by Bishop Mariann | May 18, 2023
El siguiente pasaje –sobre lo que puede ocurrir cuando decidimos quedarnos– comienza el capítulo dos de Cómo Aprendemos A Ser Valientes, por la Obispa Mariann.
Ian Bedloe es el protagonista de diecisiete años de la novela de Anne Tyler de 1991, Saint Maybe (Santo Talvez). El se culpa de la aparente muerte por suicidio de su hermano mayor, Danny, y de las tragedias familiares posteriores. Una noche, mientras vagaba por las calles de su ciudad natal, Baltimore, Ian ve un letrero de neón en la vitrina de una tienda: “Iglesia de la Segunda Oportunidad”. Él ocupa su lugar entre un pequeño grupo de almas heridas y se escucha a sí mismo contándoles la muerte de su hermano y su sentimiento de culpa. El ministro, el Reverendo Emmett, un joven amable pero espiritualmente intransigente, asegura a Ian que el perdón es posible, siempre que expíe sus pecados. Así que Ian decide abandonar los estudios y aceptar un trabajo de servicio para ayudar a mantener a los hijos de su hermano. Pasan los años mientras va a trabajar cada día, cuida de su familia y es un miembro fiel de la iglesia. Aún así, el perdón que anhela se le escapa y empieza a cuestionarse las decisiones que ha tomado.
Sintiendo que Ian está preocupado, el Reverendo Emmett se ofrece a acompañarle a casa desde la iglesia un domingo por la tarde. Mientras caminan, todas las frustraciones de Ian brotan de él. “¡Siento que estoy desperdiciando mi vida!”, grita. El Reverendo Emmett se detiene y se vuelve para mirar directamente a los ojos de Ian. “Esta es tu vida”, le dice suavemente. “Apóyate en ella. Considera tu carga como un regalo. Es el tema que se te ha dado para trabajar. Esta es la única vida que tendrás”.
Dado el drama, la adrenalina y la energía exterior que implica la decisión de irse o quedarse, puede sentirse atrapado. Sin embargo, la decisión de quedarse también puede ser valiente y tener consecuencias. Tomar esa decisión, sobre todo cuando existen razones de peso para marcharse, implica una lucha interna similar y una sensación de crisis creciente, que conduce a un momento decisivo, tan fuerte como la decisión de irse. Pero ahí acaba la similitud, porque al decidir quedarnos, elegimos profundizar en la vida que ya tenemos.
Dado que el llamado a partir se asocia legítimamente con el lado aventurero de la valentía, elegir quedarse puede parecer que nos conformamos con menos. Sin embargo, la profundidad, fruto de la estabilidad, es esencial para una vida madura y para nuestra capacidad de marcar una diferencia duradera en la vida de los demás. Al elegir quedarnos, reconocemos que hay más en juego que lo que sentimos o queremos. Aprendemos que hay más de una forma de vivir una vida valiente y que algunas de las decisiones más valientes que tomamos son las que nadie ve.
Leí por primera vez Saint Maybe (Santo Talvez) en una época en la que yo, no mucho mayor que Ian, luchaba con lo que significaba permanecer en mi propia vida. Las palabras del Reverendo Emmett a Ian me parecieron las palabras de Dios para mí: “Esta es tu vida. Quédate donde estás”. Hasta entonces, mi vida se había definido en gran medida por el ir –moverme de un lugar a otro, saliendo de un mundo y entrando en otro, aprendiendo a ser valiente ante lo desconocido. Ahora tenía treinta y pocos años, estaba casada, tenía un hijo de tres años y un recién nacido, y trabajaba a tiempo completo en un empleo que se suponía que debía amar. Lo amaba la mayor parte del tiempo, y amaba la mayor parte de mi vida, lo que hacía difícil reconocer o hablar de cómo me sentía. Conduciendo por las calles de Toledo, Ohio, cantaba una canción de Nanci Griffith que sonaba en la radio. Estoy trabajando en un vuelo por la mañana a cualquier sitio menos aquí, y deseaba que la letra de la canción fuera verdad.
