Sermon Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Luke 13:31-35
St. Michael and All Angels
February 24, 2013

Every day we make choices. Some of them are conscious. Some are nowhere near our awareness. Abram vacillates between doubt and faith. Those around Jesus chose between power and vulnerability. Some choices are so obvious and others are much more subtle. We respond to people and situations in ways that may be large or small. We may grasp the impact of our response, or we may have no idea just who will be touched by our actions.

My partner, Anne Marie was teaching music in a poor, tough middle-school several years ago. She took 200 Spanish-speaking students to participate in a show choir festival. It was a bit risky. These kids aren’t your typical show choir kids. But it seemed like a good opportunity for them to share their talents, their language, and their culture, and connect with other kids from the community. They sang their hearts out and wowed the audience with their big soulful sound. When they finished, the judge stepped onto the stage and commented that their school uniforms weren’t really performance attire, and their shoes were kind of ratty. The judge went on to say that singing one song in Spanish was a novelty, but singing all their songs in Spanish was overkill. They needed more variety. What she didn’t realize is that each song was a different genre from a different country. There was a lot of variety in their music… ranchera from Mexico, son from Cuba, reggaeton from Panama, cumbia from Colombia. These kids who already knew they were different than the kids in the fancy costumes, were deflated.

Several months later, Anne Marie was at a meeting with music teachers from other schools who were planning a multi-school event. Anne Marie asked if they could sing one song in Spanish. The others said no. When she asked again, they said no and they finally said they weren’t even going to do the event. Some months later, she was with these same teachers, and they reminisced about what a great event it had been. The message was clear. Her kids and their music weren’t welcome.

Anne Marie was angry and disappointed. She had hoped her kids would see the value in their gifts. She went to complain to her principal, and her principal responded with a question: “So, what are you going to do about it?” Now she had a choice to make. She could walk away and lick the wounds of racism and pain or she could respond by entering more fully into the human family where things are far from perfect. To this day I am astounded by her response. She decided to create an opportunity for kids to share the wonderful skills they were learning. She contacted the National Hispanic Cultural Center and found immediate support to begin the Festival de Bellas Artes. The following year, she held the first festival with 700 children and youth from Albuquerque and beyond. There was mariachi, folklorico, choral groups, guitar, and even a Middle Eastern dance group. Some kids traveled from Las Cruces to participate. It was an amazing experience! Students described that, for the first time they felt their cultures and their talents were being honored by the larger community. The kids and their talent were celebrated and embraced enthusiastically. The Festival de Bellas Artes just completed its fourth year last week with over 1100 elementary, middle, and high school students sharing with each other, attending multi-cultural arts workshops, and performing to completely full theaters. It has become an event that all ages look forward to each year. Several of my friends volunteer at this event because it is stunning to experience the energy and talent of so many kids and adults who work with them.

I’m telling you this story because I am amazed at the choice Anne Marie made when it was clear that her students’ gifts weren’t welcome at existing events. She could have become bitter and left it at that, but she chose to create something that would celebrate the unique gifts of kids in the community. It didn’t occur to her that the choice she made would have such profound impact. She simply did what seemed right to her in that moment.

We all carry within us the capacity to respond more than one way to life. Every day we make choices about what we will eat, what we will do with our body, how we will respond to people we encounter, what we will do with feelings that show up in us… especially the unwelcome ones. It is easy to simply react and a lot more work to stop and reflect on where we are and how we want to be in any given situation. I see this dynamic in the readings today. God tells Abram his reward will be great. In this conversation, we see Abram as a man of faith and doubt. One minute he doubts how God can reward him and the next minute, he trusts in God’s promise. The scripture describes a man who believes in God’s promise and then a man who says, “Wait a minute. How is this going to work again?” That is the human condition. We believe and we doubt. Frederick Buechner calls doubts the “ants in the pants of faith.” That is a good description of all of us. Doubt and faith reside together in each of us. Abram made a lot of mistakes but somehow in this situation, he was able to choose faith and his descendants were as great as the stars.

