Dear friends & family, &c.
Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
Today marks the end of Lent per se, and the triumphal entry into Holy Week. It's a week of superlatives, this biggest, smallest, quietest, loudest, darkest, brightest, hardest & most glorious of weeks each year. I’ll have the honor of preaching this morning's Palm Sunday sermon, and as usual there's too much good stuff to fit it all in.
Palm Sunday is the occasion when Jesus throws off the veil over his ministry, and announces to Jerusalem (the stand in city for all humanity): Not only is the Kingdom of God in your midst, your king is coming to you.
Even the generally thickheaded crowd don’t miss Jesus’ royal theater—they see his royal steed, a humble donkey, and they recognize Jacob's blessing on royal Judah ("The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor the ruler's staff from between his feet... Binding his foal to the vine and his donkey's colt to the choice vine"), Saul's royal donkey search (1 Samuel 9), Solomon's successful succession ride into David's royal city (1 Kings 1:32-40). So they start laying out the cloak-carpet like Israel did for King Jehu, just before Jehu carries out a violent judgment on the idolatrous rulers of Israel (2 Kings 9).
I noted to some friends earlier this week that the palms of "Palm" Sunday only get half a verse, whereas the donkeys get like five verses, to which one offered the impracticable but delightful suggestion that we replace the procession of the palms with a cowboy church procession in which everyone rides their own burro into the sanctuary. Someday.
Anyway, the crowd doesn’t miss it, as they process into the Holy City for the week of Passover. They’re the royal retinue, even if they’re rather ragtag and dusty. The crowd prophesies more truly than they know, "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!" The royal procession heads straight this city with whom God has struggled to bless for centuries. And when the true King of Israel arrives, he doesn’t head for the governor’s mansion. The crowd doesn’t storm the capitol. Jesus heads straight for the true heart of the city—the Temple. It’s a place Jesus himself knows well. Not only from his precocious youthful days arguing with the rabbis, but from its very construction, where the eternal Son of God who is the radiance of God's glory was present at Solomon's dedication.
Yet we who have heard the end of this story know what will shortly happen—not every knee bowing, but every voice clamoring to denounce; not victory, but vitriol; not enthronement, but denial; not recognition, but condemnation to death. His triumphal entry doesn’t end with the Roman emperor coming and bowing before him, but with a second-rate governor smugly questioning Jesus and then slyly dismissing him to the murderous mob. The Messianic King will receive his title not by devoted subjects, but by a plaque hanging above his broken body on a cross—“The King of the Jews.”
Our King has come, but he does not come as we’ve come to expect. Not on the steed of judgment, but on the donkey of peace. Not in the company of well-armed battalions, but surrounded by a singing crew of provincial disciples in dirty cloaks. Not bending the bow, but breaking it. This King comes not to be served, but to serve, and not only that, but to give his life as a ransom for many.
May we follow behind him this week, and witness again the true King achieving our salvation.
Peace of Christ,
Zack+
Lent, Together!
Several liturgical seasons have passed since our last update, and suddenly I'm half-a-year into priestly ministry. I went in with few expectations; they've all been exceeded. I remain grateful to God for this calling, and for His provision in bringing me into it (not least through your support). It is by turns excruciating and delightful, utterly quotidian and epiphanic. It's a lot like life.
Some catch-up: In Advent I enjoyed teaching a 4-week Sunday School class on Psalm-singing, entitled "Waging Psalmfare: War Songs for a Joyful People." The class argued, in short, that the Church must sing Psalms together, and then we did it (sing Psalms, that is). I also preached the Christmas Eve sermon, on this child born in Bethlehem (the "House of Bread") who was to be the bread of life.
Advent and Christmastide both were surprisingly laborious. My academic-calendar-catechesis had accustomed me to the contraction and quieting, the rest and the lightness of the one season of Sabbath our culture still recognizes. It shouldn't have come as a surprise, but it turns out that as the bustling world finally slows down, the Church's life speeds up, and sermons still need to be preached the Sunday after Christmas, and the New Year.
We marked the beginning of Epiphany with two major events. On the Feast of the Epiphany, we hosted our fourth Arts Gallery & Event, "All Who Have Loved His Appearing: Manifestations of the Christ." Artists in all media were charged to make works in response to this central theme and invitation:
Appearance is a charged word, quivering between truth and falsehood. Appearances can reveal and make known; appearances can obscure and deceive.
