let us pray...

please, all who read this, take a moment to pray with me...

gracious and ever loving God, we ever thank You for the gift of new life, and a new soul soon to walk among us. You are about to have born a child who, for reasons beyond our comprehension, will be challenged right from the start. we cannot understand Your ways or Your mysteries, we can only accept Your will and surrender ourselves to it. but being the God whose property it is to always have mercy, You have chosen to give this child into the care of a family that is loving, caring, strong and supportive. grant them the strength to walk the road ahead, ever knowing that You are leading them always deeper in to love; give them courage and good humour, understanding and compassion, and surround them with others that will care for them in their time of need, as they care for this child you have placed in their care, and as You care for us all.

in Jesus name, we pray.

*sigh*

the rez has found its pastoral assistant.

for months the hunt has been on, and it seems as though it paid off. christine put so much work into the selection committee, and knowing the congregants that made up that group, i know the decision couldn't have been in better hands. out of a field of 18 applicants, many of them from overseas, they have settled on a canadian (from BC), and a young woman to balance the masculine presence of duke.

from what duke tells me, she is a gift: in her late twenties, with years of experience in all the various ministries she will have to fulfil, and willing to work for what the rez can afford, which in all honesty isn't much. youth ministry, small group study leader, liturgical presence, volunteer discipleship - these are wildly diverse gifts and skills, and to find them in one person willing to work cheap....

i told duke that i had really mixed feelings about the situation: i told him i felt as though my ex- boyfriend had a new girlfriend who was twenty years younger and thirty pounds lighter than me. at least that got a laugh out of him, but i think he understands my feelings. on the one hand i am absolutely thrilled that the rez has managed to attract a person of such quality, but then i love this place and know it deserves no less. on the other hand, i envy her beyond words: i wish i had gotten the job. but of course i hadn't applied, i am the intern here, and my studies call me to be elsewhere in the near future.

duke did say something that made me feel much better, though. he told me that they had considered giving me the position, but for all the reasons stated above decided that at this time it wouldn't work. i couldn't agree more with that assessment, but i think what made me feel better was that i had at least been considered. it is one thing to hear people tell you to your face that you are doing a good job - this is an incredibly forgiving and supportive community and i know they go to great lengths to reassure me. it is another thing to know that they same similar things behind your back, and behind closed doors, where there is no need to flatter or to cater to my emotional whims.

*sigh* 38 years old and i am still struggling a bit with high approval needs. if i hadn't heard the reverend doctor barry parker (at the age of over 50!) tell me that he too struggles with the same issues, i'd be more concerned. but i just put my own needs aside right now, and simply do the job - one foot in front of the other until a successful result is acheived.

THE REZ

i sort of knew it going in, but things have erupted in the diocese recently.

the Rez is IT.

the Golden Child of the Diocese - we are the church that works. duke says each time he goes to church house people are always asking him "hey - you seen your stats lately? what the heck are you guys doing??" the Rez is the place to be in the diocese of toronto: we are one of those very few churches that are setting the standard. i introduce myself to anglican clergy i meet with "hi, i'm andrea. i'm the intern at the rez" and i see their ears prick up, their eyes glow: "duke's place?" they say.

"yes" i reply.

The Rez.

and i am the intern.

i am HYPER-aware that all eyes are on us. patrick, the bishop, is watching us intently, trying to figure out what it is we are doing right.

this is THE REZ.

as duke pointed out this morning - get it right and this is the place that will pretty much guarantee you ordination. and he is SO good about letting my suck him dry, letting me pick at him for every little detail of his vision, his mandate, his method.

one day, i will bring his work to brisbane. i pray only that i can re-create the success of the Rez there; that i can honour duke's training and make at least ONE church in australia work the way the Rez does, though i have no doubt that the church there is vibrant, alive and working.

after all, the metropolitan is from brisbane.

what amazingly conflicting posts these last two have been.

I am so scared of failing. I am so confident of success.

this is THE REZ.

i keep waiting for the honeymoon to end

...but it hasn't, and i am more than 2/3 of the way through. i keep waiting for someone to approach duke with a complaint, or some "negative feedback" about me and my work at the Rez, or for duke to take me aside and coach me one something i've done wrong or...

