I remember Bill. He was not the first person I knew who died from AIDS, but it is him I remember.
Bill grew up just outside of Prospect, CT and when he could he fled, going to the west coast and getting involved in movie work.
He was as gay as the day is long in mid-summer. And, he got AIDS.
His sister got it all wrong (she was a nurse I came to love as I loved Bill, but she got it wrong).
She thought he had died of AIDS, but when he showed up, fully alive and in Connecticut, she had to take back what she told people.
He started coming to St. John's. He had helpers since his disease was taking a toll on him. Jim and Lou were his helpers. They're both dead now, but not from AIDS. They were lovers from high school on, back when it was the 'love that dare not speak its name". They never had sex with anyone but each other. No AIDS for them.
At first they dropped Bill off in the parking lot and went for breakfast. Later they walked him inside and waited in the hallway for the Eucharist to end. Finally, when he needed more help, they started coming to church with him and became members until they died--Jim first, then Lou.
Evangelism, St. John's way....
Bill was so sophisticated and kind and sweet that all the older women of the parish adopted him as their son. And he was glad to be so adopted. He worried and fretted about them, called them constantly, gave back the affection they gave to him two fold.
I once asked him to speak on AIDS Sunday. I kept waiting for him to give me what he was going to say and he never did. When he got in the pulpit he said something like this: "I have AIDS and am dying slowly. But I want to clear some things up. You can't catch my disease by sharing the communion cup. You can't catch it by hugging me. You can't catch it by kissing me. We could have sex in the right way and you wouldn't catch it...."
At that point I nearly fainted.
He went on, "But I don't want to have sex with you or anybody. I just want you to know I'm safe and won't kill you and that I love you. Abide with me and I will abide with you."
I wept, so did most of the people there. What a gift he gave us. What wisdom, what Gospel he taught us.
When he finally died, it was difficult and drawn out. I'd go see him at the Hospice in Branford and beg him to die. I think he wanted to but just couldn't, not without a knock down, dragged out fight with Death.
At his funeral some friend of his were upstairs fulfilling his wishes. He wanted a little of his ashes put inside each of the white helium balloons that we would release at the end of the Eucharist.
I think he probably knew how difficult it would be to put ashes in balloons. When I went up to check, Bill was scattered all over the room and his friends were both exasperated and laughing like idiots.
"This is his last joke," one of them said, dropping Bill all over the table, the rug, into the ether.
When we released the balloons, the ashes held them down. They floated against the parish house and then rested on the roof for a long time.
We all laughed. He had taught us irony. He had taught us humor. He had taught us to laugh at the ridiculous and painful realities of life.
I love him still.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
going with the dogs
Bern and I went to Ikea and bought a new bed for one of our guest rooms. Bern, as always, is rearranging our house, our space, our lives.
In that room there was a large, two-drawer chest that came with us from Charleston to New Haven to Cheshire. Bern found all this stuff I wrote some 40 years ago in it. I'm still sifting through the stuff and realize a lot of it is melodramatic and lame. But I've come across some gems.
This poem I wrote, probably as a Sophomore in college after a visit home at Easter and a conversation with a high school friend who went into the coal mines after high school. He told me about his beagle's litter of pups and how he loved them so. They kept three of the six, selling the others to people they knew. My friend, unlike me, was an avid hunter. But his story about the puppies moved me to write this poem. It had no title then but I now call it "Going with the dogs"
I must now go down and see the swollen stream
and watch the waters rush down and down again.
And I'll loose my dogs--the three of them
and watch them run free as I sit on
the hilly knoll and look down to the thicket
and then to the swollen stream.
Perhaps there will be ants in the grass
and I will watch them too,
and dread the day that comes so surely
when the dogs will be hunters and their eyes will change.
For now they are like the swollen stream,
like Spring rain, like the grass--
free and wild and in their eyes I see no fear.
But the day comes surely when the older dogs
will teach them to be hunters
and their eyes will change.
That is the worst thing about the world--
the eyes. The eyes must change--
they must see life and hold tears
and be full of fear.
But today, the day that comes surely is not yet.
So I shall look at the swollen stream
and hide my eyes from the dogs as they play
for my eyes have changed already
and have had tears
and are afraid.
