Flavors

Ok, I ate a whole bag--a small bag though--of gourmet jelly beans tonight. I normally don't like sweet thing,I like salty things, but the flavors were wondrous. Things like watermelon and cantaloupe and blueberry and vanilla bean and lime and stuff that all had exactly the flavor they promised.

One thing about those jelly beans--you eat them one at a time to appreciate the flavors and savor them. Those larger jelly beans I just toss in my mouth and chew up together because the flavor is simply 'sweet'.

Some of the other flavors were chocolate pudding, red apple, toasted marshmallow, tangerine, Dr. Pepper, Cream Soda and buttered popcorn. That's only about half of the flavors.

I started thinking, what if they made gourmet jellybeans for people like me who prefer salt or tart to sweet. I've thought some up.

Kale, smoked salmon, deviled egg, green olive, cheddar cheese, spinach, hot pepper, french bread, salsa, dill pickle, blue cheese, yellow mustard, onion, garlic, french fry, chicken gizzard, anchovy, pepperoni, double Gloucester cheese, capers, bacon, soy sauce, pepper, Frank's hot sauce and kraut. Those are some jelly beans I could get addicted to, have to carry in my pocket, hide around the house, keep in the car.

Someone should patent that.


By the way, does your saliva have a taste? This is a serious question. Does the stuff your taste buds make and that is secreted in your mouth have a flavor?

Stop and taste it.

My saliva is smoky, a bit salty and very tasty. It always has been but I've never had the courage to ask other people if their saliva has a taste. I enjoy it. I'm glad it isn't sweet or fruity, though I do like sweet and fruity tastes--like that bag of jelly beans I ate tonight. I prefer smoky and a bit salty. My spit tastes like bacon, mostly.

How about yours?

if the rapture comes, I'll blog on....

In case you haven't noticed, and I talked to one of my bishops today who hadn't, there's a lot of hype about the Rapture happening on Saturday, May 21 and the Tribulation ending by August sometime (which seems short to me for the Tribulation, but who am I to say: I'm a skeptic.)

In front of Yankee Stadium on Saturday evening, there were people with these interesting back-packs that had signs rising above them, foretelling 'the end'. They were handing out literature about it all, which, if they are right, won't have much of a shelf life.

Is the guy's name Lamont (or is he the politician?) it starts with an L at any rate, who wrote the 'Left Behind' series that has almost outsold the Bible world wide. The series is about the end of the world--the Rapture and Tribulation and all that--and is a runaway international best seller, translated into a gazillion languages making more money than the budget deficit of CT, NY and CA combined.

My question was to him--I hope you're not going to invest that money if the End is really near....

At our Clericus meeting this morning 6 priests, a deacon, a former Episcopal nun and a candidate for holy orders, joked and had great fun about the end of the world guys.

It proves my contention that 21st century Christians can't possibly imagine the mind set and the expectation of the early church who believed Jesus would be back in the morning if not in the middle of the night. When that urgency of life ended, the institution of the church began. "If Jesus isn't coming back soon," the church told itself, "we better get organized...."

Here's a distinction to help us all understand the urgency with which the early church lived.

Remember your last airplane fight. Remember how as you were being taxied out to get in line for takeoff, the cabin attendants showed you a video or demonstrated for you how to put on your oxygen mask, where the emergency exits were and how to disengage your floatation device.

Remember how much attention you paid to all that between making sure you had your ticket, putting your carry-on where it belonged and reading your book or magazine.

Now imagine the Captain coming on the intercom and saying, "Ladies and Gentlemen, in 10 minutes we are going to have to ditch this plane in the north Atlantic. Please listen to the cabin attendants' instructions...."

Ok, now we're talking 'urgency' and you would be paying attention with all your being. Like your life depended on it, which it would.

That's the distinction between how I (and probably you) listen to the faint buzz about the Rapture on May 1 and the way the early church thought about the end of days....