Ahora veo que mi lucha interna era un llamado a aceptar y experimentar el don y el costo de la estabilidad. Ha sido un tema recurrente, cada vez que lucho con un llamado a quedarme. He tenido que aprender, una y otra vez, que la fidelidad no consiste siempre en dar grandes saltos, sino también en caminar con pequeños pasos, y que es posible marcar una diferencia duradera en el mundo, ocupándose de un pequeño rincón del mismo.
Un pronóstico de esta realización llegó en nuestro primer año de matrimonio, cuando mi esposo, Paul, y yo lo pasamos en Honduras, trabajando en una escuela para niños empobrecidos. Al principio parecía como si hubiéramos adquirido un enorme compromiso. Sin embargo, a medida que nuestro tiempo allí llegaba a su fin, me di cuenta de que quienes dedican su vida a servir de esa manera eran los que podían tener un impacto transformador para bien. Regresé a Estados Unidos con el deseo de ser ese tipo de persona, pero también sintiendo que nada en mi vida me había preparado para la disciplina que ello requeriría.
El matrimonio, la paternidad y el ministerio parroquial se convirtieron en mis maestros, cada uno representando un pequeño mundo del que era responsable, cada uno valorando la estabilidad por encima del cambio y la constancia por encima de la excitación que yo ansiaba. Al no saber con quién hablar, encontré consuelo y orientación en los libros. Pedacitos de sabiduría venían a mí, manteniéndome con los pies en la tierra cuando quería volar.
How We Learn to Be Brave (Cómo Aprendemos A Ser Valientes*), de Mariann Edgar Budde, sale a la venta el martes, 23 de mayo. Únase a ella esa tarde a las 7:00 pm en la Catedral Nacional de Washington para una conversación con el Canónigo historiador Jon Meacham, seguido de una firma de libros y una recepción. Inscríbase ahora.
*Por ahora, el libro sólo estará disponible en inglés y esperamos que algún día haya una versión en español.
by Bishop Mariann | May 18, 2023
The following passage–about what can happen when we decide to stay–begins chapter two of How We Learn to Be Brave by Bishop Mariann.
Ian Bedloe is the seventeen-year-old protagonist of Anne Tyler’s 1991 novel, Saint Maybe. He blames himself for the apparent suicide death of his older brother, Danny, and subsequent family tragedies. One evening, as he wanders the streets of his home city of Baltimore, Ian sees a neon sign in a storefront window, “Church of the Second Chance.” He takes his place among a small group of wounded souls, and he hears himself telling them of his brother’s death and of his guilt. The minister, Reverend Emmett, a kind yet spiritually uncompromising young man, assures Ian that forgiveness is possible, provided that he atones for his sins. So Ian decides to drop out of school and take a menial job to help provide for his brother’s children. Years go by as he goes to work each day, cares for his family, and is a faithful member of the church. Still, the forgiveness that he longs for eludes him, and he begins to question the choices he has made.
Sensing that Ian is troubled, Reverend Emmett offers to walk him home from church one Sunday afternoon. As they walk, all of Ian’s frustrations pour out of him. “I feel like I’m wasting my life!” he cries. Reverend Emmett stops and turns to look directly into Ian’s eyes. “This is your life,” he says softly. “Lean into it. View your burden as a gift. It’s the theme that has been given you to work with. This is the only life you’ll have.”
Given the drama, adrenaline, and outward energy involved in deciding to go, staying put can feel like being trapped. Yet the decision to stay also can be brave and consequential. Making that choice, particularly when there are compelling reasons to leave, involves a similar internal struggle and building sense of crisis, leading to a decisive moment, as strong as the decision to go. But there the similarity ends, for in deciding to stay, we choose to go deeper into the life we already have.
Because the call to go is rightfully associated with the adventurous side of courage, choosing to stay can appear as if we are settling for less. Yet depth, which is the fruit of stability, is essential to a mature life and our capacity to make a lasting difference in the lives of others. In choosing to stay, we acknowledge that there is more at stake than what we feel or want. We learn that there is more than one way to live a brave life and that some of the most courageous decisions we make are ones that no one sees.