In that room there was a large, two-drawer chest that came with us from Charleston to New Haven to Cheshire. Bern found all this stuff I wrote some 40 years ago in it. I'm still sifting through the stuff and realize a lot of it is melodramatic and lame. But I've come across some gems.
This poem I wrote, probably as a Sophomore in college after a visit home at Easter and a conversation with a high school friend who went into the coal mines after high school. He told me about his beagle's litter of pups and how he loved them so. They kept three of the six, selling the others to people they knew. My friend, unlike me, was an avid hunter. But his story about the puppies moved me to write this poem. It had no title then but I now call it "Going with the dogs"
I must now go down and see the swollen stream
and watch the waters rush down and down again.
And I'll loose my dogs--the three of them
and watch them run free as I sit on
the hilly knoll and look down to the thicket
and then to the swollen stream.
Perhaps there will be ants in the grass
and I will watch them too,
and dread the day that comes so surely
when the dogs will be hunters and their eyes will change.
For now they are like the swollen stream,
like Spring rain, like the grass--
free and wild and in their eyes I see no fear.
But the day comes surely when the older dogs
will teach them to be hunters
and their eyes will change.
That is the worst thing about the world--
the eyes. The eyes must change--
they must see life and hold tears
and be full of fear.
But today, the day that comes surely is not yet.
So I shall look at the swollen stream
and hide my eyes from the dogs as they play
for my eyes have changed already
and have had tears
and are afraid.
Monday, November 29, 2010
ADVENT--the last time I promise
OK, here's the deal. What I typed was in the shape of an X.
The upper left arm said, reading downward, STOP
The upper right arm said, reading downward toward the middle, LOOK
The bottom left arm said, reading downward and outward AND
The bottom right arm said, reading downward and to the right LISTEN
The post was a miscarriage of all that. I don't know why. I can't fix it.
It is a sign of my commitment to sharing my ponderings to whoever the hell reads them that I do this at all, given the aggravation and annoyance it gives me!!!!
I hate the internet and all it contains. But since it exists in spite of my hatred, I'll keep writing. OK?
The upper left arm said, reading downward, STOP
The upper right arm said, reading downward toward the middle, LOOK
The bottom left arm said, reading downward and outward AND
The bottom right arm said, reading downward and to the right LISTEN
The post was a miscarriage of all that. I don't know why. I can't fix it.
It is a sign of my commitment to sharing my ponderings to whoever the hell reads them that I do this at all, given the aggravation and annoyance it gives me!!!!
I hate the internet and all it contains. But since it exists in spite of my hatred, I'll keep writing. OK?
Advent (one more time...)
{OK, I'm going to try to recreate my earlier blog that I destroyed somehow. You'd think I'd know how to do this, given I've been doing it for several years. But I hit the wrong key sometimes and send stuff into 'the cloud', never to be heard from again. I also hit 'return' instead of 'tab' from time to time which posts blogs with only the title. Forgive....And, by the way, the time of posting on my blog has me in some time zone off the coast of California. I'm beginning this at 9:39 p.m. EST, so ignore what it says about when I wrote it.
Also, I decided to try to do this tonight instead of tomorrow since my short term memory has an expiration of about 15 hours. Ask me what I preached about on Sunday evening and I can reproduce it almost verbatim. But ask me on Monday and I'll say, "Uh, what were the lessons?"}
One thing I love about Advent is that it is about seeking the light in the gathering and deepening darkness. Days are getting shorter and shorter when Advent begins and we are called by the Prophets and the liturgy to 'look for the light'. That seems to me to be a lot like life--always looking for light in the darkness. Advent is quintessentially optimistic, just as I am. So, in loving it, I am affirming my own world view and philosophy.
I don't know how it works in the Southern Hemisphere since all the Church Year seasons would be reversed. Imagine Easter, not in Spring when all is coming to life, but in Autumn as things die. And Advent and Christmas would be in Spring moving toward summer in the Global South. The metaphors don't work south of the equator. Maybe that's one reason that Global South Anglicans and Anglicans in the Northern Hemisphere are always at odds. That's just a thought to ponder. Metaphor is important. Symbols matter. I can't conceive of Advent when it is getting lighter and lighter and warmer and warmer.
