tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32082059433670436282024-03-08T08:38:26.776-05:00Free Range AnglicanMusings on homeschooling, theology, parenting, Anglican Church in North America, Pittsburgh, family, arts and crafts, Korea, poetry, photography and whatever else gets trapped between my ears. My world is eclectic. I think everyone's is or ought to be.Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.comBlogger362125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-6563469840428753002020-07-25T14:39:00.001-04:002020-07-25T14:39:05.929-04:00A third sijo for CoronatideHot, humid, slow summer days. And the local pool is closed.
I love the blazing hot sun, glancing from the cool of the water.
Let's get a pool! Fresh glittering water. Up to my knees.Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-77945788122807252302020-07-24T14:44:00.002-04:002020-07-24T14:44:39.834-04:00A second sijo for quarantineA perfect summer's day, my skirt floats gently on the breeze<br />
As I walk down the tree-lined lane, to fetch the mail, how lovely!<br />
Oh, the mail is late. I am overdressed, for fetching these trash cans.Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-39552626466228895892020-07-20T21:28:00.002-04:002020-07-20T21:28:58.495-04:00A sijo for quarantine<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, one day leads into another</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Silently, spring slips into Summer, Summer on to Fall. And
then</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thursday, Friday, Today-I'm sorry, I have forgotten your
name.</div>
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-84930928301767653432019-10-19T21:36:00.000-04:002019-10-19T21:36:02.877-04:00Sijo for IsaiahWill 'o the Wisp, of local lore, a spark flits among the trees-<br />
And laughs. Delighted with his prank, he calls again, and disappears.<br />
Here and gone, a glimpse once more. And then, heavenward flies. - IsaiahFree Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-82581781265832902842019-07-18T09:56:00.001-04:002019-07-18T11:17:59.054-04:00Why 'Send her back' is the uncross-able lineLast night at a rally in North Carolina, the president's fan club chanted "send her back" in reference to a member of the United States Congress.<br />
<br />
Let that sit for a moment.<br />
<br />
Ilhan Omar is a naturalized US Citizen. She came here as a child seeking asylum from an unmanageable and war-torn situation. She was raised here. This is the only country she really knows. She has gone through the process and become one of us.<br />
<br />
One of us to whom the First Amendment applies, the right of free speech.<br />
<br />
She holds opinions which I do not, by and large, share. If she were running in my district, I would not likely have voted for her. But she holds those opinions as her right, she offers them according to her right. If it is okay to chant "send her back" because of her opinions, then we are saying one thing loud and clear...<br />
<br />
Naturalized US Citizens do not hold the same rights and natural-born US Citizens. If we don't like them, send them back. No expiration dates.<br />
<br />
If Rep. Ilhan Omar, whose job as a member of Congress is to seek out problems and yes, tell the government how it should be run, cannot critique the United States, then no naturalized citizen can. Every person at that rally who was pumping a fist and shouting "send her back" was telling every naturalized citizen of the USA, the First Amendment is not for you.<br />
<br />
In the interest of full disclosure, my son is a naturalized US Citizen. This is his country, since he was still in diapers. He has his critiques of it, too, but it is his home. Every person shouting at Ilhan Omar last night was shouting at my child.<br />
<br />
If the First Amendment does not apply to all of us, it does not apply to any of us. Donald Trump himself made that clear. If you don't "love this country" in the way that he defines it, he says you're unAmerican.<br />
<br />
UnAmerican. Let that sit for a moment, too.<br />
<br />
Those of us who know our history know how that word plays out. How the McCarthy era sought out dissenters and those who were connected to them, in a spirit of paranoia this country has rarely matched, called them unAmerican and stripped them of their rights. Trump is old enough to remember that. How'd that work for us, Mr. Trump?<br />
<br />
No mistake. Every one of those attacks is an attack against me and my family. Every one of those attacks is an attack against you and your First Amendment rights.<br />
<br />
This is more than Trump's personal xenophobia. This is an open attack on the heart of our nation.<br />
<br />
America. The ball's in our court.<br />
<br />
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-74486222314141443412019-06-25T15:21:00.000-04:002019-06-25T15:21:21.531-04:00Stuff I love about AnglicanismOkay, I admit it, I've been a bit put out with the Anglican Church of late. Our current tenancy to seek after the new things (church plants, praise bands, godly but on trend spiritual practices) at the expense of the old and sacred (turn around churches, liturgy, and dare I say, tradition!) wears really thin really fast for me. I came here for the old and sacred, the Church Fathers, the smells and bells, the Gospel in liturgical movement, the sometimes silly acts of deep piety. Anything else makes me feel cheated.<br />
<br />
So I didn't want to go to Provincial Assembly. And really, I came home from Assembly annoyed with a lot of the claptrap I witnessed there. But in the end, I did go, and the reason I went swallowed up my annoyance while I was there.<br />
<br />
I went because a sister deacon, whom I'd never met face to face offered me a place to stay (no hotel and rental car budget), which made my surface objection (just getting back from Israel and therefore too much travel... more on Israel in another post) kind of silly. <br />
<br />
And I went because I was woefully lacking in the fellowship of my tribe. Anglo-Catholics and deacons, these are my people. How could I resist a few days in the company of my own kind? <br />
<br />
So I went. I got hugged by bishops, had meals with old friends in other dioceses, wore my Ask Me About Nashotah House pin everywhere but to bed (and added a Trinity sticker and RES logo for good measure). I kvetched with my people. I laughed with them. Schemed a little, too. We talked deacons, the diaconate, liturgy, Jesus, and how Nashotah is (in my opinion) the ACNA's Iona, holding on to the sacred relics until the whole church realizes they need them.<br />
<br />
In the end, I went, and realized why I stayed an Anglican. We have a mission, albeit an uncomfortable one.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't until I got home that I reflected enough to realize why I don't just *stay* an Anglican, but why I love being an Anglican.<br />
<br />
I love being an Anglican because ARDF (Anglican Relief and Development Fund) seeks partnership, not paternalistic dominance over the ones they serve. Bishops from all over the world came to our doorstep as brothers, in part because ARDF goes to their doorstep as servants. I made friends with the Bishop of Matana Diocese, Burundi because ARDF was there being a friend first. (And because we could speak French together!)<br />
<br />
I love being an Anglican because other Anglicans I know are being intentional about healthy diversity in the Church (nod to the Anglican Multi-Ethnic Network) acknowledging that diversity, true diversity, involves all races and ethnicities. Their table is pretty broad, and I'm honored by their narratives, ideas, hard work and vision. Moreover, I trust them enough to be vulnerable before them, which as a white person is a very big deal.<br />
<br />
I love being an Anglican because when I see a mission I am called, eager to support, I am doing so in lock-step with other Anglicans, many of whom I know. I trust where my money is going when I donate to ARDF or the churches on the border ministering to immigrants and connected to the Anglican Immigrant Initiative. (Heck, I love that there is an Anglican Immigrant Initiative!)<br />
<br />
I love that we work with our hands. We don't expect the government to solve our problems. We're not lobbyists. We donate, motivate, roll up our sleeves and serve. On the border, in the margins, abroad or next door. And I love that our polity lets us welcome and serve all our brother and sister Christians regardless of their denominational labels.<br />
<br />
Of course I love that Anglicans love Jesus. That's not negotiable. But the rest is what keeps me here, instead of some other Jesus-loving body. So Anglicanism, you're stuck with me. You're stuck with this gadfly for ontological thinking, fancy-schmancy liturgics, deep community... I was going to add biblical authority, but Anglcianism doesn't mind that much. In short, you're stuck with this pre-enlightenment relic. Its okay. I think I'm stuck with you, too.Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-44883369608579573482018-11-09T22:12:00.000-05:002018-11-10T13:00:53.462-05:00Putting the pieces together. Okay, maybe as a white person, I'm a little slow on the uptake, but the penny just dropped on this one, even though it took place twelve years ago.<br />
