced Martin Luther King, Jr. and many other leaders, both black and white. In it he said:

“Within Jesus’s life of suffering [and] pain, overwhelming love is the solution that will prevent our descent into moral nihilism. For although scorned and forced to live outside society, Jesus advocated a love of self and others that defeats fear and the hatred that decays our souls and the world around us.”

Thurman was a prophet whose message is needed today more than ever. At a time when our nation is searching for a way forward, Thurman’s book is a wonderful first step on this journey.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 22, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a pastoral reflection from Bishop Alan Gates:

https://www.diomass.org/news/reflections/marking-juneteenth-pastoral-reflection-bishop-gates

A message from Rector McGurk on June 21, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 20, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a link to a 43-minute interview by Presiding Bishop Michael Curry of Franciscan Priest Richard Rohr:

https://wayoflove.episcopalchurch.org

A message from Rector McGurk on June 19, 2020:

Today’s Keeping Connected was written by our Pastoral Associate Judith Felton.

The morning is thick with fog. With visibility limited, I have to listen intently to get a sense of the stirrings of activity within the fog. I hear the singing of birds, but I don’t see them. I hear the rhythm of the ocean, and the voices of neighbors, but the fog clouds any clarity of vision. I can imagine the familiar only and I don’t bother to listen for the unfamiliar; I don’t need to be discomfited by the unfamiliar.

Since the death of George Floyd, I have become increasingly aware of what the fog of privilege has kept hidden from me, (or more accurately, what I’ve allowed to keep hidden.) Without intention, I have lived comfortably with a self-definition of someone who promotes fairness and justice. I give money to all the right causes, I stay informed by reading all the right books and news articles, I march, I pray, I hurt with those who are hurting. Yet, I still might listen only to the familiar behind the fog; I don’t need to be discomfited by the unfamiliar.

Years ago, when I was seeking spiritual direction, my spiritual director often responded to my stories with the question, “where is God is all this?” This question always stumped me, so my responses would be facile. But my spiritual director just kept asking, “where is God in all this?” He forced me to go deep, to listen,intently, in silence to the voice of God. If I did, I almost always heard God whisper, sometimes shout, “don’t be afraid of the unfamiliar. Listen to it. Let it teach. Let it change you.” Be discomfited by the unfamiliar.

Jesus befriended the unfamiliar. He lifted the fog and deeply listened to the stories of the oppressed, the outcast, the mothers and fathers of lost children, the persecuted, the named and the unnamed. Without presumption, he listened. Without judgment, he listened. Without prejudice, he listened. Without privilege, he listened. In silence, he listened. In prayer, he listened. And the world was changed.

Through the fog, today, I hear my spiritual director asking, “where is God in all this?” I vow to listen more and pray more, so the unfamiliar becomes familiar, and then I can be part of the force of change. This is where God is.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 18, 2020:

“I have hope,” replied Archbishop Desmond Tutu. He had been asked if a bloody, race war was all but inevitable in South Africa. At that time (1989), even the most ardent optimists had lost hope for the prospect of peace between white and black South Africans.

What was the basis of Tutu’s hope? Was it his optimistic temperament? Did he know of some political solutions that would bring peace? Not exactly.

Tutu said he was hopeful, because he trusted the Bible’s promise that the power of God’s “resurrected” Love would triumph over hate, sin, and even death.

We can be optimistic in this time of crisis. It helps to be positive, upbeat, “glass-half-full” people. (Within psychology, there is a sub-discipline known as “Positive Psychology.”) We can also be optimistic that our leaders (political, intellectual, medical, scientific, religious, and others) will solve the crises we presently face — namely the COVID-19 crisis, the Environmental crisis, the Racial crisis, the Political “divide” crisis. These attitudes can be tremendously helpful.

But hope is something quite different. The Archbishop explains:

Hope is quite different from optimism, which [can] become pessimism when the circumstances change. Hope is something much deeper…I say to people that I’m not an optimist, because that, in a sense, is something that depends on feelings more than actual reality. We feel optimistic, or we feel pessimistic. Now, hope is different in that it is based not on the ephemerality of feelings but the firm ground of conviction. I believe with a steadfast faith that there can never be a situation that is utterly, totally hopeless. Hope is deeper, and very, very close to unshakable. It’s in the pit of your tummy. It’s not in your head. It’s all in here. To choose hope is to step firmly forward into the howling wind, baring one’s chest to the elements, knowing that, in time, the storm will pass.

Hope comes from outside of ourselves. Emily Dickinson said that hope is “the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” And, despite the darkness and the storm, “keeps singing.” No matter how troubled this world becomes.

So let’s be optimists. But let’s ground our hope in the power of God’s love to resurrect the “brokenness “ of our world. It worked for the Archbishop, and it will work for us.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 17, 2020:

A Pastoral Reflection from Bishop Gayle Harris:

“In the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who is to judge the living and the dead, and in view of his appearing and his kingdom, I solemnly urge you: proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; … For the time is coming when people will not put up with sound doctrine, but having itching ears, they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander away to myths.

“As for you, always be sober, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, carry out your ministry fully. As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.” (2 Timothy 4:1-8, New Revised Standard Version)

“Itching ears”! An interesting way St. Paul has with words! He is addressing the situation Timothy and other church leaders are facing as he sits in prison in Rome, awaiting his execution. This pastoral epistle written 2,000 years ago gives church leaders like Timothy ethical guidance, asserts doctrinal tenets for Christians and encourages endurance with faith in the face of suffering as the cost of discipleship. Paul seems to speak not only to Timothy and the Church in that time, but also to us today, in this modern era of Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, Instagram and 24-hour global cable news, all of which can lead us to truth, or lead us to wander away from truth to myths, lies, conspiracy theories and political spin, on both the left and the right of our political spectrum.

In his charge to the Church, knowing this letter may be one of his last communications, Paul reminds Timothy, and us, of the primacy of the Gospel of Jesus. He insists that we find unity in Christ, hold fast to the whole of truth and demonstratively share God’s love to all–no exceptions, even when we disagree. Divisions were developing in the Church, along loyalties to specific apostles, from culture, differing perspectives, different emphases, and what the Church later would deem in some instances as heresy. Paul calls the Church to know and live the faith as seen in Jesus.

Paul knew ears were itching for a more comfortable, convenient and diluted faith, what he termed myths and “godless chatter.” Ears itching for the Church to be more accommodating to worldly power. Ears itching for validation of the individual over community, for “godless chatter” over truth. Itching from selfishness, corruption and ignobility over mercy, love, integrity.

“For (some) will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant …ungrateful…inhuman, implacable, slanderers…treacherous…lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, holding the form of religion but denying the power of it.” (2 Timothy 3:2-5 NRSV)

Witnessing the mean-spirited invectives on some news outlets, blogs, e-mail postings, Twitter and other social media in the backlash to Black Lives Matter marches, it is clear that some have itching ears, and there are those who want to scratch those ears, some with truth and reason, some with denials and finger pointing.

Too often we have lost the long-held trait of conversing with each other, and to at times agree to disagree. It is hard to fathom people seeing the same scene on television or other media, yet taking away different understandings. It is difficult for me to fathom the myths some people adhere to, both consciously and unconsciously, that one race is superior to another, and that this country was built by and for white people. This myth is antithetical to Scripture, the doctrine of the Christian faith and to America’s founding documents which say we are all created by the same God with the same rights. Some itching ears lend themselves to be scratched with those bigoted myths and lies.

Saying “Black Lives Matter” is not to say other lives do not matter. It is saying that in the long landscape of this country’s history, it has been demonstrated that black lives have not and do not matter, given the injustices of the past and of today. Of course, all lives matter! We are all children of God, created in God’s image, and loved equally by God. But right now, we are focusing on systematic injustice visited upon people by reason of race. The oppression and death of black and brown men and women in custody cannot be looked at as isolated events. For us it is akin to lynching.

I read recently that to say “All Lives Matter” in response to “Black Lives Matter” is like attending a funeral and greeting the grieving family of the deceased by saying, “My grandmother died five years ago. All deaths matter.” To say that would be both inappropriate to the moment and insensitive to those who mourn.

Standing up for justice and equality is not an either/or proposition. Justice and equality make us stand together, next to one another, not one in front of the other. Holding me as your equal takes nothing away from you; but it does bring you closer to the God who created us both.

We need to connect the dots of discrimination, voter suppression, racial profiling and oppression if we are to talk with each other and not past each other. We must claim our whole history, whether it is a time favorable or unfavorable, and whether it is pleasant or unpleasant to do so, if we are to ever truly live by the mandate of the Gospel of Jesus, as well as the principles of the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution.

We have seen violence and looting in street protests. I deplore destruction of property and violent actions against another life, no matter who commits them. But the vast majority of protesters are peaceful. That too often is lost on those who only want to see the protesters as terrorists, Antifa, anarchists and hoodlums so as to help dismiss the real causes and purpose of the protests. Yes, there are some who seek to do harm in the streets. They’re engaging in the evil they say they deplore. Yet to dismiss the whole of the protesters by the actions of the few is a huge disservice, perpetuates division and injustice, and diminishes our humanity. Would we not each be so liable to be known and judged by our failings, weakness and sin only, and not our whole self in God’s eyes? We all make mistakes, have failings and sin. All of us, no exceptions.

Itching ears can lead us to demonize one another rather than to even try to understand or comprehend another’s experience.

We follow Jesus, who was among the politically oppressed, who reached out to the poor, the outcast, the disenfranchised. Indeed, he was one of them. Can we do no less? Can we refuse to see? Should we not speak up and stand up as he did?

The great genius of The Episcopal Church and Anglicanism writ large is being able to walk the middle ground of understanding the full circle of life and faith, comprehensively. We call ourselves the “via media,” holding both the traditions of Catholicism and Protestantism. Our ethos is explained by using the metaphor of a three-legged stool: We value and employ God’s gifts of Scripture, reason and tradition. In these days of pandemic and of people of color seeking justice as an unalienable right, all of us must employ those gifts, together, equally and at all times.

It is time to move from angrily dismissing one another when we disagree, and instead to use our gifts to hear one another, to learn of each other’s fears and hopes. Whether in the streets, at home or work, or with others in our faith community, we must not talk past each other. In faith we must walk together.

In the church year, we are now in the season after Trinity Sunday. The Trinity reminds us God is in relationship with us as we encounter God in relationship as Father the Eternal Majesty, as Son the Incarnate Word and as Holy Spirit the Abiding Love. May we re-engage dialog, do honest reflection and build respectful and compassionate relationships. May we embrace each other in the words of the prophet Micah:

“God has told you, O child, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you, but to do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8)

Yours in Christ,
+Gayle
The Rt. Rev. Gayle E. Harris

A message from Rector McGurk on June 16, 2020:

The Apostle Paul said, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28)

The more we “live, move, and have our being” in Christ’s love, the more we are
“reconciled” and united with each other and with our God.

Yet, being “one” in Jesus Christ does not mean that there are no DISTINCTIONS or DIFFERENCES between us. “All sorts and conditions of men and women,” characterize our diverse world (Book of Common Prayer). Each individual is unique and special — God’s “one of a kind” creation. Throughout his letters Paul celebrates the diversity of Christians.

While DISTINCTIONS are healthy, DIVISIONS (between individuals and groups) erode communal life. The dualistic “polarities” of black/white; Christian/ Muslim; male/female; Republican/Democrate; gay/straight; etc. are DISTINCTIONS that can be manipulated into DIVISIONS — separating and dividing us.

Christ’s Love is the fundamental power and force that drives the Universe, and unifies a world marred by separations and divisions. Drawing on God’s Grace, we possess the power to reconcile and unite ourselves — one to another.

The poem, Three a.m., illustrates how three very different and distinct individuals can — with some Grace, Love and Courage — bridge the fear and hate that separates and divides them along the lines of race, religion, nationality, gender, and sexuality, etc.

Reconciliation in an Uber! God’s Grace knows no bounds or limits.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 15, 2020:

“Either silently or aloud…” At St. Christopher’s, the Prayers of the People always include this invitation: “We now invite your prayers, thanksgivings, or intercessions, either silently or aloud.”

In city centers and town squares across our nation, the sound of protest has been loud and blaring. Protestors march, chant, and cry out, for peace and justice. Some reinforce their message with slogan-laden placards that are positive and constructive. Others are not.

A small number of loud and dissonant voices have added a destructive “note.” Recently, I observed a protestor carrying a placard that read, “KKK-Kops.” This person’s point was clear (and unfair): The Police and the Ku Klux Klan are in the same “category.” The weight of hate was unabashedly proclaimed on this individual’s placard. This is a reminder that words can be devastatingly destructive—tearing down instead of building up the spirit and soul of America.

If we are going to speak “aloud”—in prayer or in protest—against racism, then let’s empower the “better angels” of our nature to be the speaker, or the chanter, or the crier, or the placard waver.