Christmas falls, in the Gregorian calendar, three of four days after the Winter Solstice. So, in fact, days are getting shorter and nights longer right up to the week of Christmas. But here's something to ponder: in the Julian Calendar--the one Julius Caesar commanded be observed--the solstice fell always on December 25. So the night of Christmas Eve was the longest night of the year and Christmas began the coming of the light.
It wasn't until Pope Gregory XIII changed the calendar of the western world in 1582 that the Solstice was backed up 3 or 4 days to correspond to the actual tilt of the earth. So, for 1581 of the 2010 years of the Common Era, Christians celebrated the birth of the baby Jesus on the solstice. Talk about metaphor and symbol and the lengthening of the Light!
Back where I come from, in a place more rural and mountainous than most people can imagine, railroad tracks were like kudzu, they were omnipresent, every where. Wherever there was a coal mine, their were railroad tracks for the coal trains to take it to Pittsburgh for steel or to Roanoke and Cincinnati for Electricity. And it is hard for even me to remember how narrow and twisted the valleys were between the mountains.
Where Bern, my wife, grew up, for example, this is what it looked like:
MOUNTAIN, ALLEY, HOUSE (built wide, not deep) TWO LANE HIGHWAY (barely) HOUSE, ALLEY, STREAM, ELEVATED TRAIN TRACKS, MOUNTAIN.
Try to picture that--two rows of houses, a pitifully narrow two lane road, two alleys and a stream pinched between two mountains. From one mountain to the other in Gary #9 (Filbert was the post office) was about 50 yards. Imagine living in a valley that narrow and deep.
So, because the valleys also curved around to accommodate the mountains, the railroad tracks crossed the road over and over. At every railroad crossing there was a sign in the shape of an X. On the four arms was written
ST0P
LOOK AND
LISTEN
That was because the trains were going rather fast (to get the coal somewhere else asap) and the roads were so twisty and the mountains so intrusive that you really needed to stop, look as far as you could, and listen to hear the train whistle that was blown each time the tracks crossed a road.
You'd be amazed, I think, at how many cars got hit by trains, even with those warning signs.
Advent is like that X shaped sign for us.
STOP in the busiest time of the year to seek the Light.
LOOK for God in the hustle and bustle of the holiday time around you.
LISTEN for the Angel wings and Angel songs over the chaos and chatter and babble of the malls and the TV and the radio.
Advent is meant to 'slow us down' just when the culture is hurrying us up.
Advent is meant to have us more attentive just when the culture is most distracting.
Advent is meant to attune our senses to the presence of God in places unexpected, surprising, thought impossible.
That's what I like about Advent--it is so terribly counter-cultural. It's like standing on tip-toe, anticipating light in the deepest darkness of all.
Also, I decided to try to do this tonight instead of tomorrow since my short term memory has an expiration of about 15 hours. Ask me what I preached about on Sunday evening and I can reproduce it almost verbatim. But ask me on Monday and I'll say, "Uh, what were the lessons?"}
One thing I love about Advent is that it is about seeking the light in the gathering and deepening darkness. Days are getting shorter and shorter when Advent begins and we are called by the Prophets and the liturgy to 'look for the light'. That seems to me to be a lot like life--always looking for light in the darkness. Advent is quintessentially optimistic, just as I am. So, in loving it, I am affirming my own world view and philosophy.
I don't know how it works in the Southern Hemisphere since all the Church Year seasons would be reversed. Imagine Easter, not in Spring when all is coming to life, but in Autumn as things die. And Advent and Christmas would be in Spring moving toward summer in the Global South. The metaphors don't work south of the equator. Maybe that's one reason that Global South Anglicans and Anglicans in the Northern Hemisphere are always at odds. That's just a thought to ponder. Metaphor is important. Symbols matter. I can't conceive of Advent when it is getting lighter and lighter and warmer and warmer.
Christmas falls, in the Gregorian calendar, three of four days after the Winter Solstice. So, in fact, days are getting shorter and nights longer right up to the week of Christmas. But here's something to ponder: in the Julian Calendar--the one Julius Caesar commanded be observed--the solstice fell always on December 25. So the night of Christmas Eve was the longest night of the year and Christmas began the coming of the light.
