Austin, my seven year old grandson, brought home a letter he wrote to his parents about how he spent the week at school. Included with all the things he was learning like animals of the Amazon rainforest and eating healthy meals was that he’d done a lock down drill.

He was now “prepared” if a gunman came into his school.

Lord. Have mercy. My heart hurts.

What have we done?

I am thoughtful about how we make our children, our children, suffer the consequences of our less than good adult decisions. I am especially mindful these days of how often our short-sighted and even selfish choices cause such harm to those who depend on adults to do what’s best for them. What are we thinking?

Why do we allow our children to be placed in situations they have no way to change? Hungry children. Children without health care. Immigrant children taken from their parents. Children no longer feel safe in public spaces.

Why do we pay their teachers such a disrespectful wage? Why do we place responsibilities on teachers we would not be willing to carry our self?

Early days of my ministry at St. Mary’s, there was a mass gun massacre in one place or another. I was horrified, and I actually prepared a sermon in my mind where I invited all gun owners to bring their guns to church, and we’d take them to a place that repurposed guns. I imagined a ground swell of folks stepping up to say that though they had the right to own guns, that they cared more about guns getting into unsafe hands to continue to hold onto them. I imagined that St. Mary’s would lead this transformation of the world.

For one reason or another I never preached that sermon. I look back now and realize how naive I was.

But what if I had?

I pray about what to do even till this day.

Writing my elected officials feels futile since they are top recipients of donations from the National Rifle Association. Yet, I do. Research indicates that arming more people with guns (like teachers) does not keep us safe because it is more likely innocent victims will come into the range of fire.

Something, some things, must change.

We must all give up something of value to figure this out. But may what we give up not be one more person who walks through a door thinking it’s another ordinary day. Until it’s not.

I walked my grandson to the bus stop today. We told each other we loved each other, and then he merrily got on the bus the way only a second grader can.

I pray for all students, teachers, and school staff. I pray for all who believe violence is the way to communicate.

Truly, I pray I’ll see him again.

The thing about Church, as defined in Scripture, is that every time we gather, we are gathering as family. Truth is, sometimes we act more like distant cousins than brothers and sisters, but that’s for another day.

Today I actually got to go to church with my birth family. I’ve having a little vacation in Oregon with my son, my daughter in law and grandboys, and Sunday worship and teaching at New Hope is always on the Sunday plan.

New Hope, where my Bend family calls home, is part of the Evangelical Church, and the adults worship with praise music and Biblical teaching while the children go to their own age classes.

I always am very thoughtful about what Church really is whenever I go to New Hope and never leave without bringing something home to St. Mary’s. I am particularly thoughtful because I may retire to Bend, and I am full of prayer about what my ministry would look like if I do. Very few folks attend church here, and Bend has endless opportunities. I imagine what Church would look like in this place for me, and I pray about the possibility of partnering with Christ in creating some sort of missional community.

But back to today. It’s a joy to sit beside birth family in church. Today we had the rare gift of communion.

At the end of worship, ushers passed around metal plates of tiny pillows of cracker bread and trays filled with minuscule plastic cups of grape juice. We sang Jesus Paid it All accompanied by a band as communion was distributed. I was back in time to occasions of the Lord’s Supper in my own growing up days in the Baptist Church.

There was no instruction about who could take the meal or not. The only direction was to wait until everyone was served to eat. Standing in our rows of chairs, the ushers held the plates towards each of us one by one with a smile. It was Christ’s table and all were welcome.

When all were served, the pastor read from Scripture:

The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.”

And we ate our crisp tiny pillow of bread.

And then he read:

This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

And then we drank our thimble full of juice.

And then he read still more:

For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

( I Corinthians 11. 23–26).

I was fed and it was holy.

The Word became flesh and blood,  and moved into the neighborhood. (John 1. 14, The Message)

Back in September, after Hurricane Harvey filled my home, the rectory, with five feet of water, the Vestry had a challenging decision to make.  With two floods in a less than two years, did we rebuild?  Did we rebuild and sell?  Did we sell as is?

After a lot of prayer and a lot of conversion and a lot of research, the decision was made to rebuild. Knowing that it would likely take at least two years for a buyout to go through,  we also made an application to FEMA  and Harris County to buy the rectory.

Although we knew that we had made the best of a difficult decision, I wasn’t certain why that was the holy thing to do until a while later.  I got a glimpse into why God was having me move home to Norchester in the midst of conversations with my neighbors.

I’ve lived in Norchester for twenty years.  People know that the house belongs to St. Mary’s and that I am St. Mary’s priest.  Slowly, over time, neighbors have begun to trust me enough to seek me out to have some conversations about Jesus.  After Harvey, the trust had built to the point where some neighbors allowed me to bring them communion and to pray with them.

This fall, whenever I’d come by home,  neighbors would ask me if I was moving back; so many folks were still trying to decide what to do.  I gave them my answer:

Yes, we were rebuilding.  The house belongs to St. Mary’s, and we want our neighbors to know that the Church is in the neighborhood.  You are not alone.  God is here.

It wasn’t until people began to weep when I said those words that I knew for sure that this was why I had to move back to my home in Norchester.

It wasn’t until I moved home during Eastertide and began to walk the neighborhood in the mornings that I really knew why I was coming home.

My neighborhood continues to look devastated.  Yes, some house are rebuilt and and look better than ever.  Others are in the midst of being rebuilt.  Others have been abandoned.  If there was ever a neighborhood that St. Mary’s and her priest needed to live, this is a place where folks need to be reminded that Jesus is in the neighborhood.

So I’ve bought a sign for my front yard.  It says:

+ St. Mary’s Rectory +  How can we pray with you?  stmaryprays@gmail.com

I’m going to invite parishioners to place the sign in the ground and bless it and the rectory on the Feast of Pentecost.  I chose that day because that’s the day we recall that we were all given the power to be Jesus in whatever neighborhood we are standing.

Then we will spend the summer imagining and living as Jesus.  In our neighborhoods.

I’m finishing up a near week long retreat at Our Lady of Grace Monastery in Beech Grove, Indiana. I lived in community with over one hundred Roman Catholic Sisters and Protestant clergy women. We gathered for a fifteen year reunion of three Women Touched by Grace classes, thanks to generous underwriting by a Lilly Endowment grant.

It’s been a glimpse into the Kingdom of Heaven.

Singing morning and evening prayers in women’s voices everyday.

Attending a writing workshop with poet/singer/songwriter Carrie Newcomer. And yes, we wrote a song together.

So much laughter over cups of coffee.

Sharing stories of deep joy and deep sorrow the way that friends across time only can. Strengthened by the unique connection that women clergy and women religious share.

Watching Spring open wide.

Walking the labyrinth.

Being sung and blessed back into the world by the Sisters.

Oh, and of course, there were cupcakes.

Sister Ann Patrice has said it better than I can. This is indeed a glimpse into God’s beloved kingdom.