How many times a day do we hold out for a pure yes or no only to find it never comes? We are yes and no. We are generous and self-centered. We are human and we are made in God’s image. We will never be pure love and compassion. It doesn’t mean that we don’t intend to love every moment, but we will always fall short of perfection. And yet, at the end of every day (and the beginning and middle too!), we are God’s beloved. I remember a youth litany years ago that started, “We are neither good nor bad, we are both. And because God loves us, let us love one another.”

In the Gospel lesson, the people can choose to follow Herod…the one Jesus calls a fox. Or they can follow Jesus, a hen who wants to gather us under her wings. It’s a choice we make every day. Will we follow power and cunning or will we follow steadfast love? The invitation to follow the hen isn’t an invitation to believe in our own worthiness. It’s an invitation to be drawn toward the one whose love breathed life into us and calls us into a human family of compassion and healing.

Last night a group from St. Michael’s kicked off the Year of the Pilgrim by watching the movie The Way. This movie shows a motley crew of people making the pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain. It’s a fabulous example of mixed motives: real human beings making a journey and annoying each other, showing each other kindness, responding out of their own brokenness, finding deep compassion, and becoming the body of Christ as they travel together. What happens on the journey is that they keep investing in the path and by doing so; they are investing in one another. They make choices every day they travel together that cause pain and healing. Every step on the pilgrim journey is a choice – a choice to acknowledge our vulnerability (because it’s there!), a choice to be receptive, a choice to be grateful, and a choice to see God in one another. This human condition is a funny thing. When I mess up, I often say, “It’s hard to be human!” I wish that all of my choices were pure and beautiful and holy and good, but they are not. Yet somehow God is in all of it.

There is a Native American Legend about an old Cherokee teaching his grandson about life. "A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy. "It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil - anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego." He continued, "The other is good - joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

The grandfather simply replied, "The one you feed."

Every time I hear this story, I realize that I am making choices about what to feed all day long. The season of Lent is a time of returning. It is a time to take stock of our lives and make choices. Often we give something up or take something on as a way of reflecting on who we are and how we are living. What are we feeding in our lives? Is that what brings us life? Does it bring life to others? In the Adult formation series, we are looking at our core values and asking these questions. We realize as we look at our values that we often hold conflicting values. We are continually making choices about which value will lead in any situation. It’s important to take stock of our values because they help turn us toward God and the life we have been given. We can lean toward the human family and choose healing knowing that we won’t get it all right, but that we belong to a God whose love is greater than our doubt and fear.

We make choices as a community as well. It is my hope that in the coming months and years, we will look at our choices with great care and ask, “Who are we feeding with this choice?” We too, can lean toward the community or pull back seeking security. Leaning into one another can be risky, but it is where love and hope are found. It’s also important to remember God’s grace when we mess up or feed something that causes pain. We ask forgiveness each week for what we have done and for what we have left undone. Then we begin again. God is in all of it breathing life and love into each of us and gathering us under her wings.

Feb. 17, 2013
1st Sunday of Lent
The Temptations of Christ
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Jesus had been baptized by his cousin John in the Jordan River. A dove had descended from heaven and, our gospel today tells us, the Spirit filled Jesus. Then, like many who have been touched by the Spirit, he felt the need to go on retreat, to spend time in prayer. He went into the desert, alone.

After 5 1/2 weeks of fasting, he was weak, vulnerable. Various thoughts and voices assailed him about what it meant to be filled by the Spirit, to be touched by God. If he was - shudder to say it - the Messiah, then he might change the world. And he could do it with personal charisma, political strength, spiritual magic.

The story of Christ’s temptation in the wilderness has always, like all stories in the Bible, pointed to something universal, transcending the characters and places of their telling. The 3 temptations of Christ represent common temptations of humanity. Each of them says something basic about how we go astray.

The first of them is the temptation to “live by bread alone,” to live a purely materialist life. This may be the primary temptation of modern American life. We are inundated with messages to consume, to get the next, better version of everything we already own. We are duped into thinking that we can get all our external circumstances to go well for us, and that this will satisfy us.

