Free Range Anglican

Memo to Rush Limbaugh

2012-03-05T20:33:00.001-08:00

And all the other angry talking heads cluttering up our radio waves
And to all those who support the same.

Sensationalism sells. I get that.

But do not, attempt to pass off your sensationalism as debate, information, or engaging the issues. Exaggeration and emotional manipulation are not information, they are propaganda.

I deeply disagree with Ms. Fluke, the woman Rush Limbaugh insulted on air this week. I have been vocal in my belief that we need to stand by the Roman Catholic Church's freedom not to provide birth control against its teaching and conscience. I have been vocal that abortion is murder and that hormonal birth control can cause spontaneous abortion. I have been vocal that hormonal birth control is harmful to women, increasing the risk for heart disease and some forms of cancer. I have been vocal in my opinion that "the Pill" is harmful to society, drugging women in order to divorce sex from procreation and marriage, thwarting the created order so that sin may abound.

I deeply agree with Ms. Fluke, but that does not make her less human. Dehumanizing words like "slut" and sensationalist assumptions about her personal lifestyle have no place in American media, even that base form of communication known as "talk radio." Rush Limbaugh's rhetoric is indefensible.

And yet, people are out there defending him because they agree with him that Ms. Fluke is mistaken. Instead of respectfully engaging, they prefer to dehumanize her. Instead of listening and evaluating, they blindly accept the repugnant words of the one they think they agree with and openly attack the other.

Anyone trained in classical debate understands that when one resorts to the ad hominem attack, one has already lost the debate. Words like those aired this week were a desperate gasp from one who has already lost. In my house, when my eldest son was little, we taught him the phrase 'treat her like a lady, even when she forgets to act like one' in response to a six year old girl who was desperate to kiss him smack on the face every time she saw him. I'm sure Rush would have a foul word or two for this sort of behavior, but Rush needs to learn the same lesson, treat us like ladies, even when we forget to act like we ought, even when you disagree with our opinions and our political choices.

Just maybe, once in a while, an opponent treated with kindness and genuine attentive listening, might actually become an ally.

Making "Church Bread" with the small guy....

2012-02-25T11:52:00.000-08:00

Okay, I know, I know... I hang around with Anglo-Catholics. I like dalmatics, incense, icons and chant. I think Jesus deserves our finest in music, liturgy, and devotion. I think its all good for us too, multisensory, multi-generational (not just us living generations, too), across all time and places.

But I depart from the traditions of the Anglo-Catholics in this one...

Bread.

I like real bread at the altar.

Yes, I play "crumb police" becaue I really do believe that every consecrated drop or crumb must be handled with devotion. Its not ours, its God's. I'm cool with consubstantiation. But I believe bread is bread. The early saints didn't use what Marion Hatchett called "fish food." They had bread.

Okay, wafers store better if you reserve the elements. There's a place for them.

But Sunday to Sunday, I'm into bread.

Good bread, Jesus deserves good bread.

How can we take cheap pita, crunchy hard tack, or dusty wafers to the Lord who called himself "the Bread of Life" and whose birthplace is literally called "House of Bread" and say "here you go, its the best we have to give you."

So I'm into bread. And so its fallen to me, sort of by default to make the "StEAM Bread."

For the uninitiated StEAM is "St. Elizabeth's Anglican Mission"... the yet nonexistent but still sacramentally functioning congregation I serve these days.

What's cool about making the bread at home is that my kids get involved. There are several tasks involved in StEAMBread making. And thanks to the technology of the modern deep freezer, its really only a job for every other month of so. No big deal.

But as little guy and I were making the StEAMBread today, and he was full of questions, I started thinking.... there are a lot of neat Biblical touchpoints in making bread. Okay, they're cheesy, but its fun to pray and talk through what goes into the bread that goes on the altar. So here it is, complete with little guy (hereafter referred to as "LG") comments and questions.

RECIPE INCLUDED!!!!

The recipe is called "Lebanese-Syrian Mass Bread" and I originally gained it as a handout from a classmate's project the summer I was at Sewannee. The class clearly preferred this bread on every count, taste and texture and whether or not it threw crumbs all over the altar. So this is the recipe I use, though I have several from the same classmate.

Add: 1 Package of active dry yeast... or about a half dollar sized round from the jar. LG and I talked about how Jesus said the Kingdom of Heaven is like yeast making the whole loaf rise and be good for using.
Add: 1.5 c. flour... Talk about bread as the foundational food, offerings in the temple of wheat and grain. This stuff has been essential deliciousness for just about forever.
LG asks if he can pour the flour. Yeah fine. LG asks what happens if we turned the beaters up to "10". "It makes a mess."
Add 1 1/4 c. warm water. "He leads me beside still waters." Jesus walks on water. Whatever. There's a lot of water in the Bible.
LG asks if we can turn it up to ten now. Um, no.
Add 2 Tbs. olive oil. There's a lot of olive oil in the Bible too, anointing for healing and welcome. How about I pour that, kid, its messy.
LG notes the bottle has a cork in it. Yeah. It does. Thanks for noticing.
Add 1/4 c. sugar. "How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!" I've thought about trying to make this recipe with honey, but I'm reluctant to mess with it.
1 tsp salt. "You are the salt of the earth." Thinking about how salt is a preservative and a flavoring. Salt is cool stuff if you don't have heart issues.
LG: "What happens if I put my finger in here?" "The mixer will pinch it and you'll squalk."
Add 2 cups more flour, slowly.
LG: "Can we turn it up to ten now?" No it would throw flour everywhere. "Cool!"
Kneed. You can talk about Jesus being beaten before the crucifixion if you like.
LG: "Can I poke the dough." yes.
"Can I smack it?" yes.

Cover and let rise in a warm dark place (I put mine in the oven... blah blah about the tomb and resurrection... and how rising bread takes forever like the eschaton if you're hungry!!!)

Get pestered every five minutes. Is it time yet?

Make the loaves, rounds according to what size your congregation needs. Makes about 12 5" circles. Cut a cross with a knife.

Bake at 400 for 20 minutes, until light brown on the bottom.

And because we only offer Jesus the best, there has to be a family committee to "eat the ugly ones." The oven does all sorts of wonky things to the loaves! Ugly ones are good warm with butter. (hangs head in shame)

They freeze well wrapped in foil and put in a big ziploc.

Anyway, I'm putting this up in case any of you clergy types want to farm off the making of church bread to the Sunday School or a rotation of families. Holler if you want a clean copy of the recipe. I'm sure I can scan it for you. :)

Thoughts on Lent

2012-02-23T08:18:00.001-08:00

Many people see it as a fearful thing, to go to church on Ash Wednesday and hear proclaimed “Remember O man that thou art dust, and to dust you shall return.” We don’t want to deal with our own mortality. An interesting fear, since everyone who is older than preschool knows that everyone dies eventually. Somehow we want to convince ourselves that we are the exception to the rules of Genesis 3.

For me, it is a more fearful thing to pronounce those words over others, especially when these others are colleagues, friends, neighbors. It is like a small and repeated dose of what physicians must experience when they tell a patient their disease is terminal. I’m sorry, you are going to die. There is nothing I can do for you.

Its a conflicting message, when the doctor you’ve trusted and who has genuinely struggled and worked to save your life, has failed. Its a conflicting message in the Church, too, but with different outcome.

How great a blessing, every Sunday, it is to look into the eyes of a loved one, a neighbor, even a stranger and say the words “the body/blood of Christ which was given for you preserve you body and soul into everlasting life.” Say it just once to someone, and you can’t help but look at them as Jesus does. You can’t help but love them.

And then, once a year, you look them in they eye and say “remember you are dust.” Remember you are going back to dust.

If dust were the end of the story, the other 364 days of the year, clergy would be liars. But what is remarkable is that even at Ash Wednesday, we don’t leave them at dust. Only a few minutes later, we look again on those ashen faces and lift the faithful up to God with those words, “the body and blood preserve you body and soul into everlasting life.”

Remember you are dust. You are formed by God’s hands. But you’re returning to the dust.

And God doesn’t leave you there. You are formed again, this time for life everlasting.

Its not a circle of life thing, not a reincarnation without end, but a singular recreation, this time without the corruption, without the ashes. There is no Ash Wednesday in the kingdom.

Interdependence in Ministry

2012-02-19T17:41:00.000-08:00

One of the wonderous things about being a deacon lies in what we can't do. We can't, for example, consecrate the Eucharist.

This isn't a big deal in my life most of the time. I have friends who are called to the priesthood say that the inability to consecrate the Eucharist really haunted them in the time when they were deacons, but not so among vocational deacons.

Except when it proves a point of major inconvenience. Like this weekend; Father is sick.

Thankfully, I have a friend who has a Saturday night service and is always willing to bail me out of a tight spot. The church isn't far off, so its an extra couple hours out of my schedule that get replaced with an opportunity to worship in the pews instead of being in the chancel all the time. Rather relaxing. And its a nice time to visit with a friend who I don't see as often as I'd like. Not a problem.

But the beauty in it lies in the fact that this is a visible witness of how Christians, with our various gifts and callings, need one another. God doesn't gift any of us with everything; instead he calls us into community. And a visible token of that is my need to rely on a priest for Eucharist. Even when I'm the one being relied upon, it doesn't happen in a vacuum. There's a team at the ready, willing and able to stand together to make God's work a reality for his people.

That's pretty darned cool.

(And thanks to the priest, deacon, and congregation at Christ Church, New Brighton, for once again welcoming me and my squirmy little kids. Last night was great fun!)

Finishing Sentences, Thoughts on Community

2012-02-18T17:54:00.000-08:00

I used to live in a little, admittedly run down, steel town. Not a big place; you could walk from end to end of town in about an hour, if you were casual about it. About the same size as the quaint little town I grew up near, but this time the town was anything but quaint. When the mills closed, unemployment and drugs came to town and urban renewal, as much as it may be talked about, was usually defeated by a communal low self esteem.

There have been a few new projects, lately, though. And refreshing the landscape does creep along at a pace of sorts. The most recent addition was a small but essential grocery store, near the seminary, where most residents could walk to shop if they were so inclined. I think it will be an important addition to the town. But for now its new and interesting and everyone is coming out to see it. Its bright and clean (let's hope it stays that way) and seems to be well run. Employees are all new hires and the day to day ennui of work has not set in. And the town is enthralled.

The place was crowded, but I still got through quickly, its that small. But on the way, people stopped to chat. A lady with three kids, a grandmother... there was also the guy that looked like he ought to be a neighborhood hoodlum, who was cheerful giving me directions to the right entrance. And there was the local man who informed me that he just came by to chat with people because he didn't have anything else going on.

There was a time, I told him, that people did do that. And perhaps the world is a little poorer because they don't anymore.

In the end, I got a glimps of what the town must have been like in their grandparents', maybe even parents' time. Less jaded and more small town, ready to chat, and maybe needing a bit of an ear. And maybe, if the folks doing the renewal projects there are successful, they'll have that back someday.

Then today, I went on up the road to the next town to hear a friend preach. A friend with whom I'd gone to seminary, who asked me to read a lesson, just because I was there, and who commented on my pronounciation of a Hebrew name, just because she was in my Hebrew classes. As she preached, I could hear our common phrases, learned in class, and could complete her sentences in my head. I settled into the familiar story, the theological rhythms, and thoroughly enjoyed her sermon. There wasn't much new for me in it, but quite to the contrary, it was the familiar, even old, that I enjoyed.

And I realized on my way out that it was the shared vocabulary of our community, seminary in this case, that gave us a casual friendship and a common comfort with the Scripture.

I guess, that's the foundation of community, a shared story, a history together, a common vocabulary and rhythm of life. That's why those little steel towns struggled so when their way of life was taken from them. And that's why, if they'll reconnect with one another when they have such slight opportunities as a new grocery store they have hope of redeveloping the community. I guess that's why the guy who just came to the store to talk to people was such a blessing.

Hot Rod Anglican: A Poem for Saint Valentine's Day

2012-02-18T08:08:00.000-08:00

Hot Rod Anglican: A Poem for Saint Valentine's Day

A worthy amusement/reflection for St. Valentine's Day.

cross posted from the parish blog....

2012-02-11T09:07:00.001-08:00

PRAY!

6 WAYS - PRAY from K H on Vimeo.

Video courtesy of OMF!

Prayer is cool. Anybody can do it. That's probably why we talk about it so much in the church that everyone's eyes roll and people say things like "can't I do more than just pray." But if prayer is foundational, and foudations are to mission what they are to buildings, it is pretty super cool that everyone can build foundations, is responsible for doing it, and equipped to make it work.

I get the disciples, saying "teach us to pray." We all think we're doing it wrong. But if the Holy Spirit is indeed interceding for us and with us, then there's grace to cover whatever we're doing wrong and to lift up whatever we're doing right.

Cool.

Oh the Humanity....

2012-02-08T18:22:00.000-08:00

I got in a workout tonight. And while I was there in the class, doing "alphabets" with everyone else (a cruel exercise in which one lies flat on one's back and traces the letters of the alphabet in the air with straight legs... sounds easy, but its murder on my poor put-upon hips), I was trying everything I could not to think about how much this was starting to hurt... That's the think about alphabets, if it hurts on C you've got a long haul in front of you.

And so I started thinking about other stuff... like how loudly I was repeating back the letters to the instructor, about how I surely smelled like the back end of a horse, about how my workout clothes were really more sweat stained than ought to be wearable (but I'm trying to get just three more months out of them).

Now if this were a perfect world, no doubt my hips would not have hurt. But if this were a perfect world I wouldn't have to do silly things to work off the extra chocolate chip cookie (that in a perfect world I wouldn't have eaten in the sin of gluttony anyway) and to keep my body from slowly breaking down with age. If this were a perfect world, I wouldn't smell like horse's rear (okay, I've showered since, then, so I smell like daisies now, of course). If this were a perfect world, there would be no struggle with alphabets, slow kicks (that's what came next) and eventual exhaustion.

There's no denying our humanness, our Genesis 3 problem, when one smells like the back end of a horse.

Which, I realized in my alphabetic haze, is important. Just as working with our bodies helps us to have a positive theology of the body, a sense of our material side as having value and being worth preservation and building, the sheer effort of doing so is living evidence of our imperfection. Nobody in that room was glamorous. Nobody looked like they's just walked off the cover of Cosmo or GQ. And our own horse-smell is probably why we don't notice anyone else's. We're all in this together.

It's the lazy man who notices another man's sweat. The busy man has his own to notice.

Maybe that's why the physical is so tied to the spiritual, and exercise is part of the healthy spiritual life.

Yoboseo part two.

2012-02-04T14:55:00.000-08:00

One of the articles way back (about a year ago) in my blog history is my rambling about Anglicans who don't speak English. It is the article that seems to crop up most often on my traffic reports, where some random person (most often outside the USA these days) has hit that page. Its also the article that I find myself thinking of from time to time. Its not a particularly well crafted bit of writing, that anyone should want to read it, so it must be the topic that is of interest.

I wrote that day because I had stumbled across a congregation in Baltimore called the Korean Anglican Church of Maryland. And though they're Anglicans in America, they don't have an English speaking service. Since then, I've noted in our own diocesan directory (Pittsburgh) that we have two Spanish-speaking congregations in our extended (Chicago) diocese. I've heard rumors of a Korean Anglican congregation out in the Western US and possibly even two.

Anglicanism likes the fact that it is a global communion, but it is not until the modern era that Global Anglicans have been able to truly be in relationship (thanks to modern technology in travel and communications) and approach each other as equals (out of our opposing and complimentary sets of gifts and poverties) and in that way offer balance and completion to our global community. Mission has started to go both ways. Partnership is no longer patronage. Africa, South America, Asia are at our doorstep. The ancient question of "who is my neighbor" bears greater weight than ever before.

And it fascinates me that recognition is more than just seeing, and communication is more than just speaking. We have talked for generations and never heard one another, and now when both sides have contrasting needs and gifts to bring to the table are recognized by all parties, we don't even have to speak the same language to form a bond and communicate.

A few months ago, my mother-in-law, struggling to communicate after her stroke, suddenly seemed to be speaking as clearly as if she had never had a problem. A few words slipped but they didn't matter, I heard her. And when I noticed that, she said, "its easier for me to speak clearly when I know the person I am talking to is listening." I think this is how we are now in Global Anglicanism, when we trust the other is listening, it is much easier to speak softly and still make ourselves heard.

Anyway, short story is that I'm intrigued that the old blogpost seems to keep cropping up on that list of page hits. I wonder if that means other people are thinking the same thoughts, or maybe hearing the same words.

Borrowed Words (What is posted below was written by my mother-in-law, undated)

2012-01-19T10:42:00.000-08:00

The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage sweet. ~Annie Dillard.

From my pew in the choir, I watched a father lay his infant son across his shoulder. The baby lifted his wobbling head and looked around; his hands slipped down into his father's jacket and were caught there, and the baby's head wobbled into his father's neck. Trapped by suit and shoulder, he lay still, peacefully hiccupping.

I should have, I know, been at my prayers, but the sermon of this father and child transfixed me. I thought: all the baby has is a shoulder, and it is all he needs, and all any of us needs. . .

I remembered then another infant with another parent I had seen in a toy store at Christmas time.

This baby was asleep in her blankets in a shopping cart, being pushed by her mother, who was at the same time pulling along a second cart piled high with toys for the infant, who, warmed by her soft blankets, lay oblivious to the encrustating snail house of plastic and metal her mother had begun building for her.

The clutter of the world finds its way to us,I thought, recalling also that on a day near Christmas I saw in a shopping mall a girl sitting on Santa's lap. As I walked past her I overheard only the words, "I want--"

In one of his Stories of God the poet Maria Rilke refers to a conversation with an invalid. Rilke tells him, "I know you are sad to be unable to leave your room. But isn't it also beautiful, that the world comes to you: whatever comes here becomes your world..."

We will experience in our youth the desire to control and to accumulate. But through the grace of God a time may come when we quietly let go of such desires, and allow the world to come gently to us, as to Rilke's invalid, in our quiet place; and it is then that we will become the recipients of this grace, that we will begin to learn the lessons contained in the minutiae of our lives, and, uncluttered, we will begin to see how we are at every moment walking on holy ground, surrounded by, swimming through, the love and presence of God.

At the end of his life my father was blind in one eye and weakened by kidney failure. He sat quietly in his favorite chair, with my mother always nearby.

There was nothing we could give him or do for him: he could eat very little; he could not read or concentrate to be read to.

But when we walked by him, he would reach out to us, and we would take his hand.

He had become at last like the infant he had once been on his father's shoulder: his world had narrowed back down to his own small body, and, for my father, our hugs and quiet words of love were, finally, all he needed.

Totally awesome!

2012-01-18T15:45:00.000-08:00

Seven Lies About Homeschoolers

A mundane little sijo:

2012-01-17T12:03:00.000-08:00

Cashmere sweater, cotton skirt. Way too dressed up for taking the boys
Just to piano lessons and home again on a rainy day.
Thumping, thumping, in the dryer, my soggy jeans-- Laundry day.

A thank you note....

2012-01-16T19:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Jackie;
Thank you, dearheart, for the scarf. Overly long, just the way I like a real scarf. And warm, like I could go to Siberia and wrap my head up in it and not get frost in my lungs. And still its cute. It looks just like something you'd pick, with lots of blue and smokey color. I always liked that we both preferred blue. It made shopping so easy. I love the earrings too, threadders seemed a bit daring for you, but I hear you had help. My old threadders broke, so these are a welcome replacement. And the beading looks like something you would choose. Perfect, of course.

I watched that box all week, thinking how strange it is to have a posthumous gift. Not the first time in my life, since my grandfather died in the wee hours of Christmas morning two decades ago, but a rare thing. Did you leave a gift for Janice, too? I bet you did; you thought of everything.

It felt like it ought to be something deeply significant, but the mundaneness of a scarf and earrings was something right and also profound. These are the products of a material world to which you were bound, I am still, and altogether fitting and proper. But how strange that this is no longer your world. What gifts would you give if you were to "shop" today?

How lovely, though, that Richard helped you shop when we were home at Thanksgiving. A few final outings, a last taste of the material and everyday. How lovely that you went out to the grocery store with me and that we talked about the silly things of buying pasta and the fleeting thoughts of being embarrassed by your post stroke and post cancer appaerance and knowing that it didn't matter what others thought, you were still beautiful. It will always be important to me that you had energy about you that day, that your voice danced on the words, that we understood one another when words failed, and that when I remarked on these things you said how much easier it was for you to speak fluently again when you knew the person you spoke to was listening and understanding you.

I wonder, sometimes, if you can read these things. You forgot to knock a picture off the wall, as you had months ago, before you were even diagnosed, promised to do. But the calendar fell about the time you passed, in the room where I was. If that was you, thanks for choosing something that couldn't shatter. I was never sure what I thought of your fascination with ghosties, but when you were so very sick I did quietly hope you'd pick something ugly or unbreakable.

I miss cooking for you. And chatting with you. And how you loved, absolutely delighted in and were totally curious about everything. Except heights, of course.

Thanks. For just being you. For being my mother-in-law for sixteen and a half years. And for being one of my dearest friends all along.

A quick fisk of the candidate slate for the new TEC bishop of Pittsburgh

2012-01-15T18:27:00.000-08:00

And I do mean quick... this was just released tonight, and I've just done a cursory internet snoop on each of them.
The Rev. Canon Michael N. Ambler, Jr.: seems to have run for bishop before, though I'm not sure that means he makes it a habit. Western New York had him in the final four. He's a graduate of Episcopal Divinity School and an environmentalist. Can't say any of that rules him out in itself, but that MDiv from EDS sure makes him awfully suspect for any of my friends who are trying to maintain a conservative position in TEC-PGH!
The Rev. Dorsey W. M. McConnell: Ironically, the dude from Mass. is the only one I couldn't raise anything suspect on. The parish website says specifically that marriage is for one man and one woman, a sacrament and a little snooping revealed him to be a theological dissenter on the appointment of a gay dean when he was in Seattle. Could I seriously find myself hoping that a priest from MA becomes the next bishop of Pittsburgh? If its all true, he must be able to play nice with both sides.
The Rev. R. Stanley Runnels: Is on record as early as 2000 saying that rites for gay marriage are a sort of social justice issue. 'Nuff said.
The Rev. Ruth Woodliff-Stanley: I almost choked on my own breath over this one! She leaves a liberal paper trail a mile long including a ton of homosexual agenda all over her parish website (she's the rector) and an ordained unitarian husband. Seriously Pittsburgh? Seriously?
I know who I'd suggest if I still had voice in the process. Someone still in TEC who loves Jesus and can work with all sides, solid as the day is long and generous too, who has worked with ultra liberals and ultra conservatives (and treated both impostors with kindness...) but nobody's asking me. (Unless, Bruce has an interest in starting a petition... if so I'll email you a name!)