Another observation: At many of the protests, the noisy and boisterous crowds knelt and remained completely silent for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. Silence can be a powerful force for good. Sometimes it is better to remain silent, rather than utter an angry and destructive word. The Civil Rights Movement used silence as a powerful force to peacefully protest against injustice. (see below)

A time of silence, stillness, and solitude opens space in our hearts, minds, and souls to hear and experience the Voice of God. “Silence is the first language of God,” the mystics say. So, let’s become fluent in God’s language. Listening must precede speaking; prayer comes before action.

According to the Franciscan, Richard Rohr, without silence, stillness, and a touch of serenity, as our starting place, there’s always a danger we’ll bring in ego-centered thoughts and “unconstructive” anger—which could end up doing more harm than good.

If we need to speak out, cry out, chant out, or wave a placard, let’s be sure it comes from that silent place deep in our souls. Then, something of God’s gracious voice will be heard. And the “better angels” of our natures will drown out the voice of hate.

“I now invite your prayers, thanksgivings, and intercessions, silently and aloud.”

A message from Rector McGurk on June 14, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 13, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a marvelous, meditative, and moving piece entitled The Ground, by Norwegian composer Ola Gjeilo (b. 1978), who also plays the piano in this recording. The Treble Choristers and Adult Choir sang this last autumn at St. Christopher’s on Royal School of Church Music America Sunday:

Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 12, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from our Pastoral Associate, Judith Felton:

A friend called me last week to share concerns, frustration, despair, and a sense of helplessness at the state of our country. We discussed our sense of sadness that, once again, we were at the doorstep of a broken home, a wound unhealed, the wound of individual and systematic racism, a wound exposed within the hurt of the pandemic. Sometimes, when faced with such a deep wound, one feels spiritually disconnected, perhaps hungry for the wisdom that comes from each other and from God.

I asked her, “what is feeding you now, spiritually? What feeds you?” She responded, “through the darkness, I know there is light. And, the light always wins.”

The light always wins.

She shared these words with me on a day that was particularly dark, gloomy. I was struck with inertia, knowing full well that any projects I’d hoped to complete would be left untouched. So, I did what any respectable woman of inertia would do; I started to go through memory boxes stored under my bed. I started with my mother’s box. I found a written speech she gave at the Episcopal Church Women’s Conference, April, 1966, a particularly volatile time in terms of unrest in our country. She wrote: “…hear the world today, out of the agony of its confusion and frustration, cry to the Church to be the Church, to really be the Body of Christ in the world. Do you not hear mankind crying out to us, ‘Don’t just say your prayers…do your prayers. Don’t just preach the Gospel…do the Gospel.’ The Word was made flesh and does indeed dwell among us. Because of this, when we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and minister in all kinds of ways to the least of these, His brethren, we do quite literally minister unto Him. We become God’s tools, sharing with Christ in the redemption of the world. As Christians, we belong in the midst of sin and suffering, tension and controversy, because that is where God is. This is renewal.” Renewal, light.

The light always wins.

In the midst of the pandemic, the profound and poignant tensions in our streets, the beating heart of our church has remained open. We may not be able to walk through her welcoming doors, sit in God’s resting place of communion, but we are open. We are connecting. Ministry is happening; we are saying and “doing” our prayers, “doing” the gospel. For example, with the nudge of God’s grace, your pastoral care and Stephen Ministry teams, with admirable commitment, are tending to our parishioners who may be feeling lonely or disheartened, offering hope and renewal in the midst of suffering. All the ministries of the church remain at full throttle…faith in action; no closed doors can stop this. As my mother stated, we are God’s tools.

The light always wins.

In closing, let’s say a prayer of thanksgiving for all on the Pastoral Care and Stephen Ministry teams: Jeff Arnold, Sandy Arnold, Joan Bagnell, Mary Bast, Don Chalker, Judy Cornwell, Tom Cottrell, Martha Crane, Ali Crockett, Peggy Davis, Susan Dimm, Vi Fellman, Anne Flash, Jim Fulton, Mary Gulrich, Betty Martiner, Carolyn Otis, Jo Vachon, and Ann Ward. And, of course, to Rector McGurk for support and guidance.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 11, 2020:

My life is awash with newspapers. To “keep up,” I try to read (“look at” is more honest!) The Cape Cod Chronicle and The Cape Cod Times for local news (apologies to the Cape Codder). The Boston Globe for regional news. The New York Times for national and international news. The Economist and The Atlantic for whatever else I may be missing. Not to mention a daily flow of newspaper and magazine articles that arrive into my iPhone via Apple News. And, to cap it all off—a million Constant Contact newsletters from assorted organizations.

The bad news is: Our newspapers are overflowing with “bad news.” Crisis after Crisis—the climate crisis, the Coronavirus crisis, the race crisis, etc.—flow into our consciousness, depressing our spirits and dampening our hope. The answer to “bad news” is not to stop reading the newspapers or watching/listening to newscasts. (Although, we may want to consider taking in the news of the day in a less “compulsive” manner?)

The answer to the “bad news” is the “Good News.” The Swiss theologian Karl Barth famously wrote: “Take your Bible and take your newspaper, and read both. But interpret newspapers from your Bible.” This can be “transformative” reading. The Good News (“Gospel”) of Jesus Christ can instill grace, compassion, courage, charity, and hope, into our hearts and minds, enabling us to transform (in small and big ways) something of the world’s pain and suffering into something better.

Read the Bible, because the Bible really matters. Read the Bible, because Jesus read the Bible—the Hebrew Bible. It worked for him! And it will work for us as well.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 10, 2020:

The Whirling Mind: Can We Escape from Information Overload?” The Economist 1843 magazine featured this cover story in a recent edition. Like a hurricane battering New Orleans, our television and computer screens, our smartphones and tablets, flood our minds with images, headlines, news, events, controversies, statistics, information, ideas, etc. Noise, distraction, nervous energy, anxiety, and a generalized sense of upsetness, overload our overwhelmed minds. Like a washing machine, our minds and hearts whirl (“rapid movement round and round”), and I would add, swirl (“move in a twisting or spiraling down pattern”).

Can we escape? The next time your mind is whirling and swirling, don’t reach for a digital device of any kind. Instead, do what my wife Diane does: She simply goes out into the garden and totally loses herself watering, pruning, weeding, picking flowers… I call it “Restorative Putzing!”…Delighting in the beauty of it all.

In his recent book, The Art of Solitude, Stephen Batchelor, writes, “When you practice solitude, you dedicate yourself to the care of the soul.”

This is not mere escape. It is salvation.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 9, 2020:

America is angry. Many Americans are emotionally upset and deeply disturbed by the murder of George Floyd (and others), and by the virulence and persistence of systemic and institutional racism that infects our nation’s soul. Others are disturbed by the looting, destruction of property, and violence that occurred during the initial demonstrations in cities across our nation.

God is also angry. God’s anger is (always) aroused by acts and attitudes that are harmful, shameful, sinful, and cruel. Racism and murder grieve the heart of God. As does hate and violence. Rabbi Abraham Heschel wrote that, “Divine sympathy for the victims of human cruelty is the motive of God’s anger.” Adding, “Anger is not a disposition of God… God’s anger passes, but His love goes on forever.” God’s anger—“righteous indignation”—never leads to hate or violence, for it is always preceded and followed by love, compassion, mercy, and healing. So, we can’t allow our anger—even our “righteous” anger—to lead to hate and violence. This is not God’s way.

Yet, we can’t deny our anger. And we certainly cannot deny the legitimate anger that African Americans continue to experience and express. Willie Jennings, a Yale theology professor, said that, “Living in hope in America requires anger,” because, anger (in the form of God’s “righteous indignation”) empowers us to change the world [for the better]” (My Anger and God’s Righteous Indignation, For the Life of the World; The Yale Center for Religion and Culture).

What angers God should anger us. When life is destroyed, when life is being drained away and stolen, then God’s “righteous indignation” is called for.

At this time, there is a great deal to be angry about. This leads to an important question: What are you more angry and upset about? The looting, rioting, destruction of property, and violence (by the “few” and not the “many”)? Or, the murders of George Floyd and many other Black Americans—and the racism that empowered them?

Let’s be angry. But let’s be clear about the “nature” of our anger. Is it “human?” Or “Divine?”

A message from Rector McGurk on June 8, 2020:

Today I would like to share a powerful message with you from our Presiding Bishop, The Most Rev. Michael Curry, delivered on Pentecost:

A message from Rector McGurk on June 7, 2020:

Please click on the image below to participate in Morning Prayer:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 6, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you the beloved Pie Jesu from Faure’s Requiem, sung by Maggie Van Sickle and accompanied by Maury A. Castro:

A message from Rector McGurk on June 5, 2020:

Today I would like to share a message with you from our Priest Associate, The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

What The Birds Tell Us

Mike O’Connor, who owns the Bird Watcher’s General Store in Orleans knows a lot about our feathered friends; he is also very humorous. Other than bantering with him when Betty and I purchase bird seed at the store, I am not personally acquainted. But I do read his weekly column in The Cape Codder from which I learn sometimes more than I need about a particular species of bird—and almost always get a good laugh. This guy is the author of a book entitled, “Why Don’t Woodpeckers get headaches?” See what I mean?

O’Connor would most likely resist the suggestion that he is a wisdom teacher—even maybe a theologian. However a recent piece on April 24th was full of a welcome perspective. He writes in part:

I think we all could all stand some good news. The birds are coming.
Perhaps it’s time to shut off the hysteria for a while and spend a day or two
watching the birds in our own yards because they are coming back—today.

Nature teaches us that embedded in life is a dependable ebb and flow. The sun rises, even when it is cloudy. The tides advance and retreat. The dormant trees bud forth. Many birds fly south only to return. This is a pattern; Is it a message for us? Is it the “voice” of God?

Some years ago I attended a seminar on “caring for the caregiver.” One of the seminar’s leaders was Mary Hunt, who is the daughter-in-law of The Rev. Marshall Hunt, a member of our congregation. There were many suggestions relevant to keeping a caregiver healthy, recognizing what a difficult role that is. However there was one that has stayed with me. Mary said that as a caregiver gets tired, weary, discouraged, going outside for even a few minutes to look at the dependability of nature is immensely healing. Remember she said, that the sun will rise tomorrow and tomorrow, the trees will flower and the birds return.

Does God speak to us through the ebb and flow of nature? What do you think?

O heavenly Father, who has filled the world with beauty;
Open our eyes to behold your gracious hand in all your works;
that, rejoicing in your creation, we may learn to serve
you with gladness; for the sake of him through whom all
things were made. your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. BCP. p. 814

A message from Rector McGurk on June 4, 2020:

Life was looking up. It was August 1995, and I was in Johannesburg, South Africa. The air was crystal clear, the sky deep blue, the afternoon sunshine sparkled like champagne. As I gazed up, Gerard Manly Hopkins’ words, “the world is charged with the grandeur of God,” rang true.

As I strolled along a city sidewalk, I continued to look up and around, not paying too much attention to traffic—which of course was a mistake. With my head in the clouds, I unconsciously stepped into the road only to jump back to the safety of the sidewalk after a blaring car horn jolted me out of my revelry.

As I continued—a little more grounded now—I noticed a black man approaching from the opposite direction. The two of us were the only ones in sight. As we approached each other, I wanted to make eye contact and say a friendly hello. But… I was white; he was black; it was 1995—only one year after a potential “race” war was averted by the election of Nelson Madela as President—and hundreds of years of racial oppression had not magically disappeared.

Wearing my Anglican clerical collar, I thought (and hoped) that he might overlook my race. Obviously, I was the race and religion of his oppressors. I had hoped that he might identify my vocation—and me—with my fellow Anglican priest Desmond Tutu—a towering hero to all black South Africans. But, I was wrong.

As he approached, he bent his head forward and looked straight down at the sidewalk. As the gap between us closed, he averted his gaze not only down, but away. As a result, I was looking at the top and side of his head. No eye contact. No warm smile. Absolutely no opportunity to greet him. Two ships passed in the night, two worlds never connected, two races never met to exchange a simple greeting.

Decades later, this incident continues to upset and unsettle me. Down deep, I knew I was not his oppressor. After all, I was in Johannesburg to visit and develop relationships with the black township churches. I know that I am not a racist (consciously at least). Yet, in his eyes I was white, the color of oppression. Apartheid was the system of oppression used by White South Africans to humiliate and subjugate Black South Africans. It literally means “separateness.” I realized that day just how effective it was.

On that day, I was literally and metaphorically “looking up,” enjoying my life—and my privilege. I realized then just how much my life benefited from my membership in the privileged “white” side of race. And I realized that his gaze was cast down and away—as was the value of his life—because he happened to be on the oppressed “black” side of the race card.

This all makes me think of the last minutes of George Floyd’s life—face down in the gutter.

What can we do to ensure each and every person the opportunity to “look up” and experience the beauty and inspiration of the heavens?