.....and yet, still, nothing.

its a great deal of work, and a helluva challenge, but it is going so well. today at our staff meeting, knowing he wouldn't be there this sunday duke threw a series of last-minute duties at me (find someone to replace me this sunday during morning prayer and the intercessions, update the bulletin, get cool school ready and write something for the newsletter next week - all stuff i can do with one hand tied behind my back) and to each directive i just said "sure, not a problem". duke smiled at our executive assistant, monique, and letting that west virginia drawl colour his voice as he so rarely does, he said

"she is sooooooooo easy to work with"

well, maybe that's true and maybe it isn't; all i know is that i am doing what i need to be doing for the rest of my life - what i am called to do.

duke said to me today "get sunday's service done. you're the priest now - you do it"

i am deeply appreciative of his faith and trust in me (and in God), and truly am not worried about doing well at this. now all i need to find is a man that is smart, self-confident and self-assured enough to be an equal partner to a wife who is professional, well-educated and independent.

how hard can that be?

oh man, WHO am i kidding????

weekly report: week 7

Church of the Resurrection
Intern’s Weekly Report
Week 7
June 12, 2006 – June 18 2006


I had booked off June 18 to attend a friend’s baptism. Sadly, I had my dates confused and discovered at the last moment that the baptism had actually been the week before (the 11th). As I had told several people that I would not be in church this Sunday for that reason, I was loathe to go anyway and then have to explain how I had managed to get my dates so badly mixed up. I didn’t think that was something that would inspire their confidence in me.

So instead, I seized the chance to broaden my experience in the Anglican church and in liturgy, and did something Duke and I had discussed my doing several months ago: I went to a High Anglican Mass at St. Thomas’.

I found that the ritual… “did nothing for me”. In all truth, I found it painful and something of an obstruction to worship for me, and I could not imagine for the life of me why anyone would want to preserve this ritual. Then, reminding myself that I was not a tourist and that I was there to fulfil certain learning goals, I began to look around the congregation to see if I could “get a handle on” the kind of congregation that would choose to maintain this form of worship.

I began using the methodologies I had learned at Wycliffe, through David Reed’s years of excellent training in practical ministry, and began seeking answers to several key questions: who were these people in the pews? How old were they? What demographic groups did they fall into? How were they dressed? How did they interact with one another? Did they fidget throughout the service, or did their affect reflect a state of worship? What was the physical space like? The sides people? The Sunday school? and so on and so on, as I tried to understand the congregations “central story”.

Then I began to analyze the liturgy: why were the various prayers grouped as they were? Why did certain genuflections accompany certain statements of faith? And when the sermon began, I again began to deconstruct the preacher’s methodology; what were his key points? Were they logically and effectively made? Were there anecdotes to bolster and underscore his points? How effective was his exegesis?

Suddenly, two thoughts struck me at once:

a) I was looking at “church” from a very different point of view than I have ever employed before. I realized that I was now looking at church from the point of view of a “professional”.
b) Wycliffe’s stated goal is to “equip men and women for a life in ministry”. I realized that they seemed to be succeeding in that goal, if I was any example. The tools and methods that I used to “unpack” my brief visit to St. Thomas’ were all given to me at Wycliffe, by exceptional teachers and mentors, sharpened and honed by my own supervisor and by my practical experience in church.

In light of that last realization, it will be understood how a comment made by the visiting priest after the service gave me immense pride and pleasure. I introduced myself to both Rev. Andrews (the incumbent) and Rev. Harwood, the visiting minister. Rev Harwood told me that he knew Wycliffe well because he was a Trinity grad (he said with a laugh). Then he told me that when asked, he strongly encourages potential seminarians to study at Wycliffe, because as he said “they are turning out priests RIGHT!”

I couldn’t agree more.

