Psalm 139 Archives - 51��Ƶ

For the Installation of Cynthia Briggs Kittredge

nancy — Mon, 23 Sep 2013 19:09:46 +0000

What a wonderful occasion this is, as Cynthia Kittredge is installed as the 8^th Dean and President of the 51��Ƶ!   It is a great privilege and joy for me to be here to celebrate with Cynthia, with her family and friends, and with all of you in this seminary community that Cynthia loves so deeply.
It is a fortunate thing, indeed, when one of our Church’s finest scholars, teachers, and pastors is willing to add yet another new set of skills to her Linked -In profile – skills she probably never dreamed she might one day need….. Thank you, Cynthia!
And Cynthia, despite what some of your faculty colleagues may have suggested, you have not gone over to the dark side by taking on the yoke of seminary administration. The vocation of a seminary dean and president is a curious one, in many respects – (Not a career path that shows up on any of the vocational interest inventories), but I guarantee that it will present you with more interesting and satisfying challenges than you can imagine.
So what is this curious vocation to which Cynthia is offering herself?    And what kind of leadership should we expect from your new dean and president?
First a few thoughts about the vocation of a theological school: I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what our seminaries are called to do and to be, and I keep returning to an understanding of theological schools articulated by David Tiede, who served 18 years as President of Luther Seminary, the largest of the ELCA seminaries. (Like Cynthia, David earned his Ph.D. in New Testament studies at Harvard and was a seminary professor before becoming president of Luther Seminary.)
As David thought about his seminary’s history, he began to realize that at different times in its life Luther Seminary had embraced the values and the practices of three distinct entities, each of which remained present in its current life. He named those three entities the abbey, the academy, and the apostolate.
Abbey because theological education has its roots in monastic communities or abbeys, which existed as places of prayer and worship and study leading to ordination.
Academy, because as theological education moved out from the abbeys, schools were established that gradually evolved into institutions of higher learning with academic and professional standards for accreditation that mirror those of colleges and universities.
Apostolate,because seminaries have come to understand their mission as extending beyond abbey or academy, with a growing awareness of the importance of Christian witness and mission in a much broader and global context.
This understanding of a seminary as the place where the abbey, the academy, and the apostolate come together rings true to me as I think about the vocation of 51��Ƶ. Like an abbey, you are a worshipping community, with a Chapel from which the daily rhythms of your life radiate. Those daily rhythms are part of your corporate Rule of Life and a way of ordering your common life. So one strand of Cynthia’s leadership will be in the liturgical life of this community.
But you are also an academic community, committed to rigorous and critical engagement with scripture and with the texts of a comprehensive theological curriculum. So a second strand of Cynthia’s leadership will be in your academic life, upholding the importance of the life of the mind in Christian faith, encouraging the “utterance of knowledge and the utterance of wisdom” from its members, as Paul once did for the Christian community in Corinth. And you are an apostolate, as well, sending graduates into the world each year, to minister in a variety of settings: some in parish churches, but others in schools or prisons, in hospitals, counseling centers, and military bases. As Cynthia presides at Commencement she is weaving a third strand of her leadership role, sending you out, commissioning you for your work. (A former chaplain at the seminary where I worked used to say to graduating students: “It’s sad to see you go, but it would be tragic for you to stay.” His point was that seminary is not a destination unto itself, but a place of preparation for the ministries to which you are called.)
But what kind of leader will Dean Kittredge be? What values will shape her leadership? Several weeks ago I asked her why she chose the readings we just heard for this service.   She chose them, she said, because they speak about leadership within the body of Christ.   And then she told me that they also touch on themes she first explored in her doctoral dissertation, an examination of community, authority, and the rhetoric of obedience in the Pauline tradition. Those themes still resonate with her, Cynthia said, as she thinks about her new role in this community. So think with me, if you will, about these three themes, which may provide s a glimpse into the kind of leadership Cynthia will exercise in this community.
Let’s start with authority and obedience first – and let’s keep them together, since authority and obedience have so often been linked together in scripture and throughout the long trajectory of our Jewish and Christian history.
Authority and obedience are two words that make many of us profoundly uneasy.    We live in a society that is increasingly suspicious and distrustful of people in positions of authority, the result, no doubt, of too many instances when our leaders have abused their authority and betrayed our trust.
Talk of obedience can also make us uneasy because we know all too well how often obedience has been invoked as a way of forcing individuals and nations into submission or slavery, only to suffer unspeakable horrors at the hands of their oppressor.