A message from Rector McGurk on June 3, 2020:

I spend my entire working day staring face-to-screen with my Apple Computer (my new best friend!). On March 12th, I became the Rector of the virtual “community” known as St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church of ‘Zoom.’ Here, I (virtually) gather with parishioners and colleagues—all neatly self-contained in our own little boxes. “Talking heads!” Morning Prayer services, Bible studies and discussion groups, Vestry and Staff meetings, Deanery and Diocesan meetings, Centering prayer groups and committee meetings, preaching and teaching, all happen on my small screen.

With Zoom meetings, there are two ways to view the gathered community. The first is called, “Gallery” view; the second is called “Speaker” view. In “Gallery” view, you can simultaneously see every member of the gathered community in equal-sized boxes. In contrast, when in “Speaker” view, the majority of the screen is dominated by one person—whoever is speaking at that moment. A few participants are visible, but they are cast off along the margins of the screen. And, to make matters worse, the majority of faces are hidden from sight.

I always recommend “Gallery” view, because we can all see and hear each other—all of the time. As host, I can track who wants to speak; where the discussion is moving or not moving; I can read body language, etc. Best of all, every member of this Zoom community is visible and audible and in communication with each other.

America is stuck in “Speaker” view. Our “screens” are dominated by One person—one voice, one perspective, one worldview, one moral compass, one political persuasion… (The choice of the “One” is ours.) The majority of Americans are cast off the screen, and the voice of the “common good” is lost. This “Speaker” view limits our awareness of the needs of all of Jesus’ brothers and sisters—in our community, in our nation, and around the world. The desires of the “few” replace the needs of the “many.” The common good begins to shrink into what is best for “I, Me, Mine,” or our own specific “belonging group” of family, nationality, race, religion, ethnicity, political party, etc.

Jesus was a “Gallery” view kind-of guy! He saw and heard everyone. He saw and heard their sufferings, and healed them. He saw and heard their shortcomings and sins, and forgave them. He saw floundering and struggling lives, and transformed them. He saw empty souls, and filled them. He saw oppressed people, and freed them. He saw lagging spirits and heavy hearts, and inspired them. He saw divisions, and reconciled them. This is the “community” of Jesus Christ. This is what Martin Luther King, Jr. called the “Beloved Community.”

America, let’s switch our “screen option” from “Speaker” to “Gallery” view and become the “Beloved Community.” After all, this is the setting on Jesus’ Zoom account!

A message from Rector McGurk on June 2, 2020:

After a lightning bolt of pain coursed through my rib cage, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t breathe. I was in college and playing fullback on the football team. During a game, I reached up, and extended both of my hands over my head, in order to catch a pass. An opposing player, with a full head of steam, lowered his helmet and speared my outstretched torso breaking a rib or two. As I lay on the ground disorientated and in pain, I immediately realized I couldn’t breathe. Panic then set in. For what seemed like a long, long time, I simply could not catch my breath. The wind had been knocked out of me. Momentarily, it felt like life was knocked out of me. This is how I felt when I saw the video of George Floyd’s death.

He died because he couldn’t breathe. His traumatic and tragic death (and those of others) has knocked the wind out of America. Like those coronavirus patients in dire need of respirators, we are struggling to catch our breath. Those protesting systemic racism in America are holding up placards reading, “I Can’t Breathe!” Their message is clear: racism and division are suffocating our nation.

The wind had been knocked out of us, but not the Spirit. On Pentecost Jesus appeared to his fearful and shaken disciples and said, “‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’”

The Spirit of Jesus Christ working in us and through us can bring a new-found peace, racial reconciliation, justice for all, respect for the dignity of all persons, and harmony of spirit to our nation. When filled with the breath and Spirit of Jesus Christ, we can breathe love on one another.

The death of George Floyd is tragic and senseless. Let’s not render it meaningless by our inaction.

A message from Rector McGurk on June 1, 2020:

Several years ago, Diane and I fought a massive crowd and ventured into San Francisco on the 4th of July. The vision of the Golden Gate Bridge and the entire San Francisco Bay, illuminated by the light and colors of exploding fireworks, was the draw. Despite our early arrival, the wharf along the Embarcadero was already filled with people—and expectations.

As darkness descended, so did San Francisco’s infamous fog, rolling in faster and denser than the (sardine-like) crowd. The fireworks display began with the muffled thud of a rocket, but absolutely nothing was visible. Every now and then a faint, barely perceptible hue of colored light bled through the fog. Nothing more ever appeared. Thousands of people were left standing, shoulder-to-shoulder, staring up at nothing more than murky darkness. No light. No colors. No inspiration. No wonder. No “oohs” and “aahs.” Only disappointment.

There will be no fireworks in Orleans this 4th of July. The “fog” of the coronavirus pandemic has extinguished the light of yet another celebration. Weddings, baptisms, graduations, anniversaries, birthdays, worship services, holidays, concerts, sporting events, etc. have grown dark. Once again, we will be left staring into murky darkness.

The Day of Pentecost was a fireworks display of sorts: “Suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them… All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit.”

On Pentecost the Spirit of the Living God was poured into Jesus’s disciples—and their hearts, spirits, and souls caught fire. The same is true for you and me. In the words of John O’Donohue let us Praise the pure presence of God’s Fire / That burns from within. And let’s light up the world with God’s love.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 31, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 30, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a video about the great Pentecost hymn, Come, Down O Love Divine (Down Ampney), and its composer, Ralph Vaughan Williams. Enjoy this meditation as we prepare for Pentecost:

A message from Rector McGurk on May 29, 2020:

Today I wish to share a message with you from our Pastoral Associate, Judith Felton:

I learned last week that our former house in Middletown, Conn., the house that raised our children, was up for sale. Circa 1890, the federalist style farmhouse had been loved by several generations of one family until we bought it in 1997. It was perhaps the tenth house we viewed when in the market for buying. Upon entering the old farm kitchen, replete with décor of the period, I whispered to my husband, “this is it, this is home.”

We respected and adored this house. We honored the previous generations by changing little about it. This house, our home, was the host to our stories, our joys, our sorrows, our ordinariness. It was the soul of our family.

Through the omnipresent Zillow, I braved the virtual tour of our former home with a sense of anticipation, as if I was going home again. Instead, I entered a space that was unrecognizable, foreign; walls that had held our stories were gone, entire rooms, gutted. I felt rather heartbroken, a tad grief-stricken. Where will my memories live?

A consequence of Covid-19 is the reminder that what was will not be again; memories are homes we revisit, yet we can’t stay. We have to let go of what was and let God be with us in the present moment.

Theologian Meister Eckhart wrote: “only those who dare to let go can dare to reenter.” Daring to let go of what was requires embracing the unexpected. Letting go feels risky. We can feel lost when faced with the gate of reentry, lost when faced with an uncertain future. But I believe God does his best work in the land of the lost. With all the power of unconditional love, God prepares the new path and beckons, “come journey with me.” With trust in God, perhaps the apprehension of uncertainty can become a transformative experience of letting go.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 28, 2020:

Many years ago I baptized two little guys—twin brothers named Hank and Will. They were about four years old at the time. What I remember most about that day was their shoes. They were both wearing sneakers with lights in the soles. Every time they took a step red lights flashed. Of course, “little” guys take many steps, so it was an eventful and “flashy” baptism.

Since then, they have outgrown those flashy shoes. Standing well over six feet tall they will graduate this week from Pope John Paul II High School. While they have outgrown those sneakers, they never outgrew their roles as acolytes. On countless occasions their feet (sans flashing lights) processed up and down the main aisle bearing cross and candle light. “Where your feet take you,” writes Frederick Buechner, tells you a great deal of who you are.

Their journey continues. Who knows where their feet will take them? Most assuredly, it will be somewhere great. They brightened our church with their flashy feet and their gracious presence. May the (“baptismal”) Light and Love of Jesus Christ brighten every step of their journey through life. May it inspire and illuminate their hearts. And may their feet skip and flash with joy as they go forth.

Our gratitude, prayers, and blessing go with you both!

A message from Rector McGurk on May 27, 2020:

On my first-ever sabbatical, I traveled to New Zealand to study the beautiful liturgy, theology, and spirituality of the New Zealand Prayer Book. The library at St. John’s Theological College in Auckland gave me the perfect opportunity. I read, and then I read some more, surrounded by stacks of theological books in English and Maori. When I couldn’t read one more book or article, I traveled up and down the North and South Islands experiencing these liturgies and prayers in all “sorts and conditions” of churches and cathedrals. At Christ Church Cathedral, I even attended a Eucharist service in Maori. Let’s just say, “I got the gist of it!” My sabbatical was turning out to be “total immersion” in A New Zealand Prayer Book.

A few days later Christ Church Cathedral was destroyed by an earthquake. This destruction and devastation was met by the nation’s deep sadness and grief. The Prayer Book took on new meaning and significance for these traumatized and grieving New Zealanders. Suddenly, I was stranded outside of Christ Church, caught in the uncertainty and turmoil of the moment. The prayers I had studied in the library, and the worship I had experienced in the churches, now became a lifeline of hope and strength.

When we pray to God at times of upheaval and crisis, when our hearts and souls are shook by inner (and “outer”) earthquakes and storms, we want God to be in the “present moment.” Perhaps that is why this prayer rose many times over from the hearts of all concerned:

“God of the present moment,
God who in Jesus stills the storm
and soothes the frantic heart;
bring hope and courage to us
as we wait in uncertainty.
Bring hope that you will make us the equal
of whatever lies ahead.
Bring us courage to endure what cannot be avoided,
for your will is health and wholeness;
you are God, and we need you.”

~ A New Zealand Prayer Book

This is a prayer from the “storms” of the “here and now,” prayed to the “God of the present moment.” Let’s not wait until an earthquake strikes to experience its power and wisdom.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 26, 2020:

“There is a curious paradox that no one can explain….” So began John Martiner’s Keeping Connected meditation last Friday. “Paradox.” The coronavirus raises many paradoxes. (And some “catch-22s” as well. Like, how do we open the nation’s economy and safeguard public health?) Here’s a paradox: How do we maintain hope when confronted by the fear and anxiety generated by Covid-19? “Hope” and “fear” appear to be antithetical and contradictory. However, the definition of the term “paradox” reads, “a seemingly self-contradictory proposition that when investigated or explained may prove to be well-founded or true.” So, how can the “oil and water” of hope and fear (together) lead us through the present crisis?

The Stanford Business School professor, Jim Collins, offers an answer in a concept he termed, “The Stockdale Paradox.” This refers to Admiral Jim Stockdale. He was the highest ranking American prisoner-of-war incarcerated by the North Vietnamese in the infamous prison known as the “Hanoi Hilton.” For seven years he experienced unspeakable torture, pain and suffering. After he was released, he authored a book entitled, In Love and War. Professor Collins recounts how, while reading the book, he became more and more depressed by the bleakness, uncertainty, and the endless nature of the Admiral’s suffering.

After his release Admiral Stockdale studied Stoic philosophy at the Hoover Institute at Stanford—very near Collins’ business school. This gave the professor the opportunity to meet, interview, and ask Stockdale how he survived. His answer is surprising. Somehow, he turned his seven-year ordeal into the “defining event of his life.” He said: “You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.”

In other words, his prison life embodied the paradox of being grounded in the pain and suffering (the brutal facts), while simultaneously maintaining an unwavering hope for a rich future. This is the paradox that saved his life. He came out stronger than he went in.

Referring to the Covid-19 pandemic, Professor Collins said that “We are in a Stockdale Moment. Embrace the Stockdale Moment.” Confront the facts and fears of the coronavirus and with discipline and resolve work and hope for a rich future.

This paradox should not seem unfamiliar to Christians. After all, Jesus experienced the pain and suffering of crucifixion on a cross and maintained absolute certainty that God’s Love would triumph over sin, suffering, and death. This is the Jesus Paradox. Let’s embrace this paradox!

A message from Rector McGurk on May 25, 2020:

For the last 17 years I have been honored to deliver a prayer at the annual Chatham Memorial Day Ceremony.

This year I will miss the opportunity to gather, remember, and give thanks for the countless sacrifices of countless veterans—especially those who sacrificed their lives on the world’s battlefields.

I will miss the dignity and rituals of this moving ceremony wonderfully organized by Ted Miller. I will miss the gathered community members; the assembled Town Officials; the bagpipes droning Amazing Grace; the Pledge of Allegiance led by a Boy or Girl Scout; the singing of The National Anthem; the veterans lost in their memories; the solemn addresses; the playing of “Taps,” and much more.

I will miss the opportunity to gather. But I won’t miss the opportunity to give thanks. Let’s honor the sacrifices of these men and women with our prayers, remembrances, appreciation and gratitude. Please take time today to offer your “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving” to God for the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the hard wood of the Cross, and for the sacrifices of those—known and unknown—who embodied Christ-like love.

