To Tell the Old, Old Story

I love to tell the story, 'twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story of Jesus and his love.

On the night of April 2nd, two friends and I held Easter vigil at school, starting at sunset and going a bit past sunrise on Easter morning. We were all exhausted by the end of Easter, but holding vigil was undoubtedly worth it. That's a night I'll remember for a long time -- more than eleven and a half hours of prayer, reading, singing, and discussion together. More than eleven and a half hours of telling the story.

Because that's what Easter vigil is about. It's about the story, the story that begins with the creation of the world, the story that tells of God delivering God's people time and time again, despite creation's seemingly constant apostasy. The story that leads to an empty tomb and Jesus, God incarnate, risen from the dead.

I love to tell the story of unseen things above,
of Jesus and his glory, of Jesus and his love.

We held a love feast as well, after all the Easter vigil readings except the gospel lesson. The love feast was a natural fit; it's also a service of reading, singing, and testimony, oriented around the breaking of bread. So after reading about God's salvation through history, we read about love and service and bread. We sang love as we had sung salvation. It seemed right, right to tell the story and then to explore why. Why God creates. Why God pursues, saves, over and over.

And then we were an hour and a half away from dawn. So we renewed our baptismal vows together, prayed and sang a litany of saints, and then reached what we had awaited all night: the reading from Luke, the story of the women and Peter finding an empty tomb, the story of "Why do you look for the living among the dead?"

He is not here, but has risen.

Christ is risen!
Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

I love to tell the story, for those who know it best
Seem hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest.
And when in scenes of glory, I sing the new, new song
'Twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.

Before a Vote (Dear Christ Church)

In two weeks, my church will be voting on our options for the future, and I actually won't be present for the vote. As I was thinking through all of this, the conversations we've had as a church over the past six months, and some things I've read over the past year, I wrote the letter below the fold. I don't really intend to give it to the church, but it brings together much of what I've been thinking, and it was important for me to write.

Hungarian Hymns: Bless Me With Forgiveness

"Bless Me With Forgiveness" is a Hungarian hymn with words by Balassi Bálint, and I found it appropriate for Ash Wednesday. Full lyrics with English translation/interpretation are here (and all translations below are from this link). A video with three of the verses is below.

Tempting to Remain

Strengthened by this glimpse of glory,
Fearful lest our faith decline,
We like Peter find it tempting
To remain and build a shrine.
-- "We Have Come at Christ's Own Bidding," Carl P. Daw

This is my Transfiguration Sunday story.

Last spring semester was pretty hard on me. I had spent the previous fall in Budapest, and I had loved it. I'd taken five math classes and been part of a community of math students, had studied in cafes and restaurants, had walked the streets of the city in the mornings that smelled of bread and by the light of streetlamps in the night that came so early. I had also grown in faith during that semester, exploring a variety of topics and spending more time thinking about them than I had before. I was part of a more high church community than I previously had been, and I found great value in that.

And then I came back.

My Soul Doth Magnify the Lord

The Lectionary readings for today include Mary's song, the Magnificat. So here, have a few Magnificat, with a bit of a Hungarian bent:

Gaudete

This is what gaudete means to me: to be unable to avoid the joy of movement under Christmas lights in a cold, dark town square, to live full of the warmth of brass, to be unashamed of dancing in public because it is harder to understand stillness than response.

I visited Pécs, a city in southern Hungary, at the beginning of Advent last fall, the night the Christmas market opened. I almost left Pécs after listening to the children's choir sing in the evening (well after sunset), but right as I was walking away the brass band began to play, and so I turned back. I turned back and listened and couldn't stand still, not simply because of the cold but also because the music and the spots of brightness in the midst of the dark required movement. The tall man was dancing, the little girl was dancing, and I was dancing. We danced alone, on different sides of the crowd, but we danced together, publicly, among all the others, and for once it didn't embarrass me. Light among darkness, music piercing quiet, dancing through stillness, community in solitude. It was beautiful, and it was Advent, and it was joy.

Very Short Links Dump

Just a couple of things:

Why Partnerships, Sharing Ministry, and Mergers Matter by Ben Gosden
I am so glad this was posted this week because right now, I needed to read this.

There's too much that is still undecided for me to talk in detail about the direction my church is going, but this was encouraging and affirming. Doing a new thing means letting go of the old. Resurrection involves death. There are ways to die gracefully that make way for new life, new ministry.

Why Membership? by Dean Lollis
Yes, all of this. I joined a church, even as a college student, because the responsibilities inherent in membership vows are important to me.