Anyway, for the morbidly curious, or those like myself who just want to see a good bishop leading a diocese largely populated by friends and former colleagues. Love ya, Pittsburgh... obviously more prayers are required as the big day approaches. God be with you.

Bamboo cottage by the lake...

2012-01-14T19:36:00.000-08:00

One thing on which my mother-in-law and I agreed, an area in which we uniquely understood one another, was in the value of living in a yurt. Or a tumbleweed tiny house. Or in the case of my current obscession, a little bamboo cottage by a lake.

My husband, techno king, thinks this is silliness. Especially since my little bambooo cottage would have solar power and a single soapstone stove for its main source of heat. And a little alcove for a kayak. But silly or not, he says he doesn't mind as long as he has a decent internet connection.

She liked funny little houses. I'm fond of simple living that doesn't overwhelm the natural vista, be it trees or water or mountains. We shared a fondness for misty mountains. Gentle architecture with a human touch. Her father was an architect, mine an engineer.

I would build it with transom windows to let the heat out in the summer, or if the soapstone stove became too much in the mild southern lakeside winters. And I would have a little room for the rabbits to hop and eat their hay, indoors away from predators but where they could scatter their hay and nobody would mind.

And a little sunroom for my spinning wheel.
And a little asian style table where you sit on the floor.
And interesting art on the walls.
And a lot of windows for looking out.
And a single (organic) fruit tree in the yard, a little herb garden, and a farm market down the road that I can walk to.

Where I would wade in the lake and maybe learn to paint. Except that I am terrible at art. Except that I can sort of paint silk scarves. And spin yarn. Except I get bored at spinning and painting after a while.

Except that I don't like fish. I spent the last few years learning to like salmon, and now I really do. So maybe for the new year I will learn to like another kind of fish, and I can tell myself that learning to like fish is one more step toward living by the lake in a sustainable little house with a sweeping vista.

On a personal note: The Lord gives, the Lord takes away....

2012-01-06T06:32:00.000-08:00

But at the moment the Lord is giving and taking more than an ADHD five year old. What on earth?

For those of you who know me in real life, you know my mother-in-law passed away on Tuesday after a few months' of wrestling with cancer. I'm going to write more about her later, once I have it all processed out, sorted through. Short story is that she was wonderful and I'll miss her a lot. She was an amazing mother, a kind mother-in-law and a magical grandmother.

But even those of you who know me in real life probably don't know that my own grandfather, on my mom's side, is a bit of a mystery. He estranged himself from the family over sixty years ago and in searching for general family tree stuff we traced his mother to the same county where my paternal grandparents grew up.

A few years ago, I posted on a web forum for any family tree info on my estranged grandfather. Later I learned through another search that my grandfather had died in 1985. That's about all I knew and I kind of forgot about it, although I'm still curious where he came from.

Today I got a message, from that old post on that family tree forum, from his neice. I know there are a lot of scammers out there, but you have to actually know my family to be able to produce my mother's first name. Seriously, its almost tougher than Rumplestiltskin.

I guess that means I have cousins.

I found that my grandfather was the third of five children. Not a surprise, but not a known bit of information.

And I have to say, I'm a bit freaked out. What if they are scammers? Weirdos? or they just have too much baggage from the past to know any more what to do with me than I do with them?

And is this how, a little bit of how, my adopted son will feel when some day he searches (I do hope he will) for his birthmother? I have a whole chunk of the family that stands under a banner reading "Who are these people?" Are they more interesting as a mystery? (probably) What if they're jerks? (Probably not) At least they speak English. (My youngest's bio-family would speak Korean.)

And I guess this is good for me, to walk a mile. To get a glimpse.

But this week, of all weeks? Seriously, God... you've got to be kidding.

2011-12-25T21:05:00.001-08:00

Just wishing all my blog friends a very merry Christmas. Its twelve days, y'know. Enjoy them all.

2011-12-22T11:15:00.000-08:00

I am one who stands, in the very throne room of God the King
Drinking in his power, majesty, and glory, and sent
To give his word to man. Now standing before this daughter of Eve.

(Gabriel: Batik on Silk by Elizabeth Jones

To perfection we brought sin,
To sin he brought perfection.
To become man,
so that we might be like God.
To be scarred
so that we might be made whole.
To be bound,
so that we might be set free.
To die
to make us immortal.
To become accursed,
so that we may be holy.

Why we must pray for North Korea

2011-12-18T20:20:00.000-08:00

All major news outlets are reporting that North Korea's leader, Kim Jong Il has died.

And most of the world will say good riddance. Kim Jong Il maintained concentration camps to rival Hitler's. He was a sworn enemy of the United States, referring to us as "American Bastards" and warmongers while our leaders placed North Korea on the "axis of evil." Name calling is the only foreign policy we have with North Korea, unless you count sabre rattling and finger pointing.

And misappropriated food aid.

Kim Jong Il gladly glutted on gourmet food and Hollywood movies while the People scraped and starved.

But do not think for a minute that there is dancing in the streets in North Korea. This is the only leadership most North Koreans have ever known. And in a confucian culture which values elders, leaders, and parents, Kim Jong Il was, like his father, all of the above. Loyal North Koreans have lost a member of their family.

Never outside Korea has a communist regime passed successfully from father to son. North Korea is entering on a very unstable and unpredictable venture. Kim's son Kim Jong Un may prove to be a good leader or a poor one, but don't think the days ahead will be easy for the people either way.

In a nation where inflation is rampant,
food is scarce,
perceived loyalty is everything,
neighbors spy on neighbors,
Christians are persecuted,
fear breeds accusation,
outside information is limited,
inside information is controlled,
and winter cold is bitter and at hand...
these people, who choose neither their government nor its policies, need our prayers.

Christ have mercy.

One of the versions of this week's sermon that didn't get preached

2011-12-18T10:36:00.001-08:00

We like to take the Bible in small chunks, maybe just a verse, maybe a little more, a story, a chapter, an idea. If we’re really ambitious we may tackle a whole book of the Bible, but we take it in isolation, with no idea of how one book lends to a coherent whole. A particularly cranky Old Testament professor I once endured referred to it as “cross-stitch it on a pillow syndrome.”
But the Bible, all sixty six books written over centuries and by many human hands was inspired of one Holy Spirit, and makes one coherent whole, one narrative, one history. And Luke was quite aware of that when he told the story of a young woman and an angel and a moment that would shatter the reality we think we know.
Luke surely remembered another young woman who was visited by an angel. Like this Mary, she was an innocent, and the angel took a harmless and common enough form, enticing her to take and eat. And as Father Paul is known to say, her day did not end well. When Eve ate the apple and gave it to her husband and he ate, the very fabric of the universe was changed. Human kind had been given the power to introduce sin into perfection, and that’s exactly what they did. But in God’s love, right there in the Garden the woman was also promised the power to introduce perfection into the world of sin. That fallen angel, that serpent of old, was forewarned… the offspring of the woman would be the one to crush his head.
Luke would have known the stories of other women, young and old, women like Hannah and Sarah who had no children. Barren women are a theme in Scripture; fruitlessness attributed to the eating of that first fruit. A barren woman was unworthy, to be scorned, presumed overlooked by God. And if she should be left a widow, she had nothing. It happened that an angel visited Sarah, a promise was made, with God all things were possible. Hannah called out to God, a prayer was heard, and not one but seven children were born to her.
And it happened that in the city of Jerusalem, somewhere about 5 or 6 BC that angel visited Zechariah and promised him that his barren wife would have a child. And half a year later, another woman, not barren by physiology but having no business bearing children in her unmarried state, would learn that she, too, was to bear a son.
The Bible, you see, is like a symphony, each movement repeating its theme, each theme contributing to the whole, slowly building until that point where, with the crash of symbols (pun not intended) and the frantic hum of winds, the symphony reaches its great moment, where it all comes together, where the music makes sense.
The incarnation, in the life of the church, is that moment.
Isaiah had promised, seven hundred years before, that a young, unmarried woman would conceive and bear a child. Of course it was assumed at she’d conceive in the normal way, get married and birth babies. But how much greater when we find that a woman, engaged but quite biologically a virgin (you can doubt the Hebrew word in Isaiah means virgin, but there’s no questioning Luke’s Greek… the good doctor that St. Luke was, is pretty certain of the medical meaning of what he’s putting forth here) conceives a child by the mere power of the Holy Spirit.
And so an angel once again visited a young woman, and Mary was rightly afraid. This was no cute cuddly little cherub from some Renaissance painting, this was one “who stands in the presence of God.” This was God’s own messenger, of the ilk that carried flaming swords before the entrance to Eden and would charge forth to cast Satan out of heaven at the end of time. And here one was, right there in the room.
And there are a million reasons for Mary to run. A million reasons to say no. A million reasons. It’s a horrible time to bring a child into the world, occupied Israel, Romans everywhere. She’s betrothed to a man who knows for a fact the baby isn’t going to be his. The punishment for adultery is death by stoning, Joseph could have her publicly shamed, or even executed.
But for some reason, Mary only asks “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” And the angel tells her, your child will be the very son of God. Your child shall be holy, the Holy One himself. And just so you know my words are true, your cousin Elizabeth, who could not conceive a child, is now outgrowing her clothes with pregnancy.
Luke knows the story, how a woman known as the mother of all living saw fruit that looked pleasing and denied the will of God in favor of her own will. Now he tells the story of a woman who saw fruit that looked quite difficult indeed and answered “let be to me according to your will.” God’s will, not hers.
And the world as we fallen people know it began to unravel that day.
There is a word in Hebrew, which we usually translate “visited.” But as my favorite Hebrew professor used to say, “its not like visited for tea.” The best translation of the word is to break into the timeline and change the destiny of the one being visited. In this way, the angel visited Mary, and God visited humanity, and the destiny which began at the fall began to be changed.
And it was a terrible time to have a baby, just like every time in which every baby since the Fall had been born. The Jewish king would try to kill this baby, the Roman Emperor would send the young family on a desperate pilgrimage, the world would whisper about his paternity, even his earthly father would for a while consider ridding himself of the whole mess. He would be born in an occupied country, far from home, in a world hostile to him.
And yet, “he will be great,” says the Angel. “And he will be called the son of the Most High. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever and of his Kingdom there will be no end.”
And, as if that were not enough, because every baby ever born is born into the same fallen world as he has emptied himself of the splendor of heaven to visit, his name shall be called Jesus.
Which means “God saves.”

Preaching on Mary this weekend...

2011-12-14T21:59:00.000-08:00

One of the difficult things in preaching is the familiar story, the one that everyone knows so well they could recite it in Sunday School terms in their sleep so that it feels like there's nothing new to say.

One of the difficult things in preaching is to realize that when we have something "new" we think we want to say that it's usually heresy. Orthodox Christianity has been around a while and there's not much that wasn't said in the last two thousand years.

One of the difficult things in preaching is the temptation to be entertaining.

Damn. That is a problem.

And clever.

And a crafter of lovely sermon-art.

Because those things are narcissistic.

So I'm preaching on Sunday, on the BVM, aka Our Lady, aka Mother Mary. And I'm thinking of starting out with a Hebrew word and some Greek.

Which is usually just a sign that the preacher is full of herself.

But I think its cool that Jesus came to change our destiny (that's the crux of the sermon, for the curious sneak-peeker (Dave)) and that Jesus more than fulfills the prophecy about him and that his identity is clear and clearly articulated by some gentile doctor who ran around with St. Paul.

And I think its cool that angels aren't fat little babies with wings, but rather fierce. And I'm thinking of bringing my husband's grandmother's batik on silk of Gabriel who looks like he might be just a little feral. Or at least tough.

I've torn a lot of pages out of my notebook trying to figure out how to structure this thing. I like to type out ideas, but I'm changing my note style for a season, in part because there is no pulpit at St. Elizabeth's to hide behind, or at least to hold my notes. So I'm writing this one by hand, at least for now I think I am. But percolating all these ideas into one is a rough road right now. Biblical theology is like a salad, all sorts of good stuff jumbled up together but hard (right now) to string into a sermon.

Part of it is that the people are new to me still. And part may be that I'm not preaching as often as I was in previous parishes. And part of it is that I think I have lost the overinflated estimation I once had of my own preaching. Rats. It was fun thinking I was good.

A few thoughts on the AMiA

2011-12-14T14:42:00.000-08:00

The internet has been blessedly silent in the last few days since the majority of the Anglcian Mission in America bishops resigned from the Rwandan house of bishops in an apparent huff. The immediate and expected two days of bustle and then nothing more came from the internet voices. Today I noticed some rather barbed remarks over on Stand Firm, but on the whole, perhaps the silence is as it should be... though it is deafening to those of us who are waiting for the other shoe to drop. How will Rwanda respond? How will the ACNA respond?

But one good thing is that those responses are not happening immediately. Cooler heads seem to be sorting things out, and for that we can be thankful.

But a few reflections:
1. These bishops have resigned on their own behalf. Nothing is up for grabs, parish and priest statuses are not changed. And while, organizationally and ecclesiastically, AMiA has beheadded itself, there is nothing to prevent the existing AMiA dioceses (I think they call them Networks, but I'm not sure) from simply electing new bishops. It would likely be a poor course of action, seen as a public betrayal of the former bishops with no guarantee that Rwanda would accept the new bishops, but it is a sign of how this does not need to trickle down to every parish, priest, deacon, altar guild, etc. in the AMiA.

2. If, for some reason, an AMiA parish or member of the clergy would be better suited to life in the ACNA, he/she/it is no more free to reaffilitate now than at this time last week. No move either to leave Rwanda or to accept a new parish/clergyperson should happen without consultation with Rwanda as the overseeing body.

3. A wholesale move of AMiA into the ACNA is unlikely. The one tragic thing that has come out of this is that dioceses and parishes and clergy are forced to divide their loyalties, to their former bishops and friends or to the overseeing body which sheltered them in the storm. One is near and relational, the other far off but worthy of a particular loyalty and affection. The rest of us are in no place to tell others how to respond.

4. Right now this reflects (and it reflects badly) on certain North American Anglicans, the ones whose names are on the letter. But a free-for-all, parish poach-fest, ACNA support for these bishops or slight to Rwanda, or further division in the AMiA will reflect badly on all North American Anglicans. We haven't shamed ourselves in the eyes of the world, but it will be very easy to do if we don't step out gently in honor and respect, especially for Rwanda's care for our brothers in distress. Even now, Rwanda has not turned its back on the AMiA, let's honor the grace which has been given.

5. Short summary, there are no lone rangers in the Church. Some folks have chosen to learn that the hard way, but the rest deserve our affection and support. We need each other; that's just how we were made.

Stand Firm | On the AMiA and the ACNA

2011-12-08T17:10:00.000-08:00

Stand Firm | On the AMiA and the ACNA

Matt Kennedy has posted my thoughts exactly.... For those who would like a reasonable read amid the insanity.

In the news....

2011-12-08T08:48:00.000-08:00

Someone once said that most of what we see passed off as "news" is really just gossip. Its not something the public needs to know; its something the public wants to gawp at.

And most of it is sensationalized.

And if there's any example of that for the modern mind to wrap around, here's a harmless but obvious one:

"URGENT: Report: Pujols Agrees to 10-Year Deal"

Found on Foxnews.com. And yes the word "urgent" was in red.

Now I'm as big a baseball fan as anyone, and it doesn't take much to know that Pujols is the human baseball machine of our era. But really, nobody needs to know his private decisions. It doesn't affect our lives other than cheering for our teams. And it sure isn't "urgent." He'll still be with the Angels when the season opens in the spring... there's nothing here that is going to change between now and next time I look at the news.

People use dramatic words entirely too easily in the media.

(And no, I have no intention of commenting on the AMiA, dramatic words or no.)

On Poverty and Charity

2011-12-05T18:30:00.000-08:00

"Some people wonder why we don’t take care of our own poor first. Why send money and resources half way around the world when we have poor people living in our own communities? Here is the simple answer: America does not have poverty. Compared to the poverty in Africa, Asia and South America, what we call the American poor are actually people, for the most part, enjoying a quality of life superior to the middle class in much of the rest of the world.

According to the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and the CIA Fact Book average per capita income differs greatly between the United States and much of the Third World. In Kenya, for example, the average person lives on $775 per year. The average American lives on $47,184 per year."

Please go read the rest over on my friend Fr. Scott's blog.

People say "charity begins at home." But friends, what happens at home is self-service. True charity is reaching out a little further, a little care for strangers or even (oh the thought of it!) for an enemy. There is no faceless, distant "other" in the eyes of our God. Thanks, Scott, for telling it like it is.

Local Artists

2011-12-02T18:38:00.000-08:00

I found the coolest gift for my sister-in-law tonight, made by a local artist.

China Boycott year two has definitely taken an "off the internet" turn. For one thing, its almost impossible to know for sure where things are made if you order from big sites like Amazon. And all the interesting native craft sites I found last year are pretty much offering the same fare this year, so two years in a row ain't happening.

So I'm forced from my introverted little hidey hole into my COMMUNITY! Supporting local artists is always fun, mostly just to see what they've created over the past year. While I firmly believe in the message I posted below, there are some people in my life who have flat out told me they will be disappointed if they don't get gifts. As in people over legal driving age who know better.

I hate shopping, but I have to admit, snooping local artistry is kind of like a museum tour rather than shopping. We saw some cool stuff we'd never even try to afford, but it was fun to see it. And I walked about in town, found a few neat places I didn't know existed, saw a few folks I knew, talked with shopkeepers.

What we did buy benefited the local arts center, so that was a win, too.

For those of you in the area, the Sweetwater Center for the Arts will continue their Holiday mArt through the weekend. Cool stuff there.

2011-12-02T13:57:00.001-08:00

On "Ignorance"

2011-12-01T12:31:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine posted this article on the Kentucky congregation which will not allow membership for interracial couples. She wasn't the only one to post this to Facebook today, apparently a lot of people are shocked and appalled and want to tell the world via Facebook. Fine. But this particular friend was perhaps the most interesting person to post the article, as she is a Korean adoptee to Caucasian parents now married to a Caucasian husband and raising two adorable Korean kids. So she knows she's got a horse in this race. No problem.

I read the article. I have several horses in this race too. My youngest, as most of you know, is adopted from Korea. Our family is of mixed ethnic heritage. My kids may grow up to marry someone of another race or not, but either my youngest marries transracially or I get a Korean daughter-in-law some day. Either way is fine, but you know how folks will talk!

I read the article, and I saw in it people I know. My own grandmother, the only time I ever heard the infamous "N-word" used in actual person to person conversation, freaked out at the idea of interracial marriage. She'd been born and bred in those same Kentucky mountains, but a few decades out of those hills didn't change her ideas about interracial marriage. She wasn't being mean, she wasn't being hateful, but boy the idea rocked her world.

I posted a response to my friend on Facebook saying, "I understand this... not saying its right, but I understand. Culturally these Kentucky mountain pockets are very clan-oriented. They come out of the Scottish highlands a few hundred years ago and have been isolated and inward looking ever since. Outsiders come to be seen as a threat to their culture. They're not hateful people but their worlds are very closed. My grandmother was dead set against interracial marriage, even decades after she moved out of those mountains. Add to that the idea that they come from a tradition that takes the Bible as word-for-word literal without demanding interpretation within context (both narrative and historical context) and that early on God tells the Hebrew people not to marry outside their race.... of course he told them that because to do so was to marry outside the faith (which the church still discourages for obvious reasons) at the risk of introducing foreign gods to Israel. When Jesus came for all people, this idea of race shifted radically, but these folks don't realize that. They want to do the right thing, they just have no idea what that is. You or I would probably genuinely like some of these people, they just wouldn't have the tools for understanding us and our families."

In other words, we may not agree with this, but we do need to understand what motivates the idea. We can't communicate with people if we just label them ignorant and backwards, as so many people were doing in the Facebook marketplace. Someone else wrote back that the problem wasn't racism so much as bad theology, and on that I agree.

But I was shocked that others responded to this by stamping feet, calling people ignorant and declaring the "rationalization" of this behavior to be wrong and equally ignorant. I had thought that the root of ignorance is having the information available and choosing to ignore it, and ignorance here seems to fall to those who are told that this is why a small group of people is behaving in this way but choose instead to label that group as somehow less than themselves.

Members of my own family, a mere generation ago, would have agreed with this, not because they were ignorant, but because they simply did not have all the data available to them. And yet they would be called ignorant by those who do have the data today. They would be called hateful too, although these same people would give anyone of any race the very shirt off their backs. There's a deep hospitality in those mountains, very little hate for the stranger (though the nosy neighbor and those who would trespass on perceived privacy and rights best watch their back) in those hills. Its not hate, just clan behavior. But there's also a deep spirituality, not of ignorance but of devotion. Unfortunately its a spirituality that's fallen prey to some of the worst teaching in Christendom.

This is the problem of much of Protestantism, the idea that we're all theologians, me and my Jesus, and there's no canon for measuring the good theology from the bad. But the thing about Christianity is that we recognize that we have problems and that these who have been so poorly taught are not to be scorned but loved, they are our brothers. Jesus died for such as these. The same is true when we look at Christians of other races, Christians who hold to differing opinions, Christians of other nationalities.

To cast off a brother as "ignorant" and "intolerant" without attempting to understand the root of the error, to walk a mile or two in their shoes, is, in the Christian way of thinking, to do unto others exactly what we accuse them of doing. And to watch it happen is utterly, shockingly, horrifying.

China Free Toys

2011-11-29T19:15:00.000-08:00

A little help for folks shopping for kids and going China-Free this year! I stumbled across this blog when checking to see if the Melissa and Doug item I had hoped to buy on Amazon (which doesn't give country of origin information for any of their products!!! Thanks for nothing, Amazon.) was made in China or not... I was shocked to find that Melissa and Doug items are usually Chinese made. They go on about their quality, but that's not so much the point as the exploitative nature of Chinese manufacture. But Huzzah, thanks to China-Free Toys Blog, I found an alternative.

Advent Sijo for Dave

2011-11-28T08:26:00.000-08:00

Why the hurry? Why the rush?
Advent comes just once a year.
Waiting, fasting, expectation,
The savior draws near to us.
In human form, divinity--
And we waste it all at WalMart.

China Boycott, year two, day one.....

2011-11-25T09:42:00.000-08:00

Thus begins my "Black Friday" to Christmas boycott of everything made in China, for the second year. I strongly encourage you all to participate in this! Last year resulted in fewer gifts, but all thought out, fun to give and interesting, elegant offerings. It made sense, to think about what we're doing, do less of it, and offer gifts to our loved ones which reflect our love for them rather than expressing our credit limits.