In a world awash with appearance, we dearly want a true epiphany—a revelation, a manifestation. We want an appearance which cuts through the fog of semblance. A light so bright and true it nearly blinds us, and then makes us to see.
In the season of Epiphany, we remember and celebrate the places where the Son of God made himself manifest—visible, tangible, offered to our senses and our understanding. Since Bethlehem, Christ Jesus appears in the most unexpected places. Where does Christ Jesus make himself known now, even to those not looking for him?
You can check out a digital version of the Journal of original writings we put together, including a re-worked poem of mine, here.
The very next day, I got to baptize our beloved Moses Kingfisher Clemmons into Christ, glory to God!
During Epiphany, I galavanted around the Birmingham metro area (several hundred miles' worth), visiting parishioners in their homes and praying God's blessing over their homes for Anno Domini 2024.
On one especially wild Saturday morning, I was gearing up to organize & help a family move house crosstown, when I received the kind of text which inevitably comes to a pastor, a text from my senior pastor to the effect: "I'm sick. You're up to preach tomorrow." The old sermon-in-24-hours bit. For those who don't know my writing process, sermons take at least a week of ruminating, study, more ruminating, and hours and hours of writing and re-writing (with an editorial review and word-count-cutting by Erin). The thought of feverishly cranking out a sermon in the space of an afternoon threatened to overwhelm me, but I offered it up to God and moved forward. After loading the first round of house into a medley of trucks and vans, our own included, I went to crank the engine and nothing happened. This had never happened. Half an hour and one nervous jump later, (it seemed at first like the problem was with the starter), I was on the road, and we were able to complete the next two rounds of loading and unloading.
By 2:00pm I was preparing to return home, keep the van running, grab my computer, head to nearest Oil Change Express for some car maintenance, where I would get down to sermon work. It was as I unloaded the final pieces of furniture that I got a call from a panicked Erin: "We need to get Moses to the ER right now." He'd been fussy for about a day, but we couldn't figure out why. Finally Erin found the hair tourniquet around his littlest toe, which has caused it to swell to triple the size. I raced home, and Erin rushed Moses to the ER while I took charge of the other three. Moses' toe took a team of two doctors and three nurses an hour and a half to finally liberate, poor buddy. He was a trooper, Erin was a trooper, God spared his toe. Eleanor, Ames, and Virgil rose to the occasion with a mercifully placidity, so I spent the late afternoon and evening writing, and lo and behold, a sermon emerged. The fact that we did not break down entirely is a testimony to God's goodness and patient training.
Finally, we've been in Lent, a season I always approach with trepidation and hesitant expectancy. I look forward to the paring and clarity of the seasonal fast, the rededication to the essential and life-giving disciplines of Christian discipleship, especially as a family. I fear the turmoil of soul which is always churned up. It's been the best Lent in recent memory.
In part that's due to Lent Together, a parish-wide invitation to prayer & study which Fr Michael and I planned and I put together. We set themes and challenges for each week of Lent (to wit: Confession, Fasting, Simplicity, Hospitality, Alms-giving, Worship), and carefully planned out a coördinated series of Sunday school lessons and Wednesday night Lenten Supper teachings. The preparatory disciplines of Lent are given as a gift, not a burden (though they often feel onerous), and we're following Jesus together. I made a parish prayer guide which we've been following each night as a family. We begin & end each evening's prayer with a little chant: "I say Lent and you say Together! Lent!" "Together!" "Lent!" "Together!"
Coöperatives & Coops
Family life in the Clemmons household has been sweet. That's the word, at least, that most often comes to mind when people kindly ask how we're doing. We're simply in a good season.
Foundational to that sweetness is this: Moses has been a remarkably excellent baby. He eats well, sleeps well, plays well, and has the sweetest possible faces.
This has doubtless made everything in life much easier than it otherwise could be. We've all been healthy for perhaps an unprecedented length of time (though as I write this Virgil is presently developing a pitiful fever. Please pray for him).