Emily Dickinson reminds us in her poem, The Battlefield, that God will never forget the sacrifices and brave actions of those who died in service to our country:

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
Like petals from a rose,
When suddenly across the June
A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless grass, —
No eye could find the place;
But God on his repealless list
Can summon every face.

God will never forget. Nor should we.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 24, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 23, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a final installment from Dan Flonta and Maury A. Castro, a piece by Debussy:

A message from Rector McGurk on May 22, 2020:

Today I wish to share with you a message from our Priest Associate, The Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

A NEW DAY?

There is a curious paradox that no one can explain—
– – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Who understands why spring is born out of winter’s laboring pain?
Or why we must all die a bit before we grow again?
I do not know the answer, I merely know it’s true…. The Fantasticks

In a traditional church building, the cross has a central place. It is there for two major reasons: It makes us remember that we gather together because of an awful death and a surprise of cosmic meaning—Jesus lives and His continuing life empowers us, His people. That is what the empty tomb, the Ascension and Pentecost tell about. The other reason the cross is before us is that it reminds us of one of life’s great themes—death and life, endings and rebirth. Many occasions of death and life are the pulse of our days. Who has not died of aspirations, situations, relationships? Who has not found in many of these the start of a new day with sometimes greater meaning and purpose? “We all die a bit before we grow again.”

If we can stand back from present difficulties and look at history, we can detect this theme. We see this in the history of the Civil War and its aftermath, the same is true for two world wars and for the great depression—some things died and something new was born. During the second world war, when men were overseas, women by the thousands went to work in factories. Remember Rosie the Riveter? After the war, men returning found a new world. Women were no longer “housewives.” They could have jobs now, earn a living and a sense of independence as never before. It was a major step on the long road toward gender equality, something we have yet to fully achieve. Post World War Two saw other major changes—rebirths. Church attendance soared. The Supreme Court put a legal end to school segregation.

What we are experiencing now is major—it has been likened to war. Many of us want things to return to “normal”—the same old same old. History tells us that this in unlikely and that many things will die and some things born—we all die a bit before we grow again. I can think of a number of things which I think will change in terms of personal attitudes, social values, economics, international politics and church life.

But, rather then expounding on my thoughts, I would like to hear from you:

What do you think is changing because of our Covid-19 experience?
What do you think might be born from it?
How might we be different going forward?

If you have time, I would love to see your reflection on these questions. I may not answer everything sent, but I will welcome them nevertheless. My e-mail address is: Tarpon1786@AOL.com.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 21, 2020:

Today is Ascension Day. This is how the Acts of the Apostles describes Jesus’s ascension into Heaven (depicted above in Giotto’s stunning fresco from about 1305):

As the [disciples] were watching, [Jesus] was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. While he was going and they were gazing up toward heaven, suddenly two men in white robes [angels] stood by them. They said, ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?

With that question, these angels made a profound theological statement: Jesus is not “up there,” but, instead, is “down here”—in this world. “Christ is in all things and all things are in Christ,” said the apostle Paul. (Colossians 1) “The word became flesh and dwelt among us.” (John 1)

I remember our late Bishop, Tom Shaw, describing his visit to the traditional site of Jesus’ ascension. He quipped, “There is a stone in the ground marking the point where Jesus ascended from.” As I listened, I envisioned the disciples looking up and seeing the soles of Jesus’s Nikes, as he was whisked up to heaven. Then the Bishop added, “Christ is to be found in the life of this world. Look for him down here.

If we want to find the Living Christ, then don’t look up, don’t look far and wide, don’t travel to exotic places, don’t go to grand cathedrals or holy places in order to find him. Instead, look down into the depth of the human heart, and experience there the Living Presence of the Risen Lord. Go down and deep into your ordinary life and your searching heart, and you will travel far and wide into the Love of Christ.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 20, 2020:

“Are we there yet?” How many times have parents heard this refrain coming from their children, bouncing around the backseat of the family car, during a long trip? The Coronavirus stay-at-home orders have left many of us impatiently “bouncing around” the “backseat” of our living rooms wondering, “Are we there yet? When will “normal” life resume?” Of course, these are questions I can’t answer. But when it comes to opening the doors of St. Christopher’s, I can say, “Sorry to disappoint, but we’re not there yet!”

Governor Baker announced on Monday that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts will open its economy in “phases”—thereby balancing the public health risk with the economic benefits of reopening. There are four phases: 1: Start; 2: Cautious; 3: Vigilant; and 4: New Normal. Each phase will last a minimum of three weeks. On May 18th Governor Baker gave churches (“houses of worship”) the green light to move from the Stay at Home phase to Phase 1: Start. Hooray! Open doors!

But, many restrictions apply, like: physical distancing, the wearing of masks, no more than 40% of legal occupancy in the building, pre-registering for worship services, disinfecting and cleaning guidelines, air circulation issues, no singing, no communion, no fellowship gatherings, no baptisms, no weddings—and this will break everyone hearts—NO passing of the plate! During the press conference the Governor said, as an aside, “The Coronavirus is still out there.” In an unscripted way, he was issuing a word of caution.

Last Friday, our Bishop, Alan Gates, was cautious and circumspect about regathering. He told the Cape and Islands clergy that our present manner of being the church (online and “virtual”) may be more effective—at the present time—than in-person services greatly truncated and limited by this litany of restrictions. Yesterday the Bishop issued the Diocese of Massachusetts’ guidelines for the regathering of our churches. It is entitled, A Journey In Stages: Gathering, Serving and Growing as The Episcopal Church in Massachusetts During and Beyond a Time of Pandemic. (Since churches did not close during the pandemic, he does not refer to the reopening of churches but to regathering.) The document is a compilation of directives, guidelines and resources. It begins with this important preamble:

This document is offered to guide clergy and vestries in some of the necessary conversations about the gradual process of regathering in our churches. Such planning will be guided by the principles and parameters offered here, encompassing the counsel of our elected and public health officials. The process will also need to reflect the particular context of each and every congregation. Saint Paul said, “‘All things are lawful,’ but not all things are beneficial.” (I Corinthians 10:23) In every situation we must be guided not just by what is permissible, but by what will best safeguard the well-being of all God’s people.

According to the Governor, it is permissible to open churches. According to the Bishop, it is permissible, but not beneficial (for the well-being of all God’s people) to regather. Thus, our Bishop has announced an extension until July 1, 2020, of the directive for no in-person public worship or gatherings in churches. In the meantime, St. Christopher’s will form an Advisory Committee to direct the stages of our regathering process as it unfolds.

Above all else, the safety and health of every member of our church is our first and foremost concern. This is how we love and care for one another (especially those most at-risk of infection). This is how we respect the dignity of human life.

Safe, Slow, and Sure will be our guiding precepts.

No, we are not there yet. But we are closer!

A message from Rector McGurk on May 19, 2020:

“Keep Calm and Be Episcopal” was featured on the front of a coffee mug given to us by a friend. Written on the back was “Grace Church Charleston, South Carolina.” Their assertion: Episcopalians are calm. Calm? I guess if you mix a “keep-a-stiff-upper-lip” attitude with the Anglican Tradition; an aristocratic Charlestonian bearing; “Southern” manners; and a dash of Puritan austerity, then you get a “calm” Episcopalian—known to all the world as, God’s “frozen chosen!”

If “Keeping Calm” means not showing nervousness, anger, or other strong emotions, then Episcopalians are in fact calm. After all, Episcopalians are not generally prone to open displays of emotion—especially in Charleston! However, if “Keeping Calm” means not feeling nervousness or other strong emotions, then we flunk—like everyone else. A placid demeanor does not necessarily signify inner calm.

Inner calm is a precious; yet, rare treasure that requires spiritual discipline—prayer, stillness, silence, and solitude. A sense of calm must be earned. After sitting together (in our Zoom Contemplative Discussion and Prayer Group) for 20 minutes of silent (“centering”) prayer, a member shared how difficult it was to calm her busy mind. Evidently, a constant flow of thoughts, feelings, emotions, images, and “to do” lists, “shoulds” and “oughts,” etc. were swirling around her restless mind. Then she added, “So I reached down and petted my dog, and when I touched her fur, I suddenly calmed down.”

John O’Donohue wrote that the human mind is rarely calm and centered in the present moment or the present place. In contrast, some animals are by nature calm, comfortable, and in the moment—always looking out from the here and now. (Please see the poem below.) For several years my dog Archie has attended our Contemplative Eucharist service in the Chapel. After “passing his basket” for some petting or treats, he calmly settles joining us for 20 minutes of silence and sleep. I have noticed that his presence has been soothing and calming for many of the participants. In some mysterious way his calmness rubs off on “we” humans. Instinctively he embodies the words of the Psalmist who said, “Be still and know that I am God.”

My mug will say, “Keep Calm and Be (like) Archie.”

A message from Rector McGurk on May 18, 2020:

Today I wish to share a message with you from our Priest Associate, the Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Recently I engaged in a search hoping to discover that some notable first penned these words—Shakespeare? Byron? Nice try; apparently they first appeared in an obscure anthology of unnamed poets in 1602 and have been used in many contexts ever since. In that tradition, we are justified in using them during this time of absence.

Anyone can make a list of familiar things that are absent from our experience right now. We miss seeing, touching each other—Zoom compensates only a little. We miss super market shelves fully stacked; We miss smiles concealed behind face masks. Among the many things I miss most profoundly is worshiping together in the church building, before the altar and under the cross. I miss the hearty hymns, the reading of God’s word and its exposition; I miss publicly praying for each other and I deeply miss receiving the holy bread and wine. With all its obvious faults, I miss the institutional church.

In our faith tradition as well as in may others, there is a special place for absence. Absence increases our desire, hunger for presence. Silence—the absence of words—makes the use of words more precious, just as being able to say “no,” makes our “yes” have real meaning. That is why we have the season of Lent, with sadly largely unused, practices of fasting. It is why we observe the darkness of Good Friday, without it Easter is trivial. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, absence makes our celebrations have life changing meaning.

I wonder in this time of absence from regular worship if we can get a renewed appreciation for the church. Many times our presence at worship is far to casual and occasional; we assume the church will be there for us and we do not have to do much to assure that that will be so. This absence may tell is how important the church is. With this in mind, we may want to reassess how we individually fund the church. If it is important, if we miss it in this time of separation, we may want to do some soul searching about how we fund that which we miss. It is an embarrassment that most of us routinely tip a waitress 20% while the average Episcopalian gives about 1.8% of their income to the church.

When we are able to get together again, I muse about how it will be—at least for starters.Will we wear face masks? How will those joyful hymns sound? We will probably not shake hands or hug. We may have to sit six feet from each other; how will we take the Holy Sacrament of bread and wine?

As far as I am concerned, I am prepared to accept a new normal just to be together. Absence has made my heart have a new appreciation for the worshiping body of the church gathered together.

In Christ,

John
The Rev. Dr. John Martiner

A message from Rector McGurk on May 17, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings

A message from Rector McGurk on May 15, 2020:

Today I wish to share a message with you from our Pastoral Associate, Judith Felton:

I received a card from my mother in June of 1989. She would have been 77 when she wrote this; I was just shy of 38. She had just returned to California after a visit with me. This is part of what she wrote: “…I really think a feeling of sadness…is part of being a human being, perhaps a cosmic sadness. And everyone has a certain feeling of loneliness because there is always a part of us that can never be known or understood completely by another individual. It could be considered an inner space that each one of us needs for oneself alone…a sacred sanctum which we guard against all invasions, because it is there we can be quite open to God and learn to cherish and nourish one’s own individuality.”

Her words were significant for me at the time, but I find her words even more timely now, during the days and nights of Covid-19. As I tend to the needs of my own household and as I connect with family, friends, and parishioners, I have been inspired by their resiliency, their sense of hope, promise, and true faith, as well as (very importantly) their sense of humor. Yet, I have also been deeply moved when one opens their window of vulnerability, allows me in to their “sacred sanctum,” offers me their feelings of loneliness, isolation, and even, sometimes, their worry about being disconnected from God. I deeply believe that God is in this space with us, allowing for a spiritual contagion of understanding.

The Talmud states: “Never pray in a room without windows.” This implies to me that prayer allows the light of God to seep in through the window whether or not the window is open. Therefore, even when we find ourselves in the “sacred sanctum” of vulnerability, when we might feel the unease of darkness, there is the window of prayer to return to, the window of light. The window allows for God’s light to come to our souls, but it also allows for our light, inspired by God, to escape outward…to offer solace to the “cosmic sadness” experienced now.

Pastoral care is about sharing sacred space and opening our windows, so to speak, to one another. Trust that every connection you make is pastoral and filled with God’s grace, the best kind of contagion.

