a new anointing (on being confirmed)

On Sunday I learned why I need Sacraments.Not why we have them, exactly. I know that story, the richness of worship, the liturgical work of the people of God, the long history of Orthodox and Roman Catholic and Anglican and these visible signs of invisible grace. I could trace a history through books I still need to read, walk around in the Oxford History of Christian Worship or write a long academic sounding paper about it.But on Sunday, I learned why I need them.I need the Sacrament because I get lost.I got lost all through college in the rambling halls of beautiful ideas and bigger questions, lost in the big ache of the world, lost in the small ache of my own heart.I got lost in high school in the race to be thinner, prettier, something more than what I was.I get lost in the work of growing up, dazzled by ambition, tempted by every conceivable thing I could want and don't have.And so Jesus offers me the liturgical life: a life of daily reminders of Him, a life of prayer at morning and evening, a life of meditation and silence, of gestures to seal the Gospel in my mind and in my heart and on my lips, to cover myself in the Cross of Him who died so that I might not die.I need to be confirmed because kneeling before the Bishop, a shepherd who follows the Good Shepherd, who prays powerful in the Spirit and lifts high the Cross, this work brings me home again. He cried as he prayed over me, and his words, simple, still, echo forever in my heart: "This is a new anointing, a refreshment, my daughter. We release this your daughter into your care, Lord Jesus."I need the Sacraments to help me stop all my running around, butting my head against the fence. I need the Sacraments to be a signpost and an emptying of myself and a moment to feel the rush of the Spirit move.This is a new anointing.This is a deepening, a widening, a pouring out.I need the Sacraments to insist that the Lord builds this house, and He is the sure foundation. And this Sunday, not tripping, but crying, the Sunday of St. Michael and All Angels, I received a new anointing.And my heart is forever changed.Love,hilary

i make you a promise (on being confirmed)

Tomorrow is the making of promises. The candidates stand before the Bishop, and he says: You stand in the presence of God and his Church; with your own mouth and from your own heart you must declare your allegiance to Christ and your rejection of all that is evil. Therefore I ask these questions:I'm getting confirmed tomorrow.That means promises. That's what confirmation is, this promise-making moment, myself in front of the Bishop and the Church and in the presence of Christ, and the words will flow and my knees will knock together and I'm one hundred percent sure I'll almost trip somewhere in the service.But I'm getting confirmed tomorrow.Therefore I ask these questions:Do you turn to Christ? I turn to Christ.Do you repent of all your sins? I repent of all my sins.Do you renounce Satan, his works and all the evil powers of this world? I renounce them all. Do you renounce the desires of your sinful nature and all forms of idolatry? I renounce them all.It isn't the same as when I first felt God move. It isn't the moment when I fell head over heels in love with Him in Italy looking at Fra Angelico's fresco and realizing that God loves art and music and beauty enough to let us make it. It's not that sweetness of prayer with a friend in a parking lot. It is me, out on a limb of  a promise to God. A promise that I see Him, His Cross, His story. A promise that I will stand up from the middle of the pigsty and come home to Him. A promise to name evil as evil, and not hide behind anything that's "cultural" or "philosophical" or "complicated."I now call upon you to declare before God and his Church that you accept the Christian faith into which you were baptized, and in which you live, grow and serve.Do you believe and trust in God the Father, who made this world? I believe and trust in him.Do you believe and trust in his Son Jesus Christ who redeemed humankind? I believe and trust in him.Do you believe and trust in his Holy Spirit who gives life to the people of God? I believe and trust in him.Tomorrow I will make a promise to trust. Tomorrow I will make a promise to believe, a promise that I do believe, to live and grow and serve out this one life as a long obedience and a wild journey and a joyful acceptance of grace.I make you a promise tomorrow, Jesus, that all I am and have and hope for, all of it, belongs to You. I make you a promise tomorrow, Jesus, in the better silence after my words, that I am bound up in You, and all is grace, and all is love.Tomorrow I make a promise to love the Truth. To belong to Him. Love,hilary

come to me (on being confirmed)