I first read Saint Maybe at a time when I, not much older than Ian, was struggling with what it meant to stay in my own life. Reverend Emmett’s words to Ian felt like God’s words to me: “This is your life. Stay where you are.” Until then, my life had been largely defined by going—moving from one place to the next, stepping out of one world and into another, learning to be brave in face of the unknown. Now I was in my early thirties, married, with a three-year-old and a newborn, working full-time at a job that I was supposed to love. I did love it much of the time, and I loved much of my life, which made it hard to acknowledge or talk about how I felt. Driving the streets of Toledo, Ohio, I would sing along with a Nanci Griffith song playing on the radio. I’m working on a morning flight to anywhere but here, wishing it were true.
I see now that my internal struggle was a call to accept and experience the gift and the cost of stability. It has been a recurring theme, whenever I wrestle with the call to stay. I’ve had to learn, time and again, that faithfulness isn’t always about taking big leaps, but also walking with small steps, and that it’s possible to make a lasting difference in the world by tending to one small corner of it.
A foreshadow of this realization came in our first year of marriage, which my husband, Paul, and I spent in Honduras, working in a school for impoverished children. Initially it seemed as if we
had made an enormous commitment. As our time there drew to a close, however, I realized that those who dedicate their lives to serve in that way are the ones who are able to have a transformative impact for good. I returned to the United States wanting to be that kind of person, but also sensing that nothing in my life had prepared me for the discipline it would require.
Marriage, parenting, and parish ministry became my teachers, each representing a small world for which I was responsible, each valuing stability over change and constancy over the excitement I craved. Not knowing who to talk to, I found solace and guidance in books. Bits of wisdom would come to me, keeping me grounded when I wanted to fly.
How We Learn to Be Brave by Mariann Edgar Budde goes on sale Tuesday, May 23. Join her that evening at 7:00 p.m. at Washington National Cathedral for a discussion with Canon Historian Jon Meacham, followed by a book signing and reception. Register now
by Bishop Mariann | May 12, 2023
Jesus said, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.” Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”
John 14: 1-8
Good morning. Thank you for your warm welcome. I’m very happy to be worshiping at St. Mark’s, a community for whom I hold great admiration. I am also glad to be with my long-time friend and colleague, Michele Morgan. I was thinking this week about the letter I wrote to our then bishop of Minnesota, commending Michele for ordination. I told him people like Michele don’t come along every day, that she would be one to change our church for the better. Please join me in giving thanks for her ministry.
It is the beginning of May, which means, among other things, that we are entering the time of year marked by celebrations and rites of passage. There are graduations and weddings; in the church, it’s the season of ordinations. Today at St. Mark’s we are celebrating Baptism, Confirmation, Reception, and the Reaffirmation of Faith.
While not related to the season, St. Mark’s has had its share of funerals of late, the ultimate passage from this life to the next. The gospel text we read this morning is the most frequently chosen for funerals, for good reason. They are comforting words to hear in times of grief: Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. . . I am going to prepare a place for you.
One thing these services have in common is that the person speaking attempts to give words of inspiration, the best they can offer for those whose celebratory moment is at the center of the gathering.
In a moment, that’s what I’ll do–give the best I can say today about the Christian faith for those making commitments today. But first, I invite you to think about what it feels like to give someone the best you’ve got, to dig deep to find the most important words you have to say in a given situation.
I once knew a man who worked as a chaplain at an assisted living facility. He took it upon himself to encourage everyone there to write a love letter to their families. It wasn’t their will. It was an offering from their hearts, a means of sharing their most important life lessons and hopes for their loved ones.