Blessings,

Judith

A message from Rector McGurk on May 14, 2020:

“Don’t worry, it will be fine.” This is one of the worst pieces of advice we can give—even if it is well-intentioned and well-meaning. Reality check: It’s next to impossible not to worry. After all, there is a world full of people and problems to worry about—among many others, the Covid-19 crisis; the climate crisis; the economy; our health, wealth and security; our friends and family; our children’s future; etc. The list is endless. We know the act of worrying—the mind dwelling on difficulties and troubles—does not solve a thing; yet, we worry. As Henri Nouwen said: “Still, we worry a lot and, therefore, suffer a lot.”

How can we turn off the incessant flow of our anxious minds, ruminate less, worry less, and find some semblance of peace? Obviously there is no magical answer or cure. Somehow, we must work our way through this abyss of worry with all the tools we can muster. For direction, I will quote (again!) the late author and neurologist Oliver Sacks: “In forty years of medical practice, I have found only two types of non-pharmaceutical “therapy” to be vitally important for patients with chronic neurological [and psychological] diseases: music and gardens.” (Everything in Its Place: First Loves and Last Tales) Likewise, Mary Oliver prescribes the same “medicine.” (see below)

I can’t sing—at least publicly. However, each and every Friday I gather with Maestro Maury to record the Sunday service. A high point of the week is listening to him chant the Psalm. It sticks with me all day and into the next. In some way, Maury’s voice and the Psalmist’s words sing through my heart—lifting and inspiring it. My worries have not changed, but I have. Music has the power to transform a worry-weary heart to an inspired heart. “O come, let us sing unto the Lord; let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation.” (Psalm 95) Praising God through music and song won’t save the world. But it certainly can save us—from our worries.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 13, 2020:

Our Bishops announced yesterday that “the current restrictions on in-person public worship and gatherings in our churches are now extended until July 1, 2020.” With “Cabin fever” already at crisis levels, this delay exacerbates an already difficult and challenging situation. After all, we can only watch so much television, read so many books (and computer screens), and attend so many Zoom gatherings.

In recent disasters (9/11, nor’easters, hurricanes, forest fires, etc.) we were called to come together. Now we are called to stay apart. As the author and columnist David Brooks alluded, the combination of disconnection, isolation and existential stress (as a result of Covid-19) produces a wide range of bad mental health outcomes resulting in depression and anxiety—or worse.

The (late) author and neurologist Oliver Sacks suggests an antidote: “In forty years of medical practice, I have found only two types of non-pharmaceutical “therapy” to be vitally important for patients with chronic neurological diseases: music and gardens.” (“Why We Need Gardens,” found in Everything in Its Place: First Loves and Last Tales) In fact, science has confirmed that time spent in nature helps us to cope with stress and lowers anxiety. As little as 15 minutes spent immersed in nature produces measurable health improvements. “Nature therapy” is therapy for our souls.

So here’s a suggestion from the Sierra Club: “For an antidote to isolation, get out into Nature. You don’t have to go all that far. Find some way to make a trip to your nearest woodlot, creek, regional open space area, seashore, or hillside. Take the dog for a walk. Sit in your backyard or garden. As long as you’re able to do so in a way that meets the recommendations for social distancing, figure out how to get outside however you can.”

As we continue to physically distance in order to protect public health, Nature remains one place where we can experience reconnection with our God. Our church is closed; but, the beauty, wonder, mystery, and awe of God’s Creation is wide open.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 12, 2020:

“What makes Chatham so Special? Recently, I was invited by Chatham Living magazine to respond to this question. They included my thoughts in an article on p. 57 entitled, What Makes Chatham So Special? We asked several people in town to explain why the ‘elbow of the Cape’ is such a magical place. (Chatham Living is a “glossy” annual magazine with beautiful photographs, lots of advertising, some really nice articles on Chatham “institutions” like the Cape Cod Chronicle and the Chatham Anglers, and profiles of interesting people doing interesting things in our community.)

Here is what I wrote:

“‘Celebration’ makes Chatham special. Celebration in the sense of enjoying the 4th of July parade; or a blanket spread out on Lighthouse Beach; or crowds cheering at a Chatham A’s baseball game; or a play at the Monomoy Theater; or a beer, or two, or more! at the Squire. [But I am also thinking of celebrations that bring a tear to the eye, or a catch in the throat: The pride and joy of a new mother and father cradling their baby at a baptism; the look on a father’s face as he walks his daughter down the aisle; friends and families celebrating the end of a life with grief and gratitude.] Chatham is special because it celebrates—joyfully and gratefully—the mystery, beauty, wonder, and depth of the human heart.”

That’s what I wrote, but not what appeared—they edited out the bold, bracketed words above (in my opinion, the most important). Moving from the celebration of baseball and beers at The Squire to baptisms, weddings, and funerals (life’s deepest events) is wandering away from this magazine’s purpose and message. And I understand that.

In hindsight, I think my answer better addressed the question, “What makes St. Christopher’s so special?” Answer: Our church is special because it celebrates—joyfully and gratefully—the mystery, beauty, wonder, and depth of the human heart. Let’s not edit out the “celebration” of Christ’s love in the truly important events of our lives.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 11, 2020:

Put your mask on. Our Governor ordered it. My wife recommended it. So, of course, I did it.

I heard the “Brad Pitt” of infectious disease doctors say that cloth masks protect other persons from our sneezes and wheezes (technically, “aerosols, droplets, sprays, etc.”….especially the gale force variety!)

Masks also make us anonymous. A masked man drove by me, waving as I walked along the road. I didn’t have a clue who he was. Of course, I warmly waved back. But then I thought: I’m not sure if he was happy to see me, or “gesturing” for me to get the heck out of the way?

With masks a great deal is “lost in translation”—like Smiles. With masks, you can’t see a person’s smile. (That is what Liz said in a recent Zoom contemplative class discussion.) And smiles are more important than we think.

At a Boston hospital, a young nurse was attending to an elderly Covid-19 patient. The man said, I can’t see your smile. It was a casual comment revealing a profound truth: A simple smile can do even more than “make a person’s day;” it can be a powerful healing force—arising from the depth of a compassionate heart, and touching the depth of a lonely heart.

This nurse took action. She rallied her colleagues, instructing them to pin a photograph of their smiling faces onto the front of their scrubs. With a pin, the light of their smiles and humanity shined through their protective gear.

We can’t cure Covid-19 with a warm smile, but it does have the power to lift the spirit, warm the heart, and enter the soul of a person who is suffering from Covid or from disconnection and loneliness, or from who knows what else. I don’t know if William Blake is correct when he said that a smile can end misery. But they sure help.

So, when we can, let’s take off our masks and share the light of our smiles with someone—anyone. Short of that, let’s Smile with our eyes. (Thank you Peggy!) Let’s Smile with our hearts.

And while we are at it let’s take off those “other” masks. The masks we all wear to project to the world a “persona” of success, importance, status, influence, and or power. These are the masks of the “False” Self, the “Small” Self, the “Inauthentic” and the “Ego-driven” Self. They only get in the way. Let’s take off these masks and find out who we truly are. And let’s replace these masks with a heartfelt smile. Others will smile back. And the light of God’s countenance will smile upon us all.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 10, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 9, 2020:

Today a sprightly gift from soprano Maggie Van Sickle and Maury A. Castro. This piece is about Spring and other things…

A message from Rector McGurk on May 8, 2020:

Today I wish to share a message with you from our Priest Associate, the Rev. Dr. John Martiner:

I have never experienced a major earthquake, but I can imagine what it is like; the once-firm earth shakes, buildings and trees sway, some fall, fear is rampant.

In many ways, the Coronavirus and our response to it reminds me of a social earthquake. The very foundations of our personal and national life are shaken—and the quake is worldwide. In our country we witness monumental incompetence of leadership as well as amazing professionalism and courage. Our proud health care system is shown to have huge limitations and dysfunctions while at the same time we witness health care workers exhibiting Christ-like sacrifice. Suddenly poorly paid teachers become a national treasure. Personally, the foundations of our identity shake, making us anxious, afraid, angry. We can no longer be defined by what we do—jobs, sports, bridge, eating out, shopping, social status. Perhaps unconsciously, we are faced with the existential question: Who am I? What gives my life meaning, value?

In periods like these it helps me to remember people who have encountered similar—or more tragic—times. One of these is Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the young pastor and theologian who led Christian resistance to Adolf Hitler in the early 1940’s. Bonhoeffer was executed by hanging just weeks before the European war ended. He had spent many months in a harsh Nazi prison camp. Clearly his foundations were shaking. About a month prior to his death in 1945, Bonhoeffer wrote a very personal poem. I invite you to read it slowly two or three times and to think about who you are, who we are and what really matters.

In Christ,

The Rev. Dr. John Martiner

A message from Rector McGurk on May 7, 2020:

Being “at home” has taken on a new meaning. As a nation we have never spent so much time in our homes—engaging in school, work, church, play, and more, without ever leaving our living rooms.

Home means many different things to many different people. It’s a house, in a place, at an important period of life—think of your childhood home. Hopefully, it was “home sweet home”—a special place of permanence, beauty, peace, security, nurture, relationships, and love. As Frederick Buechner writes, “a place where you belong and it belongs to you.”

Yet, not everyone has enjoyed the gift of a good home. Therefore, we may be “at home” and still be “homeless” or “homesick” for some missing ingredient. Musician and Nobel Laureate in Literature Bob Dylan described homesickness this way: “How does it feel, how does it feel? To be without a home Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone.” So we dream, long, and search our entire lives for this sense of home.

Ironically, we have already been given this home. “Home is where Christ is,” Buechner says. Christ, who according to St. Paul, “lives, dwells, and has his being” deep inside our souls. Christ who said, “the kingdom of God is within.” Our souls are our “second” or “spiritual homes.”

The kingdom is within—you and me. This is home! Every time we pray, or give and receive love, we are at home with God and with ourselves. And grace fills the empty rooms of our hearts. This is truly Home sweet home.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 6, 2020:

“Would you like to leave a tip?” a polite, female voice enquired after completing our take-out food order over the phone. My wife Diane responded with an immediate and emphatic, “Yes!” Then she proceeded to give her a larger-than-usual tip. This gesture was met with a gracious, “Thank You! We really appreciate it.”

A small act of generosity sends a much-needed message of concern, care, kindness, and support. The Cape’s small businesses are suffering, and the livelihoods and futures of countless individuals and families are in jeopardy.

The Dean of Yale Divinity School, Gregory E. Sterling, is an outstanding leader that I have grown to admire and respect for his thoughtfulness and compassion during this crisis. He offers us this “tip”:

Those of us fortunate enough to have an income during this crisis need to do all that we can to assist others. We might start with our families and make sure that when someone loses a job, we can help. We should think of those in the service industry who are forced to shut down. For example, if your barber or hairdresser needs to close their shop, please send them a check for a haircut even though they cannot give you one. If you have a favorite restaurant or two, send them a check for a meal, even though you will not eat it… There are many local charities who will serve the marginal. Now is a time to be generous to them.

Dean Sterling gives us a “tip” that, if enacted, will embody—in some small way—something of Jesus’s love for our suffering world.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 5, 2020:

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” says Jesus. On the basis of these words, some Christians want to exclude others from the Love of God. Their logic is simple and oftentimes simplistic: Those who worship God in other faith traditions; or those who have never heard nor responded to the Gospel; or those who have not verbally proclaimed Jesus as their Lord and Savior; or those who don’t believe as I/we believe—have not come to God through Jesus.

This is predicated on a limited understanding and interpretation of God’s love and grace. First, divine love is unconditional—it is offered to all of humanity. And, second, grace is an unearned, unmerited, undeserved gift of love from God to us. No one merits it, and there is no way for us to earn it—no matter how pious or good we think we are (not even Mother Teresa!).

Let’s not forget that God can (and does) bestow his life and love on anyone (which means everyone) he desires. He doesn’t need a letter of recommendation from us. And, if we look to Jesus’ example, grace is universally given to all—especially sinners. Let’s not presume to know who deserves grace. And let’s not tell God how to run his family business.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 4, 2020:

You make the gospel simple. That’s what a former parishioner said about my preaching. He meant it as a compliment. I took it that way, because he was a straightforward and direct kind of guy. As a Virginia Commonwealth attorney, I am sure he listened to a great deal of baloney (or worse). He didn’t need more from the pulpit. At first, I wished he had said something like, “you make the gospel relevant,” or “alive,” or… whatever. But he (simply) said, “simple.”

Over the years my appreciation has grown for the word simple. Why? Because the Love of Christ is simple. The actions of Jesus were clear and straightforward—he healed whoever asked without reservation. He forgave unforgivable sins for unforgiven people. The stories Jesus told conveyed simple truths but were never simplistic—a Prodigal Son squanders his wealth in the Las Vegas of his day and then begs his father to return to home and hearth. The Our Father is as simple as praying for daily bread.

The poet Christain Wiman states profound truths simply:

Absolutely unmixed attention
is prayer. Hell
is the inability to love.
Forever is composed of nows.