I also sent David Reed a thank you note.

where there's smoke, there's church

i went to my first "high anglican" mass today. now i will admit that am one that enjoys a bit of pomp and circumstance with her service, but in all honesty i do not see the attraction of this rite, nor do i understand the theology underpinning the liturgy and further more, i was bored to tears.

why has this form of worship been preserved? it is the strangest combination of tridentine somnolence and arbitrary bursts of calisthenics, like a step-aerobics class at a franciscan monastery.

as a minister-in-training, right off the bat I could sense a measure of anti-clerical cruelty to it all as well, an element I like to think of as “cranmer’s revenge”: the church was un-airconditioned, it was 32 degrees outside and the entire ministry team were piled into the contents of the sacristy closet: albs, chausibles, cassocks, maniples, stoles - the works! i know that likely means little to the layman, but lets put it this way: they'd be quite comfortable, if a bit ostentatious, building igloos dressed like that. still, the bermuda shorted, tank-topped congregants no doubt took a perverse amount pleasure knowing the priests were being made to suffer as well.

the ritual began with “the processional”, which appeared to be a warm up for the entire ministry team, choir and sunday school, to limber them up so they didn’t strain something later on in the ritual. as best as i could gather, the point of the exercise was a tour of the church, or perhaps a head-count of the congregation. at the inception of the service, everyone involved in the ritual marched solemnly into the sanctuary from parts unknown and settled themselves in, only to get up again a moment later as a fourteenth century hymn was struck up to form themselves into serried ranks like team canada parading into olympic stadium. there were rows of priest organized by title, weight and height (including one who was armed with a smoke bomb and clutching an eight-year-old girl. the only thing to distinguish it from a hostage taking situation was the fact that the girl had clearly been entrusted with the solemn duty of clutching an empty silver platter); ranks of choristers, curates, acolytes, servers, novitiates, and sunday school students followed, separated by heavily perspiring men bearing standards advertising everything from the name of the church to an invitation to visit the gift shop on the way out.

for ten solid minutes, the assemblage strolled in sweaty dignity down the center aisle, steaming gently as they passed, while the head priest held the congregation at bay with the smoke bomb (which my very expensive theological education has taught me is called a "thurible").

then they turned right.

this maneuver alone took five minutes and at least two verses of the hymn. they then proceeded with the same pained rectitude down the north aisle of the church to the foot of the sanctuary only to turn right, proceed across the length of the church, turn right again and parade up the south aisle of the church to the back and return home via the center aisle. the entire pageant took just under fifteen minutes to accomplish, left the congregation no more holy than when they had begun (as far as i could tell) and filled the church with an acrid, tinny tang.

then the pace of the service slowed.

for an hour and a half the ritual ground on like ‘matlock night’ at a senior citizen’s home. kneeling through the kyrie, i was afraid for one moment that it would never end, and that by the jubilate i would require extensive orthopedic surgery. by the gloria i was ready to cut my own throat just to lift the boredom. a priest that could not sing insisted on singing every element of the service, including the rubrics (the congregation will now staaaaaand for the reading of the gospeeeeeeeel) and i had no idea how fascinating and intriguing the schedule of upcoming services truly was until we hit the venite.

still, a key realization struck me during the service: "i don't really think people left the church in droves over the course of the last century.” i thought. “i think they just all fell asleep during the missa solemnis, and if anyone cares to look, they will still find them there, curled up under the pews, snoring happily as the priest drones on up at the front."

the implications for revising church attendance statistics is staggering, i thought.

of course, after an hour of breathing in incense, i understood why it was called a high anglican mass. i became utterly, and woozily, entranced by the precision drill-team spectacle of the priests up front: the head presider, splendidly arrayed in a cloak of gold, was wildly waving the smoke bomb to and fro and spewing frankincense like a SWAT team raiding a crack house as his equally splendidly arrayed assistants held his sleeves out of harm’s way. he bobbed up and down on the sanctuary steps in some strange sort of mating ritual and they followed suit, now turning to face one another, now genuflecting elegantly, now forming a human pyramid in front of the high altar.

i managed to regain some sense of lucidity during the creed at least, at which point the entire congregation joined in the still inexplicable calisthenics routine. like the thump of bodies hitting the floor, kneelers were dropped just prior to the creed so that half way through, the congregants could fall to their knees, only to rise up again two lines later, bob their heads at the priests a few times and then once more collapse to their knees in a further show of piety. i amused myself by grouping the people around me into two categories: “bum kneelers”, or those that rested their backsides on the pew and whose knees barely grazed the kneeler, and “pietans” who clearly had an orthopedic surgeon in the family.

sadly, the only thing that kept me awake during the service was the crazy lady in the next pew who brought her equally crazy child into the service mid way through for the express purpose of eating carrots and loudly exclaiming "i'm shaving mommy's back! i'm shaving mommy's back!"

*sigh*

this is why I am not catholic, I think.

toronto the beautiful

cousin dan from israel, mum and me enjoying a fabulous saturday morning in the sun. in the right mood, toronto is a gloriously beautiful city.

Id quot circumiret, circumveniat.

i am so unbelievably blessed.

i have had so many emails and phonecalls from church (and from outside church as well!) checking up to see if i am ok, and if i need anything, as i cope with what has become a truly nasty ear infection.

this is what church is all about. this is why the Rez works.

if aj had stumbled into a church like the Rez, where people genuinely care for and look out for one another, my becoming a priest might not have been such a bitter pill to swallow...

i thank God for this plunking me down in this amazing community.

somebody give me an "awwww...."

EKKO

i am shaking and the light hurts my eyes...

i am alternately sweltering in the heat, or freezing in the shadows.

my throat is made of molten lava and i cannot swallow. someone has shoved red-hot nails through both of my ears, piercing the tympanum; i can feel fluid draining from them into the back of my throat.

ever muscle in my body is a solid cramp, as though i have contracted dengue's little brother. my temperature it up to..wait for it....... 101.

i haven't been this badly off in years. well, i think: that's what you get for ministering to the sick.

poor laurie was very ill last sunday when i took her shopping and to the clinic. still, i wouldn't change a thing about caring for her.

rick was so understanding about my cancelling lunch tomorrow, and krista about my cancelling baseball. but what if i am sick longer?

i am an ox when it comes to being ill. i am sick for one day, and then begin to recover. but when i wake up on day two sicker than ever (or worse, several times during the night because i cannot swallow) that usually means that i will be out for about five days...

i can't afford that. five days out of 90 is a big chunk.

this is most worrisome.........


"aaaaaaaaaaaaaugggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!"

not even tonsillitis can stop the weekly report

Church of the Resurrection, Intern’s Weekly Report

Week 6

June 05 – June 11 2005

Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. 1 John 3:18

I have come to the realization that my “internship” (read ministry) will not actually end on August 1^st. How can it?

Can I stop visiting Lee Jones, or Edna Knight, or the G......'s or the S..... – O’D.......'s on August first with the simple explanation that “my internship has ended”? Of course not. What I have begun here has no end, and that is the biggest learning I have come to this week as I realize that I am over half way through this challenge.

The second biggest learning of this week is in the political minefield that being in a position of leadership in a church can be. Dana met up with Christine and I during the fellowship hour and began to tell us of her intention of switching her family over to an all raw-food diet. While I personally think that it might be an extreme course of action, Dana is well within her rights to raise her children as she sees fit, and I applauded her intention of at least trying to steer her family away from the rampant and toxic excesses that is the modern, first-world diet.

Still, I could see Christine's expression, thought she said nothing. She too thought it was fringe. But I found myself supporting Dana's decision to take intense measures to combat the serious malaises of allergies that sadly afflict her family. So what if it was an extreme step? Dana is an extreme personality; that is not a crime. Besides, I reminded myself, she was planning to feed her family nothing but uncooked, unprocessed food – not cyanide.

Still, I got a phone call that afternoon from her that afternoon thanking me for openly supporting her in front of members of the congregation. I was a bit surprised – I had not seen my actions as supporting her position, merely expressing interest and acknowledging her right to raise her family as she and her husband saw fit. However, she told me that she had mentioned this plan to several members of the congregation and it was greeted with scorn, suspicion and even a touch of derision.

Apparently, Susanne had (in Dana's words) ‘gone off on her’ telling her that it was a mother’s job to feed and nurture her family with comforting food, to get up early and make them bacon and eggs and that depriving Dana's children of the comfort of a good home cooked meal was tantamount to abdicating your position as a good mother.

This situation, I am pleased to say, raised only one question in me: how would Duke handle this?

and a merrie tyme was had by all!

http://andreaattherez.blogspot.com/

from a dear friend in brisbane who really cares...

...and also thinks he's funny.

dear Andrea,

...it's been months since we have heard from you. Those of us who really care about you are getting worried...have you been ill, hit by a truck...your typing fingers crushed by a falling piano...or are you just bored with us??? We've been well here. Ma caught the colic but the Doc came by and gave her a shot. Handsome young man he is too. Your Ma says his bedside manner is very good. It's the first time I've seen your Ma smile after being in bed for years. Your sister is getting married. I'll be taking my best shotgun to the wedding. The cows have gone of the feed so we haven't had milk in a few days. The drought is bad too. Last rains we had were in june 02, sure hope it rains soon or we'll lose the farm. Hope you get this letter and reply soon.

Love Pa.

ps: The sheep say hello.

Matthew 18:2-4

2He called a little child and had him stand among them. 3And he said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. 4Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

from the amazing brock.... oops, sorry, make that "the utterly amazing" brock

I read your latest entry on your discomfort in nursing homes. Someday I should introduce you to my 4 year old. To him they are Disneyland. I should give you a brief bit of background on Jack. Jack was born on September 18th, 2001 - the same day as his Great Grandmother Pearl's 90th birthday. This was the foundation for a bond beyond which none of us save for Jack and Pearl fully fathom. Jack loves to talk, to anyone about everything and anything he can think of to say. He never stops. One of his favourite things to do was to visit his Grandma Pearl at her place, a nearby nursing home. This is the perfect place for him. First there is the giant fish tank in the lobby as you come in, this holds his attention for a few minutes, but only a few. Why? THERE ARE PEOPLE HERE TO TALK TO! It is the perfect place as the people here typically fall into one of 2 categories, they are deaf and/or lonely. He can talk all he wants and they won't hear and grow tired or it or they eat up every word because they crave something different in their lives. Jack would go walker to walker, wheelchair to wheelchair and table to table chatting about everything. I'm sure even the Alzheimer stricken remember him. Pearl died late last fall. My wife began the usual explanation that 'Grandma Pearl is gone...' and Jack fell apart right away and was inconsolable for hours. Mostly because the Grandma he shared a birthday with was gone but I think partly because there was no more reason to go to Disneyland. He told me recently at night when he is in bed he has asked God to look after her for him. He has been back though, his Aunt still helps out with the Sunday services at the home and his other Grandma (Pearl's daughter) has taken him for visits around lunch time.

What's my point? I think I am just trying to say that you will get used to the visits to 'the sick and shut in' and will in time begin to look forward to them and not feel the need to exit after 20 minutes. You probably will lose track of time and hate to leave and even miss it when you can't be there. If you need a guide, I'll loan you Jack for a few hours, you supply the ear plugs.

Cheers,

B.

Weekly Report: Week 5

Church of the Resurrection, Intern’s Weekly Report

Week 5

May 29 – June 04 2005

37"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' 40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Matthew 25

I am delighted at the facility with which this internship is coming together and in the rhythm into which it seems to have settled. I enjoy the variety of activities the position presents – the opportunity to do bible study and exegesis preparatory to preaching, the opportunity to visit people, the opportunity to work through the day camp and cool school curricula and the opportunity to enjoy miscellaneous jobs such as cleaning the church, delivering flyers and helping out at the craft fair.

I have also encountered an experience I expect will trouble me throughout my ministry: visiting the sick and the shut in. Mr. Jones is a very pleasant man, but there is no camouflaging the essence of a nursing home. So many images and euphemisms leap to mind: dancing with the Reaper, God’s waiting room.

One the one hand, the home is neat and clean, the staff calm and pleasant; the air smells fresh and the surroundings are bright and cheerful. But there is no mistaking the undercurrent that is the place itself. I asked Mr. Jones what he spent his time on and his response was crushing.

“Nothing” he said.

I find talking to the elderly and the ill difficult, because I am sometimes unsure if the person is able to communicate or not. In Mr. Jones case, it quickly became clear that he is very much in possession of all of his faculties, but time has lost all meaning for him.

He taught me so much about the value of silence.

And yet, though I couldn’t take more than about 40 minutes at the home (a failing I need to focus on), I was pleased that when I asked him if I might be permitted to visit again, he said “Yes, I think that would be quite alright”.

A skill I clearly need to focus on s developing a facility of ministry and presence in difficult situations such as these: finding the right balance between good cheer and respectfulness, openness and enthusiasm, care and strength.

Somehow, that visit to Mr. Jones made everything undertaken thus far in the internship seem very, very easy.

welcome to the world, cooper moses brosgall!

my cup runneth unbeleivably over..

Hi Andrea:

Here are the direct quotes from our lunch table after hearing your testimony/sermon on Sunday (from Alec )

She is a gem..a very rare combination of pathos and humour with a real genuineness in her personality that is very moving ...Maybe she should be a motivational speaker!!!

Of course I heartily agree with it all!!!!! Thanks for your encouragement about the Jewish music sounding authentic! Duke the mentor can take a lot of credit for this influence in my writing. What an honour to have the opportunity to sing this song on the same day you gave your powerful story as a Jewish, now fulfulled believer in Jesus. God is soooooooo good!

Also on a lighter note...how did the workshop go in Barrie on the VBS ? Did you find out what scripture they want the kids to memorize? If you could let me know I'll start working on the music to go with it.

Thanks again for being a "slave to Jesus" and freed to speak His word!

Love in the Lamb

Colleen Newell

some of the out-to-lunch-bunch

the lovely laurie


jill and her million watt smile


andrea trying to figure out the tip


lisa is moving to california


could tori be more beautiful??

Pentecost

Duke:

...That was the best music selection and worship time I have ever been
priviledged to be a part of ! Thank you for the honour of singing "In Him we Live and Move" with you, the Rez band and the kids and congregation!

The timing of doing it when Andrea told her dramatic, wonderful, personal story of her conversion was such a pleasure...

Love in the Lamb

with Radical Gratitude

Colleen

sermon: FREEDOM!!

click here to listen....


I know what it feels like to be a slave. We all do.

Many of us know the feeling of being a slave to nicotine: I cannot imagine anyone in this day and age does not know what smoking does to the human body: that the tar that is slowly coating the insides of our lungs will doom us to an early death; that the combination of nicotine and carbon monoxide robs our brains and muscles of oxygen and can cause heart attacks and stroke, but we do it anyway because we are slaves to that irritable feeling that comes over us when we’ve gone too long without a smoke; that grouchy, twitchy feeling that forces us outside in –40 degree weather, or a hurricane just to feed that craving. I used to smoke; I know how that feels.

We all know what really needing a Big Mac and fries feels like, or a Kit Kat peanut butter bar…oh we know we shouldn’t – we should have an apple or some low fat cheese, or maybe dinner. But we are slaves to those cravings and we see the results of being slaves to our cravings; bus seats are being widened, some airlines are charging passengers by the pound, clothes are being re-sized so that the consumer need not face the fact that they now require their own zip code. The risk of an early death or diabetes associated with obesity doesn’t put us off, does it? No, when we need a cheeseburger we need it NOW.

We are all slaves.

But what if someone walked up to you one day and said, “Drop everything. Follow me.” Would you do it? Some crackpot stranger shows up at your office, or your house, or approaches you while you are in the lineup at the bank, and He says: “just drop everything you’re doing and follow me.” Would you do it? Probably not. And why should you?

It’s ridiculous. Leave everything and everyone you know? Give up your job, your life, your family, your life savings… give up everything to follow some crazy man?

Well, what if that crazy man could give you the most precious thing any human being can possess; something so valuable that people will die for it; something so priceless that people will kill for it?

What if He could give you your Freedom? Would it still be so crazy?
16As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. 17"Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men." 18At once they left their nets and followed him.
19When he had gone a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John in a boat, preparing their nets. 20Without delay he called them, and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.

Simon, Andrew, James, John….a bunch of fisherman! They did it. They just dropped everything to follow Jesus.

And so did I. For my freedom. And over the next few weeks, we are going to take a good, long look at that glorious freedom that we have in Christ..

Many of you know that I converted to Christianity: that I came from Judaism, via paganism to Christ. Now while I don’t believe that conversion is a matter of choice, but you have to choose to deliberately find a church and be baptised into the Church.

But why?

Duke sent me a brief write up by a scholar named Walter Wessel that said, in part: "one in five Canadians believes Jesus Christ's death on the cross was faked & that he married & had a family." Queen’s religious studies professor Richard Ascough said "The Da Vinci Code is winning the day." Madonna’s latest Confessions concert tour features her being crucified on a disco-ball covered cross. The mood against Christ & Christians is growing."

Why would any sane human being choose to become a Christian? Would the disciples have been so joyful if they’d known what kind of trouble they would be in because their mouths were so full of the gospel?

Well, I’ve been asked to tell you a story so crazy, so cockamamie, so ridiculous that it could only be true. It’s a story about God; it’s a story about freedom. And if you think that stories like the one i am about to tell can only be found between the dusty pages of the family bible, let me tell you differently!

I was born into a family of Jewish holocaust survivors, and I was always the strange one because in our family (as in many secular Jewish families) Judaism was not about God; Judaism for us was summed up by the holidays at which we gathered to eat, the weddings we went to to eat, the bar and bat mitzvahs we went to to eat, the funerals we went to to eat…. Hey, Jews do a lot of eating. This is some kind of secret?

I was the odd stick in that family because to me, God mattered. Somehow I knew that God mattered more than anything in the universe. I just wasn’t sure why. I pestered my grandfather to teach me the Torah, I learned to speak Hebrew, I once even announced that I wanted to be a rabbi when I grew up. I went to a Hebrew parochial school, but I kept getting thrown out of class for blasphemy because I would pester the rabbis on difficult points of theology to the point where the principal called my parents into his office one day and gently suggested that a traditional Jewish education might not be the best thing for me.

Like many kids, I spent much of my teens telling God I didn’t believe in Him, and in my late teens I stumbled into a spiritual movement that was just exploding at the time: I discovered Witchcraft. Cue the scary music.

Many of you have seen my tattoo, a tattoo I keep to constantly remind me that there was a time when I did not live in the light; a time when I was a slave – and while my sojourn in paganism has given me much to repent of, and much to atone for, it DID have one great benefit: it taught me in no uncertain terms what being a slave really felt like.

Wicca was my Egypt, my Babylon.

Wicca is a supremely self-indulgent exercise in debauchery. It teaches one to indulge in every sensuous pleasure: good food, wine, and lots of it! Cigarettes, leisure and cheap, easy relationships. Wicca teaches that indulging these passions is a good thing, that it nurtures and honours parts of ourselves that Christianity hates. It teaches that Christianity is a vile and repressive faith because it stunts the full flowering of physical human pleasures.

So, like a good pagan, I nurtured those sensuous parts of my being, and I became a slave to my cravings, my indulgences, my excesses: I ended up a heavy smoker, seventy pounds overweight, with an alcohol problem, living with a man I couldn’t stand and never married.

Oddly enough, after many years in witchcraft, I became deeply disillusioned and disappointed. I was still looking for God only this time I knew why. I was desperately unhappy: I was afraid of mirrors, I had a hacking cough and severe asthma and I was completely unable to break the chains I could feel wound tight around me. I was desperately seeking God, but He seemed to be hiding. So I went looking for Him in Buddhism, I took another look for Him in Judaism; I even went looking for Him in the Church of Scientology. He wasn’t there either, but I am still getting lovely letters from Tom Cruise. I still ate too much, drank too much, fell into cheap and easy relationships with men that never went anywhere. I was the person Christ was talking about when He said : I tell you the truth, everyone who sins is a slave to sin. (John 8:34)

Flash forward to September 11, 2001. We all remember where we were that day – I was in the Holy Land, celebrating my cousin’s wedding. And while I was in Israel, where I have family, I began to have a series of experiences that I will tell you right now, I am deeply uncomfortable sharing with people outside the church, because they look at you like you are a complete crackpot. But you all… well, you are the kind of people I think just might understand what I am about to tell you.