I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. When I visit there now, I enjoy many things about it: the beauty of the land, bay, ocean, city, and hills; the amazing food and beautiful gardens; the cornucopia of cafes, bookstores, and eccentric shops; the arts, music, and intellectual life.

But there is another part of me that is slightly sickened by all this. It is as if we’re all being lured into a delusion - that if we perfect our external life, if we make it really cool and trouble-free, we will achieve satisfaction and happiness. This is a lie.

Because after too long, we return to reality, to our feelings, our distracted mind, our relationships, our problems. And so an emptiness sets in, as if we’ve just been tricked into wasting our time. So we re-dedicate ourselves to the effort to find fulfillment out there somewhere, in the improvement of our external circumstances. It becomes an addictive circle.

God offers an alternative. It is not the negation of beauty or agreeable circumstances. It is the appreciation of them without attachment. It is the ability to move through them, knowing they are only temporary, being able to give it all away if needed. It is the willingness to live with our external difficulties and limitations, instead of seeing them as something unnatural and deficient. It is the knowledge that while material pleasure is something to savor and appreciate, it will not deliver deep and lasting satisfaction.

The second temptation of Christ is about power and control. The devil shows Jesus the kingdoms of the world and offers him all their glory, and authority over them. Now on one level, there is nothing inherently wrong with power and control.

I want to have some measure of power and control. When I’m sick, I want to understand what’s happening, to have the care I need, to gain mastery over what is trying to harm my body. When I’m threatened by an intrusive person, I want to stand up and make them back off. Power and control are neutral forces. They can be used for good or for evil, depending on our motivation.

But there is also a time to release them. There is a time for powerlessness and surrender. For if we think that power and control are the key to getting what we need, and when a parent, a boss, or a spouse uses them to force others to their will, power and control are twisted towards service of the ego and personal gain. When we, as a nation, insist on domination of the world’s economy and politics, it turns sour on us, and everyone is harmed.

We cannot control everything. And so sometimes we must let go and trust in something beyond our control. We must surrender to God. But to know when this time comes, to know when to use our power and when to wait in faith - this is the task of spiritual discernment. It is what is at the heart of the famous Serenity Prayer, written by Reinhold Niebuhr, and adopted by 12-step recovery programs:

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

Finally, the third temptation of Christ is magical thinking. The devil says, If you are the Son of God, if God is with you, as you say, then throw yourself off the pinnacle of the Temple - God will protect you from harm, right?

We all know the temptation to bargain with God. I’ll never touch another drop of alcohol if you get me out of this scrape, okay? If you heal my child, I’ll go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life. To this, Jesus said You shall not put God to the test.

But magical thinking goes beyond bargaining. It is the belief that I can influence the course of circumstances by using supernatural forces. In the life of faith, it happens whenever, instead of just praying for what we need - as Jesus taught us to do - we believe that if we use the right hocus-pocus, if we are spiritual enough or good enough, we can make God appear and do what we want.

In faith we are asked to do something that is much harder than that: to make our needs known to God, and then to let go of the results, trusting that somehow, perhaps in ways we cannot understand, God’s goodness will prevail. 

In different ways, these three temptations of Christ, these temptations that are common to humanity, are, each of them, a form of idolatry. Perhaps that is the only sin - putting something other than God in the place of ultimate concern, trust, and hope. The ancient Jews knew this root problem, and so they prohibited idolatry in the first 2 of the 10 Commandments: You shall have no other gods but me; and You shall not make for yourself any idols.

Idolatry is not just the offering of rum and cigarettes and coins to creepy little statues. Idolatry is the conviction that if we give our full dedication to the improvement of our material surroundings and external circumstances, then we will find true and lasting fulfillment. Idolatry is the belief that acceptance and surrender is never an option, that we will only get what we need by exercising our will. Idolatry is the reliance on magical thinking, that we can make God appear and do what we want.

Our faith, as discovered by those ancient, radical Jews, as taught by Jesus and all the saints who have followed him, is to live without idols. What does this mean? It means that we are walking on a high wire without a net. It means that we place our ultimate trust in something we cannot possess, maneuver, or even prove to ourselves.