I drove by the local WalMart on the way back to my mother's house from my inlaws' Thanksgiving dinner. We'd stayed late at auntie-in-law's house (because my inlaws are frankly too much fun for words; these folks should have to come with a warning label) and as we drove by the WalMart parking lot at almost 11:00 pm on Thanksgiving we could see that the lot was already full, not just crowded or busy but space by space from close to the farthest corner of the concrete jungle, full. Full of people mindlessly giving up a relaxing family time, replete and mellow with dinner's afterglow, whose families are obviously not fun enough to wear warning labels in their estimation, who failed to take the time to enjoy one another. Full of people mindlessly looking for deals, submitting to marketing, being flooded with Christmas mutations that scream over stuff. Full of people pouring dollars into China, forced abortions, environmental sabotage, sweatshops, and abused North Korean refugees, in order to buy cheap plastic junk that will collect dust until it breaks and joins the rest of the holiday hoorah in the local landfills. Greedy people encouraging greedy industry at every level.

Whatever your political drum, mindless merchandise is societal death. It brings out the worst in us.

Will I shop today? probably not. But I might venture out. My mother has found a small local shopkeeper, a candle seller here in Knoxville, who expressed to her in casual conversation that she's no longer carrying merchandise made in China. I don't know about buying anything, but I think we may venture over. I'd like to meet her. Thank her. And if the product suits, I might even financially support her courage by buying a few appropriate gifts there.

Other gifts, for those of you who would like to follow in my tracks from last year, have come from the Hunger Site for lovely gifts that give back and Shepherd's Flock a locally grown business where you can actually get to know the people who make the things that keep your toes and ears warm.

So happy hunting. Enjoy the sport of it. Give gifts that give back. Think about those you love. And glorify God in the giving. Anything less is not worthy of the joy and mystery of the Christmas that's coming.

Miles to go before we sleep....

2011-11-22T17:54:00.000-08:00

Well, we're taking our show on the road again. They say that in England a hundred miles is a long way and in America a hundred years is a long time. Very well. A hundred miles doesn't seem like much to the American road-tripper, but oh five hundred miles in a station wagon with three kids sure does wear thin. I dread the trip, I complained about it before we were even a hundred miles from home. I got bored, and I got silly. I'll spare you the video I made as we were headding down the endless highway.

There's nothing like a good old American road trip to remind us how big our world is. We may say the world is getting smaller, with our cars, computers and jet airplanes, but slowed down to daily life, we see very little of the world. Our scope is so limited. Slowed down to the speed of a walk, a horse, we're small indeed.

Anyway, I dread the ride back. I'll likely get bored. But for now here I am. And maybe I'll figure some great cosmic truth out on the way home.

Or maybe I'll just go out of my mind with boredom and start watching the kids' cartoons on my iPod and let them fend for themselves. They're strapped down back there; how much damage can they possibly do?

(Don't answer that!)

Now We are Six

2011-11-18T07:15:00.000-08:00

My littlest kiddo is six years old today. He's been hanging around our house and eating our food for just over five of those years. Its hard to believe how fast time flies. In another five years our eldest will be off at some college somewhere (God willing).

Anyway, little guy is six. The hugs are good. He's reading a bit. He's great at math and taekwondo. He's got a neat sense of humor... I guess we'll keep him.

Pleasant Surprises

2011-11-13T18:09:00.000-08:00

I had forgotten; church planting is all about surprises. Some of them not so pleasant, like the police showing up at Edgeworth one fateful night or the multitude of forgotten items that are not where they're supposed to be when they're needed. Those surprises are somehow more easily remembered, they're the stuff of stories. And when the parish is ten years old, they're told at reunions and celebrations over bad parish coffee in the undercroft. But the pleasant surprises fade too quickly and need more to be recorded.

Today we had a visit from Dave (aka OlDave who kindly comments from time to time) and from a friend of the organist who had poked his head in at the old place a few times in recent weeks. I had felt that we weren't ready for guests, we hadn't gotten our liturgical space down quite and things still went bump at the altar. I'd been reluctant to invite folks because we weren't polished.

Too many years in theater in my misspent youth.

Worship isn't a show. It isn't going to be polished. Its about us coming before God's altar to be polished up. And its pride which stands between us and inviting friends to church, almost always.

And I had forgotten that until guests did show up. And no, things weren't polished (one of the -- brand spankin' new first time we'd managed to get candles on the altar ever -- candles almost made more of a light than we had intended (thanks we think to a localized draft from the main doors) and there's still that typo in the service book that I keep forgetting to mention to the rector, and I'm sure any number of other blips that mean nothing to God. The bigger blips are in us, not things that just happen.

Anyway, I guess that means the parish is open for business... we're not hanging out a sign just yet, but if you want directions, you know how to ask. :)

Veterans' Day, Prosperity, and Just Not Getting It.

2011-11-11T19:44:00.000-08:00

We get told a lot that we should support our troops. And I'm on board with that. But as a GenX American, I don't have any clue about how supporting our troops is accomplished. It doesn't seem to me that waving our flag and rah-rah'ing America supports much of anybody except our self-congratulatory self-esteem, self-serving feelings.

Everyone's pretty clear that hollering "bring them home" isn't support, although I'm pretty firmly convinced that wasting their lives in foolish wars is neither supporting them nor preparing our country in the event a not-so-foolish war breaks into our common life. But in an all volunteer army, I can see how shouting "bring them home" is almost insulting, how it says to the manliest men America has that they're not able to figure out what is a wise use of their lifeblood and what is a fools errand.

In wars of old the people rationed stuff. Maybe that's part of the problem. We have too much stuff. Civilians don't have to sacrifice for our troops. And it is all too clear to those who are risking and sacrificing daily that we wouldn't, as a nation, be willing to sacrifice. We're glad to have a military class go off and sacrifice, we have people to do that, daaaahling.

Yellow Ribbon Girls are a sweet organization that sends useful stuff to soldiers, like sunscreen and snacks and encouraging letters. I guess that is support and I'm sure its appreciated. But it seems kind of paltry compared to the Greatest Generation's war rations and rubber drives and so forth. And how many people have even heard of the Yellow Ribbon Girls? Yeah. Figured.

I don't know. I think its cool that we have an all volunteer military. I don't believe that countries that can't muster an army without coersion have any business going to war. A volunteer army is a passionate army and that's the stuff real leadership is made of.

But I don't believe that most of the wars we fight are just wars or even "protecting our way of life" these days. Our leaders seem to expend life foolishly, though I admit that they know much that I don't know. I know I would never have sent men off to fight and die in Korea, if I'd been alive in the Fifties, but I also know in that hindsight that's 20/20 that the US Alliance with South Korea bore tremendous fruit on that penninsula (and my youngest kiddo is part of that fruit).

I do have little patience with the icon going around facebook right now that says "Thanksgiving is a day when we pause to give thanks for what we have; Veterans' Day is a day when we pause to give thanks to the people who fought for the things we have." Way to trivialize our lives to our stuff. I hope nobody ever feels called to fight and die for my "things."

I'll admit, I don't say the Pledge or wave the flag. I have one allegiance and my earthly country isn't it. But I do think we can do a heck of a lot better as Christians in loving the people who are called to the military life; men who feel the need to put their lives on the line (whether we think foolishly or not) for the sake of others. But I look around me and I see a bunch of people who wag flags around (and make them into such things as shirts and swimsuits... is patriotism really about wearing your flag on your butt?? That makes no sense to me!) and hoot and holler but sacrifice nothing and love little.

And frankly, I just don't get it.

Begin-againdings

2011-11-10T15:45:00.000-08:00

I am one of those unfortunate souls who rather likes to let everything pile up on my desk until it becomes such an overwhelming mess that I knock the whole thing into the trash bin and start over. I said to my husband tonight, wouldn't it be nice to throw out everything we own and start again? Partly that's because I have that intuitive perceiver personality type that just goes with the moment until the moment arrives that things have gotten out of control. Partly its due to my personal value for running life lean enough to turn on a dime. I'm not good at it (as my body shape and house clutter both attest) but I value it.

Its rare, in life, that you get the opportunity to knock everything off the table and start over. A major move, perhaps, but that's about all I can think of. And since throwing out the baby with the bathwater is patently unhealthy, I suppose its right that the opportunity be rare.

But that is, vocationally, what a friend and I have done. Sunday was our last Sunday in an established church, one with a real roof and floor, a mailing address and place to keep our stuff. After years of telling the congregation that they had to be willing to let the building and all its contents go, we did just that. We dared to walk away. We now store the entire inventory of our congregation's stuff in a box under the table in my hallway.

Its been ten years since I lived this lifestyle, passing off 'the mobile sacristy' from one car to another, making checklists of what needed to be in 'the box' each week, forgetting things and making do, watching after one another in the event the forgotten stuff wasn't mine, doing all the weird tasks of the church because there's not yet someone who likes to do the behind the scenes stuff like baking bread and buying wine (although we have a lady who washes the linens, may God grant her many years).

But its easier this time, in some ways. There's no mother church to split our time with (though I wouldn't trade the years at Grace in both places for anything). There's heat and light (though Grace in the Mausoleum was utterly wonderous beyond words). But I feel, without that mother church, profoundly that we're on our own out there. Its just us and our meager gifts and the grace of God. And I tend to see the grace of God as if through the wrong end of a telescope, sometimes, as further away and smaller than reality would indicate.

Its different and kind of free-floating. I've served a couple of parishes that spoil their clergy, picking up after me as I go along. There's no one to pick up after me here.

But everythings is fresh and new. I'm good at beginnings. Its endings that I don't do so well. I resonate well with a God who makes all things new.

Anyway, that's the long way of saying, wish us luck. We're church planters again. And that's kind of groovy.

Ancestor Worship and the Episcopal Church

2011-11-07T16:15:00.001-08:00

No tricks, but treats, prayer, music as Episcopalians honor the departed in weekend of celebrations

By Pat McCaughan, October 28, 2011

[Episcopal News Service] "Trunks or treats," ghoulishly gripping music, eek-o friendly organic pumpkin giveaways, and commemorative ancestor altars — both real and virtual — are just some of the ways Episcopal churches are planning to observe the tricky triduum of Halloween, All Saints Day and All Souls Day.

All three holidays — Halloween or All Hallow's Eve on Oct. 31, All Saints Day on Nov. 1 and the Nov. 2 All Souls Day celebration, also known as the Commemoration of All Faithful Departed — are meant for prayers and remembrance of those who have died. In Latin American culture, Dia de los Muertos is observed Nov. 1-2, and is also a day to remember the beloved departed….

… Grace Episcopal Church in Oak Park, Illinois in the Episcopal Diocese of Chicago participated in an Oct. 15 communitywide "Green Halloween," according to the Rev. Shawn Schreiner, rector.

Billed as "the healthy, eek-o friendly and fun revolution," Green Halloween is a four-year-old program that began in Seattle and has spread to more than 70 U.S. cities this year, according to the organization's website. It aims to create child and earth-friendly holiday traditions, beginning with Halloween.

Schreiner said Grace served as the registration site, handing out little organic pumpkins to trick or treaters and other visitors to local businesses. "We had a D.J. playing music as well and offered organic apple cider and passed out organic popcorn to folks as they were coming in and sending them forth."

The event "was a new opportunity to step it up a level to begin to have some conversations and sermons around carbon footprint and what it means to make it a healthy environment for those of us here today and for those who will inherit what we have done or have not done," said Schreiner….

…On Oct. 27 Lupe Garcia, 35, spent several hours creating a three-tiered altar for the annual Dia de Los Muertos observance at Immanuel Episcopal Church, El Monte in the Diocese of Los Angeles…..

…Because her grandmother loved honey, Garcia placed a jar of the gooey goodie on the altar, along with pan de muerto, bread of the dead -- white sweetbread shaped in the form of a cross and sugar-coated.

She also placed mementoes in honor of about eight others of her extended family, and two of her children, Emanuel and Lupita, who were stillborn, on the altar. Along with photos are edible pumpkin, coffee and even a beer bottle for a relative who enjoyed a cerveza now and then.

Despite its skeletons and sugar skulls, the Day of the Dead is not another version of Halloween ghosts and goblins, but a day of remembrance for loved ones who have died, said the Rev. Gary Bradley, Immanuel's rector.

According to Latin and Central American tradition, spirits of loved ones return on Dia de los Muertos — Nov. 1 or All Saints for children and All Souls on Nov. 2 for adults — and need refreshments, so favorite foods and beverages are placed on the altars for them.

Sugar skulls bearing the names of those commemorated are also placed on the altar, along with flores de muerto, flowers of the dead, cempasuchil or gold marigolds, and candles. The marigolds are sometimes strewn along the way, to help the beloved departed find their way to the altars, he said.

The rest can be found here.

Yes, brothers and sisters… “Eek-o-friendly” indeed. Sermons on the carbon footprint, ancestor worship, Latin Paganism… these are a few of TEC’s favorite things, apparently. Good lord deliver us.

Totally off any sort of topic this blog may have ever had: Restaurant Review, Saga in Cranberry Township PA

2011-11-07T10:41:00.000-08:00

I tried to write all this to Saga's management directly on their web page, but apparently you can only send them short pithy remarks. So I've directed them here, and you can all share in my letter to the management. You might want to take a break first and pop popcorn. It promises to be lengthy and entertaining. I am nothing if not entertaining, right gentle readers?

To: Saga Restaurants

Dear sir,
After our recent visit to your Cranberry Township restaurant, our first (and last) visit to Saga, I felt it worthwhile that you be aware of the sort of experience your customers are receiving.
We arrived on time for our 6:30 reservation on Saturday 11/5. After waiting in a somewhat cramped space behind the party that came in right before us for a while (along with a second party that joined us and cut through to be seated somehow that seemed at the time to make a little sense) the other party was seated and we were told that we would be seated shortly. A few moments later, the hostess informed us that we would be delayed "a few minutes while we find some menus." I was unaware until this time that the Menu is a rare and endangered exotic animal which much be stalked slowly through the kitchens and storage rooms of restaurant chains. I formerly believed that they were inanimate, incapable of hiding themselves either by methods of concealment or escape, usually made of mere paper and easily located by restaurant staff. I am now more sophisticated in my understanding of this rare and fanatstical creature.
Apparently finding menus involves two members of the front end staff taking extensive pictures for an overdressed party of late-teens or early twentysomethings, presumably a late Homecoming event. After several minutes of watching their photos being made, we were again addressed and informed that they were still having trouble finding those menus. I was close to pointing out the small pile of take-out menus on the front desk next to me, when we were ushered to our seats. Take-out menus, however, must be the protected young of the endangered menu-beast and unacceptable for hunting. These grazed freely and unmolested on the desk.
All in all this was nothing more than an amusement, lasting perhaps 10-15 minutes. Within a resonable time after being seated, a soft spoken waitress took the order for our party of five (including two small children).
Appetizers were brought within a reasonable time expectation, and the crab rangoon was quite good. We were a little alarmed to find the soggy receipt for a previous customer attached firmly to the bottom of the plate containing the edamame we ordered, but otherwise nothing was out of place. (For the record, the receipt was not for edamame but for drinks and how it came to be attached to the bottom of the dish is absolutely beyond comprehension unless it was being trained in the escape and concealment skills of the menu-beast.)
During the course of our appetizer, a second family (including another two small children) was seated at our grill section. Knowing the routine in places like this, we expected this would cause delay. We had no idea how much delay we were in for!
I must say at this point that the restaurant is well named. What proceded was a meal of epic porportions, a true saga indeed. While our soup was being brought to our table, I noticed another grill section being filled with people across the restaurant from us. These folks having arrived about half an hour after us, and about twenty minutes after the second family at our table would eventually see a chef far faster than we did.
Our soup was brought, and salads, and that was the last we saw of the wait staff. There was not even so much as a refill on my husband's cup of tea for the next half an hour. In the course of serving the soup, the waitress spilt a noticble amount of soup on the floor, but no effort was made to clean it up. On further reflection, it may be that the waitress was a secret agent for the protection of the menu-beast and the soup perhaps is how these are fed in the wild. When our chef arrived I was concerned that he might slip in the soup puddle, but perhaps unobserved the menubeast had slurped it up in the intervening hour.
After waiting at the table for a full hour, seeing other families come and go, and noting that families seated later than us had already received their entrees, our family became understandibly irritable. The children began to melt off of their seats in one direction or another, their patience exhausted. We began giving forlorn looks to any staff person who passed our table, but apparently they had all been well trained in ignoring puppy-dog-eyes. Another family was seated at the grill across from ours and we considered slipping them a note saying "run while you can."
Eventually an employee slowed near our table long enough for me to ask "Will there be dinner tonight." He looked appropriately confused by my remark and made no reply, but a waitress returned within five minutes promising that there would be a chef at our table "soon."
It was one hour and fifteen minutes after seating that we finally saw our chef. All the other chefs were high-energy and by the time ours arrived we were rather dreading the show. We were fortunate to have a chef who was able to sense that we weren't interested in being much entertained. He was delightful and didn't push the showmanship too far. We also ended up with a second chef croweded into the area, as the other party apparently merited much faster service.
It was fully two and a half hours that we ended up spending on this dinner and just over $100. At no time did a waitress come by and ask if our food was okay or our experience satisfactory. After the chef left, we never heard a single word from the wait staff. They also took a rather long time processing our credit card. Perhaps they were again distracted with the need to hunt for menus for another family.
While we understand that a Saturday night is a busy time in a restaurant, Saga was far from capacity and made no attempt to acknowledge or apologize for the slow service. Our meal was overpriced (and our rice undercooked) and mediocre.
I am not writing because I want coupons (trust me, you can keep them). I am writing because I am the daughter of a small business owner and my father would have wanted to know if his clientele was dissatisfied. I presume that you should want to know these things also.
On second thought, perhaps the menu is so rare in this establishment because starving patrons have resorted to eating them in order to survive.
We won't be back.

Eastern Orthodox News: Quick Someone Get That Man a Terrible Towel

2011-11-05T20:18:00.000-07:00

Found here!

Appointment humbles new Orthodox bishop

Saturday, November 05, 2011

By Ann Rodgers, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

A tech-savvy scholar and commentator on popular culture has been elected metropolitan bishop of the Greek Orthodox Metropolis of Pittsburgh.

Bishop Savas of Troas, a 54-year-old native of Gary, Ind., will succeed Metropolitan Maximos, who resigned Sept. 1 for health reasons after 32 years as bishop.

"I'm humbled. It's a very big thing to be entrusted with a metropolis, but especially to follow in the footsteps of such a good and holy man as Metropolitan Maximos," Metropolitan Savas said Friday.

The bishops at the Ecumenical Patriarchate in Constantinople, Turkey, elected him Thursday from atop a list of three candidates chosen by the bishops of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America.

Despite his monastic garb and Oxford University doctorate, he said, "I'm from a steel town in Indiana, so I have an affinity for places like Pittsburgh."

He offered to forsake his NFL team in New York, citing the presence of Steelers defensive back Troy Polamalu.

Welcome to Pittsburgh Metropolitan Savas.

Diocesan Convention

2011-11-05T06:23:00.000-07:00

This morning the diocese of Pittsburgh welcomed 21 new parishes, missions, and mission in formation congregations. More of them are beyond the "Burgh" than local, and it must be an overwhelming thing to meet with the "beyond the Burgh" district caucuses. Pittsburgh is everywhere, and with tipping our balance a little outside the local Pittsburgh village, everywhere is coming to be Pittsburgh.

We got the first peep of a church that will be leaving us to be joining their own diocese, and by this time next year we may be bidding them fare-well. And as mutterings come to fruition, I expect more church plants to be accepted next year.

On the legislative front, the convention is, as was said of last year's event, 'boring.' But relationally, dynamically, in our character and fellowship, we're anything but boring. I spent lunch today with Pittsburgh leaders from California and Wisconsin, break with Springield, MO. We're raising up churches (and therefore deacons) from coast to coast. And we're faced with how to export our resources and successes and grow because of who and what are being imported, however temporarily.

It is cool to be in Pittsburgh.

2011-11-04T07:23:00.000-07:00

Student Suspended for Breaking School's Zero-Tolerance No-Hugging Policy

PALM BAY, Fla. – A 14-year-old Florida student who hugged his friend was suspended as a result of his middle school's zero-tolerance no-hugging policy, myFOXorlando.com reported.

Nick Martinez said he gave a quick hug to his best friend, a female student, between classes.

The public display of affection was spotted by the principal of Palm Bay's Southwest Middle School, 74 miles southeast of Orlando. While the principal said he believed the hug was innocent, he brought the two students to the school's dean, who penalized them with in-school suspensions.

According to the Southwest Middle School's student handbook, students can receive a one-day out-of-school suspension for kissing, while students caught hugging or hand-holding are penalized with a dean's detention or suspension.

School administrators said a committee of parents approved the "no hugging" policy years ago, and there aren't plans to change it any time soon.

The school's strict policy stipulates that there is no difference between an unwanted hug, or sexual harassment, and a hug between friends.

Christine Davis, spokesman for Brevard County School said the school's "focus is on learning; therefore, we cannot discriminate or make an opinion on what is an appropriate hug, what's not an appropriate hug," said Davis. "What you may think is appropriate, another person may view as inappropriate."

"A lot of friends are hugging. I just happened to be the one caught doing it," Nick said. "Honestly, I didn't know because I didn't think hugging was a bad thing. I didn't know you could get suspended for it."

Nick's mother, Nancy Crecente, said she plans to ask the school board to change the policy.

I went to school with some guys who would have never survived high school if they were suspended every time they hugged a girl. One of them, a sweet guy who never meant anything inappropriate, was so notorious for hugging us girls, that one April Fool's day we got the vice principal involved in a prank that looked just like the reality posted above. Our friend was called in and written up for "Public Displays of Affection" and it wasn't until he'd gotten the whole treatment that the vice principal handed him an envelope (aka "letter home") that was really a note from his friends saying we'd hoaxed him.

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

What I find most amazing is the principal saying that because the focus is on learning they can't discriminate between a hug and harrassment. Last I checked, learning was all about discriminating between right and wrong, good and bad, correct and incorrect. Its like saying that because the focus is on writing they can't be bothered to teach research methods. Who are these people?

The mother of course, plans to take this to the school board. Good for her. But may I suggest she simply vote with her feet. Get her kid out of there.

And newsflash to school systems: in-school suspension is far worse for the kid than at home suspension. I never knew why schools deluded themselves into thinking it was the other way around. Heck there's all sorts of cool stuff to do at home. School is not the priviledge you think it is. And sitting in the suspension room staring at a wall is only moderately less boring than what most kids experience in the classroom anyway.

Taking one for the team

2011-10-28T16:37:00.000-07:00

My son plays flag football. He's fourteen, fast and agile. Not much of a real football player type, but he's a good flag puller. The top six teams are in the play-offs tomorrow, and fifth place Allison Park is on the field bright and early.

