I just finished reading Born to Run, a book about ultra-marathoners and the love of running. I loved it.   Enthused and inspired, I decided to run to the post office today instead of driving there.  Alhough I'm woefully out of shape it's only about three miles roundtrip,  I figured I could make it.  Five minutes into my run I understood the deep divide between me and the runners profiled in the book, but the day was sunny, not very hot and I was happy to be out and be active. Who cares if I wasn't setting any records?

As I was coming back I saw in the far distance a woman standing on the curb, waiting for the light to change so she could cross.  She caught my eye so far away because she was covered, head to toe, by dark, cascading fabric.   She turned briefly in my direction and I glimpsed a small square of flesh, her face barely visible, framed by the dark fabric of the head covering that rode low across her forehead.  I have never seen a Muslim woman this covered in Brookline, and as I approached her I was curious to see what she would be like up close.  I was struck by her faith commitment, her willingness to be enveloped in what looked like uncomfortable clothing, at least during warm weather.

She didn't turn back toward me until I was almost next to her.  I saw she was older and there was a cross beautifully embroidered into the fabric covering her forehead.  She smiled at me, and I smiled back.  

She wasn't Muslm, she was a nun.  

The dark fabric covering her I detected at a distance was her habit.  Her faith led her to dress this way, but it was the Christian faith, not Islam.   I was struck by how much we revere some women and revile others for wearing basically the same thing.  One we find reassuring, comforting, the other seems strange, foreign and threatening.  I suspect the women inside are more alike than most of us imagine.

It’s two days after Easter.  Lent seems long gone, but this year much of it lingers, particularly some of the insights from our weekly conversations in the "What is God?" series.  Here are some I remember:

The rabbi, Victor Reinstein, noted that when Moses asked God, "Who shall I tell Pharaoh is sending me?" God replies using the future perfect tense, not the present.  That sounds like grammatical hair splitting, but here is what it means:  God did not say (as is usually translated), "I am who I am", but instead  "I will be who I will be".   God is dynamic, not pin-downable.  ( I know this isn’t a word.  Sue me.)

Rabbi Reinstein also noted that El Shaddai, one of the many names for God used in Hebrew scripture, basically means "God of the Breast".  (I asked him twice to repeat this because I thought he said, "God of the breath", probably because I couldn't imagine what he WAS saying.)  This referred to an understanding that God was sufficient, would provide what is needed, no more, no less, as a mother is able to provide what her nursing child needs.  We hear echoes of this in the Lord's Prayer, "give us this day our daily bread."  In our time there has been some controversy over feminine images and metaphors for God, it is difficult for some people to imagine God other than as a divine father figure, but apparently that didn't bother the ancient Hebrews.

Naila Baloch, the woman who serves as the Muslim chaplain at Tufts, brought prayer into our conversation, singing her prayers because (as she told us) she so loved doing so.  She said singing prayers better connects them to our hearts, helps us feel them more.  I'm not sure that's true for everyone, I'd rather say than sing the psalms and creed, for example, but her radiance was unmistakable as she sang her prayers, and it was deeply moving, even for us who couldn't understand the Arabic.  (Go to our website if you want to hear her.)   

Naila also shared with us that in the Muslim tradition there are two doorways to God, the door of need and the door of gratitude.  It was such a clear, simple idea, that rang true as soon as she said it when I think about my deepest, most heartfelt prayers.

Helen Daly, psychologist and longtime practitioner of Christian meditation, shared what scientists are learning about the brain, including the fact that prayer and meditation strengthens and develops that part of the brain that overrides the more primitive, aggressive part of the brain that functions almost reflexively when we feel threatened or endangered.  Jesus' words of forgiveness and tolerance from the cross aren't just theologically sound, but also perhaps an example of how his constant prayers and connection to God might actually have shaped his brain.

Now the Easter season beckons.

Here’s how it unfolded.  

Early last Sunday I was heading toward Chatham where I was scheduled to preach and lead an adult forum about the Cathedral.  I misread my wristwatch and so left fifteen minutes later than I intended.  At 6:30 I was on the Southeast Expressway but feeling frantic, certain that I would be late for the 8 a.m. Eucharist.

I set my cruise control to 10 mph over the speed limit, worrying a little bit about a speeding ticket, but then a Jeepish SUV passed going like a bat out of hell, weaving from lane to lane as it passed cars and I quite worrying; the cops would nab him before me.  I tried to relax, knowing there was nothing more I could do, but I felt utterly anxious.  I worried what kind of impression I would make rushing in late, hating the fact that even after waking up at 5 a.m. I was late. 

Then ahead of me, maybe a quarter mile, I saw the SUV that had passed me veer suddenly left and sideswipe the car in that lane, flattening the side of that car and then abruptly lurching back right.  Even at some distance, windows closed, I could hear brakes squealing.  The SUV swung around broadside and suddenly flipped over and began rolling over sidewise, sparks flying as the side, roof, side, roof scraped the highway.  Cars behind it jammed on their brakes as I did, but we were all going so fast it seemed like it might be impossible to avoid this vehicle now tumbling over and over in our lane.

The car finally came to rest on one side, blocking my lane, but I was able to move past it on the left, driving over bits of trim and glass as went by.  The car it had hit had pulled over into the right breakdown lane slightly ahead.  I saw in my mirror that others were stopping so I accelerated ahead, still worried about being late, grateful that I hadn’t been caught up or detained in the mayhem.

It was as I sped away that I abruptly realized I had just enacted Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, fulfilling a role not to my credit.  I was the priest who saw the man injured and passed by on the other side of the road, not stopping to help.  I had literally done that.

I had gotten so preoccupied with not being late, so concerned about getting down to the church in Chatham on time that I didn’t stop to help people involved in this accident, in fact I was grateful that I was able to edge around and not be delayed.  Shame on me.

It was a reminder, as if I needed it, how we (how I!) can become so focused on church matters, so preoccupied with our own internal concerns and projects that we utterly miss the gospel.

Last Sunday morning I was on the road by 6:15, heading to Chatham.  I was feeling frantic.  I was on my way to St. Christopher’s to guest preach at two services and lead an adult education forum after the second service and I was starting later than I intended because I misread my watch.

It happens every once in awhile.  I can never predict it, or know what may trigger it.  I am overwhelmed by grace.

 This past Sunday it was the man waiting for communion with the tattooed hands.  The tattoos were obviously old, the ink faded. They looked tired, as did the man.  There were decades of hard life on his face, his hands, his posture.  As far as I know I’d never seen him before, he was new to the Cathedral, but there he was, standing next to the Nigerian family, young children and father, all waiting faithfully to receive the sacrament, the body and blood of Christ.

Suddenly I was overcome by the grace of what I was doing, or maybe of the grace of this place.  I was struck by the astonishing variety of people standing, in a meandering, semi-circle that looped around the steps leading up to the altar. All there, open to God, hoping for God.  Shoulder to shoulder.  It was a vivid slice of humanity, and an unmistakable example of God’s openness and grace. 

 I began to weep, just a tiny bit.  I felt so grateful to be a witness to this. So lucky.