by Bishop Mariann | Mar 7, 2024
For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.
John 3:16
My spiritual director encourages me to begin times of prayer by imagining God’s loving gaze upon me. It’s not as comforting a posture as you might think, for whenever I do this, I can’t help but think of all the other people God is also gazing upon.
And I wonder how God holds the suffering and grief of this world.
At the heart of the Christian faith is the conviction that God is love. In Jesus, God’s response to human suffering is compassion and a love that overcomes death. In our darkest hour, Scripture assures us, God’s light still shines. We are never alone, and death does not have the final word.
I live my life by these truths. Yet there are times when the depth of human suffering leaves me silent before God. In those times God is also silent, and the silence itself seems to ask—as many of you ask me as your bishop—“What are you going to do?”
I have no illusion that any of us, myself included, can respond to all the sorrows of our world, or even, for that matter, to all grief, pain, and manifestations of injustice in our immediate communities. Yet we also know, in words attributed to St. Teresa of Avila, “Christ has no body now on earth but ours. Ours are the eyes with which he looks compassion on this world. Ours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Ours are the hands with which he blesses all the world.”1
A pastor I admire periodically asks the members of his congregation, “What breaks your heart?” By that he doesn’t mean what they feel badly about or wish were not true. He wants them to identify the particular form of human suffering that truly breaks their heart. This is the pain that won’t let them go and seems to require something of them. “Pay attention to what breaks your heart,” he says. “For in the pain there may be a call to action, something that God needs you to do.” Moreover, he points out that it’s likely for there to be entire organizations filled with passionate people dedicated to that same concern. “Don’t go it alone,” he counsels. “Join them.”2
Proximity to suffering is important, as renowned human rights attorney Bryan Stevenson reminds us. The closer we get to suffering, the greater chance it has to soften our hearts and inspire sustained commitment. Theologian Dorothee Soelle writes, “Gratuitous solidarity with the afflicted changes nothing. We can only help sufferers by stepping into their time frame.”3
There is, of course, no greater proximity than the suffering that touches us personally. So it is that ones grieving the death of a loved one will be the greatest comfort to others who will soon grieve; that returning soldiers traumatized by war can speak to the trauma of their comrades; that survivors of gun violence are the ones who will not let us accept what has become the greatest cause of violent death in this country.
We also need other people to shed light on suffering that we cannot understand from our vantage point, or to which our own sins and privilege have blinded us. I am grateful—and challenged daily—to serve a diocese filled with people passionate for justice and mercy, you who dedicate your lives to serving others in great need and repairing past wrongs with multi-generational impact, whose family ties bring you in close proximity to the calamities across the globe, and whose personal suffering has stretched your hearts in Christ-like ways.
How I wish that we had the capacity to address all these needs with the dedication and sacrifice they deserve. But this I know: we are called, as a body, in ways that defy human understanding, to show up, love our neighbor, and work for justice. The work can feel impossible. Yet through Christ and with the encouragement—and sometimes the goading—of one another, we can, and are, making a difference for good in this world.
In my own prayers, I ask for the strength to stay present and responsive in the places where my heart breaks. As your bishop, I feel deeply connected to the places where your hearts are breaking, too. Within the diocese, certain priorities have risen to the surface and we will continue to invest ourselves in them. But that doesn’t mean the places of need that have claimed your heart are not also of importance to us all.
Given our diversity and breadth of life experience represented among us, not to mention that vastness of suffering and calamity before us, we will always be stretched beyond our capacities. That, I am persuaded, is what God loves most about the Diocese of Washington. We also love the world, and are willing to join with Jesus in his self-giving love, for the sake of others.
So carry on, dear ones, in the ways that your broken hearts move you to love, and give, and work for God’s vision of a better world. As my spiritual director says to me, I say to you: God’s loving gaze is upon you. God is grateful for you, and so am I.
1Teresa of Avila, Christ Has No Body
2See Andy Stanley’s sermon series, A Better Question
3Dorothee Soelle, Suffering (Fortress Press: 1984), p. 15
by Bishop Mariann | Mar 7, 2024
Porque tanto amó Dios al mundo que dio a su Hijo único, para que todo el que cree en él no se pierda, sino que tenga vida eterna.
Juan 3:16
Mi director espiritual me anima a comenzar los momentos de oración imaginando la mirada amorosa de Dios sobre mí. No es una postura tan reconfortante como podría pensarse, pues cada vez que lo hago, no puedo evitar pensar en todas las demás personas a las que Dios también está mirando.
Y me pregunto cómo soporta Dios el sufrimiento y la tristeza de este mundo.