And in the last few minutes of the last practice, guess who got smacked in the face, hard, against another player's shoulder. He's being good natured about it, but he's got a good sized knot and is guaranteed a bruise to match by morning. He does not want to play tomorrow morning.

But he's going.
He's going so his teammates can see that he's okay. He got hit hard and an injured teammate is bad for morale. They need to know he's fine.
He is going so that he can be there for his team. If he'd broken both legs, he'd still be going. They need to know he's there for them.
He is going so that the teammate he collided with can see that there are no hard feelings. They'll see each other in class on Monday, but sooner is always better for such things.
He's going, hopefully, to play in the tournament. He needs to know that he's not as injured as he feels and that he can shake it off with the best of them.

So my young'un is going to play football tomorrow, with a bruised up face, and hopefullly a black belt attitude. He's probably still going to have that bruise a week later when he competes in a martial arts tournament.

And whether he brings home a trophy or not, once that bruise fades, he'll have lasting reminders in who he is becoming, how he handles crisis, and how he remembers to put a team first.

And it seems that is a good lesson for the adults around him, too. In crisis, turmoil, on the rough waters the church is sailing, every man for himself is a doomed philosophy. But catholicity, unity, the things the church is to be, will make us better through and in response to the adversity, once all is said and done.

Fifteen authors, for good or ill

2011-10-26T19:58:00.000-07:00

There's this thing going around on Facebook... its been there for ages, where you are supposed to take no more than fifteen minutes to list the fifteen authors you find most influential. I thought I'd bring this over here, though, because I like the question and want to spend a little more time with the idea, not just making a list but thinking about why. So here's my list:

1. John the Evangelist-- I think it would be cheating to say "the Bible" or to list other biblical writers in the next fourteen spaces, so I'm boiling down the expected Bible entry to just this one. Why John? Well, because with John (who I firmly believe is the writer of not only the Gospel, but also the Epistles and Revelation, modern scholars can say what they like to the contrary, but I don't buy it) its not just about his content but about the way the mind is shaped to soar to new heights in theologically shaped devotion. The language of John is rich and lush and vibrant, just like the whole incarnation and resurrection, kingdom and creation that John spreads out at our feet.
2. Ephrem the Syrian-- his poem "On the Death of a Deacon" defines the order of deacons, a fourth century voice every deacon should hear. I know, that's the least of Ephrem's wonderous written works, but for me, its everything.
3. Victor Hugo-- unabridged, thank you. Les Miserables is almost cliche, but the full version of Hunchback of Notre Dame is hautning and deep and, well, miserable. I was so offended when Disney sank their claws into Hugo's work.
4. Thomas Hardy-- Similar reasons, only the Jude the Obscure, Mayor of Casterbridge... Hardy plumbs the depth of human desperation
5. Gustav Flaubert-- because Madame Bovary taught me, when I was only seventeen, that our own problems always seem huge in our own eyes and maybe it is a bad plan to idealize what we think other people have.
6. Elisabeth Fiorenza-- Because the overly verbose waste of time that is entitled In Memory of Her that so awed my classmates, taught me to question people with PhD's and that maybe, just maybe, the biggest windbag in the room wasn't the smartest and a twenty year old undergraduate might just be able to shoot holes in the writer's argument.
7. Thomas Aquinas-- Summa Theologica, nice and all, but for me its about the hymnody.
8. Linda Sue Park-- a peek into the history and people of Korea, in story and suitable for children.
9. Cranmer-- Book of Common Prayer... 'nuff said
10. Arthur Miller-- the Crucible. My first introduction, as a high school freshman, to the meaning of the word witch hunt, the importance of going against the tide, and the possibility of mass hysteria, and how the good guys are really never all good and the bad guys never all bad.
11. Douglas Wilson-- Angels in the Architecture and a lot of good stuff on homeschooling and culture and the tools of classical education. But he also makes me scream for his uberpresbyterianism. But the word is influential, not necessarily favorite. Althought Angels in the Architecture is definitely a favorite. Everyone should read that.
12. Susan Wise Bauer and Jessie Wise-- because I bought into the classical education model. And because I've used their stuff to teach my kids. And because I wonder how or if Bauer really does have the life I dream of or if she fakes it.
13. Allen Ross- Because exegesis is beautiful, like music or painting and literal doesn't mean closed minded or ignorant and serious scholarship can be joyful.
14. Abraham Joshua Heschel and Chaiam Potok-- they share this spot because, between the two of them, Hasidism captured my imagination. And suddenly Christianity didn't have to exist in a vacuum.
15. Jodi Picoult-- I disagree vehemently with her politics, with which she infuses every single book, but she's not afraid of controversy and she sure can weave a story. I read her when my brain wants to take a little vacation.

There you have it... I wonder what this says about me. I have a few honorable mentions too:
David Mills, Saints' Guide to Knowing the Real Jesus
Simon Winchester, Korea, a Walk through the Land of Miracles
Matthew Polly, American Shaolin
Sharon Shinn's Archangel series
Heilie Lee, Still Life with Rice
Simon Weisenthal, The Sunflower

These didn't change so much how I think, but they made me think a little bigger somehow. And isn't the mark of a good book the captivity of the imagination?

PA Supreme Court, Adult Supervision, and other things that are obviously not so obvious

2011-10-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

My nine year old was reading the intstructions on his new remote controlled helicopter yesterday. He's been through a million of these little "pocket copters" as he calls them, and when they inevitably break they become electronics projects. So he's reading the directions and warnings out loud, some of which are a bit amusing. Finally he comes to "Adult Supervision Required" and he adds in his cynical nine year old voice "ha ha."

I'm really not sure why adult supervision is required for a pocket copter, except that my nine year old is inherently dangerous anyway.

But kind of like the "contents may be hot" labels on disposable coffee cups, the courts sometimes require us to state the obvious to cover our butts. And if we fail to do so, we have legal precedent that on our own heads be it. Heck, you can probably sue in this day and age if the weatherman predicts clouds and you neglect sunscreen and get burned. Look up, figure it out.

Adult supervision required.

So the PA Supreme Court has refused to hear the appeal of the Pittsburgh church property case. This is a clear case of failed butt covering on our part. The strict interpretation of the Pittsburgh stipulation seems, to me, to sign over pretty much everything. And the courts seem to be agreeing with that. The property ownership is as clear as looking up reveals a cloudless sky. Its obvious that churches don't 'belong' either to individuals or denominations but to God. It is just as obvious that the fair and kind response is to let worshiping communities have the buildings they've maintained and sustained for generations. But the stipulation says you have to put "contents may be hot" on your coffee cups, "buildings may be taken" on your cornerstones. The stipulation signs away all logical and compassionate answers to the questions that ordinary circumstances would consider too mundane to bother asking.

So we lost. I hope its over. Like every other petty, greedy lawsuit out there, the victors can count their ill-gotten gains, legally gained sure, but legal abuse. And the losers can move forward, do mission, love Jesus.

And hopefully we won't have to remind normal parents to pay attention to their kids.
or coffee drinkers that their beverage is hot.
or Christians that its wrong to sue one another.
or churches that their churches, their lives, their sacred honor is not their own.
or dioceses that those things don't belong to them either.

TEC-Pittsburgh and Mark Lawrence

2011-10-17T07:41:00.000-07:00

My friend the Anglican Yinzer has posted some entries which made me wonder a few things. I posted my initial remarks on his site, but I thought I'd expound here, because its still rattling around in my mind.

Way back, (a long time ago, children, before there was an ACNA... amazing, I know) when we were all one diocese here in Pittsburgh, the conservative clergy (or so called) gathered together to try to figure out what we should do about the problems we were facing. We had already pubically declared that we would stand for the Gospel "whatever the cost" and had begun to calculate that cost.

There were three major groups of opinions, all firmly held and boldly proclaimed, but the minority opinion was that we should "Stay in TEC and build a firewall" against the influence of the national church. The main proponent of that idea was Jim Simons, of subsequent TEC/PGH fame. Jim assured us that we could remain faithful and remain within TEC and protect our people from what the national church was doing. This was the start of the twelve conservative clergy who then broke ranks with the rest of us to attempt to maintain relationship with TEC.

Maybe I'm naive, but when the real split happened and those twelve stayed behind in TEC, I figured that would really be their strategy, made more difficult for the fact that the voting majority had just left (I can sympathize with that). I was a little shocked when it seemed that they were no longer trying to build that firewall and were in fact welcoming TEC into the diocese. Had something changed?

But now I really wonder. Over in South Carolina, Mark Lawrence has publically proposed exactly what the Pittsburgh Twelve once believed so strongly in that they were willing to be seen as betraying their bishop and friends, to stay in TEC and build a firewall. Bishop Lawrence has never made a move to leave TEC and it looks for all the world that he has no intention of leaving. All he's done is to attempt to make a firewall.

I understand why TEC is a little paranoid. There was a time after all when Bishop Duncan thought he could stay and work within the system, too. From the TEC point of view, that didn't work out so well for them. But what I don't understand is why the people who know best the strategy of working from within haven't made a peep in Bishop Lawrence's defense. Have they abandoned completely the idea of building a firewall? Is TEC-PGH now welcoming the alien overloards? Or are they just afraid for their own hides (understandable)?

Likewise where is the support from the other bishops who claim a conservative position but also plan to remain within TEC? Or has this become an all out witch hunt, wherein to even associate with the suspected is to bring suspicion on oneself.

Has no one here ever read the Crucible? And for those who have, need I remind you that the events of the book were no mere fiction? I'm too young to personally remember the McCarthy era (against which Miller wrote the Crucible, based on the true events of the Salem Witch Trials) but surely the current situation should ring some alarm bells for many who are watching these events unfold. Or have we failed to learn from history and damned ourselves to repeat it.

Reminders of what interesting times looked like

2011-10-05T07:47:00.001-07:00

Re-posting from Kendall Harmon.... just go read it, ye watchers of Anglicanism.

Pre-Convention Hearings

2011-10-04T21:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it promises to be a boring convention. Most of the resolutions are simple procedural matters to clean up the details where the canons and day to day practice differ. Nothing here is a matter of salvation, ultimate importance, or the lowest level of intrigue. If last year's convention was described as "boring" this one promises to induce coma.

For one ordained into an active battlefield, where every vote in every convention would lead us further down one path or another, a pivotal moment, a weighty matter, this era of conventions is a bit lackluster. Its a rough but necessary lesson that the Church does not exist to feed my sense of self-importance and entertainment. While I'm not one of the major combatants (to whom we owe a great debt in many cases), or a political animal (like my friend over at anglicanyinzer.blogspot.com), I am rather fond of friendly debate. A diocesan convention where there is no disagreement seems to be a waste of time and money. I'm not sure why we can't just show up to dinner on Friday night, and afterwards take ten minutes to a-okay the resolutions and go home.

But I'm aware that that's a sign of a need to grow up and pay attention to the details (that I'd prefer to ignore) and get on with the work of the church, even its minutae. I doubt I'm the only one suffering from that need... most of us are ready to launch into The Next Great Thing (tm) and want to not have time for boring little things... but God is still in the details, too.

So I guess we have some growing up to do, or at least I do (surprise, surprise), but it was nice to spend more time in the post-hearing beer session than in the hearings themselves.

And members of the press, if you're looking for anything intersting happening in the diocese next month... well, let me know if you find anything. For now the interesting things are far from newsworthy, just building relationships and doing day to day ministry, and the occasionally utterly non-exciting entertainmentless resolution on the Convention floor.

LolSaints

2011-09-24T19:12:00.000-07:00

I just now discovered this little blog... and I thought a few of you ~~kindred spirits~~ warped souls would find it amusing.

Homeschool Mom Prepares for Two Days Away....

2011-09-20T15:18:00.000-07:00

Its an overnight, how hard is this? Throw a clean outfit and toothbrush in a bag and walk out the door. Not, definitely and profoundly not rocket science.
Except that my kids are home schooled. At vastly different grade levels. And Dad gets stuck with their pianolessonfootballpracticespanishgreekandkorean flashcardshomeschoolstudycenteronlineclasstaekwondoprojectstoemailtoteachertesttostudyfornewbooktoreadforhomeschoolgroup insanity routine. Most of which rattles around in my head and never sees its way to paper. Ever.

So I'm leaving my husband the usual two days worth of lesson plans. Writing down the plan itself is easy. We all do that. Its the sorting out of how he should record the work, where he can find the online and study center assignment sheets, and passwords for online classrooms that takes a while. I'm sure I've forgotten something. To date I have left him the following notes, all in a haphazard pile to be enjoyed tomorrow... while most wives leave little love notes I've left the following:

ALL OF ISAAC'S ASSIGNMENTS ARE IN THE WHITE NOTEBOOK. LOG HIS HOURS!!!!

(This is an easy note since Isaac is 14 and better be able to figure out his assignments for himself. Except his Art History project, which can wait until I get home. Its a necessary note though, because the white notebook is, conviently and thoughfully, otherwise totally unlabelled. Yup. It makes sense to me... it only needs to make sense to me, right? Right??)

N: FLL#63,64, S.W. two pages, Math 1 less./day, Ginger Pye, SOTW5B, VP>> EVERYTHING ELSE IS IN HIS CARS BINDER!!!

M: WORKBOOKS IN DESK, Math 1.5 less/day, Ginger Pye, S.W. two pages, 100EASYLESS#37-38

Does any of this make sense to anyone who doesn't homeschool? Its like a super secret code. I bet the Taliban is trying to crack this sucker as we speak. My world is a pile of books that only my mind ties one to the other.

And crud, I forgot to remind him to make N practice the Gettysburg Address. Daily. Ratz.

And I'm going to be behind when I get back. There's no mention above of any of their language studies, except Isaac's Spanish (in the white notebook!).

But to those readers who might homeschool it does make sense... I bet you can see exactly how my day goes from those lines of familiar initials used in internet speak so frequently you almost forget what the actual programs and titles they represent are. Add to that the Wednesday piano lesson and Tae Kwon Do lesson and the Thursday football practice and I can account for almost every significant chunk of time between when I wake the yard apes and when they're done with school. Its like a secret Homeschool Handshake... Most people ask "what do you do?" homeschoolers ask "what curriculum do you use?" "FLL/SOTW, SWB is my homie!" "Oh,yeah, us too! Are you using OPGTTR for your kindie?" "Nah, we have been using EZLESS. since the eldest learned."

Its like a blinkin' secret handshake to know which homeschool tribe you belong to. Classical, Unschool, Traditional School at Home, Online, Charolotte Mason??? Or maybe there ought to be a flow chart...

On Anger, Charity, Politics, and Sin.

2011-09-15T08:15:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine posed the question on Facebook, why are Americans so angry at the poor? He was responding to a very well written piece found here.

I like the article, particularly the first part, because the writer articulates well the human sin behind the anger that the middle class is expressing toward the poor right now. We're angry because we guard our wealthy, basically, those treasures where moth and rust consume and thieves (and governments) break in and steal.

What the article fails to articulate is that most people are not angry at the poor directly but at the government who is taking their hard won possessions and distributing them without their consent. The poor are, more precisely, caught in the crossfire.

I remarked to my friend that: Before "entitlement" spending and welfare initiatives, the poor had faces and charity demanded love and relationship. We've taken a lot of those opportunities away with government control of welfare.

And here is where the crux of it lies. Its not in defending one's own wealth, we're supposed to give it away. What the welfare state has truly taken from the "rich" is the opportunity to give freely. When giving is forced, it becomes a begrudged burden. When giving is forced and then given to someone whose need is never truly seen by the giver, it becomes faceless and sterile. And love is lost. And relationship is lost.

Jesus said anyone can give good gifts to his friends. He's right. It is much harder to give to our enemies, strangers, the sterile, faceless need. But when we don't even have an opportunity for relationship to enter into giving, the fallen world becomes resentful and downright angry, not only at the government that takes and mandates but at the one who, often innocently, receives.

My political bias is libertarian. But I also understand that in a fallen world, libertarian becomes libertine and eventually anarchy. I know that we can't maintain a true libertarian utopia. We're too broken, and outside of the liberty of Christ's Kingdom, which comes from true unity and submission, it will never work. And so pragmatically I figure that governments will do what they will do, and rather fatalistically and cynically I figure there's not much point in political rhetoric.

But I do see a real unhealth in taking the responsibility for charity from the hands of the people. Charity should be the result of libertarian sort of giving. Taxation giving isn't giving at all, and both the modern democrats and republicans would rather take what is not their and use it for their own agendas, rather than consider how to return financial management (including giving) to the hands of the people.

Have we grown that lazy and irresponsible towards our brothers and our resources that a giant impersonal government thinks it can step in and take that responsibility from us entirely?

The San Francisco Treat

2011-09-13T18:16:00.000-07:00

Its San Francisco, made out of Jello... how cool is that??
Apparently the "artist" is Liz Hickok, who does stuff like this pretty regularly. On one level its the weirdest thing ever, on another level... well this just looks awesome!!! Anyway, for your viewing enjoyment, folks.

While I'm busily posting desperately important news stories...

2011-09-10T19:39:00.000-07:00

Drunk Swedish elk found in apple tree near Gothenburg
The elk was apparently searching for fermenting apples when she got stuck

A homeowner in southern Sweden got a shock when he found a drunken elk stuck in his neighbour's apple tree.

The animal was apparently on the hunt for fermenting apples when she lost her balance and became trapped in the tree.

Per Johansson, from Saro near Gothenburg, found the elk making a roaring noise in the garden next door.

He called the emergency services, who helped him free the boozed-up beast by sawing off branches. She spent the night recovering in the garden.

The next day she took herself off into the woods with her hangover.

It is not unusual to see elk, or moose as they are known in North America, drunk in Sweden during autumn, when there are plenty of apples about.

Other residents of Saro had seen the elk on the loose in the preceding days.

Mr Johansson said the elk appeared to be sick, drunk, or "half-stupid", the Associated Press reported.

There's even a picture:

Is there a twelve step program for moose??

Rowan to resign????

2011-09-10T15:40:00.000-07:00

Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan William set to quit next year

The Archbishop of Canterbury is planning to resign next year, nearly a decade before he is due to step down, it can be revealed.

Dr Rowan Williams is understood to have told friends he is ready to quit the highest office in the Church of England to pursue a life in academia.

The news will trigger intense plotting behind the scenes over who should succeed the 61-year-old archbishop, who is not required to retire until he is 70.

Bishops have privately been arguing for Dr Williams to stand down, with the Rt Rev Richard Chartres, the Bishop of London, telling clergy he should give someone else a chance after nearly ten years in the post.

Lambeth Palace would not be drawn into confirming or denying whether the archbishop will be leaving next year.

A friend of mine posted this to Facebook, but I don't see it reported in any of the usual places, so I thought I'd pass along for y'all.
The rest is here.

Nuts to you!!!

2011-09-05T10:38:00.000-07:00

Well, soap nuts anyway.

I've been reading, once again, on how toxic our world is and how simple things like our laundry deterget are going to, at some unknown time, rise up in the middle of the night and murder us all in our beds.

Okay, not really.

I'm not much of an environmentalist per se, since I am pretty sure all the hooplah in the media is bunk, phoney science, and propaganda to keep us all in line. But I do believe in good stewardship of the earth, and I don't trust big corporations to decree on what's healthy and good. Nope not at all. So I've come to the conclusion that "better living through chemistry" is usually a lie and that the less chemical mess we pour on our lawns, water systems, and bodies the better.

Over a couple of years of going more natural in my housekeeping (however lackluster my housekeeping skills may be) I've grown to seriously dislike chemical smells, even and especially those that are supposed to be "mountain fresh" or some variation on the theme. I switched to unscented, then to natural home-made stuff. I've saved a bundle in cash.

Some of the stuff doesn't work as well... but a lot of it does. Castille soap, watered down, and a good shot of lavender oil makes a really good bathroom cleaner. A sprinkling of baking soda beforehand turns the spray soap into a scrub. If you're interested in how to do such things, the book Better Basics for the Home is a great resource.

My garden is organic, mostly from lack of care, but I've come to the point where I can't manage to pour pesticides on potential food, my lawn, or places where any human I've ever known is likely to hang around. I eat organic blackberries for free because they grow wild near my house. The herbs I cook with are equally orgainc, again mostly from laziness on the part of the gardner.

I am convinced that CFL light bulbs are not only ugly lighting but a massive environmental disaster in the making. And that antibacterial hand goo causes superbugs and weakened immune systems.

And I have learned how to do organic laundry. I stumbled a while ago across a product called "soap nuts" (this is not an advertisement) and thought I'd try it out. I found a recipe for using soap nuts to make liquid laundry detergent. The problem was that, according to the website where I found the recipe, the detergent spoils pretty quickly. So I made my own (nicer smelling) adaptation. And a while back someone asked for the recipe. I promised to offer it IF it worked. And so here it is:

Organic Laundry Soap
8 cups water
16 Soap Nuts
a big ol' handful of organic due to lazy gardening practices dried lavender

Boil up the whole mess for half an hour (of actual boil time). Allow to cool and ironically store it all in an old oxyclean canister.

One load of large load of laundry takes two ounces of liquid. The lavender slows the spoilage of the soap nuts liquid, but storing it in the fridge won't hurt either. :) Lavender is kind of antibacterial. Yea.

So that's my domestic posting for now. There ya go.

And stay away from CFL's. No joke, they're nasty.

The Close of the Fair

2011-09-03T19:53:00.000-07:00

The county fair is officially over! I'm thankful. Every day we've had to haul out to the fairgrounds and feed my middle child's show rabbit. Today required two trips, one to feed and one to close out the rabbit barn. I'm very glad to have the time back in my day now that the fair is done.

But its a little sad, too. I don't much care for the hoorah of a county fair, but the quiet of the day is a nice time to go visit. And the end of the fair means the end of the 4H season. While 4H drives me nuts most of the time, the kids are good kids and my kids will miss them until summer. Summer friends are interesting friends, on for a while and never with hard feelings apart for most of the year.

And I was proud of my kiddos tonight. The eldest helped the bunny club leader's husband haul rabbits and cages back and forth between barn and car, even though he's had nothing to do with bunnies all year. The youngest was the most enthusiastic cage cleaner I ever met, sweeping and chatting with the other bunny owners. He made a huge impression tonight as he cleaned cages for bunnies that weren't his own. The whole idea was for his bunny club leader, who's given so much to the kids all year, not to have to spend all night in the bunny barn.

Middle boy now wants to run a bunny kennel, so people who go on vacation can board their rabbits. Its a cool idea, since its easy to board the dog, but we always have to wrangle a friend to watch the bunnies. But mostly middle boy just likes to play with rabbits and wants to be around hundreds of them. I'm sure he envisions a booming business!