The morning bursts into my bedroom too soon, and I feel my muscles groan and burrow under the comforter. I'm getting up early to help in the Atrium, the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd space at my church. I hide, just for a few extra moments, store the vivid dream away for pondering, and sit up. I pull on corduroys and wriggle my toes in their silver Toms. I close my eyes and wing a prayer out for the children I'm going to meet, and the hearts they have and their arms rushing towards God.They won't sit still, I whisper to myself as we wrangle six boys between 3 and 6 onto a small red fleece blanket. They escape our soft voices and our laughter, and our repeated requests to, "Come watch Miss Hilary show you how to do this." They laugh and squeal.But then one boy, bright blond and curious, stomps across the blanket and puts his warm small self next to me, and declares, "I want to do that." And I lean in and tell him, and the two girls in their bright pinks and purples, that if they watch close, they can learn how to do this, too. And their eyes grow round and they hold their breath as I carefully scoop a small pile of white beans from one jar to another.We walk slowly into the room, measuring our steps. We trade our shoes for fuzzy socks, speak in sweeter whispers, and even the squealing boys find themselves tracing candles and crosses, sweeping and pouring, setting a prayer table and folding their hands together to talk to God.I shiver, look down at my bare feet and chipping teal nail polish, and I wonder - when was the last time I ran to God like those hurricane boys and threw myself onto the floor and scrunched my eyes shut and burst with things to tell him - bee stings and scraped elbows and pulled hair?Friends - can I ask us a hard question? Are we too proud to get that close to Him? Are we pleased that we can be so composed in church, so calm and elegant, so lovely and presentable? Are we glad for our semblances of patience and performance, of how we do each step right? Whether we be Anglicans or Presbyterians or Evangelical Free, whether ours is a house church or a great cathedral, whether it's French or Portuguese or English, have we become so concerned to approach in just this way, with just these words, these gestures, this pretty prayer, that we can't look foolish throwing leaves in the air and holding up our scraped selves for healing?"This is a special place where we get to meet with God." Ms. Allie tells the wide-eyed, upturned faces. One girl picks at her fuzzy socks, a boy rocks back and forth, close to meltdown. They pray for their small wounds, sitting cross legged on wooden mats, a candle lit and an icon of the Good Shepherd watching over us.Jesus said, "let the little children come to me." I didn't realize He meant to teach us through their unbounded, delighted half-skip, half-run, always tumbling race into His arms. I didn't realize that sometimes their crashing, hurricane love for God is the fastest way to Him.Love,hilary

and humbly confess your sins (on being confirmed)

"The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.Oh no. I have to say something. This is the part where I say something. This is the part where I have to make words come out of my mouth. He is waiting for me, sitting in the rocking chair in the small prayer room. Oh, no. Why did I promise to do this? What do I even have to confess? What's this for, anyway? "I confess to Almighty God, to his Church, and to you, that I have sinned by my own fault in thought, word and deed, in things done and left undone; especially _______."That's all we are given in the small red book. Only that thin frame, those few words. What am I going to say? How do you begin to tell the God who already knows everything you've done and everything you've left undone anything? Why does He want me to do this? I mean, what have I done that's that bad, really? The priest waits, time left outside the door. It's only us and the rocking chairs and the cross hanging on the wall. I have to say something. I reach a hand out for my journal, clear my throat. I flip a few pages over, wondering if this was a terribly foolish idea."I have been jealous." That's the first one, and the words slip out like water from a pitcher, spilling over the room, over the sanctified silence. I have been angry at God, and resentful. I have been... Words pool around my hands as I talk to the ground, then to the ceiling, close my eyes and leave the journal pages unread. I catch my breath a few minutes later, look back at the cross hanging on the wall, bow my head again."For these and all other sins which I cannot now remember, I am truly sorry. I pray God to have mercy on me."The sacrament of confession is not popular. I see why, now. We are so used to giving justifications for things. We were so mad that night because... we lied to that person because... it wasn't really that bad. We hide behind these carefully sculpted excuses, reasons, our logic turned in to defend our hearts from the truth.In confession there isn't any space for those rationalizations. It isn't about the great reasons you have for everything you do; it's laying your life in front of God and whispering that most of it has been mess and much of it has been sin and all of it needs His love. In all that silence, the choir singing scales behind me, I pool my words, my life, my faults, at the feet of Christ. And I admit, for the first time in a long time, that I need Jesus to put away my sins. In the Anglican church (and in most liturgical traditions) we say that the sacraments are an visible sign of an invisible grace. They aren't magic, wish-fulfilling, emotionally-satisfying, problem-solving rituals. They are the heartbeat of the people of God who are saved by grace. They are reminders, bells that ring out, signposts on the road, lighthouses amid the tossing sea.The sacraments don't save us. But in every gesture, every word, every silent meditation, every blank space, they remind us of the One who did.I don't go to confession, I realize as we near the end of the Rite of the Penitent, because I believe it will make all things right with God. I don't go because it has special favor in the Kingdom. I don't go because good Christians do it. I don't go because it "works."I go to meet again the Son of Man who has already done the work for me. I go to hear Jesus say that already He has put my sin as far away as East is from West. I go because in the steady words and the sign of the cross, I mark in my heart His promise:Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die.And I scuff my heels on the floor and wipe a tear or two from eyes at this marvelous grace poured out in old words and new buildings, in strangers who are pilgrims together, in heads bowed and fingertips bent in prayer."The Lord has put away all your sins." He says, strong and clear.Thanks be to God. Love,hilary

pray with me (on being confirmed)