En el corazón de la fe cristiana está la convicción de que Dios es amor. En Jesús, la respuesta de Dios al sufrimiento humano es la compasión y un amor que supera la muerte. En nuestra hora más oscura, las Escrituras nos aseguran que la luz de Dios sigue brillando. Nunca estamos solos, y la muerte no tiene la última palabra.
Vivo mi vida de acuerdo con estas verdades. Sin embargo, hay momentos en los que la profundidad del sufrimiento humano me deja en silencio ante Dios. En esos momentos, Dios también calla, y el propio silencio parece preguntar–como muchos de nosotros me preguntan como su obispa–”¿Qué vas a hacer?”
No me hago ilusiones de que ninguno de nosotros, incluido yo misma, pueda responder a todas las penas de nuestro mundo, o incluso, para el caso, a todas las penas, dolores y manifestaciones de injusticia en nuestras comunidades inmediatas. Sin embargo, también sabemos, en palabras atribuidas a Santa Teresa de Ávila, que “Cristo no tiene ahora en la tierra más cuerpo que el nuestro. Nuestros son los ojos con los que mira con compasión a este mundo. Nuestros son los pies con los que camina para hacer el bien. Nuestras son las manos con que bendice a todo el mundo”.1
Un pastor al que admiro pregunta periódicamente a los miembros de su congregación: “¿Qué te rompe el corazón?”. Con ello no se refiere a lo que les hace sentir mal o a lo que desearían que no fuera cierto. Quiere que identifiquen la forma concreta de sufrimiento humano que verdaderamente les rompe el corazón. Es el dolor que no les deja marchar y que parece exigirles algo. “Presta atención a lo que te rompe el corazón”, les dice. “Porque en el dolor puede haber un llamado a la acción, algo que Dios necesita que hagas”. Además, señala que es probable que haya organizaciones enteras llenas de personas apasionadas dedicadas a esa misma preocupación. “No lo hagas solo”, aconseja. “Únete a ellos”.2
La proximidad al sufrimiento es importante, como nos recuerda el renombrado abogado especializado en derechos humanos Bryan Stevenson. Cuanto más nos acercamos al sufrimiento, más posibilidades tiene de ablandar nuestros corazones e inspirar un compromiso sostenido. La teóloga Dorothee Soelle escribe: “La solidaridad gratuita con los afligidos no cambia nada. Sólo podemos ayudar a los que sufren entrando en su tiempo”.3
No hay, por supuesto, mayor proximidad que el sufrimiento que nos toca personalmente. Así, los que lloran la muerte de un ser querido serán el mayor consuelo para otros que pronto sufrirán; los soldados que regresan traumatizados por la guerra pueden hablar del trauma de sus compañeros; los supervivientes de la violencia armada son los que no nos dejarán aceptar lo que se ha convertido en la mayor causa de muerte violenta en este país.
También necesitamos que otras personas derramen luz sobre el sufrimiento que no podemos comprender desde nuestra posición ventajosa, o ante el cual nuestros propios pecados y privilegios nos han cegado. Estoy agradecida–y desafiada diariamente–por servir a una diócesis llena de personas apasionadas por la justicia y la misericordia, ustedes que dedican sus vidas a servir a los más necesitados, a reparar los errores del pasado con un impacto multigeneracional, cuyos lazos familiares los acercan a las calamidades en todo el mundo, y cuyo sufrimiento personal ha estirado sus corazones de manera semejante a Cristo.
Cómo desearía que tuviéramos la capacidad de atender todas estas necesidades con la dedicación y el sacrificio que merecen. Pero esto lo sé: estamos llamados, como cuerpo, de maneras que desafían la comprensión humana, a mostrarnos, amar a nuestro prójimo y trabajar por la justicia. El trabajo puede parecer imposible. Sin embargo, a través de Cristo y con el aliento–y a veces el incitación–de unos y otros, podemos y estamos, haciendo una diferencia para el bien en este mundo.
En mis propias oraciones, pido la fuerza para permanecer presente y receptiva en los lugares donde mi corazón se rompe. Como su obispa, me siento profundamente conectada con los lugares donde sus corazones se están rompiendo. Dentro de la diócesis, ciertas prioridades han salido a la superficie y continuaremos invirtiendo en ellas. Pero eso no significa que los lugares de necesidad que han reclamado su corazón no son también importantes para todos nosotros.