There's something neatly mature an entrepreneurial about the county fair. Its cool to see people showing their skills, winning prizes, demonstrating the talent hiding in our little corner of the world. For one week, amazing skills, not just in farming but in art and baking and whatever else lurks at county fairs, come out of the woodwork. And you know, people seem to go back in time to a kinder age. Especially during the day, when the midway is closed.

Thanks again Big Knob Fair. See you next year, I'm sure.

Indigestion

2011-09-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

I'm sure its just the fact that my dinner took place at the county fair last night, but I feel miserable.

It doesn't help, however, that I looked at today's news. The Anglican Diocese of Pittsburgh is reporting that All Saints' Rosedale has had to vacate their property. Of course in the never-ending media he-said-she-said game, the Episcopal Diocese says they never forced anyone to go anywhere, as if cuddly ol' TEC would be glad to just let bygones be bygones.

But the bottom line isn't money, it never is and never will be. The bottom line is that my good friends in Rosedale refused to turn their back on the Anglican Church in North America. Yes, Rosedale has publically stated that they couldn't afford the TEC diocese's price on their building, but disaffiliation with the ACNA is a non-starter for most everyone I know over here in Anglican Pittsburgh. There's not a price low enough that most of us would be willing to turn our back on our brothers and sisters. TEC needs to understand and get used to that.

We've already been through one split, where we have to turn and walk away from friends and loved ones with whom we shared our ministry and our lives. We didn't walk away from those relationships lightly, we preferred not to walk away from them at all. Don't our friends in TEC see how much we loved them, how we grieved to lose them? Why would they think we'd then so lightly be able to walk away from the friends in ACNA with whom we've been through so much, whom we love with the same love. We've lost enough, relationships that will never be the same. We know we can't go back again.

Do they not understand that nothing short of the cross of Christ could have ripped us from our friendships in TEC? If we were following the Cross when we left, how can we turn from it now. We have paid the cost in our friends, what a petty price is a building.

I'm honored to serve alongside my friends in Rosedale, who now will abandon the building they've loved and cared for and worshiped in for generations. They're the real deal, and they get to prove it by paying a visible price.

I can't presume to speak for a diocese, or even for my little parish. But I can speak for myself... on the one side I see friends willing to make sacrifice for the Gospel, for their friends, for generations yet unborn. On the other, I see the institutional equivalent of a petulant teenage boyfriend who whines "If you really love me... " And as every girl knows, such boyfriends aren't worth keeping.

Thanks, TEC, for yet again confirming my decision to leave.

I'll try to remember that the nasty feeling I have inside is the result of dinner at the county fair.

I Have Decided to Become A Math Teacher....

2011-09-01T07:29:00.000-07:00

Because apparently I no longer have to worry about whether I get the answers right.

Arizona: Teachers Can Have Accents and Use Bad Grammar

Published August 31, 2011
It's not how you speak English – it's about whether you know it at all.

That was the final word out of Arizona, where the state and two federal agencies reached a settlement over an allegation that the state was discriminating against teachers who may have thick accents or use bad grammar when teaching English-immersion classes.
***snipped****
The agencies alleged that application of a state law requiring English teachers to possess a good knowledge of the English language discriminated against Hispanic teachers and students.

Glad to see Arizona is keeping the best interests of the students at the forefront in all of this. Didn't you read in the Declaration of Independence that all expressions of the English language are created equal? I honestly don't care about the accents... but good grammar is best taught by exposure.

Oh for crying out loud.

County Fair

2011-08-29T20:53:00.000-07:00

My children seem set to take home a bundle (by kid standards) from the county fair. We went by today and saw all the blue ribbons on the 4H projects (mostly for lack of competition... 4H has a lot of ribbons and not always a lot of kids) and entered the usual photography for the youth open. Littlest guy entered a pumpkin. We'll see how he does, but he's the only one that did any garden weeding anyway, so I say he's the only one who has rights to enter the one thing that's ready in our garden... a almost ripe pie pumpkin.

And middle boy will be showing a rabbit on Wednesday.

There's a lot that a kid can learn from the 4H skill of showing a rabbit: how to talk to adults while handling a sqirmy little animal, how to make eye contact and enunciate, remembering to ask if there are any questions. And then there are the random facts about the animal, breed, variety, length of gestation, common diseases. He's learned a little bit about compassion (as rabbits can be fragile little fuzzy creatures) and firmness (as they try to get away when you turn them onto their backs). He now has one of his rabbits well trained to tolerate being handled and he's much more confident in the handling.

Which makes me think that county fairs are just plain good for kids. Not the hoorah and glitz of the evening, with its rides and games and noise, but the day to day goings on, judgind (winning and losing), a sense of accomplishment and presenting a product, performance, and skill.

I have to haul my bunny boy out to the fair grounds every day this week to feed that rabbit, but its worth it. He'll be cleaning the cage, and making sure the bunny is comfy and well cared for, but its mostly worth it because in the end, he's gotten to grow a bit this summer. I never knew a rabbit could help a boy become a man, but for a certain red headed nine year old, the rabbit has helped him take a step or two in that direction this year.

And one must wonder what next year will bring.

For those who want to come on out, the Big Knob Fair runs from now until Saturday. Rabbit show is Wednesday at 6:30. The kids and the bunnies are all impressive.

Serenity Prayer for Meyers Briggs Types

2011-08-23T08:47:00.001-07:00

INFP: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to sing in the shower if there's someone else in the house, and the wisdom to, oh forget that last bit, okay, God?"

INTP: “God grant me the serenity to think of a viable plan for how to solve these problems, the courage to get the ball rolling, and the wisdom to remember what we were talking about in the first place.”

ESFP: “God, oh, hi God! How are you today? I was wondering, God, if you’re not too busy and all, there’s a lot of stuff in my life right now that gives me some anxiety and makes me kind of nervous about the future and there’s nothing I can do about it and all, so if you could just help me have, I don’t know, some sense of being not so worried or something. And maybe help to stand up to some problems that, oh look a puppy! and um, what were we talking about again? Sorry, I lost track.”

INTJ: “God, the prayer says I’m supposed to ask you to grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference, so could you do that for me? Thanks.”

I started this in a conversation with a friend, it seemed like a fun idea to blog them out. But being an Intuitive Perceiver, I’m feel no deep personal need to finish all sixteen types, so I’ll leave it for the reader to add on. I think I like the first two best… but since I’m borderline between INFP and INTP, they’re the types I know best. Write what you know, right?

Lastly, a truly famous sijo kidnapped from the vast expanse of internet

2011-08-21T12:29:00.001-07:00

Though I die, and die again; though I die one hundred times,

Long after my bones have turned to dust, whether my soul remains or not,

Ever loyal to my Lord, how can this one red heart of mine ever fade away?--

Sijo by Jeong Mong-ju ...

Sijo on today’s gospel

2011-08-21T12:26:00.001-07:00

Who do men say that I am, he asked. Prophet, teacher, king?

Elijah, Jeremiah, scoundrel, or scam? Crucified risen? Absurd!

How can this be? He who answers holds the keys to heaven’s gate.

Sijo on Sijo, for Dave

2011-08-20T16:34:00.001-07:00

Korean poetry in three short lines; rhyme and meter be damned.

Fourteen syllables, maybe sixteen, a single line is formed.

Forty-four, five or six, syllables summed; the deacon needs a hobby.

Sijo: In honor of a new school year

2011-08-19T12:21:00.001-07:00

Pencils’ scent of fresh cut wood. Papers unwritten stacked neatly by.

History, poetry, beauty and art. Awaiting children’s eyes.

Softly the cool of autumn, unfolding a new school year.

Sijo: Korean Poetry

2011-08-15T20:56:00.001-07:00

On blogging

Thoughts vanish into the wind, let the gentle reader understand.

Who shall read them? Who shall hear? The voice of a writer unseen.

A penny for your thoughts; the reader is greatly overcharged.

Little Mysteries

2011-08-14T16:56:00.001-07:00

My mother-in-law is moving to a smaller house. In the process of clearing out the extra stuff, she gave me a picture I’ve always liked. Its an obviously aged black and white image of a grist mill, framed quite simply, which hung in her living room for years. Taken off the wall, the back of the picture reveals that it was framed with parts of a box as a backing (much in the fashion my grandfather used to “frame” things with bits of box and electrician’s tape… in fact their marriage license was framed like that, the electrician’s tape being the frame part) and a few very old nails holding it in.

There was a spot on the picture where it looked like the image had been eaten away to reveal the other side of the box parts, and so, when I got it home, I decided to take the whole thing apart to see if i could manage a little conservation work and keep the image from further degrading. Funny, I had never noticed that damaged portion before, but there it was.

Nail by nail, I removed the backing, gently as I wanted to keep the original cardboard look when I was finished. I slowly lifted the box portions out to find a thinner box advertising a fur coat. I gently lifted the fur box, expecting a fragile image beneath. That’s where I got my surprise.

First, the image was quite thoroughly cemented to the fur box; I don’t know how or why. But when it was away from the matting, the top and bottom of the image were revealed. It turns out that the picture was actually a page from a newspaper. The section heading and date were hidden by the matting.

The section which seemed to be worn through was actually an attribution or explanation of some sort for the picture itself, not underlying text showing through the page. The attribution is mostly illegible, though.

So now I’m left with questions. Whose picture was this? Why did someone feel the need to frame a page from the newspaper? Was the framer also the photographer or maybe the owner of the grist mill? Or maybe it was somebody’s proud mother who framed this page.

I’ve learned that the Springfield Union- Springfield Republican was a newspaper in Springfield MA. I wonder how that image made its way from Springfield to Norris, TN before coming to Pennsylvania to hang behind my sofa.

Anyway, I now know why the picture seemed to hover in its own little world between photography and drawing, why it is aged and yellowed and why I had a sense that if I took it apart I’d find something thin and fragile underneath. But why someone framed it in the first place, I have no idea.

Norris With Adult Eyes

2011-08-12T22:19:00.000-07:00

Of course we took it all for granted. Growing up way out in the country, Norris was the Mecca of places to see and be seen... by other kids of course. All the cool kids lived in Norris, hung out together, walked to each other's houses, didn't ride the hideous school bus. Norris was where the kids were.

This week was the first week of school in Norris and as I came back into my old hometown with my own kids in tow, it seemed really weird that the streets were empty of kids. Probably, when the middle school let out, there were plenty of kids at the old-fashioned soda fountain, kind of Mayberry style, buying chocolate malted drinks and whatever sugary thing they could afford with their pocket money. But in the late morning when I went in for a cup of coffee, only my own were spinning on the stools.

We drove past Norris Elementary School yesterday and my husband casually remarked that he never went to school there. I did, even though it wasn't our district. I was there from first grade through fifth, before moving across the Commons to Norris Middle.

Homeschoolers are we, so off we went to the old Norris Grist Mill. Its kind of iconic, timeless, the destination of at least half a dozen school field trips in as many years that I was in Norris Elementary. My husband notes that he'd never been in the nearby museum. "That's because you didn't go to Norris Elementary," I replied. He notes that he'd never been inside the grist mill building. "That's becasue you didn't go to Norris Elementary."

I can't say I'm all that nostalgic about Norris Elementary, and my thoughts on the Midddle School are far from warm and fuzzy. (Still, Norris Middle School was in 1960 Norris High School, from which my father graduated, and he had fonder memories, I suppose.) Still, its interesting how the places and experiences of our childhoods shape us. Part of me expected to be able to walk right into those schools and still find the same teachers, and the only one to have aged would be me. But now its my friends' children who grace those halls, and some of my friends, the former students of those schools, are back as teachers. And most, though not all, of those teachers I knew are now retired. The ones that aren't retired turned out to have been surprisingly young when they were my teachers, tenured and experienced teachers who we thought had been there since the dawn of time but were really closer to the age I am now.

My husband remarked that maybe you can't go home again; but I don't think its that. You can go back to the places and see some of the same people and intuitively know how to find what you need to find. And it is the sameness that strikes you as pleasantly out of place, not the difference. The man who lived next to my grandmother still lives next to her old house, why is he still there? My same cousin still teaches at the elementary school; her great-grandson is going to be graduating from there this year, will she finally retire?

Its kind of cool how time marches in uneven phases, how some things zip ahead and some get left behind. Admittedly disturbing, but still, kind of cool.

Why It Pays to Talk to the Locals

2011-08-06T18:07:00.001-07:00

Today we took the boys swimming at Raccoon Creek State Park. Admittedly, that was not our first plan of action. We had intended to rent a people-powered boat, but since there were five of us and the bigger boats were not available, we couldn’t get a boat we’d all fit in unless we got a motor-boat. No thanks. But we had a nice chat with the boathouse guy, about this and that, mostly about how boats have to have certain weight ratings and how those ratings have changed to account for so many obese people in the world.

In the course of our not renting a boat the guy, whose name I don’t even know, said “keep your eyes open, not a day this week has gone by that that bald eagle hasn’t been by.” He seemed pretty serious, not like he was trying to talk us into a boat, but that he was just saying what he’d seen.

We gave up on the boat and went down to the swimming hole so the kids could splash about some. And I had no sooner stepped foot in the water than this big old bird of prey comes circling around the swimming area, diving first to the right of the swim area, then circling about and diving on the left. I probably wouldn’t have paid it much mind, if it weren’t for the guy at the boathouse.

I looked closer, and I thought I saw a flash of white as it went across the swimming area to dive in the fishing waters on the other side. Again, it crossed, and my husband confirmed my identification. For twenty minutes the eagle swooped and hunted fish just yards from where we stood watching. I have never seen an eagle hunting in its natural habitat! I may never see it again. (Gosh, I wish I had my camera!!) My kids stood and watched. Several people in the swimming hole stood and watched. But most folks missed it, or thought it was a hawk. They hadn’t talked to the boathouse guy, I guess.

Little Girls Everlasting

2011-08-04T18:22:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, my friend Ann is old enough to be my mother. Her son and I were born the same year. She doesn't seem to mind, and neither do I, that we're part of different generations. She thinks like an Xer, at least in the ways that are commendable.

She likes to swim, and when it suits, she will treat us to a day at the pool in her town. Its an hour's drive up, a little more than that because I take the back roads and enjoy the scenery (and inevitably get caught behind an Amish buggy along the way). I could take the interstate, but it would only save about ten or fifteen minutes. Instead, I take the way that winds past the old train station turned country store turned private home, a few farms, a state park, a train museum (with real train cars), and more cows than I care to count. My youngest moos dutiffuly at them as we pass.

We got to the water today, and we visited the kiddie pool first. In it is a giant mushroom shaped waterfall, which was turned off as we arrived. I stood under it and then realized that if it came on I was in for a dousing. My southern blood wasn't sure I wanted to be in a pool today anyway, as it wasn't agonizingly hot out, so I figured I'd best step out from under the mushroom. Not so my friend, she sought her shade under the 'shroom, and when the water came on, there she was. She dashed in and out of the water with my kids, just as delighted as they were. As I sat on the side of the pool and watched, I was sure I could see a glimpse of my friend as a ten year old girl, delighted with the water, playful and small.

My husband's grandmother once had an embroidered pillow (I don't know if it was really hers or not, as things were always coming and going for her antiques store) that said "grandmothers are antique little girls." The same grandmother had a liking for teddy bears and a sense of whimsy that defied age.

And I guess that's what I saw today. We carry our little selves with us as we grow, and if we are wise the things that delighted us then can delight us again, and let our little child emerge. And if we watch carefully we might just see that delighted child in the eyes of our adult friends. It is like a window into an inner world.

Some where in all of us is a ten year old child.

A Little Internet Accountability

2011-07-31T18:17:00.000-07:00

My friend David Wilson posted the following comment with regard to TEC-Pittsburgh on his blog:
"Recently I was told that: “There are three openly partnered gay or lesbian priests licensed and functioning in the TEC Diocese, there is a priest licensed and functioning who has been divorced three times and married four times and a heterosexual priest living with a woman to whom he is not married."

It's worth scooting on over there to read the whole thing.

I cannot either confirm nor can I deny his information. I just don't know. But I repeat it here for two reasons... one is that if it is true it needs to be out in the open. Hiding away on one little blog, mine or David's does not deal with the issue, the accusations made. The other is to offer my friends in TEC-PGH, some of whom I know read this blog, the chance to be aware of the rumor and, if appropriate, make a rebuttal. So I pass along the rumor as such, not as truth, but as an accuasation that demands a hearing.

Runner Dude

2011-07-28T08:02:00.000-07:00

(Let me say at the outset, that I would like to reply to everyone's comments on earlier posts, but for some reason my laptop isn't talking to that part of Blogger... weird. Anyway, you all are cool and I love reading your comments. And thanks to my friend David over at Anglican Yinzer for the link to the previous post!)

Okay, so they warned me that my kids would grow up to be their own people. But sometimes, admittedly, I forget. I had this neat conversation yesterday with a couple of other homeschool moms about how our kids are "carbon copies" of someone else in our family. My eldest, for example, often reminds me of my mother-in-law. He's a wonderful, whimsical child who shares some of his grandmother's gifts and foibles. But of course he's also himself. Different from anyone else. My second son is my dad made over, and sometimes the differences are harder to find. (Our third son is adopted.... a constant study in nature and nurture. He fits right in but sometimes that's in his complimentary differentness, and it makes me wonder what his Korean parents are like.)

Its easy to think of them for their genetic sameness. And sometimes, especially when they're little, its easy to miss their uniqueness.

I picked up my eldest from taekwondo camp yesterday and he told me that he had discovered that he was the fastest sprinter in the group. Not a big deal, but he was giving the instructor a bit of a run for his money (quite literally as apparently they were racing for pennies), too. I was a little surprised. My son has a friend who runs track, and now he's interested in it too. So suddenly I'm in danger of becoming a track mom.

My husband ran track in high school. But for me, running is what you do when the only other option is getting eaten by something nasty. Even then, its a tough choice.

Later in the evening, my son's martial arts instructor told me (twice) that my kid is fast and should really consider running track. Yikes, an outside confirmation! My kid? A runner? Weird. But if he's this fast and hasn't had any training, then maybe there's something to the idea.

So he's going to try it, kind of informally. His dad is his coach for now. And they're running a 5K together next month, just to see how he likes it. How different, and unique. Like his dad, he has the body for it. But I never ever expected my child would be a runner.

Someone asked me when I was expecting him if I wanted a kiddo just like me or just like my husband. Off hand I replied "like my husband, I chose to live with him. I'm not sure I could live with another me." My runner dude is definitely different from his dad, but in his uniqueness, he has plenty that's the same too.

Kinda cool.

On Meyers-Briggs and Marriage

2011-07-13T14:34:00.000-07:00

Young idealistic couples planning to get married, listen up. Sit down together and take the Meyers-Briggs and find out which one of you is a J (Judging) and which is a P (Perceiving). And if you're both J's, more power to you. But if you both happen to be P's, draw straws or vote or play Rock, Paper, Scissors and decide which one of you is going to be the J in the household. Somebody needs to be a grownup.

J's for those of you who don't know the MBTI language, are those bizarre people who keep their desks clean, finish what they start, show up on time for things and can work with a plan. P's are the rest of us. The aimless mental wanderers of the world. One of my friends is noted for saying "J's get more done, P's have more fun."

My household is what it looks like when two P's have children. Dinner time is a prime example. It is currently 5:30 PM and all the good little J mommies are making dinner for their happy little families. If I'm in the kitchen at 5:30,I'm as likely to be making play-dough as dinner... with every pot and pan and dish out and dirty, because it seemed like a good idea at the moment. Dinner gets made when someone gets hungry and makes it. Sometimes that's not until 8:00 or so, when we realize its an hour until theoretical bedtime and we ought to feed our kids. Bedtime doesn't usually happen at bedtime either, because that's when we realize they haven't done their music practices and so bedtime comes after that.

Sometimes dinner simply consists of me asking when my husband walks in the door: "What did you bring me?" And if that's groceries or pre-prepared, I'm cool with that.

My husband, theoretically, is the short-straw, the elected J of the family. He pays the bills and does the requisite griping about how I leave everything scattered about on "every flat surface in the house." Not true, the ceilings are perfectly clear. But his J-fu is not nearly as strong as my P-fu. I overcome his attempts to organize.

Not sure if this all has any point... P's don't need a point. But it was what I was thinking about at 5:30 with the kitchen torn up, non-dinner food in the oven, the husband coming in the door with a grocery bag of something, and an evening playdate in a hour. Maybe we'll eat something. Or maybe dinner IS banana bread.

Who cares, I drew the long straw.

Why Casey Anthony Demonstrates That the System Works

2011-07-12T18:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm not one to often say that the system works. My stance on the death penalty is that the government has a right and responsibility to bear the sword, but I tend to be against the death penalty because I don't think our government bears it responsibly most of the time. I find putting someone's life in the hands of twelve unprepared strangers to be unsettling at best. Jurors aren't lawyers, yet they're called upon to judge the place of the person in respect to the law. This, I admit, unsettles me.

And every armchair juror in America thinks Casey Anthony is guilty. And we all know, without hearing the evidence, that OJ did it, too.

In America, the majority is supposed to govern. And the majority has judged, without hearing the evidence or being present in the court room or in any way giving the suspects a fair trial, that the defendent is guilty.

Other nations allow the tyrant (in this case the majority voter) to judge a person guilty until his trial proves him otherwise. This is why other countries have historically seen tortured confessions as valid (they were guilty anyway, since proof to the contrary was not satisfactory, right?) and trials by fire and drowning were par for the medieval course. Throw her in the pond and if the water rejects her, kill her for a witch. If she drowns, the water had accepted her and too bad an innocent woman died. Well, she'll go to heaven, right? Collateral damage.

Somehow, in that courtroom twelve jurors were not convinced. They understood that the burden of proof was on the prosecution, beyond any reasonable shadow of a doubt, and they held doubts. They understood that the American way is to risk letting a criminal walk free before risking the imprisonment of an innocent person. And they were honor bound to let her go.

I didn't hear the evidence. I don't know what gave them that seed of doubt. I wasn't there, and so, in this, I don't get a vote. I just know that the majority doesn't rule here; the tyrant-majority cannot execute the believed criminal in the court of public opinion.

I also know that Scripture tells us that we are not to assume the role of judge, and that even when an earthly court of law is mistaken, we can trust justice to be done. And so I don't really understand the fascination and outrage. I have my opinions, but I know they're not worth anything in either this world or the next. Now if only the media would leave it alone and let America get on with life.

Three miles an hour

2011-07-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

Driving through Pittsburgh last month, on the way to a game with my baseball loving friend, Ann, we ended up on a street that was new to me. Its funny how we get in our routines, we were only a block down from the street I ususally take, but I was following her directions in case she knew a better way. Direction-wise and traffic-wise it was about the same as my usual route, but aesthetically, it was a treat. A new road, with cute facades, obviously the work of some enterprising urban renewal with a mind to "walkable neighborhoods." During the conversation sparked by our drive through town, we remarked also on the older buildings, the gratuitious nature of art, how the older buildings had built into them a reason to look up and around. Moldings and patterns and waves where modern buildings have monochomatic straight edges make the older facades worth seeing. They were not at all functional, someone had to put them there just to make beauty. Art is, by its nature, rarely necessary. That's why its so important.