<br />
I almost entitled this "Baby's first racism." Maybe I just did.<br />
<br />
When we brought our son into our family, he was ten months old. It wasn't but a month or two later that we were at a friend's house for some party or another with some of our friend's other friends that we knew, but not well. One of the women, looked at our son and said, "Aw. I bet he's smart."<br />
<br />
And smart is a positive thing, so it didn't seem like it was out of place to say about my baby. Except that she clearly thought that he was smart because he's Korean. After all, most of us see a baby and say "oh, he's so cute." "I bet he's smart" is not really the first observation we make about babies, who given the opportunity will lick the dog and flush our keys down the toilet. Still, smart is good, so I accepted her opinion as quaint and moved on.<br />
<br />
Until I saw her again a couple of months later. All she could say about my toddler was the same thing. "I bet he's smart." A second time, the same comment. This time it felt awkward, as it piled onto its predecessor and emphasized its racial bias. But again, smart is a good thing, right? I squelched my discomfort.<br />
<br />
Let me repeat that. I, a white person, squelched my discomfort for the sake of someone who was exhibiting racial bias to my face about my family. Well, you don't see that every day. Or I don't. But my non-white friends do. As I said, the penny just dropped.<br />
<br />
The third time I saw her and she said the same thing (all good stories happen in threes, don't they?) about my baby being smart, I squelched my discomfort again, but only slightly this time. "What do you mean?" "He must be smart. Aren't all Asians smart?"<br />
<br />
This time I could see what was happening, but again played the polite game my mama taught me. The response I swallowed was "oh. Well what races do you think are not smart?" It was a party. She was a friend of a friend. But I kind of wish I had said it.<br />
<br />
Some years later, my friend quoted her friend as being worried. A children's program we were both in also included several Muslim families. Friend-of-friend was worried because she did not want Muslims influencing her children. I told my friend quickly that she should not discuss this with me but with her son who had lived a year among Muslims in Israel. I assumed she understood me, as the conversation ended quickly. Only it came back around again some months later.<br />
<br />
That's when I lost my cool and told my dear friend that "your friend X is racist."<br />
<br />
Oops. Did I just let that word fall from my lips?<br />
<br />
Honestly I was kind of stunned that my friend is still speaking to me. Of course, she hasn't invited me to any parties with her other friend since. No great loss.<br />
<br />
As a white person is it my responsibility to squelch my discomfort? Or is it my responsibility to vocalize what my brown child cannot, in "polite" company?<br />
<br />
But the penny that dropped tonight is this: Racism can actually talk a good game. Racism can say "these people are smart." It can say "these people are athletic." It can say "these people are superior." It can say these things all in one breath because racism talks a good game.<br />
<br />
But it is unbalanced. For every "smart" race, you create in your mind a "dumb" one. You jam little kids into one box or another without regard to their unique God-given personality and purpose. When I was young and skinny, my great aunt used to tell me "you should be a cheerleader" because she had an idea of cheerleaders. I hated that because it had nothing to do with my idea of myself, and her insistence caused distance between us. When you jam a person into a box based on your opinion of their externals, the distance is inevitable.<br />
<br />
For what it is worth, my kid is smart. He's athletic, too. None of that has to do with the fact that he has brown skin (except he's less likely to sunburn on the soccer field than his fairer friends). He has friends across the racial rainbow who are smart, athletic, talented, just like him.... except where they're not like him at all, because variety is the spice of life.Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-32818574373744685022018-10-31T09:58:00.000-04:002018-10-31T09:58:12.638-04:00To the Jewish Community of Pittsburgh (and all who would care to read)I had not written sooner because I did not know what to say. But the worst thing I could say is silence, and so forgive my fumbling attempt.<br />
<br />
To the Jewish Community of Pittsburgh:<br />
I love you.<br />
Because my some of ancestors were Jews, I feel a special connection to you.<br />
Because my Messiah was a Jew, I feel drawn to you.<br />
Because my home is in Pittsburgh, the same as yours, I feel we are one people.<br />
Because you care for the immigrant and the helpless, I feel we share a purpose.<br />
Because some of my friends are Jewish, I feel we are friends.<br />
Because you worship, pray, celebrate a life in our G-d, I feel we are the same.<br />
Because your people have been persecuted, as have the faithful of the Church, I feel your pain.<br />
But most of all, because you are...<br />
Because you exist...<br />
Because you were created in the image of G-d...<br />
Because you are human...<br />
I love you.<br />
Love is not a feeling, it is a life-force which drives us to act....<br />
Drives us to our knees...<br />
Drives our very lives...<br />
"Love one another, as I have loved you."<br />
Because we share in the image of the one G-d, who made us one people, and who knit all people together in his one teaching,<br />
I love you. <br />
<br />
Go in peace, those who have departed.<br />
Remain in peace, those who remain.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Ezra SIL", "Ezra SIL SR", "Keter Aram Tsova", "Taamey Ashkenaz", "Taamey David CLM", "Taamey Frank CLM", "Frank Ruehl CLM", "Keter YG", Shofar, "David CLM", "Hadasim CLM", "Simple CLM", Nachlieli, "SBL BibLit", "SBL Hebrew", Cardo, Alef, "Noto Serif Hebrew", "Noto Sans Hebrew", "David Libre", David, "Times New Roman", Gisha, Arial, FreeSerif, FreeSans; font-size: 16.1px;">שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ יְהוָה אֶחָֽד</span><br />
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-68942374334948106072018-09-29T15:14:00.001-04:002018-11-09T09:23:11.760-05:00Rejecting the In Persona Christi argumentOkay, I admit it, this set poorly with me when my kids were in sixth grade in Catholic school and the catechism questions on ordination came home for them to study. Once in a while, their Anglican mom will rebel, help them to do so even, but it was particularly hard in the sixth grade when their religion teacher was the sweet Spanish guy who labeled all his exams "Nice Little Quiz." I don't know if it was the English is his second language factor or the Nice Little Quizzes but I could never quite encourage rebellion. Besides, he's a really sweet guy.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But that's all neither here nor there... the question was something along the lines of why women can't be priests. Y'all, gentle readers, know that I wrestle with this and have spent parts of my life and ministry on both sides of this fence, sometimes at the same time. Nothing new there. But the answer was one, which I'd heard before but still, which I find unsettling. The answer was that women can't be priests because the priest stands in persona Christi at the altar. Women, apparently, don't look enough like Jesus for ordination. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Never mind that most of the priests I know are not Near Eastern Jews. </div>
<div>
Many are ordained at an age Jesus never saw in his earthly sojourn. </div>
<div>
Some are in need of glasses and other medical devices which would make them less than perfect for Temple worship, and therefore not "without blemish" either. </div>
<div>
And not a one of them is willing to die for my sins. </div>
<div>
Go on, ask every priest you know. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But that is not even why I find that question really unsettling... the part I couldn't put my finger on that day, but today I can is this:</div>
<div>
The priest simply does not stand in persona Christi at the altar.</div>
<div>
Jesus himself does that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jesus. is. in persona Christi. at. every. Eucharist. Full stop. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As a deacon, it is counter to my identity to take the place of the priest. Even when he is not physically present (the so-called Deacon's Mass) he is still the priest and his presence is known and honored there. How much more is this true with Christ? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If Christ is really present at the Eucharist, what business is it of the priest to stand in his place?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The ordination of the priest, however, is quite clear. He is authorized to absolve and bless on behalf of the Church. He has the voice of the Church. At the altar, it is the prayers of the Church he brings to God. When the Eucharist is celebrating with the priest facing the altar, as is traditional, he is present as the first among the people, being the voice not of Christ but of Christ's Church. He is, in the words of the Eastern Church, in persona Ecclesia. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Priest, further, is not a part of Christ but a part of the Church and particularly authorized to be her voice. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And here I do say "her." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If the priest stands in persona ecclesiae, and ecclesia is traditionally not only a feminine noun but also traditionally feminized in imagery (Bride of Christ) even in the letters of the supposedly misogynistic Church Fathers, then there should be no barrier to a woman's priesthood in persona ecclesiae.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am not nutty enough to demand an exclusively feminine priesthood on this basis.... it would be a fallacy of another sort.... but it does seem that the argument opens an intriguing door. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Am I coming out of the closet in favor of women's ordination to the priesthood? No, I'm not. Instead, I'm asking us to re-examine our arguments instead of just reasserting them. I am reluctant to stand in the generation that thought so highly of itself that it altered 2000 years of Christian practice. I am hesitant to affect the entire sacramental relationship which binds the Church together. I am unsure of the support from Scripture or Tradition for such radical changes. And above all I am passionately in love with the whole of Christ's Church, much of which would consider women priests a stumbling block. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I am asking us to begin to think carefully about the images we use and what they are really saying, so that when the Church does settle these questions, she can do so with integrity. </div>
Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-15899982508278712182018-08-21T19:54:00.003-04:002018-08-23T08:15:12.843-04:00Performance ArtDuring my vacation, I had the utter joy of attending choral Evensong, not once, but twice. One day at Westminster Abbey and the next at Canterbury. And yes, it was sublime in every way it was supposed to be. The choirs were beautiful, the organ was powerful, the liturgy was the solid rock on which the rest stood firm. Not to mention the beauty of the churches themselves....<br />
<br />
Beautiful, and wholly unsettling. Especially at Westminster.<br />
<br />
We were herded into the Abbey for what was billed as prayer but was in fact a cultural event, a museum piece in music. Under no circumstances were we to enjoy our surroundings. The man seated next to my mother was upbraided by a verger for taking out his tour book, as if informing himself about the art and architecture in which he sat would take from the experience rather than add to it.<br />
<br />
But more notably was the beauty of the choir. Under no circumstances were we to sing back to them. Each phrase was sung antiphonally, by the professionals only. To add our own broken voices would have been a desecration of their art. And so I squelched my "and with your spirit" and my "Christ have mercy" along with any other informed Anglican in that chancel. As luck would have it, I sat in a familiar place in the stalls, but felt alienated from any role, let alone my familiar one. <br />
<br />
The familiarity of the experience heightened my loss of voice.<br />
<br />
And that strikes me as the opposite of the Kingdom, in which the very brokenness of our voices is turned to beauty and our performance art is nothing in our Lord's sight.<br />
<br />
14 hours later, some man decided to drive his car into the crowd just outside that same Abbey church. And from Canterbury prayers were offered at Evensong.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure how or if I should respond to those two Westminster images, placed side by side in my mind now, both melancholy. But more vivid for me is how, in Canterbury, a genuine prayer broke through the performance art in response to the evil of the day. <br />
<br />
I hope it does not always take tragedy for truth to break through. I'm afraid it all too often does. <br />
<br />
Christ have mercy. <br />
<br />
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-59362640185682755082018-06-10T09:24:00.001-04:002018-06-10T09:24:46.474-04:00Global Politics and a Petty Pet PeeveGranted I've been known to say that if all my peeves were truly pets I'd have a menagerie. But this one gets under my skin in a special way. Its the kind of peeve that quietly (I promise the objective observer will not notice) brings out the Southern in me, the woman who smiles softly and gives you the answer you're looking for, all the while thinking (maybe saying) "Bless your heart" in that way northern-folk think we mean it. <br />
<br />
For what it's worth, "bless your heart" means a lot of things and most of it is nice. But most people outside of the South think we use it exclusively as a nice way to say "you're an idiot." To be clear, there are plenty of words in the Southern lexicon for that, and when we mean to call you an idiot, we will use those words. But there is a tone of pity in some uses of the phrase, an "I feel sorry for you" that can sometimes be gently offered when one is, in fact, being an idiot but the Southerner is too well-raised to even begin to think beyond pity.<br />
<br />
Misuse of "bless your heart" is another pet peeve, though and we were talking about a different one.<br />
<br />
The peeve is this: when people learn that my youngest son is from Korea and the first thing they can think to say in response is: "Oh, is he from North or South Korea."<br />
<br />
Bless your heart.<br />
<br />
While I'm smiling and giving the answer the ones asking think they are seeking, here is what I'm thinking:<br />
<br />
1. My first thought is how ignorant of global politics, culture and history this question is showing the person asking to be. Korea has been divided, partitioned by global political leaders acting in their own self-interest for only 70 years. Genetically they are one people. Historically they share one history, only one tenth of a percent of which is marred by this modern division. They share the same heroes and legends, traditional dress, preference for their own regional kimchi recipes. Their language, though each has developed a little bit of its own dialect as the world has changed in 70 years, is the same. They both look to King Sejong as "the great" for giving them an alphabet of their own. (And for what its worth, the alphabet is phonetic, not pictograms.) Most South Koreans have relatives in the North. There was a lot of movement before that border closed, and the whole peninsula is only about the size of Pennsylvania.<br />
<br />
2. Followed so quickly behind #1 as to be simultaneous: "Will my response to you change how you treat my child?" Does it matter to you whether his historical geography is rocky and good for mining, or farmland turned ultramodern city-scape? Does his city of birth change who he is as a boy, a student, an athlete, a neighbor, a US citizen? Who he is as my son, his brothers' brother, your child's friend?<br />
<br />
So why do I post this now? Because this week 2500 reporters are watching as the US President, a man who has no love for his own allies, greets a North Korean chairman who has no problem dehumanizing his own people for his gain. As they shake hands, mug before the cameras, and studiously ignore 70 years of policy and suspicions and human rights abuses that makes that most heavily armed border in the world more than a chance of geography. As they studiously ignore the needs of both Koreans and Americans, to seek their own glory for an hour's strut and fret on global stage. <br />
<br />
I am not, you probably guessed, optimistic. But when the cameras are turned off, the reporters go home, and each nation retreats back to its own isolation, I hope North Korean people, in America's eyes will again be humanized. That Koreans, with their glorious history, can just be Koreans to us, especially when we encounter them in America. And maybe, someday, that change in our hearts can be the true foundation of a unified Korea. Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-25373546748040269232017-11-22T19:09:00.000-05:002017-11-23T08:23:10.214-05:00A response on the subject of Women's Ordination.... (Long, sorry!) I am responding to a blog post found at <a href="http://toalltheworld.blogspot.com/">toalltheworld.blogspot.com</a>. Go there first, please. And admittedly this is just a longer and perhaps redundant version of my previous post. But the internet keeps repeating itself on this issue, so forgive me. <br />
<br />
WRT: ToAllTheWorld-- Pressing on our two decade plus friendship in responding to this!<br />
<br />
For the casual reader: Robert and I disagree on this issue. That is not really the reason one should be surprised. I should hope it possible to disagree with a brother in Christ and a genuine friend and not see that as anything unusual. What is unusual is the depth of generosity he has shown in this disagreement, whether for the good of the Church or simply for the benefit of one or another sister in Christ who may be asking such questions in his presence. On this I commend him. <br />
<br />
My own position: I, like my brother blogger, hold to the importance and authority of not only Scripture but the tradition of the Church and reason informed by the Holy Spirit, in that order, for the formation of all opinions and positions theological and ethical. I also agree with him that the Church herself has desperate need of unbiased, deep, dangerous scholarly and sacred research and conversation before coming to one mind, to which we must all submit our wills, however uncomfortably, if we are to become an Anglican Church in North America. It is a risk all who are more interested in the good of the Church than in their own opinions, passions and callings should be willing to take. <br />
<br />
But herein lies the rub: it is a "risk" only to ordained women. As a woman, a soft-feminist, and frankly as a Christian, I can see with both compassion, and admittedly at times frustration, that it is always the women, the vulnerable, who must take these risks. Part of me will gladly compare the vocations of women to a rights issue (which this decidedly is not, more on that later) in the darker corners of my heart. After all, no one in the ancient world considered freeing slaves and no one in the ancient world considered women quite fully human either. Somehow, no matter how progressive and open minded and alert, no scholar or theologian quite realized that women are not ontologically deficient. Jesus is another story, funded and followed, proclaimed and cared for by women, but then, he's the Son of God. What do you expect? Paul, perhaps, more a man of his age, can be remarkably progressive, commending Phoebe the deacon, greeting Priscilla, acknowledging the Church in Lydia's house. A man of his age, however, is not going to insert any secret messages in his letters for ours.<br />
<br />
The tradition likewise was written by men of their age. Much of it is harsh. Much of it is openly misogynistic. Much of it makes Paul look like a liberal. But it has weight. These are the chronologically and linguistically closest commentaries we have on the texts at question. These are the cultural insiders. We give them weight because they are closer to the original text than we are, culturally and linguistically and chronologically.<br />
<br />
And so, reasoning and praying (that third step) I find myself about 90% convinced that women can be priests. The text seems to indicated a broad and generous understanding of women as proclaimers, pastoral caregivers, teachers, and even prophets. I am completely convinced that women are not ontologically deficient and completely unconvinced that it takes a woman to act in persona Christi (as the Roman Church claims). I'm even mostly convinced that in persona Christi is particularly unhelpful as a view of the priesthood, as it is held only in the West. (The East is more likely to see the priesthood as in persona ecclesia (a term which I may have made up, but I don't think so) or standing not in the place of Christ but in the place of the Church, the Bride of Christ. But then, I see no arguments for an all female priesthood. But that is beside the point.<br />
<br />
Even the Sacramentalist in me, for whom the priest is to make Christ known and present in the bread and wine, can point to the Blessed Virgin Mary as the ultimate woman priest, making Christ present and known in our midst beyond mere accidents of bread and wine.<br />
<br />
So why am I not a priest? Part of the answer (aside from more complex issues of vocation) is in that ten percent. The shadow of a doubt, the desire to be an instrument of unity and not division, the passion for actual diaconal submission and service to the Church of God, forbids me to put my own sense of calling, my own desires, my own self in any form ahead of the body of Christ. Ordination is not a rights issue. Its a surrender of rights for the sake of another. Its a "be subject to one another" issue. I cannot fully love my brother in the Church if I do not put myself in subjection.<br />
<br />
And aside from other issues of vocation, let me just take the gloves off here and say "this is lame." Again it is women who are asked to be subject, but the men who cannot accept women as full human beings along with those who simply cannot accept women as priests (sorry guys, that you have to be lumped together here) are not asked to be subject to their sisters in Christ, and their brothers who would have women priests. Mutual submission has never really been mutual.<br />
<br />
I am, and always will be, an advocate for those who can't accept women priests and deacons. I count many as friends, all as brothers (and sisters) in Christ. I have, and will again if so called, stepped out and taken risks on their behalf. Some of them, let the record show, have done so for me. But the mood of the Church, on both sides, is not one of mutual submission. The mood of the Church is one of political gain, debate, and dissent.<br />
<br />
So in short, I agree wholly with Robert that the church needs an all-in risk taking, opinion changing, mutual trusting, theologically faithful study of the issue. Ordained women should feel comfortable putting the chips on the table, if the table is truly our Lord's. Others should feel compassion in addressing these women who hold nothing back for the sake of unity, ministry, and the authority of the Bride of Christ. The men of the church, especially our bishops, should develop a sudden passion for the genuine ministry of women (beyond bake sales and altar guild, please!) and our women a real concern for the marginalization of men in our Churches.<br />
<br />
I'm a vocational deacon, 100% sure that women can be deacons, but I place that on the table too. There is no genuine study without going all the way back to the roots. There is no genuine healing if anything is withheld. I would be shocked to the core to be wrong, but it would be my place to offer my vocation (again and again regardless) to the glory of Christ and the unity of the Church. But I ask my anti-women's ordination brothers (and sisters) to be cautious. Make sure that the offerings of these women are honored, tended, cared for, and that submission, in all things Godly, is mutual.<br />
<br />
<i>ADDENDUM: </i><br />
<i>Thanks to some friendly dialogue offl-blog from Robert (ToAllTheWorld)... an addendum must be made. Sorry, that just makes this even longer. He asked if I were discounting the inspiration of the Holy Spirit in calling Paul a man of his time. God forbid it! But his observation deserves my clarification. From my reply to him (And I hope he will post from his message to me this morning):</i><br />
<br />
On Paul as a man of his time. I do not
discount the inspiration of the Spirit, but you are correct to inquire there.
It is something I ought to clarify, and will do so. In fact, I take a closer
reading than those who might be more fundamentalist, those even who would
consider it inspired-to-the-point-of-dictated. I marvel that God inspired and
also preserved the personalities of the biblical writers. Nowhere is this more
clear than in Paul, who forgets his books and coat, writes through tears, is
certain he will see the Philippians again (when he doesn’t), greets his friends
by name, states his own opinion and differentiates it from inspiration, and
shares a grudge. Paul is so very, deeply Paul. And he’s not the creep and
misogynist he modern Church makes him out to be. <br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
And it would be very unlike the Holy Spirit to override that. But here
again is the parallel with the slavery issue. The reader has every indication,
from Jesus treatment of the oppressed, to the ongoing flow of the whole biblical
text, to Paul’s ways of pressing and backing off, sending greetings and asking
aid, that the subjugation of any person is wrong. Women and slaves (ancient
equivalents) flocked to the Church because their liberation, if not in a worldly
now then at least in an ontological sense, was all over the message. But
nowhere does the individual biblical writer seem to step so far out of his own
world as to see the full and radical implications of the poor over 2000 years.
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
My word about Paul is not a correction to Paul, but to us. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I love discussing this with you, of all people, because we agree so very
much in our disagreement. It always kind of makes me laugh, but at the same
time, its very sad that the Church as a whole can’t have a conversation like
this. I’m not sure where we forgot to love and trust one another, perhaps in
the shouting matches of TEC, but we need to regain that also if the ACNA is
going to hold. </div>
<div>
</div>
Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-6945351986903832332017-09-19T11:09:00.001-04:002017-09-19T14:44:32.322-04:00Exercising your salvation....<br />
Recently in a Greek reading group, we wrangled a little with the idea of "working out your salvation with fear and trembling" in a way that reflects that the work is God's but we have a part in it, too. We tossed around "live out" and "work out" as ideas needing to come together. I came up with "exercise" which seemed trite and possibly weird, but the group liked it and the more we wrestled with it, the more I like my own idea, too.<br />
<br />
Exercise it. Like a workout in the gym. Use what you've got, it didn't come from you. Work out what God is working in.<br />
<br />
All of those could be really lame church signs, but I'll take that for now.<br />
<br />
In the background hum here is the bishops' statement, that came out at about the same time, on women's ordination (to the priesthood). These weren't tied together at first but I've tossed them concurrently in my mind enough that they are now.<br />
<br />
First a comment on the WO-P statement itself. It is deeply disappointing. On the one hand, it announces that there is not scriptural warrant for the practice to be held as a standard but, hey, we're going to do it anyway. Way to throw ordained women under the bus (and since the statement makes little to no distinction about whether we are talking about women priests or deacons, though everyone kind of knows they mean priests, the mess is double.)<br />
<br />
In fairness, here's the quote: "However, we also acknowledge that this practice is a recent innovation
to Apostolic Tradition and Catholic Order. We agree that there is
insufficient scriptural warrant to accept women’s ordination to the
priesthood as standard practice throughout the Province. However, we
continue to acknowledge that individual dioceses have constitutional
authority to ordain women to the priesthood."<br />
<br />
I have long been an advocate for a risky all-in study of women's ordination, first to the diaconate (which we can settle more easily but also remains an open question among various parts of the ACNA) and then to the priesthood. I am convinced enough of the foundation of my call to risk it, both for the good of the Church and for the good of the Order. I believe there is sufficient scriptural evidence for the practice and to say there is not without really reconciling the question is as damaging as to say there is and must be for all. While the desire to protect the consciences of those who disagree is essential to our Christian formation, so must be the desire to protect the dignity of the order and to those ordained to it. <br />
<br />
Furthermore, just saying, "Well we carried it over from TEC, so we're stuck with it" is disingenuous. Our ordained women deserve to live and serve without the shadow of rebellion in their ordination vows. That can only be done in honest theological evaluation, risk taking, mutual submission, and seriously radical Christian discernment.<br />
<br />
To date, few involved on either side seem willing to be wrong.<br />
<br />
Which brings me back to Philippians. Treat one another as more important than yourselves.<br />
<br />
My experience is that we do this, at least as far as we are able to discern the need. I have several friends who are vocally anti-women's ordination sometimes including to the diaconate. I have never been treated disrespectfully. I am usually welcomed in conversations, fellowship, even real Christian friendship, though I walk around as a woman in a collar. I will not label those who are against women's ordination as misogynists. Let the true misogynists have their title and don't dilute it by applying it to those who simply disagree, whose consciences may be more delicate.<br />
<br />
How can I not be a stumbling block to those brothers (and sisters)?<br />
<br />
So I am writing to ask one not-so-simple thing of each "side" in the discussion, based off Paul's command for mutual submission. Each is something one side is uniquely poised to give the other. Hang with me. Not all of it is fun....<br />
<br />
1. Ordained women... speak up for those who do not accept you. Guard their consciences as you would your own. These are your brothers. Give them voice. <br />
<br />
2. Anti- WO advocates... don't just give lip service to needing to support women in ministry. Recognize that the College of Bishops' statement in that regard felt to many of us condescending, like a pat on the head. (Women hate that feeling!) Do not assume that supporting women's ministry means women's groups (most of them are awful and many of us do not care two licks about being "Keepers of the home") , convents and religious orders (we don't want to be cloistered either... not at home, not at all), and coffee hour. Recognize that when the COB is all male, there needs to be a way for women's voices to be heard among them. Right now, most task forces and leadership bodies are mostly male run and led. Send women to seminary. Carve out places for women leaders. Hire us. Give us voice.<br />
<br />
3. Both sides... be willing to be wrong. Even at great personal risk. Ordination is not a right. This is not about social justice. Nobody has a right to be ordained. This is about being faithful, putting the Church first, the whole Church... not just the part you like. You're talking about the Bride of Christ here, and in this argument you must recognize that she has been abused, battered, and bruised in recent history by both sides.<br />
<br />
There is a way forward. It just isn't the obvious and well worn path.<br />
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-86676781834267975532017-07-26T11:58:00.001-04:002017-07-26T11:58:59.172-04:00When near becomes a noun.The French have a word for it, "proche." Its an adjective and it translates pretty directly to the English adjective near. If something or someone is close by, it is proche. But unlike in English, proche also becomes a noun. Best I read it, its a word for those people who are near us, too near to simply be friends, but not relatives by any temporal accounting. The closest we might come in the Church is being brothers and sisters in Christ, but then, that still doesn't grasp the idea. Jesus had twelve disciples, but only Peter, James and John seemed to be his proches. These are the people close to the heart, the only ones a true introvert can call "friends" without wincing at the weight of that word, the family beyond the familial.<br />
<br />
Beth was my proche. I don't have many. Despite blogging and teaching and jumping headlong into more ministry that I can sometimes handle, I am a very private person. So was Beth. We were seminarians together, but not really friends then. We knew and liked one another but Beth was the sort of person you had to cultivate before you could use the word friend, she opened up only slowly. <br />
<br />
We were adjunct instructors together. By that time we were indeed friends, and when I needed someone to vent a frustration to, ask advice of, celebrate a minor publication with, or complain about the lack of a steady gig to, she was there. She got me. I didn't have to explain in order for us to share the humor in our situation. We thought and taught in some ways quite alike. I remember one term teaching New Testament and she had a bunch for Church History, when I mentioned I was assigning my students a large timeline project. So was she. The poor students- we shared a significant overlap in course list- had two big timelines in the works. We both wanted them to have tools for ministry when they were done. They, on the other hand, were probably anticipating due dates rather than ministry.<br />
<br />
We were moms together, homeschooling two fifteen year olds born a week apart. Sometimes they got along, my son and her daughter, in their shared geeky interests. Sometimes they profoundly did not. It didn't matter, we shared curricula, ideas, and frustrations equally whether our kids appreciated the relationship we had built for them or not.<br />
<br />
Beth passed away yesterday. It took twenty years of cultivating a friendship with Beth- she even measured her time in PA by how old (and tall, and eventually bearded) the infant I was holding when she met me grew- but she let me walk a rough road with her the last couple of years. She hugged me when I lost my dad (2000) and I hugged her when she lost her mom (2015). She shared her struggles and I shared mine. We laughed together when she lost her hair to chemo and it came back with the curls both of us wanted from childhood. We prayed together in her last days. <br />
<br />
We blogged together too. She's over at Endless Books (on my blogroll) and she was far more the verbal craftswoman than I. <br />
<br />
Bon voyage ma proche et à Dieu. Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-22628646255650667182017-06-25T22:22:00.006-04:002017-06-25T22:22:59.889-04:00A book reviewSome sweet friends gave me a pretty little notebook for Christmas. Its the kind of notebook that you don't really want to take notes in. Its the kind of notebook that makes me feel like my thoughts detract from the book rather than add to it. Were I an artist, the unlined pages would no doubt be filled with elegant sketches and some day when I grew old and grey(er) my grandchildren would marvel at the talent in that pretty little notebook. <br />
<br />
But I'm no artist. And so I was left with the question of what should I put in a notebook that would not be disposable. What notes would I want to keep? And so I decided to keep a running list of books I have read, starting January of this year, titles and authors. <br />
<br />
Entry #22: <i>Girls of Atomic City</i> by Denise Kiernan<br />
<br />
I wonder if I am reading more books now that I am recording them, competing with the empty pages of a blank notebook. Nonetheless, <i>Girls of Atomic City </i>captivated me.<br />
<br />
Atomic City, for those who may not have guessed, was Oak Ridge, Tennessee. I grew up on the other side of Anderson County from Oak Ridge, but my father remembered growing up in Oak Ridge itself, when it was indeed a secret city. It was on no maps in its early days, and you had to have government credentials to come and go. <br />
<br />
According to Kiernan, nobody in Oak Ridge talked, not even among themselves, about what they did there in the early days. My grandfather never did. I asked my mother recently, as she was always close to her father-in-law, if he had ever shared those details with her. He had not. I do know that the family arrived in Oak Ridge sometime between late 1942 (my father was not born there) and 1948 (when I have a dated letter by my grandfather detailing his thoughts to a patent lawyer). I know they had left by 1953, when my uncle would have graduated from Norris High School. <br />
<br />
The women in Kiernan's narrative often arrived in Oak Ridge without knowing where they were going or what work they would do there. It may have been Oak Ridge where my grandmother moved into a house she'd never seen, but I have no other details about my own family's arrival there. <br />
<br />
I have an address (from the same 1948 letter) on East Drive. That is all. Kiernan describes the "Cemestos" (asbestos and cement composite) houses intended to last only a few years, though many still stand and house families, like that house on East Drive. Alphabet houses, given letter names for the size and style of the houses, I wonder how my grandfather rated a "D" house. (A houses were the smallest.) <br />
<br />
So now when I find pictures of Oak Ridge, I wonder who those nameless people are... women in a store (does she have my grandmother's nose? could we be related?) boys building a soap-box derby style airplane (could that be my uncle?) <br />
<br />
Kiernan's women were real women, many still living when her book was published in 2011. Their stories of mud, "hutments," radiation, and secrecy have me captivated. I wish I could interview my own Atomic City family and hear their own stories. <br />
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-30151665783029896682017-06-02T08:27:00.002-04:002017-06-02T08:29:43.558-04:00Coal. My grandfather was a coal miner.<br />
With all that comes with it.<br />
Black lung, mine rebellions, violent endings<br />
both to the rebellions and to human lives.<br />
Family photos of young men in caskets,<br />
when there was no war abroad.<br />
Poverty, feuds, wizened grandmothers,<br />
mountain men. <br />
My grandfather was a union organizer.<br />
A migrant worker<br />
after he left the mines.<br />
He went where the money was.<br />
Cincinnati, New York, Radford, Oak Ridge.<br />
An air raid warden,<br />
leaving my grandmother frightened in the darkness<br />
with two small boys,<br />
while he roamed the town,<br />
attending to the compliance of other homes. <br />
An old man, stooped over, chewing tobacco,<br />
he wanted more for his sons. <br />
<br />
A quick mind, sparkling eyes, he wanted more for our world.<br />
My grandfather was a backyard inventor--<br />
a water engine, clean technology.<br />
Safety and efficiency.<br />
He would have been fascinated by your smart phone.<br />
He would have marveled at your hybrid vehicle.<br />
Solar roofing tiles would have delighted him.<br />
He would have reveled in an Ohio River safe work and play. <br />
He would have been shocked by your loyalty to the coal that slowly kills. <br />
<br />
My grandfather used to say,<br />
"We can never destroy the earth,<br />
We will only destroy ourselves first."<br />
My grandfather was a coal miner. <br />
But my father was an engineer. <br />
<br />
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-89206211031974560962017-04-19T08:55:00.002-04:002017-04-19T08:56:14.244-04:00Daffodil Sijo<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-675433eb-8644-cfda-96be-a42fddf100ac" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Frais et bien parfumé, les jonquilles fleurissent sous le soleil </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Ils ouvrent leurs petits boutons et les couleurs de jaune, blanche, orange</span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Éclatent dans un foule de fleurs, *pik, pik, pik* je les cueillis. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fresh and fragrant, daffodils blooming in the bright sunshine -</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They open their little buds in vibrant yellows, white, and orange-</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Bursting forth in a riot of blooms, *clip, clip, clip* a bouquet.</span><br />
<br />Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-5209798604710317722017-02-03T21:35:00.000-05:002017-02-03T21:35:14.615-05:00Becoming friends<p>When I was young, teachers were teachers. They lived at the school, as far as we were concerned, and surely had no other interests than the subject they taught. Sometimes they would tell us that they had families, but part of us never really believed that. They were unseen and therefore not part of our reality.</p><p>
The only difference was Mrs. Thurman, whose daughter had been in my class since first grade. I had been in their home. We played Trivial Pursuit. She made spaghetti with actual meatballs (something I thought only existed in the movie Lady and the Tramp and was surely too good to be true). She was also my ninth grade geometry teacher. And frankly, that was a little weird. But it was only weird for an hour or so a day, at the beginning of the year. Then I compartmentalized Mrs. Thurman again, with teacher this time instead of friend's mom. It was okay. </p><p>
I had teachers I adored, but they were still teachers. They had no first names. Their mothers surely named them Mister and Missus at birth. I had teachers I did not quite adore, too, but they also were teachers. They were on the dark side. </p><p>
Pastors were the same. Our pastor from the time I was twelve (until the time in my teens that I left for Anglicanism) took an interest in kids. He took us on retreats and outings. He was interested in leather working and golf. We got to know him. Still, he was our pastor. When our assisting pastor went to work for the region, he moved compartments in my mind. It was dissonant. He was the regional youth pastor, but we had some claim on him, surely, because he had been our pastor. My brother thought he looked like Jesus. </p><p>
That worked through college. Professors, no matter how closely you worked alongside them, were still professors. And their mothers named them Mister, Doctor, Missus, Mizz. Surely. Very fore-thoughtful mothers, no doubt. </p><p>
Then seminary happened and our professors were called by their first names. Allen, Rod, Ann. Still, they were professors. They lived in that category of teacher. </p><p>
Except I went to church with Ann. And somewhere along way I had need to call her at home for something, which seemed at the time like a terrible no-no. You don't call your professor at home. That's why they have offices. </p><p>
Our priest was supposed to be the same way. Priest, professional Christian who lived at Church the way teachers lived at school. Okay, by then I knew better. I had friends who were priests. But I had yet to have my own parish priest as my friend. Teachers and priests had not yet broken down the walls of their compartments. </p><p>
And now, old person that I am. They have. Tonight I sat with Ann at dinner, not because she's my former Greek professor, but because she's my friend. We share hobbies together I'd never have expected (she knits, I spin... so we make stuffed sheep together to celebrate special people in our lives) and can call one another just to say hello. Heavens, she texts me. (And I her, of course.) I'd have never dreamed. And we were at dinner to celebrate that same parish priest, whose birthday is today, who broke that wall between priest and friend. Many have since, of course.
</p><p>
I still keep walls, because I am a pretty private person (who blogs, people are full of contradictions) at heart. But childhood me would have never thought of pastors and teachers on the inside part of that boundary line.
</p><p>
I still can't call my childhood teachers by their first names. But I have come to realize that one of the joys of growing up, and yes, growing older, is to come to know people as the multifaceted wonders that they are. </p>Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-58736536871817526522016-10-18T12:22:00.001-04:002017-01-30T16:35:21.319-05:00Fallen leaves<p>Oh, hello, blog. Its been a while. My fault. </p>
<p>A memory....
I remember, I must have been about ten or twelve, a hike in the woods with my dad.
In the snow.
Dad would take us on a hike around the property, 42 undeveloped acres, like a king on progress through his realm. This time it was just him and me. I don't ever remember any other snow-hike, just the one.
In the home stretch, dad looked down and saw a leaf, bright red and oval with a perfect point at the tip, sitting neatly on the fresh snow. "Look. You don't see that very often." He picked it up and handed it to me.
I held on to it, for the rest of the walk, or so I thought. But when we arrived home, somehow, from my mittened hand, the leaf had slipped away.
I never see red oval leaves on the ground without thinking of that.
People, like leaves, slip away, too often unnoticed, no matter how firmly we think we hold on. </p>
<p>En français: </p>
<p>
Un mémoire. Je me souviens- peut-être j’avais dix ou douze ans, une excursion dans le bois avec mon père. C’était dans la neige. Souvent, Papa nous emmenait pour marcher à pied autour de la propriété, quarante-deux acres vierges, comme un roi qui fait le défilé à travers son royaume. Cette fois, c’était seulement mon père et moi. Maintenant, comme une adulte, cette excursion est la seule dans la neige dont je me souviens. De quoi ? </p><p>
Enfin, quand nous sommes retournés près de notre maison, Papa a regardé la neige sous ses pieds et là, il trouva une feuille rouge pourpre et pénétrante, ovale avec une pointe parfaite au bout. Doucement et soigneusement, la feuille restait sur la neige. << Regarde. Tu ne vois pas vraiment cela souvent. >> il m'a dit.
</p><p>
Ensuite, il prit la feuille et me la donna. Ensuite, je l’ai gardée pendant le reste de l’excursion, ou bien, je le pensais. Alors, quand nous sommes arrivés chez nous, je ne sais pas comment, de ma main mouflée, la feuille avait disparu.
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Ces jours-ci, je ne regarde jamais les feuilles rouges et ovales sur la terre sans penser à cela. Et, alors, je comprends que les gens, comme les feuilles, peuvent disparaître, inaperçus, même que nous pensons que nous essayons de saisir.</p>Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-20332682444360738242016-04-18T11:28:00.001-04:002016-04-18T11:28:35.684-04:00Drip, drop, drat. (A sijo about water and modernity)Trickle, trickle, trickle, the laundry water down the drain.
The machine is leaking. Drip, drop, from the washroom floor.
And from no where else-- the pump that brings water to my house, also broke.Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-1039196306050247302015-11-27T13:47:00.000-05:002015-11-27T13:48:35.098-05:00Musings on Nutrition<p> The way I see it, pumpkin pie is the world's first "superfood."</p><p>
Think about it. Now keep in mind, I was raised in the days of food groups. These food groups were primitive, not capable of organizing themselves to build food pyramids. They were just groups. All groups were equal. No discrimination here. Except for the fruit and vegetable group which was considered more equal than the other groups, especially the vegetable subgroup, for the sole purpose of driving children crazy. </p><p>
I really didn't understand how brussels sprouts and strawberries were the same "group" but if they were, why did my mother not consider them interchangeable in my diet? I would happily have substituted.
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But that's neither here nor there.
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So considering. A serving of the meat-eggs-nuts-protein group.... and a serving of the vegetable group, mashed up together with cinnamon which we know has health benefits. Top it with a visit from the calcium rich dairy group. Serve it up on an ambassador from the wheats and grains group, unless you're gluten free... then we have a gluten free option for you.... lower carb, too for you moderns... skip the crust. I do. And voila pumpkin pie. Allergic to dairy, skip the whipped cream (poor fool). No teeth? No problem. Soy free, nut free, and artificial ingredient free. We've got this.
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So today I had pie for breakfast. A little post-thanksgiving tradition. Tomorrow its back to normal, cold cereal and warm coffee. But today, it was pie.
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I feel healthier already. </p>Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-7731254016672139812015-09-24T10:15:00.002-04:002015-09-24T10:15:39.415-04:00Adulting. Yes, its a verb. There's a meme going around the internet these days with the theme "can't adult today..." and another that says something like "that moment when you look around for an adult and realize you are an adult so you look around for someone adultier than you." <br />
<br />
My eldest son is an adult. I'm not sure when it happened. It wasn't turning eighteen. He was just the same at seventeen and 364 days as he was at 18, only he was eligible to vote and his signature was binding. There is nothing developmentally magic about a birthday; it is just a transition from one day to the next, like any other. It didn't happen at high school graduation either. I was still fussing at him about the condition of his room, the lateness of his going to bed, and the manner in which he treated his brothers on the first day (week, month) after graduation. Graduation, since he was homeschooled, was in itself a random thing, a "hey, you're out of assignments so congratulations and here is your grandfather's math book as a gift" thing. We took him out to dinner. That's about it. <br />
<br />
I can guess that some of the adult came along when college classes started. Suddenly he had homework and there was no one to tell him to do it. No one told him to go to church on Sunday either, but he did. More adulting. (Adulting... a word so non-existent that its giving spell checker fits right now.) I suspect that more of his adultiness came along when he caught that first college cold the second week of class and there was nobody to tuck him in and bring him apple cider. Doing his own post-cold laundry to get the germs out, hoping his roommate didn't catch his cold, this also was probably a transition point. <br />
<br />But I can only guess. Because I wasn't there. <br />
<br />
And maybe that's the point. It is when our parents aren't there that we become adults. <br />
<br />
I'm looking forward to a long friendship with my adult son (and his two not-yet-adult brothers eventually, too). Sending him into the world where I am not there was about the hardest thing I've ever done. Everything we do as parents leads up to this, and its a fine thing. But in the end, when the caterpillar comes out of his homeschooled cocoon, mamma butterfly doesn't get to see the magic moment. <br />
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And that's fitting, because it isn't our moment. <br />
<br />
When I dropped him off at college, I realized that this is about him. I was excited for him, how could I be sad for me? This was his call, his life, and he was grasping it for the first time. How could I mourn? And I said to him that I realized that this was right, that if I had raised him to be mine, for my sake, I was treating him as a pet, not a person. It was an off the cuff moment but it was the moment when I realized the truth in everything we always say, everything that the years have known. <br />
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Our children are not ours. They never were. They're only entrusted to us until they no longer need that cocoon and are able to fly. <br />
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But I do look forward to every time the boy will fly back home, to stretch our wings from time to time together, I hope, as long as mine have strength. Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-17663393786385698252015-07-08T15:18:00.002-04:002020-06-12T10:23:57.776-04:00Flags... really, people? They're flags. I swear, if I see one more controversy about a flag, I may do something goofy. Maybe I'll sew a bunch of them together into a big old quilt with all the ones that represent groups that don't like each other next to one another. A public art installation. Except I don't sew. And really, I am past the point of wanting to learn.<br />
<br />
But I guess "past the point of wanting to learn" is kind of what sums up America when it comes the the flag debates.<br />
<br />
Gosh, folks. I'm FROM the South. Let me tell you something about the Confederate flag. Its the flag of a dead nation, however a beloved one. But the one thing that still holds true about the South is, as Lewis Grizzard said, "we don't care how you do thing up there in Cleveland." Don't tell the South what to do with that flag. For some it is the flag of hate, for some it is the flag of heritage. But nobody south of the Mason Dixon wants to hear what that flag means in Cleveland, or Philly, or New York. The South doesn't like being told by outsiders what to do. That's the story behind that flag's origins. That's the "restoration" story that followed it. That is the only meaning behind that flag we all pretty much agree on. Its a flag, let it go.<br />
<br />
But I am from the South and I am also a Christian. If it causes your brother to stumble, throw it out. The voice that says "throw it out" has to be a Southern one, and mine is as good as any, though I've lived away half my life and never had much of an accent. I grew up on sweet tea and know what "bless your heart" really means (and it isn't what you Yankees have been told it means). I knew from the time I could walk "what's the difference between a Yankee and a damn Yankee." My daddy tol' me. And so I will say, that flag, though it means a lot of things and not all of them hurtful, causes our brothers to see hate they have received and causes others to see hate they'd like to dish out. Let the flag go.<br />
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And just when I think all this hooplah is fading away, while everyone looks to the flag of a dead nation and fails to notice live burning churches, live hurting hearts, live difficult discussions.... just when I think we've set it all aside... some yahoo decides to fly a "Christian" flag over a US flag on church property in North Carolina.<br />
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Do not get me wrong, I'm not offended by the order. The church is, at its best, a foreign embassy on US soil. The state does not reign nor does it give us the authority to be the church. I'm offended instead by the presence of the US flag at all under it. The US flag likely has no use at all on church property, but less so flying in a way that intentionally provokes our neighbors. Again a flag causes our neighbors to stumble. Throw it out. Your idea may be technically correct, but it is not helpful.<br />
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The church has never been without controversy, but only this modern church seems to enjoy causing controversy for its own sake. Poking at dragons. I'm not saying hide your faith under a bushel; but I am saying that loving your neighbor is the opposite of provoking him. Its time we stopped flying banners and hollering about colors and opened our eyes to our neighbor, our brother. Its time we started seeing that our brother under the banner of Christ is suffering the world over, including in our back yard. Churches are burned, the faithful are outcast, martyrs are made daily the world over. Unwrap yourselves from the flags that bind you and like Lazarus, come out of the grave, Christians. Come out. Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-88823702495572137912015-05-25T13:25:00.000-04:002015-05-25T13:25:10.341-04:00Seasons change....My first child graduated from homeschooling this weekend. <br />
Done. <br />
<br />I find it hard to believe that: I could be this old, he could be this old, we finished the race, he's going away to college... all of the above. <br />
<br />
My second son is firmly entrenched in Catholic school. <br />
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My third may go to Catholic school too, not this coming year, but possibly the next. <br />
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And I find it hard to imagine myself not homeschooling. And I find it liberating at the same time. What will I do? Of course, always the planner, a few ideas have crossed my mind. <br />
<br />
Become fluent (really fluent) in a foreign language. French first, then maybe Korean. <br />
Get a full time job? A PhD and a real teaching gig? Plant an Anglican high school in western PA? (Anybody want to help with that??) Start a non-profit organization for language and cultural exchange with people in nations who have no other access for cultural exchange but need good English skills in an ever changing business world? Again, all of the above. Really. but no, that's impossible. <br />
<br />
So maybe over the course of the next year, if you'll indulge me, I might wonder aloud about who I need to be for the next phase of the journey. And am I too old for this (whatever "this" is). I never realized I'd still be in the process of "becoming" after 40. <br />
Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3208205943367043628.post-91726749752147363302015-04-23T11:03:00.000-04:002015-04-23T11:03:11.422-04:00Advice for StudentsComing up on final exams in so many school contexts has me thinking about what advice I would give to today's college and seminary students. A word from the other side of the desk or computer screen, perhaps, is in order. So if the reader would allow me to be so bold: <br />
<br />
A word of advice for students (especially online students, especially my online students):<br />
<br />
1. <strong>Do not be afraid to ask questions</strong>. Ask me to clarify an assignment or an idea. Your success is my success, quite literally in this field. Your questions enable me to succeed and my answers should do the same for you. An instructor who doesn't understand the difference between being an active question-asker and being a nuisance has no business teaching human beings.<br />
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2. <strong>Do not be afraid to disagree and read critically</strong>. Your grade may be lowered by knee-jerk responses, but a well thought out and crafted disagreement should be respected by any instructor who hopes some day to welcome some of his students as peers and colleagues. You do not have to love the textbook I assigned. In fact, I may not have loved it either to have considered it important for you to read. <br />
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3. <strong>Show your enthusiasm</strong>. Students who are excited about the material and want to discuss it with their professors and classmates are not pests, they're why we are excited to start work every day. Be one!<br />
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4. <strong>Turn in papers early and often</strong>. If your instructor has time to give you feedback before the due date (we don't always, but many of us will try) take it! Papers where the instructor has invested his time and expertise will always be better papers and be more kindly graded. <br />
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5. <strong>Engage your senses</strong>. When material is hard to understand, read it out loud. It slows you down and engages both the eyes and the ears in reading so that your brain can marinate more in the material. Best advice I ever got from the meanest professor I ever endured. <br />
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6. <strong>Seek relationship</strong>. Even (perhaps especially) in online classes. Don't just come to class, do your thing and leave. Connect with your classmates. Kvetch with them if you like. It lets you know you weren't the only one who found that last quiz to be a challenge, that last paper a bear. Stay after class to ask the prof a question if you have one. Find a study buddy, even if that person is in another state or country. Read your instructor's and fellow students' biographies in their online profiles; learn what you have in common outside of class. Connections like that will keep you at the table when the going gets rough. <br />
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7. <strong>If at first you don't succeed, swallow your pride and ask what you did wrong</strong>. Teachers who "bleed" all over your papers do so because they care enough to see you do a better job next time. If you don't get timely feedback from your instructor, it is your right and responsibility to request it.<br />
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8. <strong>Not all red ink is criticism.</strong> I love to talk to my students in the margins of their papers. Some of it is a serious show of enthusiasm. And I do grade in red. I'm old school, and I like my words to stand out. Don't just look at the final grade and the length of comments and toss the paper aside. I cared enough to read your paper, you can care enough to read my comments. <br />
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9. <strong>Despite the old saying, it is better to ask permission than forgiveness</strong>. If you need an extension on a paper ask for one, don't just turn it in late. If you have a serious cause, many instructors are gracious and will work with you so that you can keep the standard of the course and your sanity, both. Do not expect a free ride, but in serious cases you can expect us to facilitate your best work. If you ask, the worst that can happen is a "no." If you don't ask, the best that can happen is a late penalty.<br />
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10. <strong>Google with caution. </strong>The internet is a vast clearinghouse for material that could not be legitimately published anywhere else. There are some amazing resources out there, but also a lot of junk. Online students often suffer from a lack of access to a good scholarly library and good internet resources can be like finding a needle in a haystack. Ask your instructor for trustworthy direction and for goodness sake stay off of Wikipedia. Free Range Anglicanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14484140709221984584noreply@blogger.com0