Author Anne Lamott says that “Help, Thanks, Wow” are the three essential prayers. Mary Oliver says that prayer is simple and does not have to be a complicated puzzle (see below).

Quaker spirituality bears witness to their belief that a person ought to live a simple life in order to focus on what is most important and ignore or play down what is least important.

The 13th century philosopher, William of Ockham states in a precept known as Ockham’s Razor that the simplest solution is most likely the right one. Today we would say, “less is more.” Or we would use the KISS principle—”Keep It Simple Sweetie!” (or worse!)

The Coronavirus pandemic has reduced the hustle and bustle of our lives. And it has simplified them in many respects. From my own experience I can tell you—the spiritual journey is not complicated. Simple is good.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 3, 2020:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on May 2, 2020:

Enjoy this gift from LeeAnn McKenna and Maury A. Castro:

A message from Rector McGurk on May 1, 2020:

One day seamlessly flows into another, and into another, and into another…. Since I began working from home seven weeks ago, I find it difficult to recollect what distinguishes the events of one day from the next. Everything blends together. People (other than “Zoom” people), places (other than home, sweet home), events (other than walking Archie), friends (other than Diane) have been stripped away—or at least put on “hold.” Such an uneventful life! Or is it?

Each day is a rich treasure trove. But, we must dig under the mundane surface of the day to discover the “jewels” lying in the depths. The Society of Jesus (The Jesuits) are master “diggers.” Please consider their practice of praying The Daily Examen.

The unique depth and richness of each day will be revealed. And you will be surprised at Who shows up to guide and bless you!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 30, 2020:

I was dreading my trip—to Hawaii, in February, to see my son! Why? An eleven-hour flight and countless hours hanging around Logan and Honolulu airports—also known as the Cities of Wait. (See Mary Oliver) Happily, I actually found this dreaded time pleasurable as I read, listened to music, and jotted down a few thoughts. Impatience was replaced with active waiting.

Just be patient! My children heard this thousands of times when they were growing up. And they cringed every time. For them, waiting meant empty time, boredom, passivity, and a lack of control.

America, just be patient! That’s the exhortation of some civic leaders, as well as the consensus and strong recommendation of the medical community. Being told what to do (social distancing) may offend us, because it takes away our independence and control—and replaces it with a sense of powerlessness. Of course, this is generating a great deal of anger, resentment, and frustration for some! With no known end to the pandemic, the capacity to accept and tolerate this delay is wearing thin. Impatience is rapidly growing.

Yet, isn’t it ironic that “patient” waiting (in isolation, physical distancing, passivity, and boredom!) is perhaps the strongest action individuals can take to counter the spread of the virus!

Patient waiting is frustrating and boring. And healing too!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 29, 2020:

A friend recently wrote, Traveling the optimistic path is not always easy. The pandemic, the climate emergency, the pain and suffering of everyday life generate a level of fear and anxiety that can strip us of our last grain of optimism and bog us down in the “swamp” called skepticism. (To qualify: Skepticism in science, philosophy, religion, or any intellectual pursuit is a good thing. Questioning, testing, proving, and supporting our opinions, ideas, theories and hypotheses with reason and facts is the path to truth and wisdom. Skepticism that slams shut our hearts is not.)

In the poem Ten Distillations, Christian Wiman writes:

Skeptic
His eyes were open but his heart was shut.
At the edge of every wonder he said But…

In contrast, an Optimist stands at the edge of beauty and wonder with an open heart and sees the mystery of Christ’s love alive in the world—and says, Thank you. (See Mary Oliver)

During the 1990’s I heard Desmond Tutu speak on three different occasions (in South Africa, the Washington National Cathedral, and Richmond Va.). Invariably he was asked if he had lost hope and become skeptical during the darkest days of Apartheid. And (invariably) he said, I am always hopeful. I know who wins. God wins. Love wins. In the Resurrection of Christ, the power of God triumphs over sin and even death. We win! Tutu said this when there was no practical reason to be optimistic. His hope was firmly based on his trust in the power of Christ’s Love.

Traveling the optimistic path (keeping our hearts open) during times like ours is not easy. But it is the path of Jesus, the path of love, and as such it is the “way, the truth, and the life.”

A message from Rector McGurk on April 28, 2020:

“I am the Good Shepherd; I know my own and my own know me…” John 10:14

The (late) Tom Shaw was the Bishop of Massachusetts for the first eleven years of my tenure as Rector of St. Christopher’s. As Bishop, he was remarkably open about his life—honest, authentic, and vulnerable. He embodied Henri Nouwen’s definition of a Good Shepherd as one who makes their own life—their sorrows and joys, their despair and hope, their loneliness and experience of intimacy—available to others as sources of new life.

“Prayer is entering into another person’s suffering.” I clearly remember our Bishop sharing this with our parish many years ago. And, I clearly remember him entering my suffering at a difficult stretch of life. One day, I answered my cell phone, but I couldn’t identify or understand the caller. Then I realized it was Bishop Shaw. He simply said, “I am so sorry you are going through this difficulty.” Poignantly, it was the last time I spoke to him. Shortly thereafter, he died of a brain tumor.

When Bishop Shaw spoke of prayer as entering into another’s suffering, the poet, Mary Oliver, was sitting in our chapel listening to her good friend. This Good Shepherd had also entered into her suffering. She honored him with a beautiful poem. I honor him with a simple prayer of gratitude for sharing my pain and befriending my sorrows.

Let’s strive to be Christ-like shepherds. Like Tom Shaw.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 27, 2020:

The March 13th death of the Rt. Rev. Barbara C. Harris was buried by the news of the Coronavirus pandemic. As the first female bishop in the worldwide Anglican Communion, her consecration was historic and groundbreaking. She loomed large in the life and history of Anglicanism, just as she continues to loom large on our stained glass window. At our 2019 dedication service, her presence filled our newly renovated and expanded church, as she celebrated with us, praised God with us, and said a few Alleluias with us.

As a divorced, African-American, female bishop she personally experienced hardship and hate—first-hand. Despite this, she possessed an irrepressible personality—quick witted, irreverent, a chain smoker, a tireless and articulate advocate of the marginalized, gracious, spiritually deep, Bible-believing. Diminutive in physical stature, yet larger than life.

She titled her memoir, Hallelujah, Anyhow! Hallelujah is a Hebrew word that literally means, Let us praise the Lord. (We also use the Greek transliteration, Alleluia, in our worship.) It expresses joy, thanksgiving, and praise towards God despite what we may be experiencing at the moment. By adding anyhow to the title of her memoir, I hear her saying, “despite this pandemic, praise God—anyhow! Despite the fear, anxiety, and uncertainty of the present time, praise God—anyhow. Despite what we have or don’t have praise God—anyhow. Despite the darkness, see the light—anyhow!

When I glance up at our stained glass window, I give thanks to God for our Bishop, now dearly departed, and I think to myself, Hallelujah, Anyhow!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 26, 2020:

Please click on the image below to participate in Morning Prayer for the Third Sunday of Easter:

Click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 25, 2020:

Yet another gift from Dan Flonta and Maury A. Castro. This one is sure to lift your spirits!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 24, 2020:

I graduated from the Divinity School at Yale nearly three decades ago. Each time I return, I nostalgically stroll down its quintessential “academic” halls, where the pictures of every graduating class—dating back to the late 18oo’s—hang. I check to see if I am still there. So far, so good! Then, I stop to honor a member of the Class of 1914—Reinhold Niebuhr—the legendary 20th-century theologian, whose wisdom helped steer America through WWII. Niebuhr is famous for another reason—he is the author of the Serenity Prayer. He composed this prayer sometime around 1932 or 1933. The prayer spread rapidly, often without attribution to him, in the 1930s and 1940s. It was adopted and popularized by Alcoholics Anonymous and other twelve-step programs in this form:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
and Wisdom to know the difference.

No doubt Niebuhr prayed this prayer through the pain and suffering of WWII. In our anxious and uncertain times, this prayer is our way through darkness. COVID-19 is no match for the Serenity, Courage and Wisdom. For this is the Way of Jesus Christ, who rose victorious over the powers of darkness, sin and death! Be well, and, like Reinhold Niebuhr, pray well!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 23, 2020:

Hugs are scarce! The disconnection caused by “physical distancing” and “sheltering in place” have limited our opportunities to physically embrace our children, grandchildren, loved ones, and friends. With apologies to Zoom and FaceTime, “digital” embraces are not the same! They can come up hollow, like a “one-person” hug (see poem below), and like the Zen Buddhist saying, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Like the Tango, hugging, embracing (and clapping) takes two!

“During this time when we may not be able to physically wrap our arms around each other, let us yet find ways to be the loving embrace of God to our neighbors.”

Let’s embrace those dear to us by opening the “arms” of our hearts, creating space for them to enter, and then wrap our compassion around them. Let’s be creative! The Holy Spirit will take it from there. The Prayer Book says it best: “Lord Jesus Christ, you stretched out your arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of your saving embrace: So clothe us in your Spirit that we, reaching forth our hands in love, may bring those who do not know you to the knowledge and love of you; for the honor of your Name. Amen.”

In gratitude, let’s give our Lord Jesus Christ a (“two-handed”) round of applause for wrapping the entire Creation in his saving embrace! And then use our hands of love to reach out, embrace…and squeeze.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 22, 2020:

On the first Earth Day (April 22, 1970), I was an 8th grader at Alcott Elementary School in Wolcott, Connecticut. All classes were dismissed, so that we could pick up trash around town.

My small town was named after Oliver Wolcott, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. My school was named after the educator and “local son” Bronson Alcott. Notably, he was the father of Louisa May Alcott (Little Women), a New England Transcendentalist, and a colleague and neighbor of Ralph Waldo Emerson (“Nature always wears the colors of the Spirit”) and Henry David Thoreau (“Blessed are they who never read a newspaper, for they shall see Nature, and through her, God”).

Fifty years later, I see their spirits alive in our world. “Alive” as I work with our Earth-Honoring Faith Committee and the Faith Communities Environmental Network to reverence and respect nature. “Alive”—not in the sense of picking up trash as I did fifty years ago—but “alive” as we work together to stop “trashing” our beautiful planet. Theologian, Thomas Berry, said, “We can’t have healthy people on a sick planet.”

Jesus said, “Love your neighbor.” He didn’t simply mean the person on the other side of the picket fence. Air, water, soil, plants and animals are also our neighbors—equal members in the “community of life.” On this Earth Day, let’s love them too.

Please take a few moments to view photographer Steven Koppel’s magnificent Beauty on the Flats by clicking here.

He is the Brewster-based author of Brewster Flats and the forthcoming book, The National Seashore, and he serves on the Board of The Association for the Preservation of Cape Cod. Steven is the founder of EDI (Expressive Digital Imagery). This organization’s mission is to “give voice [through photography] to those facing challenges such as cancer and mental illness who often long to be heard in ways beyond what is possible through words alone. EDI has been used successfully in multiple diverse settings, including the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, McLean Hospital, Yale New Haven Health, and the Gosnold Addiction Treatment Center.” Take a moment to view all of his wonderful work at: stevenkoppel.com.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 21, 2020:

Matins is the traditional name for Morning Prayer in the Anglican Tradition. I invite you to join me today (and Tuesdays following) at 9 am for a Zoom liturgy of Morning Prayer and a “glimpse” (discussion) at Sunday’s gospel reading.

Matins from To Bless The Space Between Us
By John O’Donohue

1
Somewhere, out at the edges, the night
Is turning and the waves of darkness
Begin to brighten the shore of dawn.

The heavy dark falls back to earth
And the freed air goes wild with light,
The heart fills with fresh, bright breath
And thoughts stir to give birth to colour.

2
I arise today

In the name of Silence,
Womb of the Word,
In the name of Stillness,
Home of Belonging,
In the name of the Solitude
Of the Soul and the Earth.

I arise today

Blessed by all things,
Wings of breath,
Delight of eyes,
Wonder of whisper,
Intimacy of touch,
Eternity of soul,
Urgency of thought,
Miracle of health,
Embrace of God.

May I live this day

Compassionate of heart,
Clear in word,
Gracious in awareness,
Courageous in thought,
Generous in love.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 20, 2020:

Angels populate the Holy Scriptures. But I haven’t seen any of these “messengers of God” lately! Or…have I?

On the first Easter, in the darkness of night and the shadow of grief, Mary Magdalene stands outside of Jesus’s tomb. Looking in, she sees two angels, sitting where the (now missing) body of Jesus had once lain. In an instant, they vanish. Amazingly, Mary now stands face-to-face with the Resurrected Christ. “Teacher,” she joyfully cries out, knowing now that, “He is Risen”!