Dada nuestra diversidad y la amplitud de la experiencia vital representada entre nosotros, por no mencionar la inmensidad del sufrimiento y la calamidad ante nosotros, siempre estaremos más allá de nuestras capacidades. Eso, estoy convencida, eso es lo que más ama Dios de la Diócesis de Washington. También amamos al mundo, y estamos dispuestos a unirnos a Jesús en su amor sacrificado, por el bien de los demás.
Así que sigan adelante, queridos, de la manera en que nuestros corazones rotos nos muevan a amar, a dar y a trabajar por la visión de Dios de un mundo mejor. Como me dice mi director espiritual, yo les digo: La mirada amorosa de Dios está sobre ustedes. Dios está agradecido por ustedes, y yo también.
1Teresa of Avila, Christ Has No Body
2Ver la serie de sermones de Andy Stanely, A Better Question [Una pregunta mejor]
3Dorothee Soelle, Suffering (Fortress Press: 1984), p. 15
by Bishop Mariann | Feb 22, 2024
Jesús llamó a la gente y a sus discípulos y les dijo: “Si alguno quiere seguirme, niéguese a sí mismo, tome su cruz, y sígame.”
Marcos 8:34
En los primeros días de la Cuaresma, es apropiado que nosotros, como cristianos, consideremos las prácticas que podríamos adoptar en observancia de este tiempo santo. Al hacerlo, en consonancia con la metáfora principal de la Cuaresma, optamos por entrar en un desierto espiritual–es decir, cualquier lugar de desafío, aprendizaje o vulnerabilidad–donde podamos crecer.
Las prácticas que elegimos para la Cuaresma reflejan y refuerzan esos momentos en los que nos entramos por voluntad propia en el terreno salvaje de la vida. Lo hacemos, me parece, cuando sabemos que ha llegado el momento de hacer un cambio. Tal vez estemos preparados para afrontar algo que hemos estado evitando o para dar el primer paso hacia la reconciliación. Tal vez haya llegado el momento de hacer las paces con una parte de nuestro pasado que no deja de resurgir en nuestra mente. También puede ser la llamada de una aventura anhelada, o una voluntad renovada de arriesgarnos por amor, tal vez negado durante tanto tiempo que hemos olvidado lo que se siente al dar un paso hacia el deseo de nuestro corazón.
A decir verdad, una parte de nosotros preferiría quedarse donde estamos, pero vamos al desierto de todos modos, porque sabemos que ha llegado el momento. Una forma de ver la Cuaresma es como una oportunidad para practicar la vida en el desierto, aceptando o abandonando voluntariamente algo para desarrollar los músculos de la vida en el desierto, de modo que estén ahí cuando los necesitemos.
Eso es todo para el bien, y como resultado seremos más fuertes.
Pero hay otro lado de la Cuaresma que normalmente sale a medida que pasan los días y las semanas. Tiene menos que ver con nuestras prácticas espirituales y más con cómo es la vida cuando el desierto viene a nosotros. Ocurre cuando nos acordamos de las luchas que siempre nos acompañan, justo debajo de la superficie, como la famosa “espina en la carne” del apóstol Pablo, que nunca lo abandonó sin importar cuántas veces oró a Dios para obtener alivio. O tal vez se trata del resurgimiento de una pena con la que creíamos haber hecho las paces hace tiempo. Tal vez ocurra algo que nos deje sin aliento y nos recuerda nuestra mortalidad. O el sufrimiento de este mundo nos golpea de un modo que no podemos evitar y nos preguntamos cuánto tiempo puede resistir el corazón humano.
Estas experiencias cuaresmales reflejan y refuerzan los momentos del desierto en la vida en los que no hay otra opción. En un instante, la vida tal como la conocíamos desaparece. Suena el teléfono con noticias que no esperábamos. La salud que hemos dado por sentada falla. Una mañana nos presentamos en el trabajo solo para que nos muestren la puerta. Muere un ser querido.
A diferencia de las disciplinas de incomodidad elegidas, el desierto que se nos presenta es desorientador, humillante y, a menudo, muy solitario. Seguimos buscando a nuestro alrededor aquello con lo que normalmente contamos, sugiere la predicadora Barbara Brown Taylor, y nos encontramos con las manos vacías.
Cuando llega el desierto, nuestra primera tarea es aceptar que estamos allí, lo cual no es fácil. Pero debemos aceptarlo, porque no podemos abrirnos camino a través de él si no reconocemos dónde estamos.
Este domingo, en la iglesia, escucharemos a Jesús decir a sus discípulos que, si quieren seguirlo, deben tomar su cruz. Lo que llama la atención es la visión realista de Jesús sobre el sufrimiento, no sólo como parte de la vida, sino como una dimensión esencial del camino espiritual. Él asume que todo el mundo tiene una cruz que llevar, y la única cuestión es si nos opondremos a ella o elegiremos llevarla con un mínimo de gracia, aceptándola como nuestra y encontrando la vida que trae.