We needn’t wait until the end of our lives to do this. We could write letters to our children or grandchildren, our friends, colleagues, and neighbors whenever they reach an important milestone, or when we simply want to bless them. I had dinner last night with a colleague who is experiencing a time of real disappointment, and he told me how much it meant to him that people have reached out to him with words of encouragement and affirmation. They have been a lifeline in what would otherwise be a very lonely season of his life. If there’s someone you know who is going through a hard time, or embarking on an adventure, or has accomplished something they’ve worked hard for, I wonder what you might say to them, in wisdom and in love? What you might express by way of gratitude to those who have helped you along the way?
Here is what I have on my heart to say on this occasion of Baptism, Confirmation, Reception and Reaffirmation of Christian promises. I speak as one who has been a conscious believer in Jesus, and a follower of Jesus, since I was a teenager. It’s been quite a journey, and I’ve learned a few things. There’s still much more for me to learn, but this I know:
First: There is a difference between believing things about Jesus and believing in Jesus, between knowing things about Jesus and Him. The two are related–you can’t believe in Jesus if you don’t know anything about Him. Of course our knowledge will always be imperfect, and we all run the risk of believing in, or rejecting for that matter, a caricature of Him, or assuming that our partial knowledge is complete.
There is also the difference between the knowledge we gain by reading the gospel texts that tell of his life, and the knowledge of first hand experience, an encounter with the living Christ. Again, the two are related. If the purpose of our biblical texts was simply to pass on knowledge, we’d read them once and be done with them. Instead, we read and meditate on them continually, in worship, study, private devotion, because through the stories of Scripture, Jesus sometimes speaks a direct and personal word to us.
Believing in Jesus, however, is as much a matter of the heart as it is one of intellectual conviction. It happens in ways not that different from what it’s like for us to believe in other people, as an act of trust. To believe in Jesus is to place our trust in the possibility that the mystery we call God–the Source of all this true and good and real, the wonder of life and the mystery of love–took on human form in the person of Jesus of Nazareth in order to show us what divine love looks like in the flesh–unconditional, compassionate, forgiving, merciful, and compelling.
Moreover, the part of God that is the person of Jesus, now the living Spirit of Christ, is real for us, and is with us, and is at work in and through us in ways that defy human understanding. As the Apostle Paul put it, his Spirit working in us can accomplish infinitely more than we can ask for or imagine. Sometimes Jesus is there simply to help us get through the challenges and heartache of life; other times, He calls us to acts of great courage, forgiveness, and sacrificial love.
Second, and this is related to the first: whether or not we believe in Jesus isn’t entirely up to us. The faith experience begins with an encounter, initiated from His side. That encounter takes many forms, but the point is, the invitation initiates with Him–although our openness to receive Him is key, because Jesus is not a bully. The encounter can be as if we hear–if that’s the right word for it–our name; as if we’re being summoned somehow. It can come through a moment of beauty and inspiration. For many, believing in Jesus begins rather dramatically, with an experience of being rescued or forgiven; for others, it’s more gradual, and only in retrospect do they realize how much Jesus has been with them all along. However Jesus comes to us, we have the sense that He knows us for who and what we are, and loves us still, unconditionally and completely.
Often the experience of Jesus is mediated by another person, and His presence is sometimes palpable in Christian community. Faith, it’s said, is more caught than taught, and it is a shared experience. Sometimes, though, He comes to us in a moment of quiet. He meets us in the times of greatest joy and immense suffering; I experience Jesus most powerfully in the gap between what is needed and what I have to offer.
Good teaching in faith is incredibly important, yet another plug for Christian community. One of the critical turning points in my life of faith was when I was in the midst of a genuine faith crisis, caught between two very different ways of understanding what it meant to be a Christian. The people who mattered most to me at the time and who had initially introduced me to the faith leaned one way, and the way I felt was more authentic to who I was and what I knew to be true was leaning another way. I didn’t want to hurt or anger the spiritual authorities in my life, and yet, I no longer believed much of what they believed about Jesus and what it meant to follow Him. Their teaching no longer spoke to me.