(We have Rhododendron around our back deck: one bush 11 feet tall, one 9 feet tall and one 7 feet tall, all full as punch and laden with little bulbs that will burst into bloom soon. I counted 130 on those three plants before I lost count. One has begun to burst already. I figure a few more days of rain and a warm day and our deck will be overcome by brilliant deep pink, almost red blossoms. The front porch has three plants as well. The leaves cover the whole of the front of our porch--11 feet or so, but they are only 6 feet tall. Just to the right of our walkway down to Cornwall Avenue there is an 8 foot tall Rhododendron plant. Taken together, we're talking about serious color about to burst forth. Hundreds of flowers.

Rhododendron is the 'state flower' of West Virginia, where I come from. Since they are further south, even though the elevation is higher, I can only imagine the Rhododendron is already in flower there. I remember it being early May when the mountains exploded in pink and red. I'm talking about driving up a mountain for 10 miles and having Rhododendron blooming solid on both sides of the road. What a riot of color that was...and is, I imagine.

Just imagine that kind of remarkable feast for the eyes. You can't look too closely because the roads over the mountains are narrow and very curvy.

But imagine it for a moment--10 miles, 20 minutes of solid Rhododendron on both sides of you as you ascend or descend one of those mountains that I know so well....Just imagine....)

My point being, you can imagine that drive through the mountains of Appalachia easier than you can imagine the Rapture happening on Saturday. You can probably image a trip to Mars easier than you can imagine the Rapture on May 21st.

I once confided in my friend Brenden McCormick (one branch of my father's family were McCormick's--though we pronounced it Ma-Com-ick, without the 'r') that I sometimes imagined that the Fundamentalists might possibly be 'right'. Brenden told me, "of course you can imagine that because you have an open mind and love questions more than answers. But let me tell you this," he continued, "the Fundamentalists never, ever, not for one moment imagine that you are right...."

I can, in one part of my brain actually imagine that the Rapture might come on Saturday (though I don't even know if I believe the Rapture is a real thing rather than a metaphor). But this I know and know fair well, those folks who are certain that the Rapture is Saturday, don't imagine for a moment, not a nano-second, that I'll be one of the ones Jesus takes....)

So, Rapture or not, I'll be here blogging about 'stuff' or, maybe, about the Tribulation....

Let's wait and see.

bird mommies

I came home from Clericus this morning and saw two little featherless heads poking out of the nest on our front porch. The babies have arrived! I was about to try to see them better when Mama Robin came home with a worm in her beak. (It's so wet that the worms are jumping out of the ground into the birds' mouths in our back yard....)

I went out later and Mama wasn't on the nest so Papa buzzed me. He did the same thing when I came back. He's a real guardian of the chicks.

Then, on the Canal, I saw Mama Duck teaching her dozen or more babies (they move so fast it's hard to count them) how to hide from predators. They were swimming in the middle of the rain swollen canal when Bela and I approached. Lickidy Split she herded them all to the far side under the brush there. Same thing on the way back...middle of canal...sighing of man and dog...up on the bank on the far side.

Bird mommies are very busy this time of year....

walking on the dry spot

Ok, you probably get weary of my endless tales of walking the canal with my dog.

But, remember, I'm retired and not much happens in my life...the little things matter more to me since little things are mostly what I've got.

But today's story is filled with awe and wonder. It's like a myth or a tall tale or science fiction. Ready?

As we walked along, it was raining in the woods on one side of the pathway. You could hear the rain in the underbrush and see it falling. It was raining too on the canal, you could see the drops splashing on the water.

The thing was, it wasn't raining on the pathway....

OK, I thought, the wind is blowing and it is just water falling off the leaves. But then I noticed we were on a part of the pathway where trees lean over where we were walking and no water was falling from them. Plus, there was no wind discernible.

Then I thought it must be my imagination, but I met a guy coming the other way who held out his hands, shrugged and rolled his eyes. There was another witness to this phenomena, this freak of nature--rain to the left of me, rain to the right of me, no rain falling on me.

I've heard of 'scattered showers' but this seemed ridiculous. The next person I met looked at me, then looked up and then looked at me. I nodded and he shook his head. None of us spoke, it was a bit to odd and spooky to talk about, I think.

It went on for at least five minutes. I felt like Bela and I were walking through the Red Sea on dry land. It was sort of the opposite of Joe Btfsplk....You don't know that is? He was a character in the comic strip Lil Abner who walked around with a cloud over his head and rain falling from it. People gave him wide berth--Lil Abner and Daisy Mae and Ma and Paw Yokum and Fearless Fostic and all the other characters in that strip.