But today's world drives by, and the old art blurs past our windows at sixty miles an hour. The reasons to preserve the old art are lost, and the new art is never born. No one will ntoice. Why bother?

Today, a little road construction forced me and the children to park a little further away from a common destination, my eldest's piano lesson. As we parked a two blocks over and walked, I looked down and spotted a piece of gratuitious whimsy... I can't exactly call it art... But here it is:

It's not every day you see a case of "road sharks." Kind of like Dave Barry's "Lawn vampires" only more obvious to the casual observer.

I've driven by the road shark more times than I care to count over the last couple of years (as my son has progressed through quite a lot of piano lessons) and I have never before seen the road shark. Its companion items stuck in the concrete are much worse for the wear, so I am certain the road shark has been there a good long time; its just that he's made of a more durable rubber than the other items imbedded in this particular driveway. He's nothing new that I should notice him. Its just that today I slowed down and walked.

My mother-in-law is a regular walker. I wish I were, but I get bored. I don't mind walking if I have somewhere to go or someone to walk with, but its days like today that I realize how much I miss when I don't slow down and leave the car in park.

True Confessions of a Mean Mother

2011-07-07T15:47:00.000-07:00

I have never bought a girl scout cookie from an actual girl scout. Once upon a time, when my kids were little and only one or two of my friends had kids of scouting, schooling, selling random stuff, age, I thought I would simply require that the kids be the ones to ask me to buy something. I really don't have an easy time saying no to kids anyway.

But then the actual phone calls started coming. I failed to insist that the kids make the calls. I realized that to do so required correcting the adults. No, I'm not interested in you selling me gift wrap on behalf of your kid. So if its girl scout cookies, I buy. If not, I tend to think of a reason to just say no (or ignore an email! Email! not even a phone call) and not buy whatever some poor parent is trying to sell me. Frankly, I don't care about you kid's school fundraiser. I may care about your kid, but since your kid isn't actually the one asking me...

My kids are homeschooled, and one of the things I've always liked about it is not selling overpriced garbage that nobody needs. And so, in fourteen years of parenting, we have, this week, encountered our first peer-pressure enforced fundraiser. For 4H. Bunny Club. At least they're only selling those $1 candy bars that actually are pretty good.

Nathaniel was the one assigned with selling these things, since he's the bunny boy. My husband's first response: "I'll take them to work."

No way, no how. I love my husband, but I shut him down hard on that one. He knew I was right, too. No way were we selling those candies for our kid. He was the one who wanted to be in bunny club, he can sell the candies. I bought my obligatory parental allotment of three bars. (One for the kids to share, one for my purse, one for my desk drawer.)

The next day, I took my younger two to the local "splash pad" (a sprinkler park). Middle boy was armed (and actually eager) with his candy bars. No splashing for him until he'd worked the crowd. We set some rules (stay where I can see you, don't approach anyone with little kids nearby (we moms have to stick together and I don't want to start some kid on an "I want one" whine) and remember your manners. I watched from a distance as my little redhead chatted up every single person at the splash pad. When he came back, he had two bars left. My friend bought one, I bought the last one for his little brother. Sold out and off to splash!

My kid was so proud of himself! He had exercised a new social skill (not like this kid is lacking, he's my chatty one) and found himself successful. And while other parents may cry stranger danger, my kid had no irrational fears and was never at risk. He earned his bunny money.

And while you won't find me signing up for any fundraisers any time soon, I'm thankful I didn't rob my child of the opportunity to try on a new role and succeed. And I may still buy a box of girl scout cookies from a 45 year old mommy, but unless your kid calls me himself, you can keep your gift wrap catalogues, candies, and entertainment books.

A Poem for the Diaconate

2011-07-03T14:51:00.000-07:00

When I die, I want one of the deacons of my diocese to read this at my funeral. I love this poem by fourth century saint Ephrem of Syria. How clearly he shows his heart, his love of the order, the ideal of the deacon's ministry. Surely he wrote this poem, in part for himself. Ephrem was bold with his poetry, even daring to tell his new bishop how to be a bishop, I read his poem "On the Death of a Deacon" as a note to himself.

But this beautiful poem is out of print, not published in any currently printed volume of Ephrem's poetry that I know of. Its not even on the internet (until now). But I wanted to share this with my deacon friends, so here it is.

On the Death of a Deacon by Ephrem the Syrian
Behold! Our member is departed
From this troubled world,
To that tranquil light;
On his departure let us pray-
That his Guide may have mercy on him!

Well disciplined in public duties
He was chaste in private life,
In gentleness and peace
He abounded toward his brethren-
Make him happy in Thy tabernacle!

His eyes were watchful
In standing before Thee:
And they wept in prayer,
And made entreaty for his sins-
May they see thy loving-kindness!

Thou dist count him worthy
To ministry in thy sanctuary,
And to distribute thy body
And thy blood to thy flock-
Nourish him with thy lambs!

He was cheerful and full
Of affection to his bretren:
And his hospitality
Was fervent in its tenderness-
Number him with thy beloved ones!

He loved to proclaim
The words of thy doctrine,
And delighted to listen to
The utterances of the Spirit-
Let him hear the sound of the trumpet!

He wondered at and admired
The riches of thy oracles;
And his heart exulted
In teh words of the Holy Ghost-
Unite him with thy glorified ones!

He despised worldly pleasures
And slighted ease:
Let him rest at thy table-
Let him find enjoyment in thy light-
With the upright who have loved thee!

Talking into the air

2011-06-20T18:38:00.000-07:00

I am teaching a course this summer which has an online format. Such a strange and disconnected way to teach. I feel as if, every time I lecture, I am talking off into the air. When students emerge from the airwaves with a question, it often on a lecture I recorded days or even a couple of weeks prior and no longer in my mental context.

Technology has come a long way, but the context and the relationship still lack in an online course. I have to work twice as hard on encouraging them to talk to one another, not just to get their information from me and go home. While I long for the days when professors would actually profess something, students must feel encouraged and capable of interacting with the material, owning it, and maybe even becoming teachers themselves someday.

I don't like talking (or writing) into the air. Maybe I have a bizarre need for attention. But it is funny that the modern blogger can fulfill some of that need for attention by (often exihibitionist) blogging whether or not anyone reads or responds. (Not so for me, I would rather people respond.) And it is strange that the reader can comfortably invade those thoughts, take what he needs, and leave, without ever feeling an urge for relatioship. Sad and bizarre.

Don't get me wrong, I like that information is so readily available and geography is no longer such an obstacle. I just find the experience of it all rather, well, weird.

Talking back..

2011-06-17T11:27:00.000-07:00

I am spending this week at Trinity School for Ministry for the Ancient Wisdom, Anglican Futures conference. As I've always been the type to talk back, there's plenty of blog fodder here. How tempting to (as I am doing right now) sit in lectures and use this space to talk back to the lecturers, to think out loud a bit, to percolate.

An unintentional theme of the conference seems to be the need to know. Its that Protestant, Enlightenment, Baptized Humanistic viewpoint that just wants to know. So we seek and ask (great stuff there) and expect that somehow our small finite minds have some hope of understanding. Two temptations then emerge, the desire to explain away what we don't understand and the subconscious humanism that believes we have, as a human family, grown in our understanding from generation to generation. The latter problem is epidemic in the west, where we value our own learning so greatly that we dismiss the African as ignorant and backwards, and quietly assume our ancestors were uneducated and underenlightened.

Across the screen this afternoon have appeared the words "the Age of Reason" in the speaker's notes. And even this common title is a symptom of the disease, for it implies that the ages before were unreasonable, underdeveloped. Enlightenment assumes a dark age, the Academy seeks to add to the body of knowledge, further our common understanding.

But in reality it is not an adding on, progress, but in fact an exchange of goods. For our modern technology we have exchanged our connection with the cycles and seasons of earth. For our knowledge of facts and figures, sciences and such, we have exchanged our comfort with mystery and true magic. And we come to assume that cycles and rhythms, magic and mystery are primative, that these are not things we need.

But the life of the church shows otherwise. A rationalized faith is one that is just as easily rationalized away. When we let our opposition set the rules, we are destined to lose the game; yet we consistently allow the world, the secular culture, humanism and darwinism and rationalism set the rules. And in doing so we lose the magic, we strip away the mystery. And when we have done so, we are reduced to pointless rationalization or empty emotionalism, and the heart is separated from the head.

But the point of mystery is to unite the rational mind and the emotional heart. To experience something with the senses that can be explained only partly to the mind, to be consumed in a sense of "wonder and radical amazement" (to borrow the words of Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel). For we cannot begin to understand the infinite without also beginning to understand that we are finite. We cannot rationalize the mystery, the creation of our God, because it is bigger than we are, always expanding, growing faster than our own minds can catch. How much less can we control the Creator, who was and is and is to come.

We do theology in community, but even the "hive mind" cannot fully grasp the mystery. This is what we signed on for, something bigger than ourselves.

Pentecost Sermon

2011-06-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

This turned out to be a much better sermon in the study than in the pulpit (bummer) but here it is. Win some, lose some I guess.

________________________________________________________________

I like to shop down at the Korean grocery store in Oakland. It’s a little mom and pop shop that does most of its business selling ramen noodles to college students and niche market ingredients to Asian immigrants. Only once have I ever seen another non-Asian customer in that store. And the first time you go in, it’s intimidating. All the labels are in Korean or Japanese, some have an English translation on the package, some don’t. I once bought something there that looked tasty and got it home to realize I had no idea how to prepare it. The little line drawings that substituted for non-Korean instructions didn’t help.
The owners are first generation immigrants, and while they speak English passably well, some days are clearly better than others. On any given occasion, I’ve heard Korean rattled off joyfully between shopkeeper and customer, but I am often greeted with a friendly silence as I bring my items to the register. Of course, their English is far better than my Korean, but usually I try out my handful of Korean words – hello, thank you, good bye—when I see them. On one such day, clearly not the best of English days for the lady at the counter, I quietly waited while she checked out my items, and then offered “thank you” in my surely mangled Korean. She lit up, stepped back, flung her arms wide, and said in exuberant Korean “Yes yes! Thank you!” Somehow, I seem to have made her day.
I know what’s like to be shy about your language abilities. My sophomore year in college, I lived with a French woman. Since she knew I was studying French, she suggested early on that we speak French in the dorm room (this was intended to be for my benefit, since she was fully and comfortably, bilingual). Ashamed of what I suspected to be a truly horrid French accent, I declined. Perhaps, if we had spoken French among ourselves, I would remember the language today; instead, I let six years of language study slowly waste away.
The visitors to Jerusalem in the Acts passage today would have been like my French friend or our Korean grocer; able to understand the language of the land they were visiting, even though it wasn’t the language of their innermost thoughts. Most everyone in the Roman Empire at the time of the New Testament would have understood Greek in addition to their native tongue. Most Jews would have understood Hebrew for Temple use. The people who had come to the Temple would have been Jews who had been scattered into many foreign lands during the Exile and the movements of the centuries after. They would have retained their Jewish heritage by learning Hebrew, even though it was not the language they used for everyday life.
Pentecost was one of the primary pilgrimages of the Hebrew calendar, and the visitors to the city would have saved and prepared for months or years to make the long journey from foreign lands. Many would have simply stayed in Jerusalem for the fifty days after the Passover festival in order to participate in the Pentecost celebration of the first fruits of the grain harvest without enduring a second journey. For many of the far flung people, this may be the only chance they have to visit the Temple, to worship God in the only place that was believed to be truly his home.
Most of them would have been Jews, one people scattered by geography and separated by the details of native language and culture. Others, however, were converts, “God-fearers” who had given up paganism to seek the one God of the Jews, outsiders with neither a common ancestry nor a common covenant to bridge the gaps of distance and ethnicity.
And while the scattered peoples were gathered, the disciples were huddled together all in one place, awaiting further instructions now that they had seen Christ ascend. “And suddenly there came down from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. And divided tongues as of fire appeared to them and rested on each one of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit.” Soon the huddled disciples will be the ones scattered to out into the world, in order to bring the good news to all people that God is calling every tongue and tribe and nation to become his people.
There’s a word play here that is worth noting. In Greek, the word pneuma means “breath, wind, or Spirit.” The same is true for the Old Testament word nephesh, which we’ll see in a moment. So suddenly there is a great rushing wind, breath, spirit, in the room, and the disciples are filled with the Holy Spirit.
And in the beginning, the spirit, the breath, of God was hovering over the face of the deep, dark, chaotic waters. And after God had tamed the chaos and brought forth light and order, God used the same creative breath that spoke all things into being to breathe life, spirit, breath into the man and woman. The disciples were filled with the Holy Spirit because this is what, at the beginning of Creation, man was intended to be.
After humankind rebelled against God in the garden, the Holy Spirit seemed to be in much more limited supply. A prophet here, a prophet there, maybe a king or two along the way might have the Holy Spirit; but the gifting was restrained. It was so restrained, in fact, that ever since the Hebrew people returned from Exile centuries before, they believe d that the Holy Spirit had ceased to be given at all. And here, suddenly, the spirit comes like a rush, a flood, poured out in abundance. And the disciples begin to speak in languages they had never studied, so that the people could hear the Gospel in their own language.
After humankind decided to turn from God in the Garden, men and women began to try to make themselves like gods, building a tower into the heavens. But because we are not nearly so godlike as we wish to believe, those plans were thwarted. The effect of sin included the confusion of languages, so that one person could not easily communicate with another, and the scattering of people to the distant parts of the earth. But now, as the Kingdom of God begins to enter into creation, the effects of sin begin to unravel and man can hear the Gospel clearly, and the scattered peoples are drawn together to worship God.
Three thousand people were baptized that day. Three thousand! If you want the unbeatable model for church growth, here it is: just follow the Great Commission, to go into all the world and make disciples of all nations and let the Holy Spirit do the work. Every Christian has access to this marvelous gift, and while we don’t all have speaking in tongues and other shazaam moments, the Spirit will work through each of us if we are faithful and willing. The disciples had only taken the first baby steps into “all the world” and already a handful of disciples had become thousands. And that was not all, for day by day “the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.”
The Lord chose to do this miracle on Pentecost, the ancient celebration of the first fruits of the grain harvest as a sign to us that the harvest is indeed plentiful and that these thousands are really just a drop in the bucket. God desires that all men and women be saved, Jesus has promised that by his being lifted up on the Cross he would draw all men to himself. Its your job, brothers and sisters, not to grow this church, but to grow God’s kingdom. And while that feels like a tough job, all we really need to do is to be willing to make those baby steps out into the world, offer the unblemished Gospel in a language the people can understand, and let the Holy Spirit do the work.

Hot stuff.

2011-06-09T14:04:00.000-07:00

First off, let me say that the water was only out for two days and is now back on. hoorah.

The thing that's down now is the big ash tree, from which the boys have hung their rope swing for the past five years. Alas, poor Swing Tree, we shall miss you. The ash bore got it, so we need to pick a new swing tree, I guess.

It is in the upper 80's here. Hot enough to be hot, to enjoy a good swim, but not the oppressive heat I grew up with. There's nothing like walking out of the house and smacking straight into a wall of heat; but that only happens one or two days out of the year up here. Not bad.

I took the kids out for sprinkler time (yea for water) and garden weeding. I found that the carrots that I'd given up on have sprouted and were hiding amongst the larger weeds. The boys played a game they've invented. I listened to the older two argue over a lawn chair; there's something very real about that. I listened to the youngest's maniacal laughter under the sprinkler. Now they've all raided the freezer for Brown Cows (what do they call those things outside of the South? no idea but I bet nobody up here knows what a Brown Cow is) which I told them they could have if they ate them outside.

Thank God for summer vacation. Tomorrow we'll do it all again, only with a friend along for the fun of it. And then on Monday all the organized activites start... guitar lessons, camps, stuff that's supposed to keep them busy. Funny, I thought summers were about not being busy.

Being the woman at the well.....

2011-06-05T18:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, I admit that we're spoiled. We have hot and cold water at the turn of a faucet. Or at least, we're supposed to. When we have it (which really is so much of the time we take it for granted) our water is clean, convenient, and whatever temperature we want it.

Except that today, and yesterday, we don't have it. Yesterday morning, our water meter sprung an enthusiastic leak. After ten hours of convincing the local water authority that they might want to come out and take a look at it, they admitted that the problem was theirs. Another eleven hours later, they actually did come out and look at it. And they replaced the meter. yippee.

But our water is pumped to the top of our hill because the borough does not maintain enough water pressure to get it here on its own. And there's a giant bubble in the line, which means the pump can't pump anything. And the borough had no idea how to fix it.

So here we sit, for a second night with no water.

Actually, I shouldn't say no water... I was raised in the country and the pioneer girl gene is not entirely extinct from my DNA. I'm not one to sit back and take not having water. So, thanks to some good friends, I gathered up a sink full of dirty dishes, a smelly teenager, and two large buckets (well one is a nine-gallon wine fermenter complete with lid... thanks be to God... if needed I do have a second one, but they're a bear to move when full) and trotted over to the "well." The well, of course is our friends' house, where I did my dishes, sent my teen to shower, and pilfered 15 gallons of clean water. We can use that for drinking and washing for tomorrow and maybe the next day if we need to.

On the way back, I told my teen that I felt like some ancient (or not so ancient in some parts of the world) village woman, hauling to the well in the evening cool to fetch home the water for the next day. Then I quickly corrected myself... I don't have to carry the water, I have a car. (In fact, I was even able to park closely enough that I just stretched the hose right to my trunk and filled that big fermenter there... some guy rode by on a bike and kind of stared a little. I smiled and said "alternative fuel" and let him wonder. My fun for the evening.) I can fetch the water in with very little actual heavy lifting. Elsewhere in the world women and children haul heavy loads just to meet the day's needs.

But one way I was like the village woman. As I stopped off at the well, I was offered a drink, a bit of hospitality, friendly faces, a conversation. The well was a communal experience. I may be seeing a lot of my friends if my water does not come back on soon (though I probably ought to mooch off different friends each day so nobody gets tired of me) but that's only unusual in a world where the conveniences of a modern tap mean I don't have to live in community in order to meet my daily needs. Women in particular are prone to feeling isolated in our culture, and perhaps the common well is part of why women doing the mundane chores at home with the kids don't seem so heavy with the task as we western women do. The phone, email, these aren't the same thing.

And while its a small kindness to let me fill my pail from your hose, it means a great deal to me. The common well is about small kindness that suits great need. Giving a drink, a hand with a heavy load, a kind word.

And the woman who cannot enjoy that community at the well cannot truly live. Her needs go unmet. And alone she slogs back to her home bearing her burdens in the heat of the day.

I'm grateful to my friends at the well.

But I'll be darned grateful when the water's back on too!

You guys have got to see this...

2011-06-04T07:02:00.000-07:00

Coopersburg Boy Beats Odds, Plays Baseball

COOPERSBURG, Pa. -- On a warm evening in June, excitement builds on a little league field in Coopersburg, Pa. It's just past dinnertime. The sky is blue. The breeze is brisk.
Fathers and sons have come together to do what fathers and sons have done on warm, June days for decades.
It's a delicate age for the young sluggers. Sometimes, the "hitting stick" and the ball don't quite connect in the batter's box.
But father and coach, Tim Moncman, has a solution he counts on.
"One, two, three, swing!" Moncman tells his son, who is a five-year-old who sports the number 4 on his jersey.
"Are you ready, AJ?" Moncman asks his son.
They've put in a lot of hours perfecting AJ's swing and getting the timing just right, but there's one "curve ball" Tim Moncman couldn't control.
"My wife first noticed, probably when he was about six months old," said Moncman.
AJ was born blind.

Go read the rest.... there's even a video.

Life Unrehearsed

2011-06-01T19:00:00.000-07:00

I admit, I hate rehearsal. I'm one of those people who likes to get the general idea of something and run with it. Art over science. Spontaneity over rehearsal. Improvision over precision.

I also like projects where I can see big sweeping changes. I love to paint a room, as long as it isn't the same color as it was before. I'm process oriented with no patience for tedium. If its not fun to do, its not worth doing.

And in the immortal parental curse, I've been blessed with a child who is very much like his mother. And the one thing I secretly hate as much as he does is his piano practice. Plowing away at the same song day after day with tiny imperceptable progress and a kid who doesn't want to practice in the first place (and will find every excuse in the book to avoid work) is mental torture.

Tonight, as I type, its "The Witches' Dance" one of the little songs in John Thompson's Third Grade Book. I can look at that book cover and remind myself of progress through three books. I can listen to real music coming from his hands and remember the days when scales were the impossible obstacle. And still, somehow, part of me thinks I'm going to be a little old lady telling him not to rush the easy parts on that blasted "Witchy Song."

But I suppose life is like that. Progress comes in baby steps. Patience is a virtue. The journey of a thousand miles, and all that. Skills are built, churches are grown, children are raised, all one small step at a time.

But I want to see progress, movement. Stagnant water is good for nothing but mosquitoes. Maybe that's why I have three children, so I can look at one and see how far he's come, look at another and know he won't always be small and making me crazy all afternoon (no that I have any particular child in mind there, of course). I know that when my firstborn was little I had no concept of him ever being as grown up and capable as he is now. In my mind he'd always be small and helpless, unable to communicate his needs or solve his own problems. Now we talk about things like college, chores, jobs, and that blasted piano (he'll be filling in for our parish organist on Sunday, he's really not half bad).

I guess where I'm going is this: we all want big shazaam moments and miracles and the parting of the waters... but mostly God works in tiny little things. His attention span is longer than ours, and when he moves fast and furious, it may still be hard for us to notice. And so we are reminded that he is not slow in coming to us, as some reckon slowness, but has withheld his return so that not one who would be saved would be neglected.

A Poem

2011-05-29T15:53:00.001-07:00

I walked the graveyard of my soul,
And called upon my ghosts,
Amid the graves, the weeds, and stones,
Among the heavenly host.
I walked among the church at rest,
Alive amid the green,
The faithful ‘round to right and left,
And I alone between.
I walked beneath the striking sun,
And momentary breeze,
The rustling stirring in my heart,
As echoed in the trees.
And each step further as I walked,
I heard the gentle sounds
Of saints triumphant, saints at rest,
Of Christ in all around.
-- Anonymous

Cross Cultural Dining, Banana Cheetos, Gratitude, and Friendly Faces

2011-05-24T08:26:00.000-07:00

Every time I walk into the local Korean market, the gentleman who runs the store asks "Where's your baby?" Nevermind that my baby is now five years old. Nevermind that I may clearly be dropping in just to pick something up while I'm on that side of town for some church event. Nevermind that the other two children are notably absent, too. It's my little guy he asks about.