That’s when someone gave me a copy of a book, now out of print, entitled Turning: Reflections on the Experience of Conversion by Emilie Griffin. It was her personal account of how she came to faith–a lifelong process of struggle and doubt and intellectual questioning. She wove in stories about well-known 20th century Christians whose faith journeys were anything but straightforward, among them Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton and C.S. Lewis. That book freed me to trust my own experiences, to take my own journey seriously, and listen inside myself, for what the theologian Howard Thurman called “the sound of the genuine.”
Which leads me to the third and final thing I’d like to say about having a personal relationship with God through Jesus. It evolves and grows and changes over time, and as a result we evolve and grow and change in ways that we can’t anticipate looking forward and that we may only realize looking back. Ideally, although not always, we grow in our capacity to love as Jesus loves, and forgive as He forgives. Often, however, we fail in love and forgiveness, and we find ourselves as the one needing forgiveness, or healing, or both. Sometimes, in faith, our prayers are answered and our deepest desires are met. Other times, they are not, and we must learn to live with grief and sorrow. That’s when Jesus can show up in ways that make possible for us what would be impossible on our own–for we realize that we’re not alone, and that His grace will see us through.
So that’s what I have on my heart to say, some of the most important things I have come to believe about believing in Jesus. But I’d like to leave with what Jesus has to say, which brings us back to the Gospel of John.
This passage we read this morning–the one we are most likely to hear at funerals– marks the beginning of a long section in the Gospel of John that contains Jesus’s final words to His disciples before His death. It’s His love letter.
The setting is at their last supper together. He’s already shared bread and wine with His disciples, telling them that whenever they break bread together in the future, He will be with them. He’s just finished wrapping a towel around His waist, taking a basin and pitcher of water and washing each one of the disciples’ feet, saying to them, “Do you see what I have done for you? I have given you an example, that you might serve others as I have served you.”
Then He sits down and speaks to them—three chapters’ worth of wisdom and assurance. They are some of the most inspiring passages of Scripture. It’s too much to read in one setting, for each sentence is enough to ponder for a day, or a lifetime. You won’t find His ethical exhortations here–for that, we would turn to the Sermon on the Mount. This is spiritual encouragement and consolation, an invitation to believe in Him, to trust Him as One who is with you and for you.
He starts off by saying: Don’t let your hearts be troubled. No matter what happens next, I’m going to be okay and so are you. God is still God. He says, in essence, although I’m going away, I will never leave you. And you know where I’m going.
The disciples have no idea what He’s talking about. They don’t know where He’s going; they certainly don’t know the way. Then He says to them: Don’t worry. Remember everything that you’ve experienced and keep your eyes on me. I’ll get you there.
Truth be told, by the time the Gospel of John was written, most, if not all, of the first disciples had died. So these words weren’t written for them. They were written for us. This is who Jesus can be for us and what He offers us, whenever we choose to believe–place our trust–in Him. What does that look like? Keeping our eyes on Him, and trusting that, no matter what, He’ll see us through.
Amen.
by Bishop Mariann | May 4, 2023
Jesus said, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and still you do not know me?
John 14:9
At our diocesan staff meeting this week, we opened with a communal reflection on the gospel passage that you’ll hear should you attend an Episcopal Church on Sunday.
There had been a lot of good natured banter as we gathered, and it took a while for us to settle down. At last we read aloud the text that begins:
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I would go and prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going . . . “ John 14:1-3
The room became still.
These are Jesus’ parting words, spoken to his disciples as they shared a final meal. For three chapters in the Gospel of John, Jesus tells them all that what he wants them to know and to be assured of as he prepares to leave, and what he hopes they will remember. As in all of John’s gospel, they are also words for us, written so that we “may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing may have life in his name.” (John 20:31)
Quietly, we shared in turn a word or phrase that spoke to us. We noted that in thirteen verses the word believe is repeated five times: Believe in God. Believe also in me. In response to one disciple’s anxieties, Jesus replies, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me?”
I found myself thinking of how easily I can lose confidence in my relationship with Jesus, particularly when I feel as if I’ve failed Him, or when whatever I’m facing feels insurmountable, or when the pain of the world is too much to hold.