I arrived to class late, having spilled the church lunch on both sleeves of my jacket, tried to listen to my favorite fifth grader tell me about her first day of school, and failed miserably at appearing elegant and refined to the three young girls sitting around me (all of whom managed not to spill lunch on themselves). I was looking forward to this class in particular, because I knew that it was the day for Anglican theology.I imagined we'd get into the detailed difficulties, the philosophical nuances, the dusty corners of complicated problems. What does it mean, really, to say that God is and is from the beginning without beginning? Is it possible for us to believe in a God who is all-knowing and yet who allows free will? What is the Eucharist, exactly?These are the problems that feed me. I want to sit in a pub somewhere in England and talk someone's ear off about the possibility that God's involvement with time is perhaps one of His most merciful and mysterious acts. I want to live in theological reflection, in the words about God and the systems of understanding how very little we can know about Him. And of course, I must confess - I love theological arguments. I love sitting in the same pub and fighting what feels like a fight to the death over the interpretation of Jesus' phrase, "I am the Truth." I like the heat and thrill of fighting. "If you want to know what we believe, pray with us."I looked up as Fr. Brian spoke, my eyes widening in surprise. A drop of ink splotched onto my journal page. He smiled at the group gathered at the same small table, books and papers strewn across our laps. "Theology is worked out best in prayer." I gulped. What about the arguments? What about the long academic papers I spent all that time writing? What about the rush of winning a point? What about all of that?I could feel my stomach twist and turn as we turned to the Thirty Nine Articles (a historical document in the Anglican Church outlining some points of faith), as we followed the old language down the twisted paths of election and free will and grace, as we sorted out where we believe church authority comes from and what we think of the sufficiency of Scripture for teaching about salvation. Even as we read, I couldn't get that first phrase out of my mind. "If you want to know what we believe, pray with us."To know what we claim as true, you have to listen to us talk to the Truth. To know our doctrines, listen to our pleading, to our thanksgiving, to our intercession. All my beautiful arguments, the long maze of points and subpoints, of countering, and modifying go out the window if the heart of my belief is in how I pray.Because if you pray with me, it's not with arguments. I don't prove God to Himself in five points, or neatly weave together two distinct definitions of the word "sufficient" to reveal the true mean of Christ on the cross.No, I ramble. I pray in the car on the way to work and interrupt myself with a second thought and a wistful remembering. I pray for people and two seconds in I'm asking about whether He will let me have what I want. I pray while I run, my palms skyward, and over and over I repeat the simplicity: I love you, Lord. Will you stay with me?To know what I believe, you have to pray with me. To know the heart of the Church, you have to get on your knees with her. We are so ready to stay safe in our books, in our academic critiques, in our theological possibilities - when all along, He is calling us to the more radical theology revealed in the rain and wind of prayer.So I pray: I love you, Jesus. Your Name is salvation. Can I stay near you?Love,hilary

all loves excelling (on being confirmed)