You can look it up on Lil-Abner.com if you don't believe me.

So we had our walk and didn't get rained on. But when we got back to the car, it was raining in the parking lot.

Truly odd.

The End of The World

Outside Yankee Stadium on Saturday night, there were several people handing out pamphlets about 'the end of the world' on May 21. The Rapture, they believe, will be on that day, beginning East of Jerusalem somewhere at 8 am in the morning and spreading West. Seems to me that Jesus could either find the International Date Line and make this work out in an orderly fashion or else come everywhere at the same hour. But who am I to say, I don't believe the Rapture will happen on May 21.

I've thought a bit about 'what if I am wrong' and 'they are right'?

It seems to me that the mark of a 'free thinker' and a 'liberal' and someone with an ego that is as large as Montana it this: you can imagine that what you definitely DON'T BELIEVE might just possibly BE POSSIBLE. So I wonder. What if they're right and on the 21st of May Jesus comes in clouds of Glory and takes those with him who he wishes and leaves the rest to go through the horrible days of the Great Tribulation. What if they are right?

Here's a thought to ponder: what if what you absolutely 'don't BELIEVE' is possible?

I ponder often whether the Tea Party is 'right' or not. I certainly don't 'believe' they are, but then I don't think 'belief' is 'certainty'. So I ponder.

I tried to engage some Tea Party folk who have a little demonstration in front of Cheshire Town hall a day or two a week during drive time so I could ponder further what they 'believe' and wonder if, as much as I don't 'believe' it, they might be right. I talked to four folks. The first three told me to go away when I tried to engage them (in order) about health care, Obama's citizenship and the value of 'government'. The fourth guy called me a 'faggot' and got people around him to chant "faggot, faggot, faggot" until I left.

I'd be proud to be a homosexual, if I was, but those chants caused me to ponder how cruel the words would have been if I was, in fact, gay.

I still ponder, but Tea Party folks want a monologue, not a dialog.

Same with the Christians who are ending the world on May 21--actually, that is the Rapture and the real destruction will come in October. There have been one group or another claiming the end of the world would come on a date certain 220 times in the last 300 years.

I don't know about their Bible, but in mine Jesus and Paul say clearly that no one will know the day or the time, that the End will come like a thief in the night.

All this brings up, again, the question of what 'belief' means, really.

Tea Party folks and the End of the World folks thing "belief" and "faith" mean certainty I prefer another possible translation of the New Testament Greek word "Pistus"....Another way of translating it is "Trust".

I "Trust" in God. Nothing I trust in about God is "certain". Trust isn't 'certain', it's trust.

So, mostly I ponder, Trusting but having no Certainty, none at all. And always wondering if those so different from me--the Tea Party and the End of the World people--ever ponder, as I do about them, "if I am right and they are wrong?

I know they answer--NO, they don't ponder than.

But I do even though I 'trust' that what I 'believe' is true...or at least more possible....

Fr. Dodge and Hot Stuff

For some reason, I've been thinking about Fr. Jim Ford (I call him Dodge in this piece) so I thought I'd share this with you.

Father Dodge and Hot Stuff

When I arrived at St. James, the congregation was being served by Fr. Bill Dodge, a retired school teacher who was a Title Nine priest. Title Nine is a strange little piece of Canon Law also known as “the old man’s canon”—though to be politically correct it should now be known as “the old wo/man’s canon”. (If it’s not “ageism” to call people “old” these days….) Episcopal Church law is more strict about ordination than most any denomination; however, Title Nine is an “out”, a way around the rules for those late in life who feel called to priesthood. If the Church determines the call is legitimate, the candidate is allowed to study privately, usually with a near-by priest or group of priests and be tested after the term of study is met.