Even now–as a bishop no less–I still need to be reminded that I believe–that is, place my trust–in Jesus. Remembering how He has been with me in the past helps me to place my trust in Him now.
Years ago, I was at a leadership retreat at which we were asked to consider the arc of our lives and how God might be calling us to serve in the future. I remember sitting alone, not wanting to ask God for guidance. I realized that I was afraid that God might ask me to do something I couldn’t do–or worse, that I didn’t want to do. Would I be like the rich young ruler who chose his possessions over the invitation to follow Jesus? (Matthew 19:21)
As I struggled, Jesus answered the prayer I was afraid to pray with a word of gentle reassurance, I know everything about you. I know your weaknesses, your sin, and your fears. You can trust me. I felt seen, and loved, for who I was. Jesus had been with me all along. Whatever the call in the future would be, it would take into account who I was, with all my gifts and failings. I could trust him.
Trusting Him doesn’t mean that we needn’t repent and turn from sin, or that all will go as we had hoped, or that He will spare us from sorrow and pain. But in trust, we can allow Him to help us face our sin, and experience Him carrying us through the most challenging, heart-wrenching times. In retrospect, we realize that, in the times we felt most lost and alone, or caught in the ways of being ourselves that we are least proud of, that He has been with us all along.
In your quiet moments this week, I invite you to look back on your life. Call to mind your most sacred memories–when you felt most alive or hopeful, or when God seemed to show up for you in a powerful way. Allow the memory of those moments to give you courage now, and help you to trust in God now. Remember, too, some of the harder moments of grief, disappointment, or regret, and how you got through them and what you learned.
The One who was with you then is with you still. So do not let your heart be troubled. Believe in God. Believe in Jesus. He has been with you all this time and He is not about to leave you now.
by Bishop Mariann | May 4, 2023
Jesús le dijo: “Hace ya tanto tiempo que estoy con ustedes, ¿y tú, Felipe, no me has conocido?”
Juan 14:9
En nuestra reunión de personal diocesano de esta semana, comenzamos con una reflexión comunitaria sobre el pasaje del Evangelio que escucharán, si asisten a una Iglesia Episcopal el domingo.
Nos habíamos reunido para bromear y tardamos un rato en tranquilizarnos. Por fin leemos en voz alta el texto que comienza diciendo:
“No se angustien ustedes. Crean en Dios y crean también en mí. En la casa de mi Padre hay muchos lugares donde vivir; si no fuera así, yo no les hubiera dicho que voy a prepararles un lugar. Y después de irme y de prepararles un lugar, vendré otra vez para llevarlos conmigo, para que ustedes estén en el mismo lugar en donde yo voy a estar. . . ” Juan 14:1-3
El grupo se quedó en silencio.
Estas son las palabras de despedida de Jesús, dirigidas a sus discípulos mientras comparten la última cena. Durante tres capítulos del Evangelio de Juan, Jesús les dice todo lo que quiere que sepan y tengan la seguridad de que se prepara para partir, y lo que espera que recuerden. Como en todo el evangelio de Juan, son también palabras para nosotros, escritas para que “ustedes crean que Jesús es el Mesías, el Hijo de Dios, y para que creyendo tengan vida por medio de él.” (Juan 20:31)
En silencio, compartimos por turnos una palabra o frase que nos llamaba la atención. Observamos que en trece versículos la palabra creer se repite cinco veces: Cree en Dios. Cree también en mí. Ante la inquietud de un discípulo, Jesús responde: “¿He estado contigo todo este tiempo, Felipe, y todavía no me conoces?”.
Me encontré pensando en la facilidad con la que puedo perder la confianza en mi relación con Jesús, sobre todo cuando siento que le he fallado, o cuando lo que sea a lo que me enfrento parece insuperable, o cuando el dolor del mundo es demasiado para soportarlo.
Incluso ahora, nada menos que como obispa, sigo necesitando que me recuerden que creo, es decir, que confío en Jesús. Recordar cómo Él ha estado conmigo en el pasado me ayuda a poner mi confianza en Él ahora.