Jesus, Thou art all compassion, pure, unbounded love thou art; visit us with Thy salvation, enter every trembling heart.I love the hymn. The sound swells over His name, and the melody - something called Hyfrydol, trips lightly through the sanctuary, playing with our voices. I love the music, the sweetness in it, the tenderness.But, still. Enter every trembling heart. I know what that means, I think to myself. That means hard.It means forgiving the unkind words.It means keeping my mouth shut when I really want to say exactly what I think about that.It means giving up the things I want to spend an era in a desert, wandering around with no water.I list these to God this Sunday, heaving a pious sigh. Well, alright then. Let's get this over with - I'm getting confirmed after all. I guess the hardship begins now. God laughs. I can feel Him laughing at me and my idea of piety: a long face set towards a hard road, the assumption that if I'm confused and in agony over something, I must be seeking harder, waiting more carefully, discerning with more wisdom. If I look like I am really struggling, I tell myself, people will think I'm really deep.There it is. People will think I'm really deep.In the midst of my confirmation journey, I find myself stuck on this. I want you to think I'm deep. I want you to think that I walk near to Him, that I listen close, that I love with a big wild love. And there are so many foolish things about that. It isn't about what anyone else thinks, first of all. It never is. I can't convince any of you by anything I write or say or do that I love Him - because my love for Him is only really visible when I'm not rushing around trying to prove it to anyone. Love is like that - the harder we try to prove it, the more it slips away, to be made known outside our efforts.But the most foolish (and maybe the funniest) is this: that I thought to be deep, I had to be gut-wrenching. There is depth there. There is depth in the gut-wrenchingly difficult things we face. There is a unique kind of life there, a well of wisdom... But, still. God laughs at my feeble attempts to show off to Him, and to you. Look, look at how hard I'm making this! Look, look! I'm walking the difficult way! God answers me with the words of Elder Prophyrios. In Wounded By Love, he wrote: "There are two paths that lead to God: the hard and debilitating path with fierce assaults against evil and the easy path with love. There are many who chose the hard path and "shed blood in order to receive the Spirit" until they attained great virtue. I find that the shorter and safer route is the path with love."Oh, how I have devoted myself to the hard path, all while the easier path has been at my feet. "That is, you can make a different kind of effort: to study and pray and have as your aim to advance in the love of God and of the Church. Do not fight to expel the darkness from the chamber of your soul. Open a tiny aperture for light to enter, and the darkness will disappear. The same holds for our passions and our weaknesses."We reach the end of the hymn, and a smile brighter than any I have worn this long week spreads over my face. God keeps laughing, as He offers the easier way: the way of love. Open a tiny aperture for light, and the darkness begins to disappear.I drive home singing. Love,hilary

be alert (I am getting confirmed)

I am in church, halfway through a sermon about Solomon and wisdom. It's a sight to behold, me and my long face, secretly hating being there, tapping my feet against the floor, imagining I am in Italy walking along the corso at night with beautiful flowing hair. In my head, I'm finishing a lemon gelato and watching the stars as I swing hands with an unidentifiable but very handsome man. I am complaining to God that all this is boring, I know it already, and when will church be glamorous again? The man and I ride a tandem bicycle through the streets of Rome. Much more interesting, isn't it?"Get confirmed."What? The day dream dissolves and I'm looking into the face of Christ in the icon of the Mother and Child to the left of the crucifix."Get confirmed."I can't. I can't get confirmed- I am still exploring orthodoxy. I am still only 22! I am still young in faith and I still only really want to be with Jesus some of the time!"Hilary Joan."It's his voice from Italy, his voice from the museum with Botticelli and Mary and the lion's roar of love and desire for me, me, who now sits in church complaining. I go silent. This is not the Italy of the bicycle and the gelato and the swinging hands and the stars. This is the Italy of self given over to God almost without even realizing it, a promise made sitting on a bench in the Uffizzi, heart bursting, the rest of the group scattered through the long hallways. I think the priest is still talking, something about Solomon and wisdom, but all I can hear is his voice."I want you to get confirmed."I start to cry, my resistant self trying to make it a conversation, an argument, my heart already saying yes and knowing that this must be. For how could it be otherwise?It's the next Sunday. I thought about skipping confirmation class. I thought about hiding. Or being sick. Or just not having time. But I slide onto the edge of the chair and whisper a prayer - why am I here again, Lord? and write the date in my notebook.He answers me with the Kenyan Book of Common Prayer: "Will you be alert and watchful, and firmly resist your enemy the devil?"Fr. Brian asks us which will be the hardest promise - the ones about justice and feeding the hungry and preaching Christ to our neighbors and loving others and seeking reconciliation?In a tremulous voice, I say - "That last one - be alert and watchful, and firmly resist your enemy the devil. That one will be hardest for me."Be alert, it says in 1 Peter. Your adversary the devil prowls outside your door like a lion. He waits for us to become lazy, to start daydreaming about mysterious boys on bicycles in Italy, about how boring everything is, about how we have the short end of the stick in almost everything. He waits for us to forget who God is, who we are... He has his own kind of patience, this enemy who prowls like a lion. Suddenly I understand - how this confirmation, this moment of commissioning and prayer, the hands of the bishop on my head with prayers for the Spirit to come upon me?This is the grace to be alert.This is the preparation to keep these big promises.This is asking for a heart to hear the Lord, to watch for Him.So I journey these next four weeks, deeper into the grace of renewed baptismal promises, deeper into prayer for the Holy Spirit's presence, deeper into watchfulness. Perhaps you'll come with me, as I reflect on this new path I'm trembling down?Be alert, I whisper to my heart. Be alert, for He will do marvelous things. Love,Hilary