Authority and obedience are both highly relational nouns. We know that abuse is far more likely to happen when authority and obedience are not deeply grounded in mutual trust, a trust that must be earned before authority can be respected.   The Letter of Institution that Bp. Doyle read earlier confers on Cynthia the formal authority of her new office: authority granted by the charter and by-laws of the Seminary, by virtue of her election by the board of trustees. But Cynthia’s real authority – her more authentic authority – will never come from a legal document. Cynthia’s real authority is grounded in the trust she has already earned and must continue to earn in this community. And the obedience that is linked to her authority is not so much about the community’s obedience to Cynthia (Good luck with that, Cynthia…) it is, instead, about her own obedience to her call to serve this community.
One of the best illustrations I know about the interplay of authority and obedience and leadership in community comes from a novel written by Gail Godwin back in 1991. It tells the story of a young girl named Margaret and her father, Walter Gower, an Episcopal priest whose periodic bouts of depression earned him the nickname Father Melancholy. One autumn day (which happened to be September 13^th) Margaret’s mother left for a vacation with an old school friend and never returned, leaving her husband and daughter to spend the rest of their lives trying to come to terms with their loss. Yet all the while, year after year, day in and day out, Fr. Gower faithfully carried out his duties as the Rector of a small parish in 51��Ƶern Virginia. Despite the dark curtain of despondency that would wrap itself around him for periods of time, Fr. Gower was respected and revered by all who knew him. He was known for the dignity and beauty of his liturgies, for the careful preparation he gave to his preaching and the administration of the sacraments, and especially for his patience in the pastoral care of his flock – a flock that contained, as all congregations and seminaries do, a generous share of souls that try the patience of their leaders. They respected his authority because they knew that he loved them and accepted them and valued them for who they were: beloved children of God.
One day, when Margaret was home from college, a new priest in town expressed his admiration for her father: her father was “a priest who lived by the grace of daily obligation”, he noted. Each day Fr. Gower rose and said his prayers and cared for his flock.
Living by the grace of daily obligation is a form of obedience that is particularly suited to life and leadership within a seminary – not only for its Dean, but all members of the community.
And what about community? Community is what we all say we want in seminary: scroll though the websites of a few dozen seminaries and you’ll see what I mean: widespread agreement that theological education at its best must be grounded in the life of a community. The problem is that most of us like the idea of community more than we like the reality of community.
Last month I spent a rainy day in Maine browsing the bookshelves of a small independent bookstore where I purchased a volume of short stories. One of the stories was about a man named Mitchell, the owner of a small bookstore similar to the one I was visiting. Mitchell’s twelve year old daughter accused her father of “loving his books but hating his customers.” He didn’t really hate them, she said, he “just didn’t like to have to chat with them. He would have liked to have a bouncer at the door who would quietly usher them out” when they became difficult. That’s what it’s sometimes like in seminaries: we love our community, it’s just that some of its members can really get under our skin.
The associate dean for community life in another seminary describes a phenomenon that often happens to new students about six weeks into seminary life. After the rosy glow of the first heady weeks has faded, disillusionment inevitably sets in; the worship is dull, the food is bad, the workload is too heavy. And there comes a time – maybe in a classroom or perhaps over a shared meal in the Refectory – a time comes when you find yourself looking at the person sitting opposite you wondering how in the world that person could possibly be called to the same ministry as you. What was God thinking? What was the bishop thinking???
As Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminds us in his wonderful book Life Together, the sooner the disillusionment comes the better it is. “A community that cannot hear and cannot survive such a crisis”, he wrote, “which insists on keeping its illusion when it should be shattered, permanently loses in that moment the promise of Christian community.” It’s in those moments of disillusionment that we need a leader who not only understands this, but who can help us live into the hard work of creating true community, a leader who by her own authenticity can help us find ours – and a leader who can keep us attentive to the presence of God’s spirit, moving among us.
You probably noticed a unifying theme running through all of the readings Cynthia chose for this service: it’s the presence of the Holy Spirit:
the Spirit of the Lord that anointed the prophet Isaiah;
the Spiritmanifested in the variety of gifts that make up the body of Christ;
the one Spirit in which we are all baptized into one body;
the Holy Spirit that pours out on all who ask;
the Spirit that empowers us for the work God gives us to do.
It is not a coincidence that the presence of the Holy Spirit is the consistent theme in all these readings. The Holy Spirit, I believe, is the hermeneutic key to the kind of leadership that Cynthia already exercises in this community, and which she will, no doubt, continue to exercise in her new role.
So, Cynthia may the same Spirit that moved over the waters in creation
and the Spirit that has anointed you for leadership of this community
and the Spirit that will empower you for this ministry:
May this Holy Spirit sustain and nourish you with God’s grace as she continues to make all things new. Amen.