Hace años, asistí a un retiro de liderazgo en el que se nos pidió que consideráramos el arco de nuestras vidas y cómo Dios podría estar llamándonos a servir en el futuro. Recuerdo que estaba sentada sola y no quería pedirle a Dios que me guiara. Me di cuenta de que tenía miedo de que Dios me pidiera que hiciera algo que no podía hacer o, peor aún, que no quería hacer. ¿Sería como el joven rico que prefirió sus posesiones a la invitación de seguir a Jesús? (Mateo 19:21).
Mientras luchaba, Jesús respondió a la oración que yo temía orar con una palabra que me tranquilizó: “Lo sé todo de ti. Conozco tus debilidades, tus pecados y tus miedos. Puedes confiar en mí. Me sentí vista y amada por lo que era. Jesús había estado conmigo todo el tiempo. Cualquiera que fuera el llamado en el futuro, tendría en cuenta quién era yo, con todos mis dones y defectos. Podía confiar en él.
Confiar en Él no significa que no tengamos que arrepentirnos y apartarnos del pecado, ni que todo vaya a salir como esperábamos, ni que Él nos libre de la tristeza y el dolor. Pero en la confianza, podemos permitir que Él nos ayude a enfrentarnos a nuestro pecado, y experimentar que Él nos lleva a través de los momentos más desafiantes y desgarradores. En retrospectiva, nos damos cuenta de que, en los momentos en que nos sentimos más perdidos y solos, o atrapados en las formas de ser nosotros mismos de las que estamos menos orgullosos, Él ha estado con nosotros todo el tiempo.
En tus momentos de tranquilidad de esta semana, te invito a que mires atrás en tu vida. Trae a tu memoria tus recuerdos más sagrados: cuándo te sentiste más vivo o esperanzado, o cuándo Dios pareció aparecer para ti de una manera poderosa. Deja que el recuerdo de esos momentos te infunda valor ahora y te ayude a confiar en Dios. Recuerda también algunos de los momentos más duros de dolor, decepción o arrepentimiento, y cómo los superaste y qué aprendiste.
El que estaba contigo entonces, está contigo todavía. Así que no dejes que tu corazón se turbe. Cree en Dios. Cree en Jesús. Él ha estado contigo todo este tiempo y no va a dejarte ahora.
by Bishop Mariann | Apr 20, 2023
Jesús les preguntó: ¿De qué van hablando ustedes por el camino?
Lucas 24:17
En la iglesia este domingo, escucharemos la historia de dos de los discípulos de Jesús que, en su dolor por la muerte de Jesús, se sintieron obligados a dar un largo paseo.
A veces el dolor también nos impulsa a caminar.
El 17 de abril, me uní a una procesión de dolientes que recorría las calles de Nashville, Tennessee. Íbamos encabezados por una estudiante que llevaba el ataúd de un niño, y otras personas llevaban otros ataúdes detrás de ella, cada uno representando a uno de los niños y adultos asesinados en la Escuela Cristiana Covenant. Nos dirigimos lentamente desde una iglesia del centro hasta el edificio del Capitolio del estado. Algunos entre la multitud llevaban pancartas en las que se leía: “Protejamos a nuestros hijos”.
El Obispo William J. Barber II, líder de Reparadores de la Brecha, invocó la memoria de Mamie Till-Mobley, quien insistió en que el mundo viera el cuerpo mutilado de su hijo adolescente tras haber sido torturado y linchado en Mississippi. “Necesitamos que nuestros líderes electos vean lo que su inacción voluntaria ha provocado”, dijo Barber, mientras se colocaban los ataúdes en la escalinata del capitolio.
Éramos clérigos, estudiantes, profesores y sobrevivientes, reunidos para expresar nuestro dolor por el número incontrolado de muertes causadas por la violencia armada y renunciar a la mentira de que no se puede hacer nada para evitar la matanza diaria.