This was the genius of an ancient people who placed their trust in a God who could not be named; a God who lay beyond all comprehension and yet whose loving presence could be experienced more closely than one’s own breath; a God whose self-revelation was simply I am that I am. How do we put this God first in our lives? How do we worship this God?

We learn to look for fulfillment in slippery things like love, our state of mind, and the electricity of the present moment. We learn to be patient and wait, to hope without any content to our hope. We learn to place our trust in a Spirit who, like the wind, comes and goes where it wills.

Jesus was tempted in every way as we are. In the wilderness, after he discovered that God had inhabited him and called him to a holy life, he had to relinquish every idol until he became an empty vessel that God could use.

We enter the same wilderness in the 40 days of Lent. Discover for yourself where your idols lie, where you place your mistaken trust. And then step out on that high wire of faith.

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February 10, 2013
The Last Sunday of Epiphany
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

Every year on this Sunday, just before we descend into the humbling valley of Lent, we are taken up on the mountain with Moses and Jesus for a last moment of glory. There is an encounter with God, which dramatically changes how they appear to others. 

Moses came down from Mount Sinai, the skin of his face shining such that the Israelites were afraid to come near him. At another time, on another mountain, while Jesus was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. 

In our second reading today, Paul links together these two transfigurations. But he goes further. He says that all who live in Christ are also transformed from one degree of glory to another. The transfiguration of Moses and Christ becomes ours. 

The Transfiguration is one of the most often-used icons of the Eastern Orthodox churches. They take very seriously what Paul said. They make no bones about it - the goal of the life of faith is to realize the glory of God. They call this theosis, or “deification,” becoming God-like. 

In the West, we have taken up the possibility of transfiguration within what we call “spirituality.” In the practice of a spiritual life, we hope that over time we might finally reach a higher spiritual state, marked by true and lasting peace, harmony, and joy. 

I’ve become cautious about this kind of expectation. For it has the danger of setting up a romanticized ideal which we believe to be presently inaccessible to us, but might be someday, if we were to really apply ourselves. But when it comes, it never seems to last. And so we either conclude that spirituality is for other types of people, or we try harder, convinced that permanent transfiguration is just around the corner. 

I’ve become more drawn to the earthier - but no less profound - transfiguration that comes and goes in the moment. In those times when we stop our thinking, our worrying, our forward momentum, the present moment can open up. It opens not to some astounding and dazzling moment of glory, but to the simple fact of whatever it is. And that is deeply transformative. 

Zen Buddhists call this “suchness.” Suchness is the concrete quality of being that can be experienced at any time: the sensory reality of light, sound, movement, and touch. But suchness also includes thoughts and emotions that rise and fall. And so the air, our thoughts, our sensations, the world around us - all of it together makes up the unique and ever-changing reality of this moment. Some teachers just call it “things as they are,” or more surprisingly, “things as it is.” For people of faith, it is a place of opening, where in the stillness, God is found. 

This practice, often called mindfulness, is very simple, but very difficult. For we are a people of dissatisfaction, always striving to improve our lot, to reach what we imagine to be a more preferable state, to ruminate over the past and the imagined future. So to return to the present moment constitutes a radical challenge to all these deeply-ingrained habits. But there is also a sense in which this practice is easy. It’s so easy, we can do it right now. 

Keeping your eyes open and fixed on a spot in front of you, bring your attention to your breath...Take in the sounds around you...Take in the colors you see in front of you, in your peripheral vision...As thoughts arise, let them move on... If you’re carrying an emotion today, or some kind of stress, just feel it emotion physically, without pursuing it mentally...Bring your attention back to your breath...know that God fully inhabits this moment...relax into God; let this moment be what it is - sensations, rising and falling thoughts, this room, other people...as God says through the Psalm “Be still and know that I am God...”

...Amen.