When we experience the presence of great beauty, or a depth of holiness, or “amazing” grace, or sacrificial love, or unyielding hope, or steadfast faith, or courage in the face of COVID-19, then perhaps we, too, are in the presence of an angel—which is nothing or more or nothing less than the Living Presence of the Resurrected Christ. Halos and wings are optional! Perhaps it is an angel wearing an N-95 mask!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 19, 2020:

Please click on the image below to participate in Morning Prayer for the Second Sunday of Easter:

Please click here for today’s readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 18, 2020:

Three minutes and thirty-nine seconds of sublime beauty! Another gift from Dan Flonta and Maury A. Castro.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 17, 2020:

There is a saying in Eastern Orthodox Christianity, “Drop your head into your heart.” Meaning, the soul requires the mind’s understanding, knowledge, and reason; and, it requires the heart’s experience of compassion, love, and grace.

Gregory Sterling is the Dean of Yale Divinity School and a Professor of New Testament. As a scholar and intellectual, he possesses a profound understanding of the Christian faith. He has also been blessed with a profound experience of “Easter” faith at the funeral of his mother.

Please take a few moments to watch the 9½-minute video, Two Tombs: An Easter Message. Watch as this man of God travels the holy journey from his head into his heart. His words are profound, and they will bless and transform you!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 16, 2020:

Today I’m turning over my message to Pastoral Associate, Judith Felton. Here’s an important word that she wishes to share with you:

C.S. Lewis, in his book “A Grief Observed” noted: “I never thought grief would feel so much like fear.”

We are living in precarious times, faced with challenges we may not have faced before. There is uncertainty, there are unanswered questions, there is a sense of limbo. We may feel emotions that we typically wish to avoid: deep sadness for many, guilt that arises due to a sense of helplessness, confusion, insecurity, loneliness. We will also experience moments of hope, we will glimpse the light that our faith allows us to see, we will trust that we are on a journey forward, landing in a place of new meaning and purpose.

These mixed emotions, the promise of hope mixed with waves of sorrow, can feel overwhelming, especially as we dutifully practice physical distancing. We are grieving our individual and collective loss without the comfort of physical contact, the solace of someone holding our hand while sitting with us in compassionate silence. At the time we most need connection, we may feel isolated.

In our attempt to provide solace and support, we continue to offer our bereavement support via Zoom technology on Thursdays at 10:30 am. The support group offers a time to share our stories, providing a narrative to our hopes and fears. It provides space to honor and name our feelings, helping us stay on the path of hope. To participate today or any other Thursday, simply click here at 10:30 am.

Sincerely,

Judith Felton
Pastoral Associate

A message from Rector McGurk on April 15, 2020:

The economy is down. Technically, we are suffering an “economic downturn.” The value of stocks, property, and commodities are down, jobs are down, productivity is down….

Some synonyms for “downturn” are: decline, descent, dip, dive, downslide, downswing, downtrend. “Down-in-the-dumps” has taken on new meaning as a result of COVID-19.

Nevertheless, we are not in a “spiritual” downturn. On Easter, when Christ rose from the downturn of suffering and death, he took everything with him. The power of God’s love does that—it grasps everything, everybody, every event in its arms and raises it up and up!
Take solace: Hope rises. In all times, in all places, for all people. That is the power of Christ’s “risen” love. Easter means we are in an “upturn.” “Alleluia. He IS Risen!” And so ARE we!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 14, 2020:

The Risen Christ shows up in the least likely places. The Gospels describe his appearance to the grieving, Mary Magdalene, in his dark tomb. “The gardener!” she thinks. Then, the Risen One joins his disciples on a beach, dining on the day’s catch. On the road to Emmaus, two men engage in a long, involved conversation with a stranger named Jesus. When He breaks the loaf of bread, “… their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight.”

On Easter Sunday, I hope you caught a glimpse of the Risen Christ in all his glory, light and beauty. But if this joy quickly vanished, then know that the Risen Christ shows up in the “least likely places.” “Shadowy” places like isolated and lonely homes, chaotic emergency rooms, uncertain futures, grief, or anxious and fearful thoughts. The Risen Christ shows up in the depths of our everyday lives. Look here. And, with prayer, dig down deep into the “soil” of your life. Here too, “Christ is Risen!” Dig deep and you will rise!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 13, 2020:

I am all Zoomed out! I spend countless hours in “virtual” meetings, staring at “pixel” people instead of “touchable,” “flesh and blood” human beings.

Occasionally, someone is speaking: Their lips are moving, their faces are flush with emotion and expression. They may have solved the mysteries of life. But we will never know! They don’t realize they have been “muted” by the host. To be heard, they must be “unmuted.”

Live face-to-face conversations can be like this. A person is talking away—it may be something trivial, or it may be something eloquent and from the heart. But, our attention has been diverted and carried away by our ever-flowing streams of consciousness. We are lost in our own thoughts. And, sadly, we are not listening to a word they are saying. We have hit the (metaphorical) “mute” button.

Listening carefully is a gift. It gives another person our focus, attention, concern, and compassion. It is the gift of Presence. It may be one of the most important “Easter” gifts we can bestow. Especially during this time of disconnection and isolation.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 12, 2020:

Christ Is Risen! He Is Risen Indeed!

Please click on the image below to enjoy the Easter Sunday hymn, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today”:

Please click on the image below to participate in Morning Prayer for Easter Sunday:

Please click below for a special musical offering by Maury A. Castro and Dan Flonta:

Click here for today’s lectionary readings.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 11, 2020:

On this day, Holy Saturday, a day of quiet and expectation, I wish to share with you the ethereal Meditation from Thaïs by Jules Massenet. This is played on the cello by Yo-Yo Ma, a musician who is not only a consummate artist, but a tireless advocate for peace, understanding, and compassion in our world. I hope that today you are able to give yourself the gift of six minutes, lost in this meditation.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 10, 2020:

Today is Good Friday. The Paschal Mystery (Christ has died. Christ is Risen. Christ will come again.) unfolds with the reading of the Passion Gospel, as presented by members of St. Christopher’s in a medium that may now be familiar to you, and is a symbol of these times, Zoom.

I invite you to begin with this prayer:
Almighty God, we pray you graciously to behold this your family, for whom our Lord Jesus Christ was willing to be betrayed, and given into the hands of sinners, and to suffer death upon the cross; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

At the conclusion of the Passion Gospel, I invite you to observe a period of silence, and then pray:

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, we pray you to set your passion, cross, and death between your judgment and our souls, now and in the hour of our death. Give mercy and grace to the living; pardon and rest to the dead; to your holy Church peace and concord; and to us sinners everlasting life and glory; for with the Father and the Holy Spirit you live and reign, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 9, 2020:

The U.S. Surgeon General, Jerome Adams, issued this stern warning about the coronavirus pandemic: “This week it’s going to get bad.” And it has! Ironically, the week referenced encompasses “Holy” Week and “Good” Friday. Since Jesus suffered an agonizing death on Good Friday, and Holy Week 2020 is filled with immense COVID-19 suffering, then what makes this week “holy,” and Friday “good”?

On Maundy Thursday, Jesus generously shared bread and wine (his body and blood), his very life and being, with his disciples. Then he knelt down and washed their feet. A humble servant.

On Good Friday, Jesus sacrificed his life on the “hard wood of the cross”—releasing an everlasting “flow” of sacrificial love into the life of the world.

Through nurses, doctors, health care workers, first responders, front-line workers, those providing “essential services,” and more—generosity, sharing, servanthood, and sacrificial love have made this week “holy,” and Friday “good.”

Their love and “kindness have become a light.”

A message from Rector McGurk on April 8, 2020:

We can’t stop the flood of bad news streaming out of our televisions, radios, computer screens, cell phones, and newspapers. But we can hit the pause button.

One afternoon many years ago, the author, Anne LeClaire, hit the “pause button.” More accurately, the “interrupt button” on her soul’s “remote.” She writes:

“…on a January afternoon in 1992, I stopped, simply that. I set aside one day for silence and for twenty-four hours I did not speak. At that time I had no idea this would be the beginning of a personal odyssey of exploration and discovery, a long journey not without difficulties but one that, in the ensuing years, would transform my life…. Nor did I imagine…I would come to discover the healing and transformative powers of a sacred space.” (Listening Below the Noise: The Transformative Power of Silence)

Recently, Anne sent me Pablo Neruda’s poem, Keeping Quiet. I now share it with you in the hope that “…perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness…” of these topsy-turvy, pandemic times. We can stop the flow of fear by hitting the “interrupt button,” which is marked with an “S”—for silence, solitude, stillness and simplicity!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 7, 2020:

The Coronavirus pandemic has raised a profound question: “How do we live with fear?” Miroslav Volf, the Director of the Yale Center on Faith and Culture, offers two answers. First, we diminish or eliminate the danger of COVID-19 which is the source of our fear. This means developing a cure, or a vaccine, or adequately equipping front-line medical personnel, or by following public health measures, such as washing our hands, wearing a mask, social distancing, etc. Yet, to date, we have not eliminated this danger. Fear remains.

Second, Volf suggests that in the ongoing presence of danger and fear we can cultivate the ability to “live well.” For most of human history our ancestors lacked the knowledge, science, and technology, to eliminate danger. They lived with ever-present threats; yet, they were not overcome by fear. This took courage, which empowered them to overcome fear and live a rich life.

Jesus faced the dangers and fears of Good Friday with courage—which literally means, “a heart filled with the strength of Love.” Jesus knew that God the Father “lived, dwelled and had His Being” deep in his heart. Courage is God’s Living Presence deep within the human heart.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 6, 2020:

Today is the second day of Holy Week. Jesus warns his friends and loved ones that the day of his death is imminent. Soon the costly perfume, used by Mary to anoint Jesus’ feet, will anoint his dead body. The loss of his compassion will create an empty void in their grieving hearts.

In these days of COVID-19, we are living in an empty and disconnected world. What has always sustained us—our routines and relationships; our work, play, security, peace of mind, material comforts and more—are gone. Filling this suffering void is challenging. Let’s take the advice of our pastor and priest, John Martiner, and use this time to “increase our capacity for compassion”:

“I had another thought about the “suffering” we are enduring, i.e. to some degree it puts us in solidarity with people all over the world who have suffered extreme loss—refugees, victims of natural disasters, the innocent in time of war, house fires, etc. We are accustomed to having what we want when we want it. Much of the world, even in our country, do not experience life that way. Perhaps, rather than complaining or feeling sorry for ourselves, this present time may increase our capacity for compassion.”

This is something we can all do. And it is what Jesus did!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 5, 2020 (Palm Sunday):

Click on the image below to enjoy the Palm Sunday hymn in procession, “All Glory, Laud, and Honor”:

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A message from Rector McGurk on April 4, 2020:

The music of Mozart transports the human soul to a higher realm as perhaps no other classical composer. Today, as we anticipate the mysteries and majesty of Holy Week, I invite you to enjoy Mozart’s music, once again as a gift from LeeAnn McKenna and Maury A. Castro.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 3, 2020:

In 2005 a small group of American soldiers patrolled an Iraqi street. Suddenly surrounded and grossly outnumbered by enraged Iraqi fighters, they froze in terror. Their officer stepped forward, and extended his rifle above his head in a striking “biblical” (Moses-like) gesture of peace and respect. Then he ordered his soldiers to “take a knee.” Thinking him crazy, the puzzled and heavily armed Americans knelt before the seething crowd and pointed their guns to the ground. The Iraqis fell silent; their anger subsided; and the Americans withdrew (The New Yorker).

Abraham Lincoln said, “I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom and that of all about me seemed insufficient for that day.”

“And now, O Lord, I bend the knee of my heart, and make my appeal, sure of your gracious goodness,” prayed King Manasseh (of Judah), from prison.

In the face of fear and uncertainty, let’s “bend the knee” of our hearts (and legs), and open our souls to the Living Presence of God Almighty.

A message from Rector McGurk on April 2, 2020:

The statistics of COVID-19 are grim and depressing. So, I try to limit the amount of daily news I digest. Some days I overdose, and I am worse for it. One network constantly displays a chart entitled, CORONAVIRUS PANDEMIC. In bright red and purple, morbidity and mortality statistics never leave the screen, appearing as a “sidebar” during every broadcast—day and night. Johns Hopkins University compiles these upsetting statistics with a surgical precision that cuts like a scalpel into our hope.

Yehuda Amichai’s poem, The Precision Of Pain and the Blurriness of Joy, begs these questions: Why are we so “precise” when describing suffering and pain? And so “blurry” when describing happiness and joy? In the pain of this present time, let’s dig deep into our souls and find some “blurry” joy and share it with “precision.” This simple act can lift our spirits and brighten our world. Let’s “learn to speak among the pain.” Like Jesus did!

A message from Rector McGurk on April 1, 2020:

My life has become a series of Zoom meetings. Familiar faces magically pop-up on my computer screen in neatly aligned, grid-like boxes. Predictably the “backdrops” are living rooms, studys, an occasional basement, etc. Recently, “Jeff” (let’s call him that!) appeared on-screen with a different backdrop: A tropical paradise! Of course, he was sitting in Brewster, not Hawaii; yet, the (computer-generated?) palm trees were swaying in the breeze! What a refreshing sight!