One day, walking down the street in Jerusalem, I was overcome by the strangest feeling: I was overwhelmed by the sense that it would be a really cool thing just to praise God. I had no clue where this feeling came from at the time, and I don’t remember being particularly eloquent or poetic about it – it was more of a “hey God, nice job!” sort of thing, but that need to somehow acknowledge and worship God for His creation seemed to come from deep, deep inside, as though each and every cell were participating in the act. The sense of lightness, of happiness and almost giddiness that came with it was unprecedented. Well, maybe not unprecedented. Praising God in the streets –like at Pentecost - was happening again, and this time in me. In Jerusalem! It was as though the chains that bound me were loosening, and I was beginning to wriggle free. It was as though I could hear Peter's voice ringing in praise off the walls of Jerusalem!

So I joined in.

A bit later, I was overcome by another feeling… this time, it was an overwhelming feeling that it would be really neat just to pray. Now as a Jew, prayer was always a corporate act, always in Hebrew and always accompanied by much mumbling and swaying back and forth. But this time, all I wanted to do was find a quiet spot, a comfy chair, close the door and spend some time talking to God. About anything. About everything. About nothing in particular. And I could feel the chains loosening even more.

It was the strangest thing I’d ever experienced. You see, I always assumed that when I found God it would be because I had been looking for Him to free me.

I never imagined that when I found God, it would be because He had come looking for me.

Now, as a Jew I had always been told “don’t read the New Testament! It’s anti-Semitic!” I said ok, and kept away from it. As a pagan, I had been told “don’t read the New Testament! It’s the book of our oppressors, those that burned your mothers at the stake!” So again I said ok, and kept away from it.

But this time, suddenly, I decided that I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about. After all, I was free to do just that! And I wanted to know who this Jesus character was that everyone made such a big hoo-haw over? So I went out, and I bought a bible, and as I began to read about Jesus’ birth, His life, His ministry, His teachings…. I fell in love.

But even more than that, I had the most incredible, overwhelming sense that FINALLY, FINALLY I was hearing the truth. Finally, I was getting the answers I’d always looked for; finally, I had found God. Finally, I could see the road to freedom laid out ahead of me. As I read the truth of Jesus Christ I realized that to gain my freedom, all I had to do was become a slave to Him. All I had to do was drop everything, follow God, obey His Word, uphold His laws and freedom was mine. The freedom that Christ paid for with His life was mine. I could just taste it……

A Christian writer named Mike Cleveland says:
Through the gospel, we are both given liberty and taken captive. We are liberated prisoners of sin who have become thankfully enslaved to God. We are freed prisoners who have been taken into joyful captivity to Christ. This is the power of God’s grace. This is the beauty of God’s grace… God’s grace forgives sin and breaks the power of it. God’s grace removes the burden of sin and sets us free from it.

If a bunch of fishermen could drop everything and follow God I certainly could, and in surrendering to God’s will, I have gained a freedom I never imagined possible. Because, from Pentecost on, followers of Jesus shouted “Christ makes you free!” - I am free!

In obeying God’s Word, I find I have been liberated from the chains of my old life:

In choosing to follow God’s commandment to “love one another” I have been freed from the petty jealousies, rivalries and unpleasantness that plagues so many modern social enterprises; and in return have been blessed with the community here at the Rez.

In trusting that Jesus will “take the wheel”, I have been freed from the worries of tomorrow and the stresses of today: I am free to simply work hard, do my best, and trust that all will unfold as God intends it to.

In choosing to follow God’s commandments relating to chastity before marriage, I have been freed from the pain and the crushing disappointment of cheap, superficial and demeaning relationships.

When money is tight, I am free to still give to the guy on the corner begging for change, or to the church, or to my buddy who I know is just short of cigarettes and beer – because I KNOW the Lord provides. I am free to simply turn my pockets inside out without worrying whether or not they will be refilled.

Becoming a slave to God is the most liberating thing!

What a completely insane story. A woman, perfectly happy in her secular, super-size-me world – never saying no to a piece of cake, with a pack-a-day habit, a troubled relationship with food, alcohol and men, who engaged with the people around her only to the depth required to discuss last night’s episode of CSI is found by God, seized by God, compelled by God to join a faith that is being prosecuted, persecuted, cut back, stepped on, sneered at and ridiculed…….why, why? would anyone CHOOSE this path?

Simple. Because as I said, down this road lies freedom.