That’s what Fr. Dodge had done. He’d become a priest through the back door. When I was newly ordained, after four years of theological study and two (count ‘em—two) Master level degrees, I had little patience with Title Nine priests and even less with Fr. Dodge. He was in his 70’s and, to my exalted standards, not up to snuff. But I was going to be a deacon for a year and needed somebody to help me liturgically. Deacon’s Masses, which are weird both theologically and as liturgy, would serve from time to time, but the congregation deserved a “real “ Mass monthly or so and Fr. Dodge was the best I could find. Plus, for reasons beyond my comprehension, the parishioners seemed to have a deep affection for him and were always happy to see him. It wouldn’t have been astute of me to get rid of the old codger since I needed him and the parish wouldn’t like it.

(It’s embarrassing and humbling to listen to myself talk like that! I thought of myself as such “hot stuff” in those days! I was God’s gift to St. James Church and worldwide Anglicanism as well. At least that’s what I thought. The truth is, looking back, I was brash, arrogant and unkind almost all the time. Hot Stuff, indeed!)

In addition, I considered myself a liturgical genius---the be all and end all when it came to ritual and celebration. In fact, I’d spent four years at Harvard and Virginia Seminary, neither of which has any claim to teaching liturgical practice. Liturgy at Harvard had been mostly of the “feel-good”, lots of balloons and readings from Kahil Gibran. Worship at HDS began with Unitarian politeness and didn’t go much further or deeper. In fact, any resemblance to Christian, much less Anglican worship was totally accidental. A typical chapel service would include—in no particular order—readings from the Koran or Hindu scripture, a little jazz played by my friend Dan Kiger or other musical students, some silent meditation and the singing of some of the hymns of Hildegard of Bingham. The Archbishop of Canterbury would have been horrified! The closest thing to a Eucharist I remember was when Rabbi Katinstein brought some Passover bread and Harvey Cox talked about the religious symbolism of sharing food and we all went up and took a piece for ourselves. I loved it, felt I was in the forefront of liturgical renewal.

Virginia Seminary was, when I was there, a “Low Church” seminary. That meant that worship was restrained, proper and in good order. That (“restrained, proper and in good order”) meant that no Popish nonsense would be allowed to infect the purity of Protestant worship. One of the lame jokes we often told was this: “You know what streaking means at VTS? Running through the chapel in full Eucharistic vestments!” There was a lot of controversy at the seminary when I was there because altar candles had been added to the “communion table”. Candles made some of the faculty nervous. You shouldn’t open the door to “catholic” practice---first come candles and then (gasp!) incense and the adoration of the blessed sacrament!

Once, during my senior year, some of the students from more High Church dioceses organized a “high mass” with chanting, bowing, genuflecting, incense and much crossing of oneself. I was fascinated. I’d never seen such a thing. My old nemesis, Reginald Fuller, was the celebrant. He was “streaking” around the chancel in his vestments, censing the altar, chanting in his Oxbridge accent, genuflecting like one of those little yellow birds that keep dipping into a bowl of water. Several of the faculty walked out in a huff at such going’s-on. There was serious discussion over sherry about suspending the student planned Wednesday services.

That one service was all I knew about Anglo-Catholic worship when I arrived at St. James. Fr. Dodge, I have to admit, seemed to know when to cross himself and genuflect (which I couldn’t do without nearly falling on my face). St. James, like most African American parishes, had been founded in a rich High Church tradition that disappeared when the first white priest came to be their Vicar. So, one good reason for keeping Fr. Dodge around was so I could figure out how to celebrate in a way that was Anglo-Catholic in a mirror dimly. So, those times I’d let him come and celebrate I’d watch him out of the corner of my eye to try to find a pattern to his movements.

However, Fr. Dodge didn’t seem to follow any discernable pattern. I came to believe that if he ever knew what he was doing, he’d forgotten how and was crossing himself at random places in the service. Even though I didn’t know how to celebrate a real mass, I resented him for not knowing! And that wasn’t the end of my complaints about him. His hands shook when he elevated the host and chalice, sometimes spilling wine on the fair linen. He’d lose his place and I’d have to prompt him with a stage whisper several times during the service. He mispronounced words all the time. Several times, rather than “in your infinite love” he said “in your INFANT love”! I mean really, how much could the good folks at St. James and I stand of this sloppiness?