Sermon preached at the installation of the Very Reverend Cynthia Briggs Kittredge as the eighth dean and president of 51��Ƶ, The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Austin, Texas – September 13, 2013
Texts for the service: Psalm 139, Isaiah 61:1-3, I Corinthians 12:4-14, Luke 11:9-13

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A homily for the celebration of the life of Susan Alexander

nancy — Tue, 26 Jun 2012 19:28:10 +0000

Anne Lamott, in her well-known book about writing, Bird by Bird, reflects on an important moment for her, when she was losing her best friend, in the prime of life to cancer. She desperately wanted some thing to happen that would change things once and for all—to reverse the course—and make things normal and promising once again. She did not want to lose her friend, Pammy, and she certainly didn’t relish the thought of having to live without her—for after all, her close friend had been the one who had been the strength for her, when the world seemed to be coming apart. Anne picked up the phone one night and called a doctor. She said, “This was a doctor who always gave me a straight answer. When I called on this one particular night, I was hoping she could put a positive slant on some distressing developments. She couldn’t, but she said something that changed my life. ‘Watch her carefully, right now,’ she said, ‘because she’s teaching you how to live.’”
In so many ways, that is Susan Alexander’s story; her gift to us, if you will, in the midst of a moment that she did not choose, would not choose, yet given to her, nevertheless, and thus, to all of us who loved her. In those long months of dying, we watched her closely—listened to her voice, her thoughts about this transitory life and life eternal—we admired her remarkable courage, her truth, her certain faith and her doubts—and we prayed that for her, there would be that peace which passes all human understanding. Through her dying days, she taught all of us how to live.
Like you, I’ve thought a good deal about Susan, through these late spring and summer days. That wonderfully stoic presence—that “can-do attitude—brought to whatever task was at hand—if you don’t need for me to run the Dean’s office, then I’ll handle the development program, while taking classes that would prepare her for come what may—to Seton Cove, where her natural teaching skills would make themselves known—thus, came the joy of professional fulfillment, and then like a thief in the night, so unexpected and anticipated—life became a series of diagnoses, medications, tests, treatments, and the realization that her time, however measured, would be shorter—and so, in some mysterious and remarkable way, she filled that time with teaching us how to live. Through it all, Susan carried within her an extraordinary juxtaposition of acceptance; coming to terms with what is and will be, and an embrace of Dylan Thomas’ refrain, “Do not go gentle into that good night.” That is the mark of deep faith; a time-tested spirituality, shaped and formed by one who had seen both the mountaintop, and walked through the valley of the shadow. She experienced both, and she knew the inner truth of the psalmist’s words, “If I take the wings of the morning; and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand will lead me, and your right hand hold me fast.” When we talked about selecting a psalm for this service, she didn’t ask for several from which to choose—but rather, from her bed in Christopher House, said clearly, “I want Psalm 139.” (Of course, even though I had brought with me several selections from which to choose, I immediately said, “That’s the very one I wanted to recommend!”)
The Apostle Paul assures us that nothing will ever separate us from the love of God—neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God. For Susan, Paul’s words are not just for those longing for eternity, life beyond the boundaries and horizons of this earthly existence, but for life in this world, in this moment, time and place. God’s tent as a dwelling place is large to include the whole world—and so she could hold firmly in one hand the wooden cross, given to her by a friend, and which helped her endure uncertainty and pain, and look, at the same time, at a playful and bobbing image of the Buddha, placed on her bed table, and given to her by a fellow pilgrim on life’s journey. There was space for both in the room—and a place for both within her own heart. Thus, she lived in the wisdom of two great Catholics—Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton. Dorothy Day once said that if we could just remember that each and every one of us is created in God’s image, then that, in itself, would make us want to love one another more. And, Thomas Merton, who when asked why he was going to see the Buddhist monks, simply replied, “To learn a little more about God.” (Two great contemporary saints, who also pushed the envelope a little bit, and often got into trouble!) Susan was very much a part of that spiritual and theological conversation—she would have been very much at home with mentors like Day and Merton. Through her life, and in her dying, she invited us to become a part of the conversation as well.
And so, we now offer to God, for all eternity, God’s own gift to us, in thanksgiving for who and what she was, child, mother, wife, teacher, and friend. We often speak of life eternal, life with God, as occurring in heaven. We long for it, but words fail us in our attempts to describe such a place; an experience. St. Augustine wrote these words, long ago, which come as close as any ever written about what heaven might mean, and do justice to that life for which we have only now seen a glimpse, but will be seen in all its fullness, in the life to come.

Let us sing alleluia here on earth, while we still live in anxiety, so that we may sing it one day in heaven in full security…We shall have no enemies in heaven…we shall never lose a friend. God’s praises are sung both there and here, but here they are sung in anxiety, there in security; here they are sung by those destined to die, there, by those destined to live forever, here they are sung in hope, there, in hope’s fulfillment; here, they are sung by wayfarers, there, by those living in their own country. So then…let us sing now, not in order to enjoy a life of leisure, but in order to lighten our labors. You should sing as wayfarers do—sing but continue your journey…Sing then, but keep going.

Sing then, but keep going.
Susan would like that; for she embraced it fully.
She would want us to sing, but keep going.
After all, in her life and death, she taught us how to live.

Delivered by the Rev. Charles James Cook, Professor Emeritus of Pastoral Theology, 51��Ƶ, Austin.

References
The Holy Bible. The Letter to the Romans: Chapter 8. NRSV
——————–Psalm 139: 1-11. NRSV
The references to Thomas Merton, Dorothy Day, and Dylan Thomas are all well known expressions of their work. I particularly recommend The Dorothy Day Book (Templegate Press); Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (Doubleday); and the poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.

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