No hablamos mientras caminábamos. Muchos contenían las lágrimas. Cantamos cantos espirituales de tranquila determinación:
No me siento cansado de ninguna manera,
he llegado demasiado lejos desde donde empecé.
Nadie me dijo que el camino sería fácil,
no creo que me haya traído hasta aquí para abandonarme.
En la escalinata del Capitolio escuchamos a aquellos cuyas vidas habían cambiado para siempre a causa de la violencia armada.
La madre de un estudiante de la escuela Covenant describió el terror del 27 de marzo, la agonía de la espera en el centro de reunificación familiar y los gritos maternales cuando supo que su hijo estaba entre los muertos. “El trauma nunca nos abandonará”, lloró. “Alumnos del tercer grado vieron los cuerpos de sus compañeros destrozados”.
Otro hombre habló de su hermano, asesinado por otros conductor con una pistola mientras conducía. En Tennessee es legal conducir con un arma cargada, incluso sin un permiso expedido por el estado para poseerla o portarla. “Si las indulgentes leyes sobre armas protegieran a la gente, estaríamos entre los estados más seguros”, dijo. “Pero tenemos uno de los índices más altos de muertes por arma de fuego”. Y tiene razón. Tennessee ocupa el puesto 11 del país.1
Una madre describió los simulacros de tiroteos activos en la escuela de sus hijos. “Les dicen que se agachen en la oscuridad y se queden quietos como ratones. A los inquietos se les dan caramelos para que se queden quietos. Les pedimos que ensayen su muerte”.
Los tres obispos episcopales de Tennessee, en su declaración escrita, instan tanto a la oración como a la acción en respuesta a las muertes por arma de fuego en su estado:
Oremos para que nuestros legisladores estatales actúen ahora para encontrar y recorrer juntos un camino, promulgando una legislación que adopte normativas sobre armas de fuego con sentido común. Pedimos que nuestros legisladores den a nuestras comunidades las herramientas necesarias ahora, para asegurar que los niños de Tennessee puedan jugar seguros en nuestras calles, y crecer hasta ser ancianos, sin el temor diario de que los actos de violencia con armas de fuego sean imposibles de detener.2
A veces parece como si fuera imposible detener la violencia armada. El lunes caminé con el corazón roto con otras personas que se niegan a perder la esperanza. Juntos recordamos cómo Jesús camina con nosotros en el dolor y nos capacita para actuar de manera que traigamos vida y sanación a nuestro mundo.
Algún día, las generaciones futuras recordarán este período de nuestra nación como recordamos la horrible época de los linchamientos públicos, cuando las multitudes se reunían para vitorear mientras hombres, mujeres y niños eran brutalmente asesinados, y los líderes electos insistían en que no se podía hacer nada. Algún día otros recordarán esta época como nosotros nos avergonzamos de las leyes que perpetuaron Jim Crow. Mucha gente de aquella época creía la mentira de que la segregación racial no sólo no debía cambiar, sino que, de hecho, estaba ordenada por Dios.
Era mentira entonces, y lo es ahora, que nada pueda impedirnos cambiar lo que debe cambiarse. El camino es largo y el dolor es real. A veces el dolor nos impulsa a caminar, y sacamos fuerzas unos de otros. Jesús se encuentra en el camino y nos ayuda a seguir caminando lejos, de la muerte hacia la vida.
El cambio llegará. Cuántos niños deben morir antes, depende de nosotros.
La Obispa Mariann forma parte de la red nacional de Obispos Unidos contra la Violencia Armada. Su reunión anual tendrá lugar en St. Mark ‘s, Capitol Hill, los días 17 y 18 de mayo. Si desea asistir a las sesiones que abordarán la violencia en el vecindario aquí en nuestras ciudades y comunidades, póngase en contacto con ella.
1“Tennessee is Among the Worst States for Gun Violence,” Linda Sullivan, guest column in The Tennessean
2Tennessee’s Three Bishops Issue Moral Monday Statement, The Episcopal Diocese of East Tennessee website