And the one time I let him preach—horrors! He read his sermon haltingly at best, mixing words up and shaking to beat the band. Besides that, if he’d had any kind of decent delivery at all, his theology was more Pilgrim Holiness than Anglican. He talked about Jesus as if he were a good guy from down the street, someone who would teach you a lot and lead you to heaven when you die. Obviously, he’d never studied homiletics—or much of anything else so far as I could tell. I was embarrassed for him, but more than that, I was embarrassed that I needed him.

So the day of my ordination finally came. I invited Fr. Dodge to be in the service out of guilt over what I planned to do. He was so excited about being near the altar with the Bishop and the two dozen other priests. He told me afterwards that it was one of the greatest days of his life and that he was so proud to work with me.

The next week I fired him.

Well, it wasn’t really a “firing”. I drove up to his house high up on a hill about 20 miles from Charleston and talked to him on his front porch. I explained how now that I was a priest I really didn’t need for him to drive all that way twice a month. I told him he needed to take it easier at his age. I reminded him that there were two churches much closer to his home that would probably be overjoyed to have his help. I thanked him for all he’d done and told him that I really didn’t need any coffee and that I’d had lunch already. “No,” I said, “I really don’t have time for a piece of pecan pie.”

He said he understood. He told me how much he’d enjoyed working with me and how much he’d learned from me. “You’re going to be a wonderful priest,” he said.

I thanked him and slinked away to my car. By the time I got back to Charleston, what few qualms I’d had about what I’d done were melted away. I was a priest—a wonderful one at that—and I was finally free of Fr. Dodge. Things would really get rolling now at St. James. It would be like releasing the emergency brake that had held me back while I was a deacon.

A month or so later, Remitha came to see me. Made an appointment and everything instead of just dropping in like usual. We even sat in my office and did small talk—something Remitha never did and wasn’t good at. Finally, she cleared her voice and began….

“I wanted to come and find out if anything was wrong with Fr. Dodge,” she said. “I notice he hasn’t been here since your ordination.”

I started explaining how since I was a priest now I didn’t need him as much. “And,” I lied, “at his age, he and his wife felt it was a long way for him to drive….”

She held up her hand and got up. “That’s fine,” she said, “just as long as he isn’t sick again….”

She was half way to the door when I caught my breath and said, “Again?”

She spoke with her back to me. “Well, his first stoke wasn’t too bad….”

“First stroke….” Is all I could get out.

“But the second one laid him up for months,” she said. Then facing me she continued in a soft voice, “but you know, since we didn’t have a priest, he got his wife to drive him down and he did the service sitting on a stool. He couldn’t give us communion, of course, but Morris and Ben did that for him….And when the service was over two of the younger men would carry him down to his wheelchair and…..”

I didn’t hear much more. I wished she’d stop talking or I’d be struck deaf and dumb or the floor would open up and I could crawl inside.

“You know what I admire most about Fr. Dodge?” she was asking when I tuned back in.

I shook my head and tried to speak. I think I was struck dumb.

“How he was willing to continue his ministry even though that wonderful reading voice he had and the regal way he held himself at the altar was taken away from him.”

“He had a good voice…?” I croaked.

“Sometimes he’d sing a solo for us,” she said, killing me with her matter-or-fact tone. “And I wish you could have heard him read the service,” she continued, consigning me with her smile to one of the lowest circles of hell. “Before the strokes he was one of the best speakers I ever heard. He gave up a career in radio to be a schoolteacher. Did he ever tell you that?”

I found that I was sitting back down though I didn’t remember doing it. “No,” I said, softly, “he never did.”

“Well,” she said, backing toward the door, “just shows what a humble man he was. Humility makes a man a wonderful priest….”

Then she was gone and I was left alone to consider humility.

(One of the things that happened at VTS on a regular basis was “Bridge before Lunch”. There were half-a-dozen or so card tables and while whoever was assigned to help set up lunch was doing their job, bridge would break out. My partner most of the time was Rodge Wood. I was a novice at bridge but Rodge was a master. He’d played in tournaments before coming to seminary. As inept as I was, Rodge carried me. We were a good team, so good that none of our classmates would play with us but the underclassmen could be duped into a game.

They’d see us at a table and come over and ask if we’d like a game. Usually, since no one wants to be in over their heads, they’d say, “are you any good?” Rodge would answer for us both. “Jim’s bad and I’m OK.” Then we’d embarrass them for a few hands.