The COVID-19 crisis has become the backdrop of our lives. Images of deserted streets; overflowing hospital ERs; fear plastered on the faces of medical providers, those sick, those not yet sick, and those hoping the “shoe does not fall.” In addition, our daily “soundtrack” is dominated by the “noise” of dire and endless news reports—a cacophony of crisis.

Let’s replace the backdrop of crisis with (something like) an Ansel Adams photograph of the Yosemite Valley, transfigured, illuminated and “charged with the grandeur of God.” And let’s replace the soundtrack of crisis with an “angelic choir” booming a hymn of hope through the hallowed space of Westminster Abbey.

The kingdom of God is the backdrop of all time and eternity. This is true paradise. Here and now.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 31, 2020:

Many years ago I visited Kenya. I met dozens of gracious and hospitable people, and I also witnessed their adversity and suffering. Despite this, they always found a way to praise God.

On my return, I sat in the choir of Westminster Abbey for Evensong—a service of stunningly beautiful prayers, praise, and music—set in Gothic mystery and beauty. The glorious hymn, “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty,” echoed off granite walls, smoothed by centuries of worship and prayer, inspiring and soothing my soul with joy and hope. The Queen was not present; but, surely, Christ the King was!

Finding a way to praise God in difficult times is challenging. But not for Kenyans. In both good and bad times, praise happens naturally, like breathing. Whether in Kenya, Westminster Abbey, or Cape Cod, give “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty.” God is great! Let our praise be great as well.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 30, 2020:

Genesis 32:22–31

In Genesis, the patriarch, Jacob, wrestles all night long with a mysterious being who turns out to be God. Jacob refuses to let go of his opponent until a blessing is bestowed.

My son was a talented wrestler. Twice Virginian state champion; nationally ranked. He did all the work; and his father basked in the glory! Fast forward to this past July: He moved to Hawaii, where he didn’t know a soul. Paradise found! Then COVID-19. Suddenly, he is alone and “wrestling with the darkness” of COVID-19. At present, we are all grappling with darkness.

Barbara Brown Taylor is an Episcopal priest and an amazingly talented writer. And, like Jacob and my son, an amazingly talented wrestler of darkness—with her pen. She writes, “Those who are willing to wrestle with God, themself, [and darkness], break out of their isolation. If we can learn to tolerate the [struggle]—better yet, to let it wake us up—we may discover the power hidden in the heart of the pain.”

Wrestle on! With COVID-19! With darkness! And you, too, can be a state champion of sorts!

A message from Rector McGurk on March 29, 2020:

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A message from Rector McGurk on March 28, 2020:

The Psalmist said, “Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.” Today I wish to share with you a video of two familiar musicians at St. Christopher’s, LeeAnn McKenna (flute), and our Organist & Choirmaster, Maury A. Castro. They are playing (physically distanced, of course!) the haunting and uplifting Sicilienne by Maria-Theresia von Paradis. I invite you to take three minutes to listen, meditate, and ponder the mystery and beauty that permeates our world, even in troubled times.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 27, 2020:

The Bishops of Massachusetts recently sent this directive to the churches in the diocese: “You should now plan for no in-person public worship services until May 31.” They stated this sad and disappointing news clearly and in no uncertain terms. Similarly, our governor also stated, clearly and in no uncertain terms, that we must all stay home and engage in the medically sound practices of “social distancing,” etc.

Yet, their words seem to grate against our personal needs, wants, and desires. As a result, we may, perhaps, find (conscious and unconscious) ways to distort, discredit and disregard the clear truth and simple logic of their words—twisting and forcing them to say something they are not saying, something that “I” want to hear. In the words of the poet, Billy Collins, we “beat their words with a hose” until they say what our egos want to hear!

So, let’s drop our “hoses” and obey the authority of these plain and simple directives: Stay home and No Church! At least for now. We can find a way to connect with Jesus Christ in our hearts and our homes, and then praise him from our living room pews!

A message from Rector McGurk on March 26, 2020:

I met Desmond Tutu in 1996 at a school auditorium in Orange Farm Township, South Africa. After the Archbishop gaveled to a close the Truth and Reconciliation hearing that he was chairing, his eyes glanced away from the glare cast by the world’s news cameras and focused on my youth group casually and conspicuously sitting in the bleachers. Then he warmly welcomed and introduced us as visitors from Virginia.

A picture hangs in my office depicting me standing next to Archbishop Tutu. He is looking up at the assembled youth sitting “star-struck” in the bleachers.

A better description might be “prayer struck.” For what I remember most about that day was not the warm banter with which he engaged us, but the simple prayer he prayed and the straightforward blessing he conferred. His words were not “highfalutin;” instead, they were simple, heartfelt, gracious, and warm. His prayer was met with simple silence, rapt attention, and deep gratitude.

In times of crisis, prayer need not be complicated—simply given and received with an open heart.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 25, 2020:

After the loss of a beloved spouse, a dear friend struggled with the “fading of the light:” daylight’s dimming descent into the murky gray of the evening; evening’s vesper light surrendering to the night’s darkness. For our friend, this was, perhaps, an experience of “the dark night of the soul”—the night’s worries dropping down on the lonely soul like a heavy curtain of darkness. In the present state of our world, this may be our experience as well.

Lately, I began to develop a terrible habit. Just before “lights out” I read—for the hundredth time that day—the news reports. This is a wonderful formula for nightmares! Then, I remembered something I did the night I was stranded by the New Zealand earthquake: I prayed the Night Prayer from A New Zealand Prayer Book.

Night-time prayer (Compline) is “The light [that] shines in the darkness” of our worry and fear; the light that “the darkness can never overcome.”

A message from Rector McGurk on March 24, 2020:

A message from Rector McGurk on March 23, 2020:

Today was a roller coaster ride. A day of sparkling sunshine shimmering off Cape Cod Bay gave way to the impenetrable darkness cast by news of the rapidly spreading coronavirus. It was a day of quick descents: sunlight to shadowy darkness; mountaintop to valley-bottom; hope dipping into despair. The light was fading with no discernable path through this darkening curtain of fear.

Jesus said, “I am the light of the world…the Way, the truth, the life…” When we begin to lose sight of hope, and there appears to be no path forward, let us be reminded of Christ’s Light: Drawing us together, lining us up, pointing us towards hope, marching us through the darkness of COVID-19—and into a bright future. Let’s walk that path together in “single file,” following each other and the Christ who lives and dwells deep in the human soul.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 22, 2020:

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A message from Rector McGurk on March 21, 2020:

Yesterday’s headline read: “On Thursday evening, Gov. Gavin Newsom ordered California’s almost 40 million residents to stay home…in an extraordinary effort to slow the spread of the coronavirus.”

STAY HOME! In the days ahead, may our homes be a blessing—and not a curse (namely the curse of “cabin fever!). May our experience of home be as a sanctuary and refuge, a place to pray, meditate, think, be present with loved ones, and listen for the voice of God speaking a word of comfort in these complex times. May our homes be “a place where [we] feel that all is somehow ultimately well even if things aren’t going all that well at any given moment.” (F. Buechner)

Let us remember that home is where Christ is—“living, moving and sharing his being”—deep within our individual souls. Stay home! And discover the Christ within.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 20, 2020:

Recently I listened to a medical doctor eloquently speak about the importance of “social distancing” as key to the prevention of COVID-19. He did so with one reservation: It should be called “physical distancing” instead.

This distinction is subtle but important. Social distancing requires us to stay six feet or more away from each other; yet, what we desire and require—perhaps more than ever—is social and emotional intimacy, and not “distancing.” This is a paradox if ever there was one: Intimacy at 6 feet—or more!

The poet Jimmy Santiago Baca endured a childhood of deprivation and abuse; and, as a result, served time in prison, some of it in solitary confinement. Yet, despite his confinement he was able to transcend physical distance and speak soul to soul with love and beauty in the poem below.

Words of Love uttered from the depth of our hearts can bridge infinite distances and touch a lonely soul.

Click here to read I Am Offering This Poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 19, 2020:

Our hearts are heavy and our spirits are burdened by the weight of the coronavirus pandemic. Medicine and science will eventually lift the heavy burden of this disease. But, in the meantime, we must carry this weight.

Jesus spoke precisely to this when he said, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Every time we pray, or sit in silence and solitude, or receive the Good News of Christ spoken in Holy Scripture, or reach out with compassion, or give thanks for what is right and good—then our burdens are lightened by the Love of God.

Mary Oliver wrote:

“It’s not the weight you carry
but how you carry it—
…it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it
when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”

Carry your weight. But know that you do not carry it alone.

Click here to read Heavy from Thirst by Mary Oliver.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 18, 2020:

Covid-19 is a crisis that is creating a great degree of uncertainty. Like me, your mind may race ahead into an uncertain future filled with worries, fears, and questions: “What if a loved one is stricken?” “What if life does NOT return to normal?” “What if…”

I don’t and won’t have the answers to these soul-wearying questions that weigh on my heart, nor will a magic “vaccine” quell my inner anxiety.

Both Jesus and the Buddha knew that staying in the present moment (mindfulness) stills the storms of our racing minds. So, let us live our lives in the present moment, and live that moment to the fullest. For this is where compassion is born.

Love must be given today. It can’t wait until tomorrow.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 17, 2020:

“Social distancing” has disconnected us from those we care about. Yet, “disconnection” need not have the last word! After sending out our Keeping Connected emails, I have received dozens of responses (from 12 states and 1 foreign country—Switzerland). Happily, this reconnected me with many of you.

Face-to-face presence may be impossible due to the coronavirus. However, we can be compassionately present to each other through telephone calls, letters, cards, social media, etc. Solely through his letters/writings, penned from a one-room cabin on the grounds of an isolated monastery in rural Kentucky, Thomas Merton transformed the world.

Never doubt the power of your presence.

A message from Rector McGurk on March 16, 2020:

Suffering has a way of isolating us from each other and from life in general: We are all feeling a sense of disconnection and anxiety as a result of the spread of the COVID-19. Daily prayer keeps us connected to Christ and His body, the Church. As we pray the Daily Office, we will experience God’s voice of hope echoing through the beautiful prayers and Scriptures of this classically Anglican liturgy.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus takes the hand of a little girl who has died and says simply, “Little girl, get up!” As a result, she is resurrected from death to life. In the wonderful mystery of prayer, God’s hand will reach down into our fearful souls and lift us up—into hope, into love, into life—, solidifying our connection to divine love and each other. “Let us pray….”

A message from Rector McGurk on March 15, 2020:

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A message from Rector McGurk on March 14, 2020:

A transcript of the video message:

I greet you today from the library here at St. Christopher’s. Undoubtedly you know that all church activities have been cancelled due to the outbreak and spread of the Coronavirus. Today, I would like to speak to you about how we can move forward together—with Hope—as a community of faith rooted and anchored in the Love of Jesus Christ. But first let me say that this was a a very difficult decision for us to make. At this time of great uncertainty and fear, at a time when we most need the comfort and support of each other and of this parish, we may feel cut-off and disconnected from the mutual support of this parish. But I think we also understand that it is necessary to be socially responsible: To protect ourselves, our neighbors,and our community, by following the many precautions given by the CDC, chief among them, “social distancing.”

I offer the following as a way forward—as a means for us to keep connected:

• First, in each of the coming days you will receive an email with some devotional material that I belive you will find edifying beginning with a meditation. You will also find links to the two Prayer Book services of Morning and Evening Prayer. Both will contain the assigned Scriptural Readings (from the Daily Lectionary) for that particular day. You are invited to pray Morning Prayer or Evening Prayer. Or both!! To round that out there will be a few sentences penned by me!
• Second, on Sundays, we will email you the lectionary reading for that particular Sunday (this includes The Old Testament, The Psalm, The Epistle, The Gospel, and The Collect), and a few brief (!!!), filmed words from yours truly.
• Third, please be assured that the staff will be on-the-job and available to you all. Do not hesitate to call on us. The pastoral ministry and the work of the parish will continue.
• Fourth, the work of the church—committees, etc.,—can continue via the internet, telephone, etc.

Let me conclude with the wisdom of Henri Nouwen speaking on Hope: Optimism and hope are radically different attitudes. Optimism is the expectation that things—the weather, human relationships, the economy, the political situation, [COVID-19] and so on—will get better. Hope is the trust that God will fulfill God’s promises to us in a way that leads us to true freedom. The optimist speaks about concrete changes in the future. The person of hope lives in the moment with the knowledge and trust that all of life is in good hands. All the great spiritual leaders in history were people of hope. Abraham, Moses, … Mary, Jesus, … Gandhi, and [others] all lived with a promise in their hearts that guided them toward the future without the need to know exactly what it would look like. Let’s live with hope.

A letter from Rector McGurk on March 12, 2020: