Annual Meetings

Sunday is St. John's Annual Meeting. It will be my 22nd and last. It's only my 21st as Rector, but I was a supply priest at St. John's for 4 months back in Jan-April of 1988 before the parish called an interim Rector. That meeting will be a contrast to the one we'll have Sunday. There was a great deal of contention at the '88 Annual Meeting and since I just said the opening prayer I had no part in trying to calm it down.

Annual Meetings are fictions of canon law. The canons require that they happen. There is business to be transacted to meet the canons--elections and the presentation of the budget and other reports. Beyond that, Annual Meeting really don't have much to do. Those things are important, of course, but they are best done quickly and efficiently.

Some people expect too much of Annual Meetings. In that way an annual meeting of a parish is something like Christmas. People expect too much of Christmas too--things the holy day cannot deliver.

Annual meetings are not like town meetings in a small new England village. The Episcopal Church is a representative democracy through and through--not a direct democracy. The real responsibility for decisions lies with the Vestry, not the A.M. In fact, Annual meetings don't even have the opportunity to 'pass' the budget. The budget is prepared, approved and presented by the vestry. People at the a.m. have an opportunity to ask questions and make comments, but the budget is a faite-comple (which neither my spell check or I can spell--you know what I means...something already complete). We do vote for officers and vestry members, but most often their is a 'slate' presented of the number needed to be elected and I never remember any one to nominate anyone from the floor, though it could happen.

So you see, Annual Meetings are not intended to be debating societies or policy setting forums. It is a requirement of canon law--simply that.

I like them short and sweet and I'm sure some people thing I ram them through, and they would be right. You want to argue policy or have input, come to vestry meetings where everyone in the parish has a voice.

The only time they can get out of hand is if they are not scripted closely enough. I remember one year shortly after I arrived, a committee had recommended interring ashes in the church Close (fancy Episcopal name for 'courtyard'). Everyone loved it and the vestry thought it would be a no brainer. Instead it was a donny-brook! A few people objected, others objected to the objections and people got testy. I finally asked for a motion to table and we went back and gave more information and had a special meeting to have the parish approve.

Luckily, I was so surprized by the turn of events that it didn't occur to me to say to the meeting what I told the Sr. Warden immediately afterwards: "that was a lot of argument over a few 'ash holes...."

Lucky indeed for me....

90 minutes of fame

Andy Warhol said everyone would have 15 minutes of fame--hell, I had 90 today alone! I was on radio for an hour and TV for half an hour. It was easy--all I had to do was talk about things that were important to me and be encouraged by the one 2 liberal talk show hosts in Waterbury! Piece of Cake. Bring on Jay Leno--I'd like to get Conon O'Brian's separation pay. Hey, I'm retiring, where's the $33 million?

Seriously, It was fun for me. I love to talk. I once asked my beloved friend and mentor, Bill Penny, before he died, if he thought I talked too much at our weekly clergy meetings. I was driving him home since he had serious macular degeneration. We were going to stop at his favorite fish store in Watertown on the way to Litchfield.

"Yes," he said, in response to my inquiry. Then he added, "I think I'll get some salmon...."

I once described my job to someone as 'walking around and talking a lot'. I wish I had said, 'walking around and listening a lot'. And I wish that had been true. If there is anything I regret about my life as a priest, it is probably that--that I didn't 'listen' more and talk less. And if there were any advice I'd give to someone thinking about priesthood it would be 3 things: "listen...then listen...then listen a little more".

Silence, I have begun to truly believe, is the Heart of God. I wish I had been a little more silent over these years....listened more....

But I do like the sound of my own voice....

dogs with lights

I was walking my dog about 9:30 and we encountered a huge yellow dog with a red light around his neck. I was so shocked I didn't think to ask the dog's walker who it was for--the dog or him. The light was about the size of the little keg or brandy or whatever that St. Bernards are sometimes pictured with. It was red, not clear. I don't have a clue what that was about.

I'm really not up to writing more tonight but this keeps my promise to post each day and gives you something to ponder--dogs with lights, what's next? cats with windshield washers?

preaching

I had a long talk this afternoon with a trusted friend about preaching. I don't often get to talk about preaching so it was a welcomed and wonderful conversation.

I love the preach--JUST LOVE IT....

I often meet priests who don't 'love' to preach. Some of them actually hate it. And I say to myself, "self, why did they choose this vocation?"

Preaching, for me, is the most fun part of being a priest.

Mostly I preach to myself--whenever I don't, it doesn't feel good or right. I have very little right to 'preach' at other people. I do know stuff about scripture and theology that they might not know--though some do!--but that doesn't give me the right to 'be preachy'.

I read the gospel well ahead...and sometimes the other lessons, though mostly I preach about the gospel lesson. And I just sit with it...or drive with it...or move around with it...or sleep with it and then, at some point, start writing things down I've been thinking.

Often I write a sermon in one draft. I haven't always done that--I used to agonize over the whole process--but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.

Yes, you read that right. The more I preach, the younger and more child-like I become about it all. I listen 'for me' to what the gospel might be saying. Often it says lots of things and I have to trust my intuition to choose the one that speaks to me.

Then I write. And read it and read it (outloud several times) and then leave the text in the vesting room if I use the pulpit or on the pulpit if I preach walking around. (You've got to leave room for the Spirit--bless her heart--and read the faces of the poor, stranded, undefended listeners.

Preaching IS what a priest does--spoken or unspoken. Figuring out a new way or an old way spoken new to tell the timeless Truth of the Gospel.

I hope I will be able to preach much during my retirement. But it won't be the same, talking to myself in front of mostly strangers as it has been at St. John's--talking to myself in front of people I know so well and who have figured me out and who matter so much. It will be different, that I know--and I will miss preaching at St. John's...that I know fair well....

hot dogs, continued

I wasn't quite through with my tirade about hot dogs but hit some key that posted it against my will....

The reason I was thinking about this was today I was hungry and decided to give Frankie's one more chance. It was the same level of disappointment. I did know, from experience, to order a 'side' of 'cole slaw' along with the hot dog with chili--at least they have chili. But the dog itself was the same ol' CT hot dog, extending past the end of a fru-fru bun that had (horrors!) been toasted instead of steamed...that is my definition of adding insult to injury. The chili though, wasn't bad, so I finally removed the ersatz wiener and ate the chili and slaw on that piece of white bread toast shaped like a bun.

I was once in a place in North Carolina--a little beer bar with only a counter--and when the waitress brought me my hot dog with chili and slaw, just the way they made them, she said, "first bite of that wiener, honey, close your eyes...." I did, being a polite boy that obeys waitresses. I thought it was to savor the taste of a dog to die for--but when I bit, I realized what she meant...the scalding water and pork grease hit my eyelids, but since my eyes were closed, did not blind me....

I've been thinking, maybe I could rent a little place in Cheshire when I retire and do a hot-dog place. I'd only serve Dr. Pepper and draft beer for drinks and the only item on the menu would be 'real' hot dogs. I'd call it "Dogs not Dogma" and have a theological theme to the decor.

Cheese is not an insult to a hot dog--so long as it is hot cheese-whiz. And an occasional 'character' might want a little ketchup or mayo--though as a purist I think the slaw should have enough mayonnaise to do.

I did have a hot dog once in a wonderful place in Wilmington, North Carolina, with mayo, cheeze-whiz and bacon bits they had made from thick sliced bacon (not the stuff in a jar, please Lord!) that would have passed for a real hotdog. And I must admit that whenever I fly through Chicago I do get one of those with little green peppers, dill pickles and tomatoes. So my dog shop is already getting too complicated...I'll have to find something else to do when I retire.

Maybe there is a mail order place like Harry and David's, except it would be called Jimbo and Bubba's, where I could find those juicy, pink, oh so porcine wieners....I'll be up late surfing the web....

My kingdom for a hot dog....

Where I grew up all the little beer-bars--liquor couldn't be sold by the drink in WV back then--and all the Drive ins and some little hole-in-the wall places all could make a hot dog to die for....By a hot dog to die for, I mean something that, in my experience, does not exist in CT. (Once I describe it, if you know where to find one, please let me know.)

All the hot dogs around here are long and skinny. The hot dog I'm talking about is short and plump and pink. It is made of an equal proportions of pork, nitrates and some red coloring dye to make it so very pink. It is something you would never consider grilling since it would explode and shower you with lard and other noxious things that are better eaten than worn. This is a hot dog you only steam or boil. When you bite into such a hot dog, hot grease explodes into your mouth and you can feel your arteries closing.

But that's not all. These hot dogs ALWAYS have chili on them--no beans in that--just some combination of diced and fried onions, ground beef, chili powder and most like ketchup instead of tomato paste. And it is on a 'real' hot dog bun, not one of these sissy buns with the crust cut off the side. I mean a bun that is brown all outside, not a fru-fru thing that should be a lobster roll.
And the bun has been steamed as well so it is already a little wet and mushy before the other stuff goes on.

The other stuff is, as I have already established, chili, and either yellow mustard and onions or, and preferably, slaw. (Now I have learned to to ask for 'slaw' in CT you have to use the modifier 'cole' or someone just stares at you like your some hick from WV. Where I come from we don't waste an extra word like that. Besides, what other kind of 'slaw' is there? That's it. one way or the other. Just like 'regular coffee' in CT might come with milk and sugar--though there is nothing 'regular' about that--a hot dog will come with chili (did I mention that? no need to order a 'chili dog' where I come from, saving another word for later use) and either slaw OR mustard and onions. If you say, "a dog with slaw' you'll get chili and slaw. If you say 'regular dog' you'll get mustard and onions with the chili and heart stopping wiener.

And you need to order more than one because they are so good you can't stop at one. When my children were little and we were visiting grandparents in southern WV, we would always drive to Lynn's drive-in in Bluewell for a bunch of hotdogs. The soppy bun soaks up all the tastes and is a treat in itself. I pray, if there's a God, that there is still a Lynn's in Bluewell.

When I first moved to Cheshire, everyone told me I had to get a hotdog from Blackie's. So I went and ordered two with 'chili and slaw'. Of course, they had neither but did have some brown mustard (ye gods! brown mustard on a hot dog!) and this very famous confection of over cooked peppers and onions that everyone swore was delightful. Plus the dog was long and skinny--stuck out of the bun unstead of nestling comfortably in it so it takes two bites to get to (the first bite should be soggy bread, chili and slaw). It seemed to me they had somehow deep-fried the thing, which, I suspect had no pork in it, and then threw it on the grill until it was turned black in several places. I left mine half eaten at the counter and never went back.

You just can't find a hot dog around here....

linear time

I often tell people I am confounded by linear time. It is true: I can't remember what year or what month and sometimes what decade things happen. When we go to Oak Island, NC, as we've been doing the last few years, Bern remembers which houses we stayed in which years! I vaguely remember the houses, but not the years--not on a bet.

Anyhow, I made the mistake this afternoon of looking at a calendar and I realized I only have 14 more Sundays at St. John's before I retire. That just doesn't sound right--it's over 3 months away so why aren't there more Sundays left? Besides, I've been the Rector of St. John's for about 1066 Sundays so far. How can it be only 14 left?

It's like that old question--if you had one day to live, what would you do?

If I have only 14 Sundays left to preach--hard as that seems and realizing I'll probably not preach them all since I usually invite others to preach a time or two during Lent--what do I want to say?

I of course, like Pooh Bear and Christopher Robin, want to sing some 'sustaining songs' over the next months. I want to assure everyone that 'everything will be alright' after I'm gone and I want to believe that for myself.

Lots of people say to me these days something like "what are we going to do without you?" I have good answers for that. The parish is going to find new life and new commitment as they look at themselve free of me. The parish is going to have a great adventure searching for a new Rector and listening to themselves and each other about how wondrous that might be after all these years. The parish is going to experience a burst of freedom and possibility once they get to the phase of 'acceptance' of my leaving and be able to 'define' themselves without the many boundaries and definitions I have imposed along the way. And some day in the not too distant future (this from someone who is confounded by linear time!) they will welcome a new visitor into their midst who they will love and support and be loved and supported back they way we've done it for two decades.

The real question is this: "What am I going to do without them?"

My life for 20 of its best and most productive years has been formed and shaped by the multitude of people who are part of the Body of Christ known as St. John's. I spend more time with the staff of the parish--especially H and S and A and lately F--than I do with my wife and much, much more than I do with my children and friends from beyond the parish. And I count as 'friends' many, many of the people in and around the parish. They'll just be missing one person...I'll be missing them all.

(There is a dispute in the Church about whether or not a priest should befriend members of his/her parish. Many choose and most believe a priest should not to be related to members of the parish on the level of friendship. The though is that it will confuse the 'pastoral' relationship and cloud the lines of authority. I have taken the road less traveled. I am a friend to many of the people I serve. Over the years seminarians have often asked me if I realized the danger of that and I have told them, honestly, that I believe the people I serve and lead--and that, in and of itself is a wierd enough relationship--know how to 'be my friend' and yet let me 'be their priest'. And to a great degree, it has worked for me and I pray for them. So I will be, in a real way, losing most of my friends when I leave St. John's. It makes me catch my breath to realize that. Only 14 Sundays to make sure they know how profoundly I love them....)

Human love and friendship, it seems to me, is a metaphor and a paradigm for the relationship we all should seek with God. Those connections people make in a parish church echo the connection to God that is the point to the whole thing. Friendship is a holy thing, it seems to me.

So, perhaps the best thing I can do over these last weeks and months is simply appreciate and acknowledge how dear the people of St. John's have become to me. Many of them know me so well that it would be impossible for me to 'pretend' with them about much of anything. They've pretty much figured me out. It will ever so strange going into a different community where I don't have those connections and to try to find friendship there....

Did I say 14 Sundays? It must be more than that, surely....