En el misterio de la fe, hay buenas noticias, aunque “buenas” no es una palabra que utilizaríamos para describir la experiencia, al menos no al principio. Y nos hacemos un gran perjuicio cada vez que descuidamos el dolor que implica aceptar algo que hubiéramos dado cualquier cosa por evitar.
Estas experiencias en el desierto pueden llegar en cualquier momento. El tiempo de Cuaresma está destinado a darnos la gracia y la perspicacia necesarias para abrirnos camino a través de ellos. El primer paso es siempre la aceptación. Cada Cuaresma, independientemente de lo que ocurra en mi vida, me encuentro cara a cara con las cruces que todavía me cuesta aceptar. No puedo decir que me alegro, pero estoy agradecida por los recordatorios semanales en la iglesia de que no estoy sola.
Con cualquier cruz que estés luchando por aceptar, recuerda que tú tampoco estás solo en el desierto que no elegiste. Atrévete a confiar en que la gracia de Dios no sólo te sostendrá, sino que honrará tu sufrimiento y te ayudará a transformar la pérdida que experimentas en una forma de vida. Es más, otros sabrán algo de la gracia y el amor de Dios a través de ti, debido a cómo estás siendo cambiado a la semejanza de Cristo en el desierto que te ha llegado.
by Bishop Mariann | Feb 22, 2024
Jesus called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”
Mark 8:34
In the early days of Lent, it’s fitting for us as Christians to consider the practices we might take on in observance of this holy season. In doing so, in keeping with Lent’s primary metaphor, we choose to enter a spiritual wilderness—that is, any place of challenge, learning, or vulnerability—where we might grow.
Our chosen Lenten practices reflect and reinforce those times when we enter life’s wilderness terrain of our own accord. We do so, it seems to me, when we know that it’s time to make a change. Perhaps we’re ready at last to face something we’ve been avoiding, or be the one to make the first move toward reconciliation. Maybe the time has come to make peace with a part of our past that keeps resurfacing in our mind. It could also be the beckoning of a longed-for adventure, or a renewed willingness to take a risk for love, perhaps so long denied that we’ve forgotten what it feels like to step toward our heart’s desire.
Truth be told, a part of us would rather stay where we are, but we go into the wilderness anyway, because we know that it’s time. One way to think of the season of Lent, then, is as an opportunity to practice going into the wilderness, willingly taking on or letting go of something in order to build up our wilderness muscles, so that they’re there for us when we need them.
That’s all for the good, and we will be stronger as a result.
But there is another side to Lent that typically surfaces as the days and weeks go on. It has less to do with our spiritual practices and more with what life is like when the wilderness comes to us. It happens whenever we’re reminded of the struggles that are always with us, just below the surface, much like the Apostle Paul’s famous “thorn in the flesh,” that never left him no matter how often he prayed to God for relief. Or perhaps it comes through the resurgence of grief that we thought we had made peace with long ago. Maybe something happens that leaves us gasping for breath, and we’re reminded of our mortality. Or the suffering of this world hits home in a way that we can’t shake and we wonder how long the human heart can endure.
These Lenten experiences reflect and reinforce the wilderness times in life when there is no choice involved. Seemingly in an instant, life as we knew it is gone. The phone rings with news we weren’t expecting. The health we’ve taken for granted fails. We show up for work one morning only to be shown the door. A loved one dies.
Unlike disciplines of chosen discomfort, the wilderness that comes to us is disorienting, humbling, and often very lonely. We keep looking around for what we normally count on, suggests the preacher Barbara Brown Taylor, and come up empty.
When the wilderness comes, our first task is to accept that we are there—which is not easy. But accept we must, for we cannot make our way through it if we don’t acknowledge where we are.
In church this Sunday, we’ll hear Jesus tell his disciples that if they want to follow him, they must take up their cross. What’s striking is Jesus’ matter-of-fact view of suffering, not only as a part of life, but as an essential dimension of the spiritual path. He assumes that everyone has a cross to bear, and so the only question is whether we will rail against it or choose to carry it with some modicum of grace, accepting it as our own and finding the life it brings.
In the mystery of faith, there is good news here, although “good” isn’t a word that we would use to describe the experience, at least not at first. And we do ourselves a huge disservice whenever we gloss over the pain involved in accepting something we would have given anything to avoid.