Erin has been pouring countless hours & measureless energy into our children's education, and not theirs only, but the education of many in our church. As mentioned previously, she's founded and runs a Homeschool Co-Op at Christ the King. Every Monday, several families and some 20+ children gather for folk dance, nature study, poetry, handicrafts, and all those other essential components of a child's education in the world. At home, she continues to fill our children's days with good works, good study, good chores, and lots of play. She’s worthy of a proper encomium, for now suffice it say I have an excellent wife.
One major coöperative project, mentioned in our previous newsletter, has been our chicken coop. What began as a foolhardy dream ("Let's get Eleanor 15 more chicks for her birthday") has now becomes the concrete (well, wooden) reality of a real-deal coop & run. I worked from plans, to which I made some adjustments, and we weren't without any help (Todd and his tractor drilled the initial post-holes, David helped me rip some difficult angles on his table saw, and Gabriel added the needful muscle to get the roof up where roofs go), but besides that the labor was entirely ours. Erin was my longsuffering subcontractor, helping not only with an extra pair of hands, but in bearing and calming my construction-frustration and complaining. Here's a visual guide to the coop's development.
And to answer the follow up question, the flock is doing well. We've had two tragic casualties, and so two solemn funerals and burials, the first for young Golden Wings, and the second for one of our beloved original hens, Chicken Licken. Another beloved Novogen named Skya survived her own hawk attack after a week of careful nursing by Eleanor in her own room. She limps like Jacob, but is always in good spirits. So our remaining 19 birds are thriving, and all at fighting weight. We've just, in the past two days, celebrated no fewer than four chicks’ first eggs. We're about to be rolling in yolks, folks.
Scenes, cont.
photos from Birmingham, AL and Niceville, FL | november 2023-march 2024
Status Board
Reading: Every 18 months or so I encounter a contemporary author hitherto unknown to me, who has been churning out fantastic work for my entire life. This time around, that author has been Penelope Fitzgerald. I started with her final book, the short story collection The Means of Escape, and immediately moved to The Blue Flower and then The Bookshop. Her prose is remarkable for its compression, its stunning economy of detail. Wildly different worlds conjured in mere paragraphs. Whole characters evoked in two line exchanges of dialogue. Dozens of minor characters treated with the dignity of rounded character; dozens of scenes captured with Austen-like precision in a tenth of her word count. Little eruptions of humor everywhere. Just amazing. The fact that she didn’t begin writing for publication until 58 further convinces me that no one under 50 should be allowed to publish.
Listening: For the past few months I’ve been taking a Davenant Hall course with my favorite living theologian, Alastair Roberts, on the fecund subject of "The Bible & Politics." This means Friday mornings (my day off) I would plop down in front of zoom and lock in for a packed two hours of close reading of Scripture and Oliver O'Donovan's The Desire of Nations. Sublime.
Viewing: I’m excited about finally getting the chance to screen Terence Malick's A Hidden Life for a Holy Week this coming Tuesday. If you're looking for something entirely worthwhile to do in the long fasting hours of Good Friday or the bare brightness of Holy Saturday, I'd recommend reading through the entire Psalter. But once you're finished with that, there are few better ways to spend three hours than watching A Hidden Life.
Food & Drink: I myself have used this Lent as an occasion to conduct dietary experiment, and I've been doing some protein-rich, intermittent-fasting version of the Keto diet. Mostly I wanted to practice more attention and intention in my consumption, and break my near-addiction to carbohydrates (is it even a meal if there isn't bread?). I more or less eat one meal a day, and it’s been great! Dropped some weight, feeling generally healthy. That said, I also very much look forward to properly feasting in a week’s time.
I've also embarked on my first adventure in brewing with my friend and erstwhile brewmaster Donald Beck, a big ol' India Pale Ale presently bubbling away in a carboy in the basement. I'll let you know how it turns out!
Prayer Requests
The best way to support us is to join with the Son in remembering us before the Father. If you’d like to pray with and for us, here are some things you can remember:
beginning in Eastertide, I'll be teaching an 8-week Sunday School series on a biblical theology of sex & gender. Please pray for my preparation, organization, and clarity in teaching on such a vital topic.
for wisdom as we begin to consider what God is leading us into after my curacy
that our children would come to love the Word of God, and that we would be faithful and diligent to teach it to them
We’d also like to pray with and for you! If you’re reading this, you’re probably already in our prayers, but we’d love to know more specifically what we can pray for. You can text us, of course, or you can email us prayer requests at clemmonsonmission@gmail.com
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