Once, over lunch, I asked Rodge why he didn’t tell other people the truth about his playing.

Rodge quoted scripture: “He who humbles himself will be exalted,” he said.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s what the passage means.)

“Humility” has the same root as “humus”, dirt, earth. True humility isn’t about demeaning yourself or pretending to be less than you are. True humility is realizing, beyond any doubt, who you are and where you come from. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Being humble means being close to the earth from which we all come. A friend of mine often says she “doesn’t trust anyone who hasn’t had their face of the pavement.” What she means, I believe, is that once you’ve hit bottom you realize that whatever you accomplish or however far you rise the earth is patiently waiting for you. The bigger part of humility is perspective and point of view.

Things look rather distorted when you’re a Hot Shot. It’s like flying in a plane and thinking about how everything down on earth looks small and toy-like. Things may look that way from up high, but you best not forget that they aren’t really small—it’s just your perspective and point of view.

While Remitha talked to me about Fr. Dodge, knowing all the while what infamy I had committed, what a rat I had been, my face had descended from “on high” to the grit and grime of the pavement. The ground, the earth, the humus had swallowed me up. It was a blessed gift, one I’d need to receive countless times again.

I called Fr. Dodge and drove out to his house. I told him that I had been wrong. I told him that I wanted him to come back, twice a month, to celebrate and preach once each month. I told him I realized that I didn’t want to do it all by myself. I told him I was sorry and asked him to please consider coming back.

He was as gracious as before, only this time I hadn’t had lunch and we ate tuna-fish sandwiches on homemade bread, washed it down with sweet ice tea and each had two pieces of Mrs. Dodge’s pecan pie.

For a year or so after that, I sat at his figurative liturgical knee. I came to delight in his mispronunciations—“infant love” might work better than “infinite love” when all is said and done. It became a pleasure to prompt him or merely point to the altar book in the right place. I finally started “lining” out the service when he celebrated by pointing to each line as he read. (In fact, I train the seminarians who work with me these day to do that for me!) And, for the first time, I noticed how he was with the parishioners of St. James. He never pretended to remember names when he didn’t. He listened to them intently and didn’t say much in return. He smiled almost constantly and the slight crookedness of his smile from the strokes came to be dear to me. I never bought his simplistic theology, but I did learn that if we can’t talk about heaven we most likely will never be able to imagine it…or go there….

Then he died, suddenly and in his sleep. It was my honor to commit his ashes to the ground. I drove up to his house on the hill and scattered them in the garden he loved to work in, among his flowers and bushes. Mrs. Dodge told me how much “Billy” had enjoyed working with me and being at St. James.

“He told me many times that you were a wonderful priest,” she said, brushing away a tear.

“Takes one to know one,” I told her and she beamed.

“That makes him happy,” she said, “I just know it does.”

We left Fr. Dodge in the garden (and in the heaven he so clearly imagined) while we went inside to tell stories, laugh and cry and eat some pecan pie.

updating the robins

After several weeks of almost constant presence on the nest on our front porch, the Mama Robin disappeared today. I was worried about it until I remembered that she did that for more than a day last year.

What I think has happened, though I dare not try to see, is that the eggs have hatched and she is away from the nest finding worms for those babies, who if I know birds, which I do, having two parakeets in my kitchen, the buggers eat almost constantly.

Papa drove off a Cardinal, who is also nesting somewhere in our yard or in our neighbor's yard. Papa Robin drives off birds all day. He is formidable. I wouldn't want to cross him.

There is something almost painfully lovely about Mama and Papa. And if they are the same Robins as last year--which I believe is true--it makes it even more wondrous. Avian monogamy, what a trip.

I can't tell you what joy it is to share our porch and our lives with these birds. I said, "Goodnight, Mama" when I came in from walking the dog tonight. I can't tell you she returned the greeting, but I'd like to imagine it.

Last year I saw the fledglings fly away. I hope I have that honor and that privilege again this year.

"The red, red robin, goes bob, bob, bobin' along...."

How joyous I am that they are here. I realize they don't feel the same about me...but indulge me...