It wasn't until Pope Gregory XIII changed the calendar of the western world in 1582 that the Solstice was backed up 3 or 4 days to correspond to the actual tilt of the earth. So, for 1581 of the 2010 years of the Common Era, Christians celebrated the birth of the baby Jesus on the solstice. Talk about metaphor and symbol and the lengthening of the Light!
Back where I come from, in a place more rural and mountainous than most people can imagine, railroad tracks were like kudzu, they were omnipresent, every where. Wherever there was a coal mine, their were railroad tracks for the coal trains to take it to Pittsburgh for steel or to Roanoke and Cincinnati for Electricity. And it is hard for even me to remember how narrow and twisted the valleys were between the mountains.
Where Bern, my wife, grew up, for example, this is what it looked like:
MOUNTAIN, ALLEY, HOUSE (built wide, not deep) TWO LANE HIGHWAY (barely) HOUSE, ALLEY, STREAM, ELEVATED TRAIN TRACKS, MOUNTAIN.
Try to picture that--two rows of houses, a pitifully narrow two lane road, two alleys and a stream pinched between two mountains. From one mountain to the other in Gary #9 (Filbert was the post office) was about 50 yards. Imagine living in a valley that narrow and deep.
So, because the valleys also curved around to accommodate the mountains, the railroad tracks crossed the road over and over. At every railroad crossing there was a sign in the shape of an X. On the four arms was written
ST0P
LOOK AND
LISTEN
That was because the trains were going rather fast (to get the coal somewhere else asap) and the roads were so twisty and the mountains so intrusive that you really needed to stop, look as far as you could, and listen to hear the train whistle that was blown each time the tracks crossed a road.
You'd be amazed, I think, at how many cars got hit by trains, even with those warning signs.
Advent is like that X shaped sign for us.
STOP in the busiest time of the year to seek the Light.
LOOK for God in the hustle and bustle of the holiday time around you.
LISTEN for the Angel wings and Angel songs over the chaos and chatter and babble of the malls and the TV and the radio.
Advent is meant to 'slow us down' just when the culture is hurrying us up.
Advent is meant to have us more attentive just when the culture is most distracting.
Advent is meant to attune our senses to the presence of God in places unexpected, surprising, thought impossible.
That's what I like about Advent--it is so terribly counter-cultural. It's like standing on tip-toe, anticipating light in the deepest darkness of all.
Promise...again
OK, I spent about an hour writing a post about Advent. It was, I must say, well worth reading.
But something went wrong and it didn't post.
I promise you to try to recreate it tomorrow, but I can't tonight because I'm so disappointed, confused and pissed that it went wrong.
Did I ever tell you I HATE THE INTERNET?
Even as I use it, I hate it. I haven't added it up yet, but I think there is more wrong than right about the whole thing....
Maybe I'll write a post about that and find that somehow it got screwed up.....
But something went wrong and it didn't post.
I promise you to try to recreate it tomorrow, but I can't tonight because I'm so disappointed, confused and pissed that it went wrong.
Did I ever tell you I HATE THE INTERNET?
Even as I use it, I hate it. I haven't added it up yet, but I think there is more wrong than right about the whole thing....
Maybe I'll write a post about that and find that somehow it got screwed up.....
Sunday, November 28, 2010
advent
Today is the first day of the Christian year--the first Sunday of Advent.
I went to St. Peter's today--my parish church. A very good service...the music is excellent, the preaching is above good. Since Advent is my favorite season of the year, that's important to me to have music and preaching. The sacrament...well, it just happens however it happens.
I'm up too late and will write more tomorrow about Advent.
I plan to deal with the whole Winter Solstice thing and the images of Advent and my own metaphor for the season.
Tune in tomorrow after I get some rest.
I went to St. Peter's today--my parish church. A very good service...the music is excellent, the preaching is above good. Since Advent is my favorite season of the year, that's important to me to have music and preaching. The sacrament...well, it just happens however it happens.
I'm up too late and will write more tomorrow about Advent.
I plan to deal with the whole Winter Solstice thing and the images of Advent and my own metaphor for the season.
Tune in tomorrow after I get some rest.
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