What we discover in this practice is that even while we humans always will  - and should - strive to improve society and solve our personal problems, on another, more immediate level, life is always rich, always enough, just as it is. This is a form of faith. It is an encounter with God, for God fully infuses this, and every, present moment. And when are in this place, there is a quiet transfiguration, for God’s very presence changes us. 

We are changed because it shifts our perspective. Conflicts become less loaded with danger; sadness can just be a feeling, without fear attached to it; boredom dissipates as the world in all its variety and beauty opens up to us. We are just awake, available, experiencing what is, without any need to change it or be somewhere else. And over time, we come to know that whatever might be going on in our life, this sacred and very earthy reality is our foundation, which can never be shaken.  

The best part of this is that we are then more able to be of service to other people and to whatever God places in our path. This is the real benefit of transformation, or any form of spirituality, faith and prayer- it is not for our personal benefit alone. 

For when we are present, we can move calmly into our activities, our relationships, our work, our conflicts and challenges without personal baggage. We become a helpful presence to others, even a healing presence, for we are empty, not bringing anything extra to complicate matters. We are in a position to serve the other, to serve the interest of the moment at hand. 

In the story of the transfiguration, Jesus and his friends, after having that moment of divine encounter, go down from the mountain, down to everyday life. There they are met by a large and demanding crowd. God places in their path a man who is distraught over his son’s horrific convulsions - epileptic seizures, apparently. He begged Jesus’s disciples to help, but they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do anything. 

At first, Jesus shows his humanity, and expresses frustration: How long will I have to put up with this? But then he stops, takes a breath, lets go of his baggage, opens up to what is at hand, and turns to the sick boy, healing him with attention and compassion. 

Jesus was only able to be a healer because he was grounded in God. Grounded in God, transfigured every time he encountered the divine in the everyday, he was in a position to be open and present to those whom God placed in his path, to serve the needs of the world around him. 

***********

In our second reading today, Paul talks about us having “unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, being transformed from one degree of glory to another.” 

I don’t think what is promised here is some special, rarified state of consciousness that happens to a very elite few after years of strenuous effort. I think our transfiguration is simpler, more down to earth. 

It happens whenever we wake up, whenever we return to the divine encounter that is waiting for us within each moment. We become open - our faces are unveiled, and we see the humble glory of the Lord in things as it is. And we, too, can then be of service to this world as Jesus was. We, too, can be a healing presence for those people and those situations that God places in our path. 

St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church
Sermon: Jeremiah 1:4-10, I Corinthians 13:1-13, Luke 4:21-30
February 3, 2013

One of the great genres in literature is the coming of age story. How many of us have been taken into the world of a young person and their journey to maturity as they encounter some of life’s harsh realities? Perhaps one of the classics had you in its grip at some time in your life: To Kill a Mockingbird, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl, Little Women, Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret to name just a few. This genre continues to engage people of all ages as new stories make their way to the shelves and are swept up by readers and then screenwriters who are eager to depict the unique journey of the hero or heroine. Some of the newer titles include: The Hunger Games, The Harry Potter series, The Secret Life of Bees, Life of Pi, and The Kite Runner. I am barely scratching the surface, but these titles are making their mark on our lives. Later this month, one of New Mexico’s classics will hit national theaters. Bless Me, Ultima shows how seven-year-old Antonio is changed when the curandera Ultima comes into his life. Antonio’s coming of age story is harrowing at times as he witnesses several violent acts and endures threats on his life and those that he loves.

Books have been my beloved companions for as long as I can remember. As a child, I scanned my parents’ bookshelves desperate for something to read one day. I came upon To Kill a Mockingbird and I was hooked. The world of Scout, Jem, and the mysterious Boo Radley helped me to understand assumptions and judgments I made about people and invited me to open my heart to see the goodness I might overlook otherwise. For generations, we have been swept up by stories of children growing up sometimes through a powerful encounter with a mentor and sometimes through painful experiences. These stories lead us into the world through children’s eyes and show us what awaits us on the other side of innocence.

In C.S. Lewis’ book The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, some children in the land of Narnia are being led to Aslan, Narnia’s great leader. On discovering that Aslan is not a person but a lion, the children feel some apprehension.
“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.
“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said
anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”

Part of the delight for us as the reader is that we know that growing pains are natural. It is part of life. Growing up can be painful and scary at times, but it is how we move through our lives. Many of us carry scars marking our own coming of age experiences. No one said that growing up would be safe. It is often when we stand in the gap of risk, that we discover the power of God holding us. 

Our texts today have a coming of age reference. God calls Jeremiah when he is “only a boy.” He is being asked to take the big steps in his journey to adulthood and serve as a prophet to the nations. It is a terrifying journey for a young boy to undertake. Paul responds to a divided Corinthian Church with a message about love. We often hear these beautiful words about love in weddings, but Paul has something different in mind. He is calling them to be a people who understand that love isn’t just a feeling. It is a choice that we make daily and it has powerful implications. Paul’s invitation is to grow into mature love rather than hold on to our selfish tendencies. In the Gospel lesson, Jesus speaks in his hometown and amazes everyone with words. He’s clearly growing up and just as the people who watched him grow begin to patronizingly pat him on the head, he reacts by telling them that they are not necessarily God’s chosen. There are others too. Jesus has unmasked their selfish understanding that God is for them alone and they are enraged.

No one said this would be easy. Nor did anyone say we only come of age once. I am coming to understand that coming of age is what we do over and over again. This last year, I experienced a profound coming of age through the Soulcraft program. I stepped into the program eager to take the next steps on my journey and truthfully, I was hoping for transformation. I didn’t know exactly what that might look like, but I knew that I was ready. I arrived at the first session a year ago, and through our work together, it was clear that this was what I needed. As we got ready to leave the first session, they began to talk about homework. That took me off guard. I had just begun working at St. Michael’s. I have another part time job. I have a family with a long list of commitments. I have begun the process to become a priest. I was not counting on homework. I began to think I had made a mistake. How could I pull this off? There simply wasn’t enough of me to go around and I shouldn’t have taken this on right now. There were three more sessions in Utah during the year and a good bit of homework in between. Each of those sessions took me more deeply into my journey. The work got harder and it was exactly what I needed. In a strange way, as I invested in that program, the other parts of my life came together. I did experience transformation by giving myself to the process.

It seems to me that the St. Michael’s community is at a coming of age moment in our journey as well. We don’t know exactly what that will look like or what will be required of us, but we have arrived at this moment of transition and will take the next step together. The invitation is to step in and wholeheartedly invest ourselves in the path in front of us. At the Annual Meeting, I described us as a Pilgrim Community. David Whyte said, “To set out boldly in our work is to make a pilgrimage of our labors, to understand that the consummation of work lies not only in what we have done, but who we have become while accomplishing the task.” (Crossing the Unknown Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity)

In this time of pilgrimage, our focus is not only on the road in front of us, but it is also on who we are as we travel together. We can take our cues from the scriptures and those who have also set out on an unknown road, trusting in the God who called them. Each of the texts calls us to tell the truth even when it is difficult. We can hold the words of Corinthians before us and ground ourselves in love. The pain that we experience on this journey is an opportunity for us to show compassion to one another. People taking care of each other mark stories of pilgrimage. They share their resources with each other and bind each other’s wounds. It is a very tender and beautiful expression of Christ who cared for each person he met on the way. 

Jesus walked and he encountered people on the journey. It may be that we can best know Jesus by walking. As we make this journey, if we open our hearts, we will see Christ in those that we meet on the road. St. Augustine said, “It is solved by walking.” We cannot predict all that lies ahead of us, but we can take the next step in front of us. It will be solved as we walk into the church and as we walk back out into the world. These steps will show us where God is on our path and beckon us forward.

I invite you to let this prayer of Thomas Merton be our guide in the coming months. May it shape our understanding of who we are and help us to trust in the one who walks with us on this pilgrim road:

 “MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”

- Thomas Merton, "Thoughts in Solitude"

We are on this journey together. God is with us. Our pilgrimage together will be marked by many moments we have yet to imagine. Let us walk together in faith.