We're not regular visitors over there; the store is across town. But I guess we're memorable. I've only once seen another caucasian person in that store. The first day we dropped in it was like a visit to a foreign country; I was able to find what I needed, but only slowly and with painful attempts to sound out the Korean letters to make sure what I thought I was buying was really what I was buying.

The owner greets all the customers in cheerful Korean. Except the first day we walked in, we heard him greeting the Asian people right in front of us, but as we came in right behind he gave us a baffled smile and a little wave like he didn't know how to respond to these strange visitors. Kind of a friendly version of "y'all ain't from 'round here, are ya?"   A couple of visits later we decided to try out our pathetic four words of badly pronounced Korean and greet him. I've never seen anyone look so stunned. So yeah, we are memorable.

One one visit his wife spent several minutes talking to "the baby" in Korean. Being about a year old, he was strapped Korean style (very comfy) to my back and not going anywhere.   I have no idea what she said to him but she was very enthusiastic about it.

On another visit we took a friend, a missionary who speaks Korean, with us... I was hoping she'd help me broaden my Korean shopping expertise, or at least tell me what a few curious looking products were.   Our friend had a great conversation with the shopkeeper, in enthusiastic Korean. This time it was my turn to stand wide-eyed. Occasionaly our friend would tell me what was going on: "she asked how I know Korean" but I was clueless when the shopkeeper ran over to a display, took down something else I couldn't read, and gave them to my wide-eyed kids. My friend translates "She wants to give you these because she likes you." I somehow managed to convince my boys to bow and the middle child to say his "kamsahamnida" (Thank you)... convincing the youngest to use his Korean words is like pulling teeth.

What she gave my children happened to be these bizarre snacks that taste like banana candy but have the shape and texture of cheese puffs. I have to admit, they're weirdly delicious.   Youngest boy loves them now and apparently had to have them on his last stop at Seoul Mart.

The folks over there have obviously integrated well enough into American society. They seem happy. They speak English at a functional level, at least. Their son was hanging out around the counter with a few school chums (of various races but all boy!) last time I was there. Clearly a nice family. But they're obviously grateful when we make an attempt at their language.   Sometimes just a Korean "thank you" is greeted with exhuberence beyond what would be expected.

And I'm grateful too, that my youngest can hear his first language and be so welcomed by his first culture.   So many internationally adopted kids become cultural orphans. We don't speak Korean with him. I'm a very limited Korean cook. We haven't yet taken him back for a visit. They say its hard to go back as a young adult because everyone expects that they know the culture and language, when they don't. They're Americans in Korean skin.

But at least my little guy has the chance to hear the language, if not to always understand. Like every Korean boy, he hates his hanbok, loves mandu.   He counts in Korean, with a different sort of accent, neither truly Korean nor truly not.

But at least Korea won't seem totally weird when he goes. At least he knows other people who stand along the wide bridge that goes between American culture and Korean. And he's learning to explore, not just where he comes from or even where he's going but that there's a wide wide world out there full of fascinating people and places.

And maybe once in a while, banana cheetos aren't such a bad plan.

Tackiness, its not just for Americans anymore

2011-05-22T11:42:00.000-07:00

This morning, in a friendly debate with the Junior Warden, who let the record show is an enthusiastic University of Kentucky fan (and who, let the record show is consistently amused with my having been raised in University of Tennessee territory, aka "Big Orange Country" (and "Orange U Glad Yer A Vol??" )) the very same Junior Warden flat out denied the existence of Big Orange vestments. To this, I replied, "I am sure there are indeed Big Orange vestments out there; however, there is never ever a liturgical season in which their use is considered appropriate."

Well all this got me internet searching. After all, as good an argument as it may be, it deserves to be backed up with facts, right? Good ol' cold hard facts.

And so I googled it... "Big Orange Chasuble"...

Some things you google with fear and trembling, lest you end up with an eye-full. There's a reason Google breaks down to Go Ogle. While the reasons for fear and trembling may differ here, I have to admit I held my breath a bit when I hit that search button.

Friends these search words will not leave you disappointed... to settle all scores ever with the Junior Warden on this issue, I found this link.

Yes, folks, its the Big Orange Mass.

From the article: "The Reverend Paul Vlaar wore an orange robe and decked out his church in orange before Sunday’s match against Spain, the BBC reported. He even acted as a goalkeeper as a parishioner kicked a soccer ball down the aisle."

The video is something to see... definitely a gross violation of the 11th Commandment ("thou shalt not be tacky") for which the priest involved was given a suspension and encouraged to do a bit of reflecting on the situation. Indeed.

Faithless Heathen Anglicans!!!

2011-05-21T08:24:00.000-07:00

Its the end of the world and Mid-Atlantic diocese is electing a new bishop? Clearly they don't understand that they'll all be raptured up in a few hours and not have the chance for the bishop-elect to so much as pick up a crozier and wave his hands around over confirmands. Harumph! Why already, all over the world, 6:00 PM is happening and the only people left to give, surely false, reports that nothing is going on are people like my friend the Rabbi Down Under, who obviously was not included in the fine print of the Rapture (tm) for being Jewish.

***remove tongue from cheek****

Okay, so the end of the world is coming, but really no one knows when. All I can tell you in truth is that we're a day closer than we were yesterday. How or when or even where it all begins, I have no idea. God seems to tell us on a need-to-know basis and as yet we haven't needed the details. And it could be that the bishops we elect today have no chance to do bishopy things. But we are to be good stewards, expecting Jesus any moment like a theif in the night and preparing to pass the Gospel to the unchurched, undiscipled, and unborn for generations to come. And so, it seems fitting to me that the diocese of the Mid-Atlantic has elected John Guernsey today to be their bishop. A faithful man for the day of reckoning and a gentle and wise man for the days until.

Congratulations bishop John and the Diocese of the Mid-Atlantic!   End of the world or not, it is a day worth celebrating.

And really, on the off chance that the lunatics stumbled across something real, how many people can say they were elected bishop on the last day of the world.    God to the Church. "Last bishop out, please turn off the lights."

2011-05-20T20:56:00.000-07:00

Creative failure and some advice from mom.

2011-05-16T13:28:00.000-07:00

I admit, I can't sew. This probably surprises no one.
Neither can my mother. Its probably some defective gene or something.
Actually, in my mother's defense, she made a really lovely quilt once, when I was a kid. Nobody was ever allowed to touch it after that, probably for fear that it would disintegrate on contact.   She spent hours on that thing. And it is a sign of how grandmothers see the world that we children weren't allowed to look at that quilt wrong, but as soon as my first child was born, the quilt came out of the box and was spread on the FLOOR unrequested, for little mister prone to sudden messes to roll about on.

So now that little mister is a teenager and his younger brother is almost nine (and one more but he won't be appearing in this tale of woe, except possibly cast as an extra in the scene). The two big boys attend a study center two days a week, where we dutifully have their heads stuffed full of classical knowledge like algebra and logic and Shakespeare and science.  And it is the custom of the study center, on the next-to-last Wednesday of the school year, that the kids have dress-up day, where each child whose dutifully crafty mom is eagerly on the ball is allowed to appear in the costume of their favorite character from either history or literature, someone they've studied that year.

Isaac's first year in study center, I simply pretended not to notice dress-up day. I stink at the whole competitive mothering thing. Our first year in 4H, I referred to the other mothers with awe as "domestic goddesses" and mostly hid from them. Ignoring dress-up day is nothing out of my ordinary.   Dress-up day? No, never heard of it.

By the time he came home and told me all the other kids had dressed up, well, too late now. *shrug* Problem solved.

Until the next year... and I kind of "missed" the memo.   Not so neatly done this time though. Maybe I should just let them play hooky on dress up day instead? Again the complaint, again too late.

Year three passed much the same way, but year four involved my poor kid making his own costume out of scraps of paper when he arrived on site to realize that once again his mother had sabatoged the dress-up day memo.

And so it goes. Though we did manage a Helios god of the sun costume last year, complete with gold crown made by dad, who has some decent scissors and glue (and gold spray paint) skills when he wants to. The rest was a bed-sheet. So there.

But this year, now our sixth year of dress-up day shame, I have two kids in study center... and alas, dress-up day is on the horizon. And the darling sons of my youth have plans... plans, I tell you! Evil plans.

Eldest boy has been reading Shakespeare. MacBeth. He wants to go as Malcolm. This does not bother me, he has a kilt. No crazy skills required. But I can't exactly send the eldest dressed as king Malcolm (complete with Nerf sword) and then tell second boy, "you can go as a study center student."

No, in fact, boy two has a plan.
He wants to be a civil war soldier.

I'm doomed. How on earth am I going to come up with that?

$13 in craft felt and yarn later, we've made him a Confederate jacket. (If this were public school, no doubt we'd be thrown out as racists, but then the eldest would probably get suspended for getting in a fight over wearing a "skirt" as I'm sure most regular eighth grade boys would call a kilt.)    To an eight year old this is authentic Confederate perfection. To me, its a perforated thumb and a crooked jacket that looks like its already seen a battle or several. It may not survive a gust of wind.

I called my mother. Her "helpful" non-sewing responses:
1. "You should have told him to make it himself. "
-- Ah yes, I remember when she told me to make my costume myself... the year I wanted to be a camel for Halloween. She bought the brown fabric, I made some sort of mangled mess. No way a human body would fit in the camel suit, nor did it resemble a camel. I think I went to the cosume party as a 1980's kid.
2. "Everyone up there is a Yankee. They won't know the difference."
--Thanks mom. Not helpful. I think yankees know what a jacket is supposed to look like, even if it happens to be grey.
3. "Bandage him up a bit and say he's coming back from the battle."
-- SCORE! That's what mothers are for!

In the meantime, the boy is practicing his marching. He wants to make a giant cannon now, to drag with him to study center. Maybe that will be a job for scissors-dad.

Sermon for 3 Easter

2011-05-08T10:27:00.000-07:00

Amidst all these rejoicings Aslan himself quietly slipped away. And when the kings and queens noticed that he wasn’t there they said nothing about it for Mr. Beaver had warned them, ‘he’ll be coming and going,’ he had said. “One day you’ll see him and another you won’t. He doesn’t like being tied down… It’s quite all right. He’ll often drop in. Only you mustn’t press him. He’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion.”

These words, so familiar to many but perhaps not to all of us, are how C.S. Lewis ends his book, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Every Narnia fan knows these words. In the eyes of the mind, the lion is gently slipping away from the feastings, back into the hills from which he came, softly and unseen. Not a tame lion, the children, now kings and queens in their own right, cannot command this lion, he is not subject to them. In all things, he is in control.
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“That very day, two of them were going to a village named Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and they were talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking Jesus himself drew near and went with them. But theireyes were kept from recognizing him.” Theirs had been a frantic weekend. Likely, they had come into the city to celebrate the Passover, and now these men were returning home. A week before, Jesus had come into town riding on a wave of excitement, hope that this would be the revolutionary to overthrow the oppressor and take control over the land of Israel. Victory seemed so near they could touch it! But something had happened, something unplanned. Surely this frantic series of events was not in the plan. Somehow victory had evaporated, this was definitely not going as planned. Chaos had emerged from every corner of Jerusalem and had converged on this Jesus. Everything had spun out of control.

Jesus had been a prophet, mighty in deed and word before God and before all the people. We had seen his power and his authority and we had hoped, before it all went up in smoke, we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Surely the disciples understood that theirs was a people who could not govern themselves, they were little better than slaves to the Roman government. They were exiles in their own homeland. How these disciples had hoped that this was the prophet like Moses, the redeemer and deliverer who had been expected for generations! And when he rode into town in triumph, the people were encouraged. Surely this was the glory of which he had spoken? But glory broke down into shame, when he was handed over, stripped and mocked and beaten and hung on a tree to die. Did not the Scriptures say that “cursed is the one who is hung on a tree?” They had watched with their own eyes as glory slipped from his grasp.

They had believed that this would be the one who would topple the oppressor and govern the people of Israel, this would be a man of power. But such was this man of power that he went quietly when the soldiers came for him, answered humbly before worldly kings, and failed to rescue himself from the cross while onlookers scoffed “he saved others, why can’t he save himself.” They had watched as power faded away, out of his hands until there was nothing left in him.

Perhaps they had even heard his claims that he was God’s own son, existing before Abraham, before creation itself. Perhaps they had heard the charges against him, that he had made himself equal with God. Could this be the one who brings order to chaos, light to darkness? But by the end of the week, chaos had claimed victory, frantic events and emotions surged, the one who we had so hoped would be our salvation was dead before our eyes. Darkness had overcome light, the sun had withheld its light, and if as the centurion said, this man was truly innocent, then we have indeed witnessed great evil taking victory at his death.

You must be the only visitor to Jerusalem who does not know these things.

And if this were not enough, some women were at the tomb early this morning and they did not find his body there. The chaos, the suffering, was this not enough?

Surely the disciples, as they walked the road to Emmaus did not give credence to the stories of women. In the ancient world, women were not credible witnesses. As would be echoed in the Victorian era, through Freud, women were believed to be prone to hysterics. Perhaps this was imagined, a frantic attempt to make sense out of something really quite simple. The words seemed to be an idle tale, wives tales! Gossip! Get a hold of yourselves, ladies! And two men, two male witnesses, then went to the tomb, and found it empty, as the women had said. What could these things mean? Surely the whole world has spun out of control!

Theirs was a tame messiah. Like a pet who responded to external stimulus, sitting in hopes of a treat from the outside master, they expected their messiah to respond to the situations at hand. The outside needs of Israel would dictate this messiah’s strategy. The influences of Rome would require tactical maneuvers. The situation would control the savior.

A tame messiah is an all too human sort of savior. It should be no surprise that a tame messiah would lose control of the situation at hand, as his own life came to be threatened and things began to spin out of control. A savior who was of this world would require an army bigger than that of Rome to take on the challenge ahead of him. A human savior would be destined to fail.

The Jewish leaders handed Jesus over to be crucified, but Rome was glad to prove the point with any such ‘rabble rousers.’ Conquered peoples did not control Rome. Rome was in charge. Crucifixion meant humiliation, agony, death. Not only would the rebel never rebel again, his followers would be scattered, shamed, and very unlikely to try to pick up where their hero left off. And as if this crucified Jesus were not example enough of what Rome did to any hope of a human savior Israel might have, in 70 AD Israel rebelled against Rome in armed uprising. It was then that Jesus’ prophecy that not one stone of the Temple would be left upon another, that the people would flee to the hills with no time to turn back, saw its first fulfillment.

And so the disciples, who had hoped for a human savior, a tamed messiah, were crushed. And now, adding insult to injury, even the body had gone missing. The sheep were scattered and each was returning, somewhat shamed, somewhat sadder and temporally wiser, to his own village.

But ours is not a tame messiah. He felt no need to respond to the questions of the leaders of this world. He felt no need to flee the cross, the chaos. For he knew that his kingdom was not of this world, and even amid the chaos, he held the order of the universe in his hands. He did not fear the darkness that descended on that cross, for he was the light of the world. And now, as he meets these disciples on the road to Emmaus, he who is the word of God explains to them how the word of God would be fulfilled. Now he shows them how he was in control on the cross, how he taken the chaos of Holy Week and brought forth order, how he had allowed death to triumph in order to bring forth life.

What they don’t realize is that their eyes are being kept from seeing who it is that is explaining all these things. They realize they are hearing a great teacher, but they do not see the full reality of his greatness. Many many preachers have tried to push this under the rug with thoughts about how we sometimes don’t recognize someone out of context, when we don’t expect to see them. And the unexpectedness of this encounter can’t be denied. But the Greek verb is more active, their eyes were kept from seeing. Implied is who it is that is keeping them from knowing. They do not recognize him because he is not yet ready to be recognized. He wants them to hear what he is telling them, not cling to him as Mary Magdalene did in the garden.

But the point at which their eyes are opened, in the breaking of the bread is also crucial. Jesus does something culturally very strange. Clearly this is not Jesus’ house, most likely the house belonged to one of the two disciples who, as host could urge Jesus to stay. Jesus did the culturally appropriate thing to do, he acted as if he were going on up the road, so as not to impose upon his hosts. And the disciples did what ancient hospitality demanded, they invited him to stay. But again the words are more dramatic, they begged him to stay with them. This goes beyond cultural norms, it is almost embarrassing, how they practically force him (in the Greek) to come to their home for the evening meal. But now we know the disciples have heard what Jesus has told them, that this Jesus in whom they had put their hope was far more than an earthly king, that indeed he was not a tame lion.

And so it makes perfect sense, that, as the guest turns the tables and takes the part of the host, blesses and breaks the bread, takes control of the situation once again, that their eyes should be opened and they should recognize that the teacher and the Lord are one in the same.

When we invite Jesus in to our lives and our worship, when we beg him to stay (as we should if we take him seriously) then we have to recognize that he is not a tame lion. This Jesus will accept our invitation to be our guests, but quickly he turns the tables on us and becomes, as he properly is, the host and the master of the household. If we ask him to be guests in our lives, he will happily become the host, taking charge and blessing us from his abundance.

And if this were just some presumptuous guest making himself the master of the house, all that would be appalling, but in fact he is the one who orders the chaos, lightens the darkness, and created the house itself. And if he is the master of this place, there is no chaos he can’t order, no death that can hold him, so we need not worry about what the future might bring, for the guest has become the host and master of this place.

And at times he may seem distant, for he is not a tame lion that we should command him, but he’ll be coming and going as he wills, according to our needs and his desire. At times he’ll come to us with the gentleness of a lamb. At other times with the power of his lion’s nature. But always he will come as host and master, orderer of chaos, and life which no grave can hold.

2011-05-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

May 2011 Last updated at 17:15 ET

'Life of hard labour' in North Korean camp

By Lucy Williamson BBC News, Seoul

Kang Cheol-hwan says new images of the camp he lived in show that it has grown

In the living room of my apartment in Seoul, Kang Cheol-hwan pores over satellite photographs of the place he once lived.

Known as labour camp number 15, in Yodok, North Korea, it is perhaps one of the world's most secret places.
"It was a life of hard labour," he says. "Thirty per cent of new prisoners would die. And we were so malnourished, we would eat rats and earthworms to survive."
Cheol-hwan lived in Yodok for a decade - paying the price for "political crimes" committed by his family.
Amnesty International says there are signs the number of people being sent to North Korea's political prison camps is growing, and that the new satellite maps show the system is thriving.
Torture reports Cheol-hwan traces the outline of the camp on the map with his finger - snaking through North Korea's mountainous countryside.
New rows of buildings have appeared in one section of the camp. They are not there in photographs from a decade ago.

Satellite image of Yodok prison camp taken on 7 April 2011 (Image: Amnesty International/Digital Globe)

"This is the guards' block," he points out. "And it's grown. I assume it's because they need a bigger security presence now."
I ask him where he lived and he points to a row of box-like houses a few hundred metres from the guard block, a single road leading in and out.
Reports from inside the camps are scarce. But many of those who do speak out tell horrific stories of torture, starvation and summary executions.
The new Amnesty report details accounts of water-boarding, sleep deprivation, bamboo pieces placed under the fingernails and imprisonment - sometimes for months on end - inside a 4ft (1.22m) by 4ft cell.
Cheol-hwan remembers the prison block inside his camp, where the troublesome inmates were kept. It was where torture and beatings took place, he says.
'No return' News is already filtering through the North Korean community here in Seoul of a wider crackdown taking place back home.
There is talk of listening posts, border fences and a sharp rise in public executions.
Kang Cheol-ho runs a church for North Korean defectors. He gets new arrivals every month and says the reports just get worse.
"I'm getting more and more dire testimonies all the time," he said. "That the clampdown is worse, the food situation is more severe and the authorities are making it clear, if you try and escape the country, you'll never get another chance.
"Nowadays, you'll be sent to one of these camps from which you may never return."

The rest of the story is here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-13268857

Earth Day... of course, what else would today be?

2011-04-22T16:16:00.000-07:00

So today is Earth Day. There's a lot of hoorah in Christian circles, ranging from eye-rolling to utterly put out, that Secular Society has exchanged the darkest day on the Christian calendar for Earth Day. How dare they usurp "our" holiday with their neo-pagan pantheism secular-humanism environazi tripe!

Now I'm all for good stewardship as an act of Christian living. I keep my lightbulbs incandescent (no mercury, baby), my laundry natural (and line dried when weather permits), my garden organic, and my car as fuel efficient as possible. Mostly because I think God did a fine job creating nature, and I like to keep it as much as he intended, heck just for my own well being and pleasure as much as any other, but also because I'm Scottish and therefore somewhat stereotypically cheap.

And if EnviroPaganism wants a holiday, I don't care when or where they schedule it... as long as they don't expect me to drop everything, hop into my carbon emitting vehicle, and waste my precious time joining them.

Today, for that "other" holiday happening concurrently, my parish read through the entire Gospel of John during the course of the liturgy. I admit, I don't often take the leisure to sit down and read an entire Gospel (though I have read all four Gospels in totality more than a few times, fear not!) and it is even more rare that I have the leisure to sit and, aside from taking my own turns at the lectern, hear the Gospel read out loud.

John is a thematic writer, light and dark, Jesus' divinity, the Son's agency, Jewish idenity, fulfillment of the Law. There are plenty of identifiable themes. But the theme that most struck me today was the difference between the earth man and the God-man.

Jesus tells the earth -man that he will see angels ascending and descending upon the Son of Man. For the Jesus himself is the stairway between heaven and earth (think Jacob at Beth-el). Angels must ascend from the earth before they can descend and make themselves useful in God's mission. Likewise no earth-man has ascended, seen God. The man of the earth is bound to the earth, he comes from the earth (Genesis) returns to the earth, and doesn't seem to have any variation on the theme in between.

The earth-man stares in wonder, we do not know where this Jesus comes from. Of course not, earth-man can have no experience of non-earth. Earth man does not know where Jesus comes from because he can only name geographic locations and the names of other earth-bound creatures. How could Jesus, who we know comes from Galilee be the Messaiah? We aren't supposed to know where the Messiah comes from? How could Jesus, whose mother and father we know, be the mysterious savior... unless of course there is something in him we cannot see through earth colored lenses.

Earth-man thinks death is the end of this Jesus, to kill the body, humiliate... this will get rid of him and make sure no one cares to follow in his footsteps. This, this will quelch all hope.

Today Earth-man still strives for his victories. His religion is still one of deeds, drink from this cup (no not the styrofoam one), reduce, reuse, recycle. Follow our laws of overpriced enviro-consumerism. Be greener than your neighbor. And so earth man celebrates (some celebration) "Earth Day"...

With an hour of darkness....
A rally....
A washable coffee cup...
a reusable grocery bag...

Knowing somewhere deep down that his futile efforts will not cheat death, there is no cure, and the meager remedies are really only a drop in the bucket, at worst hypocracy. Earth-man's deity, savior, planet is seen as dying.

And that sounds really rather Christian.

Until one realizes that Earth-man's planet has no hope of resurrection. Death is death and the dead stay dead.

Some celebration.

But God incarnate does not stay dead. The Christian savior requires no saving from us. Death, cross, humiliation, these are not the end of him. For the earth cannot hold him, the grave must set him free.

And the man he created of the earth itself is in his image, and the earth must set him free.

And the earth itself must indeed pass away, but not without hope. For he who made it once will make it again, newer and unburdened from our sin and greed and death and pettiness, perfected and eternal. Even the earth has hope of resurrection.

And God descended, without having first ascended because the earth does not bind him, it is neither source nor strength, but creation. He descended that we might ascend, freed at last from the duties of imperfect earth.

And so on this day, while others celebrate earth day, we remember him who was "lifted up from the earth" in order to draw all people away from our earthliness and to himself.

I'll take the darkest day of Christianity over the starkest celebrations of Earth-bound man any time. For we, Christians, are not as a people without hope....

Insiders Outside, and the other way around

2011-04-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

The Gospel reading for tonight was the center portion of John 12, after Jesus has arrived in Jerusalem, and a couple of Greeks approach Philip and ask to see Jesus. There is so much situation, culture, emotion and personality here. Philip, who had previously invited the Jewish Nathaniel to come and see Jesus now has no idea what to do with a couple of Greeks, gentiles, "goyim"... They're outside the elect, strangers whose access to God is questionable at best. There are no promises of a place at the table.

I find these unnamed Greeks remarkable, because they've already made a trip from their home to Jerusalem, knowing they'd come as outsiders, not expecting a place at the table. These are people with no spiritual home, seeking after the one God, and all the while literally walking away from the gods of their fathers, their lands, their family and neighbors. And all the while there is no promise that the one God will accept them. They travel miles in first century conditions, and when they arrive they still cannot enter the Temple past the court of the gentiles. Surely there is deep humility in their request, "Sir, we would see Jesus."

Philip knows there's no guarantee. How can he speak of the promises of God to these people, who are by definition outside the promise? How can he offer the Jewish messiah to these non-Jews? What does he have to offer to Samaria and the ends of the earth? A moment in time, a consult with Andrew, and together they approach Jesus.
I was struck today by the cryptic nature of Jesus answer. "The hour has now come..." Leave it to Jesus to not just offer a simple yes or no answer. There's much ado about glorification and the Son of Man being lifted up, but what about those Greeks. I took a moment to look up the passage in the InterVarsity commentary on John for a little extra help. There, Rod Whitacre notes:

Philip does not go straight to Jesus with the Greeks' request, but rather to Andrew, who was from Philip's town (1:44). This may bear witness to Philip's humility, but more likely it shows how unusual the situation was. Jesus has had contact with non-Jews (cf., probably, 4:43-53), but very rarely. He has taught much about the universal scope of God's love, but the full implications of this were not grasped by his followers until later. The nationalism stirred up during Jesus' entry into Jerusalem might make the disciples uncertain about such a request, though these Greeks were proselytes. It seems Philip simply needs some encouragement to approach the Lord when faced with this new and stretching situation. He goes to Andrew, who seems to have been a trusting person who was willing to speak up even when it seemed foolish (6:8-9). If we are stymied by a situation, it helps to have a friend with whom to go to the Lord, not to demand of the Lord but simply to lay before him the situation.
Quite often Jesus has responded to questions and situations with cryptic sayings, and this is no exception. When Andrew and Philip announce the coming of the Greeks something wondrous happens. It triggers the moment the reader has been anticipating since the story began: Jesus replied, "The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified" (v. 23). As with all his cryptic sayings, this response addresses the issue, but it does so in ways incomprehensible at the time. He does not speak directly to the Greeks, but he speaks of their place in his community in the future. For he reveals that it is time for his death to take place, through which a great crop will be produced (v. 24) as he draws all men to himself (v. 32). Thus, verse 24 answers the Greeks indirectly, for through his death he "will become accessible for them as the exalted Lord"

Of course we all know that the Greeks are welcome to see Jesus, but if that is the only answer why is Jesus so harsh at first with the SyroPhonecian woman? The answer may be that the time hadn't come. Everything up through the triumphal entry was one phase, and now things are shifting. God became incarnate for the Jews, and now the whole system is about to crack wide open. It reminds me of Aslan on the Stone Table in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, the deeper magic is that the table, the old system, the Law itself is cracked in two and the lion gets up from the scene of his slaughter. In my imagination, between the cracks in the cold stone, new life emerges, like a tree growing up from the rubble.
The contrast in the text though is with the locals. Those who have had access to Jesus all along, so many still don't understand. Even when God speaks directly, audibly, many just hear thunder. And yet, for those who seek him, of all nations, this is the "light to enlighten the gentiles" of whom Simeon spoke. But not only a light to the nations, but also the glory of God's people, Israel. Here is not only the King of Israel, but the very crown of the nation.
I think we are a little like Philip sometimes, when someone outside our own sense of the "chosen" people wants to see Jesus. Philip has no ill will, he just doesn't know what to do with the situation. I wonder how we can pray for people to come to Jesus if we aren't even sure we can comfortably introduce such as these to our Lord if given the chance. As Jesus shifts his ministry toward the cross, he also shifts his presence outside the boundaries of the "chosen" people, and sometimes it is hard for us disciples to catch up with where he's going. How willing are we to introduce to Jesus the stranger, the outsider, even the enemy and oppressor?

And at the same time we hear stories of Christians, in every generation and on every continent, who are able to pray for their persecutors. We sit here comfortably and think that our minor losses are persecutions, while we have yet to begin to suffer. And we can't pray for our enemies. But our brothers and sisters who risk life and limb on a daily basis shine like beacons to the grace of God. They are the Andrew to our well-meaning but (in this case) somewhat ineffective Philip

Paying One's Respects

2011-04-17T19:05:00.000-07:00

Not to be on a morbid theme, really I don't go looking for these things, but I stumbled across this in the news today and couln't resist sharing (found at: http://www.foxnews.com/us/2011/04/17/drive-casket-viewing-california-offers-mourners-look-wheels/?test=latestnews)

Drive-thru Casket Viewing in California Offers Mourners a Last Look on Wheels

Published April 17, 2011

COMPTON, Calif. - There are drive-thru burger joints and drive-thru banks but now one California city offers the ultimate in drive-thru convenience: drive-thru casket viewing.
Yes, at the Robert L. Adams Mortuary in Compton, south of Los Angeles, it is possible to view the deceased resting in a casket display window while cruising past in your car, the Los Angeles Times reported Sunday.

"It's a unique feature that sets us aside from other funeral parlors," said owner Peggy Scott Adams.

"You can come by after work, you don't need to deal with parking, you can sign the book outside and the family knows that you paid your respects," Scott Adams explained. "It's a convenience thing."

I don't know about you, but the way I was raised, paying one's respects is not supposed to be convenient. Its about going out of your way to care. Now, I've never been a fan of the American ritual that involves displaying the dead (if any of my family ever try to do that to me I promise to haunt them) and commenting on how "natural" uncle Joe, a manly man indeed, looks in full make-up and a suit he probably hated. I tolerate it for the sake of parish ministry, play nice for the love of friends and relatives (again, its not about me, my convenience, my preferences) but I'd be much happier to just attend the funeral and offer thanks to God for lives well lived. Yes, I'd rather spend two hours in a pew than ten minutes in a receiving line.

And the very thought of driving by, where the dead are on public display in some bulletproof (oh wait, I haven't posted that part yet, have I?) storefront for the sake of "convenience"... revolting. I don't suppose it struck me as an indignity to receive a my supposed meal from a paper bag handed through a window by an employee who would rather be anywhere else. I'm sure I missed the lack of humanity in the "here's the goods, now move along" world of drive through banking, food, coffee, and even pharmacies (or so they say, I've never used one). But one by one, business by business, convenience has taken the place of relationship. To do so in the most relational of times, a funeral, is dehumanizing and repellant.

You know, there was a time when the dead were kept in their homes before the funeral, and death was part of life. Funeral homes removed that, for convenience. And while the last thing I'd want if a member of my household were to pass on woudl be a parade of people coming in and out my door, there is something appropriate in the non-sterile environment in which death and life collide. But for convenience, dignity and humanity and relationship are sacrificed, and even our loves are dispensed from a drive through (spelled drive-thru, I guess) window.

Spam

2011-04-16T12:02:00.000-07:00

I admit it: I sometimes enjoy reading spam mail.

Not often. and I do use a defunct email address for my online needs, a spam filter on my email, and occasional email address changes to keep spam to a minimum. But once in a while, you have to give these guys a read.

Anyone who would fail to grasp the futility in sending a message riddled with spelling errors in all caps and clearly labelled as being from a "barrister" in Nigeria must either be a tremendous cynic who has no faith in human intelligence or an extreme optimist who can't accept that he's wasting his time. Does anyone ever fall for these things?

Today's spam comes from someone who interestingly calls himself Prophet Tarsam Hayre. Prophet! There's a new one. You'd think if he were so prophetically inclined he would know that he's destined for deletion. But for kicks, do allow me to share with you, directly from my email "junk" folder....

The message is entitled (in all caps) "CURE FOR YOUR PROBLEMS" and politely begins with an apology for the "inconvenience this email will give you"... really unless it comes with its own special prophetic curse, there's not much inconvenience in just hitting delete, but you'd think the Prophet would know that. So my vote is that its cursed... Kind of like chain letters that insist on being forwarded or some evil monster will eat your young.

But Prophet Tarsam goes on... we, the people are no doubt waiting for his oracle on the edge of our seats...

The prophet tells me he has the cure for AIDS and cancer. You'd think, if he did, he'd be too rich and busy jetting around signing autographs and giving lectures to send me spam. How toughtful of him to take the time between appointments, from his busy schedule, to message me directly making no reference to my name, location, or other identifying information. I'm in awe.

Kindly he goes on: "For success in examinations,interview,lottery games,court cases and any kind of spiritual assistance we are there for you." Yeah, so is the local tarot reader, and probably cheaper, just as accurate, and less likely to ask for my bank account information. Has anyone tipped this guy off about the Biblical response to false prophets? No probably not...
"If you have or you know anyone with the above problems mentioned kindly contact us immediately or send us your phone number," thus saith Tarsam... not only your own phone number, but if the sucker born this minute knows of anybody else who would like a call, preferably somebody really afflicted and willing to hand over wads of cash and personal information, do please do Tarsam a favor and forward this person's number along... after Tarsam can't waste his prophetic powers just listening to the hum of the universe for the cries of the oppressed... he must rely on you, the innocent sucker, to bring those cries to his doorstep. Anything else would take too much time out of his busy AIDS and cancer curing schedule.

Sheesh... and you thought he was just being a lazy spammer.

Cynic.

Tarsam reminds the gentle reader to "Remember every king or queen needs a prophet."
Because Tarsam has no idea whether I and the multitude of "undisclosed recipients" who no doubt are eagerly awaiting his next oracle are boy-suckers or girl-suckers.

And in closing Tarsam, in his world class English, kindly invites response, as all good spammers do: "Looking forward to hear from you."

Ah, Tarsam... The Prophet.... has spoken.

Don't you just feel all warm and tingly in the reading of it????

What unholy heck is this???

2011-04-10T18:55:00.001-07:00

Okay so there’s a thread over at StandFirm about the latest hoorah from the Episcopal Church about the little factoid that Earth Day and Good Friday fall on the same date this year. If you’re interested in a modern theological fiasco, you can scoot on over there and witness it all for yourself. The article is here.
Well, I guess I shouldn’t have. I have plenty of other things to do. And it is rather like unto watching a train wreck. But I did it… I followed links. Why do I do this to myself?
What I found was “The Episcopal Ecological Network (of the Episcopal Church)” and as they offered a few “liturgical resources” (one of which, I will spare you, specifically calling for the services of a mime… I kid you not… and culminating in ways we can be nice to the earth… but it pales in comparison to what came next) for use, including one for Eucharist in “creation season” which I gather comes sometime in October- November (from the dating in the document itself)… I had no idea such a “season” of the liturgical year existed.
Ah where to begin??? Perhaps with the litany to which the congregational response is “I pray for all my relatives- all living things.” Whether we are saying that we’re related to all living things (no, we are in Christ related to all other believers, but fluffy bunnies and kitty cats are not brothers and sisters) or whether we are simply affirming that all our relatives are living things (except those who aren’t, and I don’t think my relatives would take kindly to being called things), the response, repeated and repeated, is a load of tripe.
But ah, for what do we petition our deity on behalf of whatever it is we call our relatives…

Leader:
Father, love is something we must have. We must have it because our Spirit feeds upon it. We must have it because without it we become weak and faint. Without love, we weaken and our courage fails. Father, you declared that love in your Son Jesus Christ. Help your Church declare that love in this world.

Is it just me or is that kind of gross?
Okay how about this one?

Leader:
Great Spirit, we feel you in the buffalo, the moose, in summer, with the mist on the lake and in the blue wave, in the cry of the loon. It is beautiful. You tell us heaven is still more beautiful. Injustice and suffering will be gone, We rejoice and look forward in hope as You help us to build your kingdom in our communities. Those who have worn out their shoes know where to step. Help us to follow the footsteps of Jesus.

Holy paganism! then again, if they hear their god in the cry of the loon…. no I won’t say that…
Then follows some stuff about Mother Earth casting off winter and the wisdom of the elders (echoes of ancestor worship that they aren’t willing to own up to quite yet)… and lots and lots of native American paganism.
Then, of course, because the day wouldn’t be complete without it, comes… come on clergy friends… all together now:
EUCHARISTIC PRAYER C!!! Yes, this “fragile earth, our island home.” The “Star Wars Prayer” as my husband calls it (“the vast expanse of interstellar space…”) call of the loon indeed.
And if that is not enough… I promise you brothers and sisters, (it's found here)…
the final blessing…
which makes utterly no sense at all…
“Blessing: Deep peace of the running wave.”
There is no congregational response to that. Indeed, how could one respond to that? I mean I can handle “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I know that response: Thanks be to God. But if someone dismissed the congregation with “Deep peace of the running wave,” it would be all I could do not to respond with “What the hell?”
Which is probably the only apt response there is, now that I think of it.

Important, life changing, and otherwise essential things I did today.

2011-04-10T17:54:00.000-07:00

1. called my mother. Everyone should call their mother fairly often. Mothers like that sort of thing.
2. called my mother-in-law. I happen to really like mine. She's a gentle relaxing sort of soul.
3. took a walk. Two miles. Also relaxing.
4. failed to be in an auto accident on I-79. WPXI reports that there were two fatalities. I drove right by all the firemen and police, but had I not stayed on after vestry meeting, I would have probably been there when it happened. On the exit I would have taken (had traffic not been detoured because the accident closed the exit).
5. worshiped Jesus, received his holy sacrament, fellowshiped with some of the saints militant in Carnegie. God is good.
6. ate a doughnut. Not important but tasty.
7. had steak for dinner. Humor me, its Lent.
8. sat outside in the sunshine. Immensely good for morale after another nasty cold Pittsburgh winter.
9. listened to the Pirates and Reds both lose. again. Humility is good for the soul, right?
10. got some work done... like real work. That's good.

I don't know why I'm posting this except to remind myself that sometimes little things are big things, and the things we think are huge are really, in the grand scheme of things quite little. In a lot of the points above, life was being intensely lived, ministry was more an adventure than a job... and yet the list really looks pretty mundane. And I guess that's good. I also did some less than mundane things, but in the long run I doubt those things will matter.

And probably, only the dougnut will be with me a year from now, right?

For after that final at-bat....

2011-04-07T20:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, anyone who reads this blog (does anyone read this blog? well, a few perhaps) knows that I'm as much of a baseball fan as the next person. The sounds and smells and feel of an open air stadium on a hot summer day (or a breezy summer night), maybe a cold drink, friends and family nearby, alternately relaxing and exhilarating. Can't beat a good seat for a good game, and there's nothing like a game at PNC Park where all the seats are good, all the best teams come to play, and the price is still something I can afford without mortgaging one of my kids.

But as much as one can love baseball, there has to be a limit.

This... has crossed the limit.

Yup, just like choosing your kids' bedroom comforter, there is a casket in every major league logo.

Personally, I think it may be putting a bit too much stock in God's own sports preferences. I mean, if you're a Pirates fan, do you go for the local favorite, even thought they've been an exiled people for 18 years, or do you go for a more "sure thing" and risk offending the local funeral director? You could just as well end up going to eternity in a spiffy looking Cleveland Indians casket with a mustache and horns drawn on you in Sharpie pen.

And what if after you're all sealed up and firmly planted in the ground the team moves to another market, insults your hometown, and leaves your descendants paying taxes through the nose for an abandoned stadium?

Football fans seem to be out of luck... so far the company seems only to have baseball coffins. I guess that's because baseball is the only sport in heaven/Iowa.

Amuzing Grace, How Sweet the Sound

2011-04-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took my teenager to OMF's Heart for Asia conference in Lancaster. There were speakers there who were serving in various Asian countries, but I was particularly encouraged (as was my son) by the Church in Japan. Japanese churches that we learned about were very small, with no western worries about "critical mass," and often meeting in restaurant booths and karioke bars. I was particularly charmed by this one:

At first I thought the name was "engrish"... the special sort of mangled English that is particularly indigenous to Asia. But as it turns out, the church is intentionally named, as they meet in a small recording studio. Music/Muse/Amuzing. Cool.

I shared that with the congregation this morning. I just couldn't resist the allure of the clever name (especially as it stands out in the seriousness of Japanese culture and of the current Japanese national trauma after the earthquake/tsunami). It just seemed fitting to me to share God's grace with a sense of humor and delight.

I'm attaching below my son's remarks about the Church in Japan:

Japan is truly a place that needs the Savior. Even though it is within the 10/40 window of Christianity, it is currently without Christ. While Christ is working its way into Japan, it still remains mostly in the dark about Him. Also, there is the matter of, well, matter. Compared to the US population of 310 million people, Japan has only 127 million, or only 41% of the population. On another note, the US has about 3.8 million square miles, while Japan owns only 146,000 square miles, or a little less than 4%. Now, I don’t know about you, but I see that the population percent chance is a lot bigger than the square mileage percent change. In the US, they calculate about 82 persons to a square mile. In Japan, there is over 10 times that, at 870 persons to a square mile. This winds up with buildings everywhere, people everywhere, and very little elbow room. However, Japan manages to be neat and organized. When people go to work, school, or most work-related events, they wear a uniform. In fact, some missionaries (which are the best source of Christ) sometimes stay so long, they start wearing uniforms. (It gets to the point where you can tell the new guy by the fact that he doesn’t wear a uniform.) The weekly attendance for a Japanese church is 36, and that means all kinds of Christians. There are some churches that are so small; their “building” is about the size of a US bathroom. But still, even with these people going out of their way to preach the gospel, the Japanese people are so confident, that if God grants the power to help them do something, they get cocky and say that “they did it with their own power.” Because of this, the biggest thing that you can pray for when you pray for Japan is spiritual awakening. Now I shall ask you to pray for Japan, that they will receive spiritual awakening. Thank you.

Somewhere Between Hope and Despair

2011-03-31T10:07:00.001-07:00

Baseball. The first day of the season. Pittsburgh fans everywhere note that “at least we’re tied for first!” For one day. Its a dark humor, the only time of the year the local team is expected to be at or above .500.

Its a strange place where everything is fresh and new and yet, at the same time, the outlook does not look good. A sense of expectation and dread at the same time. The hope of heartache.

I admit that the Pirates are not my first love in Baseball, but I know the feeling of hope and despair. For ten years my favorite team followed the same pattern. It was only last year, which began with the same dark hope, that Reds fans saw any real fruit borne after the long dry spell. The Reds show that quick turn-arounds can happen, even if they’re rare. And so maybe there is a little more glimmer for Pittsburgh as I see this season.

But if Facebook is telling, the rest of the Burgh is not so hopeful.

The Reds play today. Pittsburgh opens their season in Chicago tomorrow.

Here’s to a fresh start. A new year. And even to the same old players, fans and managers that have made the past years what they were.

Here’s to baseball.

On old movies

2011-03-30T10:41:00.001-07:00

Growing up, there was nothing more eye-rollingly time wasting as being forced to sit down with the parents and watch old movies. We had no idea what our parents saw in those things with their slow plotlines, bland characters, special effects involving visible wires, and grainy black and white film. Perhaps watching the old stars in their prime made our parents feel a little younger, nostalgic, at least until we groaned “Yeesh mom! Is in black and white!!! Ugh!”

Black and white meant old, ancient, hideously passe to a generation who grew up on color TV, basic video games, cheap pocket cameras, and the big screen efforts of Disney and Warner Brothers. Life was living color and we were proud of it.

I’ve since developed a taste for black and white photography (which ironically my mother hates) and Fred Astaire movies. But what baffles me is my own children’s reaction to the movies of my childhood.

As I write this, my two youngest are playing Star Wars on the Wii. Middle boy should be getting back to his school work, but he’s using his break to wield light sabers at Darth Vader. Funny… minus the Wii, that’s just what little boys were doing thirty years ago.

Star Wars was released when I was three years old, younger than either of those two kiddos on the Wii right now. That would be the equivalent to my childhood of movies released in 1949, when my mother was three. Star Wars should be their Abbot and Costello, Little Women (Starring Liz Taylor), or maybe Sands of Iwo Jima. Harrison Ford is as old to them as Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra are to my generation.

So what’s the fascination?

I think the difference is that GenX is the first generation to be so totally raised on media that it has gained the familiarity of a family member. While my parents’ generation was charmed by remakes of their old favorites, X’ers get irate. Don’t mess with my Star Wars! The purist freaks out at Jar-Jar (okay everyone freaks out at Jar-Jar). People actually argue over whether the movies are best watched in chronological order by storyline or by release date. Media has become the new storytelling tradition. Our movies have become part of our culture identity. To question Star Wars would be like questioning the Pilgrims and turkey at Thanksgiving dinner.

It’s interesting, that in this age where everything from kitchen towels to cell phones are disposable, where media flashes in the pan come and go, that such an icon of the 80’s has become so entrenched. I wonder what the future of these modern icons will be. Will my grandchildren be playing Virtual Reality Hoth battles? Will “a long long time ago in a galaxy far far away” someday come to really refer to us?

After all, I don’t see anyone playing Gene Kelly video games.