Such wilderness experiences can come any time. The season of Lent is meant to give us the grace and insight to make our way through them. The first step is always acceptance. Every Lent, no matter what else is happening in my life, I am brought face to face with the crosses that I still struggle to accept. I can’t say that I’m glad, but I’m grateful for the weekly reminders in church that I’m not alone.
With whatever cross you are struggling to accept, remember that you, too, are not alone in the wilderness you did not choose. Dare to trust that God’s grace will not only sustain you, but honor your suffering and help transform the loss you experience into a way of life. What’s more, others will know something of God’s grace and love through you, because of how you are changed being into Christ’s likeness in the wildness that has come to you.
by Bishop Mariann | Feb 8, 2024
I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent…
Ash Wednesday Liturgy, Book of Common Prayer
I once heard a man say that for Lent he was giving up chocolate and catastrophic thinking. A creative combination, I thought to myself, not knowing if he was serious. In those years, it was common to make light of Lenten disciplines and critique those thought to be superficial or self-absorbed. What he said obviously stuck with me, as I continue to ponder what kind of thinking I might let go of.
In those same years, a married couple I admired consciously chose each Lent what their fast would be. They would abstain from alcohol, or meat, or sugar, gently advising all who came into their home during Lent what would not be served. Their practice was intentional, focused on physical health, and yet also deeply spiritual. They did it together. As Lent approaches, I think of them.
Fasting––typically understood as abstaining from food—is one of the suggested spiritual practices for Lent, the forty-day season that begins next week, patterned after the time Jesus spent fasting in the wilderness. I confess that I’ve never been much good at fasting, because it’s hard, and life feels hard enough.
There’s been a resurgence of interest in fasting in both secular and religious circles. Doctors tell us of the health benefits of periodic fasting. Churches, notably those that do not follow the liturgical calendar, have discovered the power of communal fasting. For a season, they encourage their members to collectively abstain from food for at least part of each day. During that time, they gather online early in the morning to pray. I admire the intentionality of their practice and its communal nature—much like our Muslim neighbors collectively fast during Ramadan and our Jewish neighbors on Yom Kippur. For some people, I should note, such practices are not advised, for health or other reasons. Those exemptions are universally acknowledged across religious traditions.
There are other forms of fasting, of course. This year Washington National Cathedral is offering an online gathering to discuss the book A Different Kind of Lent: Feeding Our True Hungers. The course description spoke to my heart:
As we fast from rushing, planning, being strong, holding it all together, seeking certainty, and control, we can softly reorient ourselves toward that which nourishes and fulfills us, during the Lenten season and beyond. Join us in letting go and making more internal space to listen to the sacred whispers of our lives.
All our congregations extend a similar invitation to “take something on” during Lent in a communal setting, either in person or online. It’s worth making time for, if you can, so as to give the Holy Spirit space to move in ways you might otherwise miss. There is power in taking on Lent together.
I’m intrigued by the interplay between “taking something on” and “giving something up” in Lent. Both have the potential to open our hearts and draw us closer to Christ.
In his book From Strength to Strength, Arthur C. Brooks tells of a conversation he had with an expert on Asian art while visiting the National Palace Museum in Taiwan. As they stood before a large jade carving of the Buddha, his guide commented that it was a good illustration of the differences between the Eastern and Western views of art. The Western world view typically begins with an empty canvas needing to be filled. “In the East,” he said, “we believe that the art already exists and our job is simply to reveal it. It’s not visible because we add something, but because we take away the parts that are not the art.”
Brooks uses the image of “chipping away” as encouragement for us to release our inner hold on those things we have accumulated that we imagine define or represent who we are—our possessions and accomplishments, even certain experiences and relationships. “We need to chip away the jade boulder of our lives until we find ourselves.”
It’s another way to think about fasting: What am I doing that I don’t need to do anymore? What can I let go of that’s weighing me down? What clutter—external or internal—might I clear away in order to make room for what might align me more closely with God?
Conversely, sometimes we need to add something to our lives, as simple as a walk each day, a good book discussion or learning experience, or a weekly gathering at church. Given how busy our lives can be, making room for such meaningful endeavors involves letting go of something else.
I’ve decided to face my struggle with fasting by joining an online class entitled The Open Palm: Exploring the Spiritual Tool of Fasting. And in my prayers, I’m asking God to show me the fast that I need, so that I might chip away at those things that keep me from my true self and life in Christ.
Lent is, at heart, a season of repentance—acknowledging where we have gotten lost and attempting to reorient our lives back to what matters most. I wonder what you might consider taking on or letting go of this Lent. What is the fast you need?