ok, so t his is a rant....

I am, by admission, a National Public Radio junkie. I love NPR. I want my NPR.

One of the things I love about NPR is all the stuff they do about science. Amazing stuff. My mind boggles, my heart races, I am confounded and inspired. Even a confirmed Humanities nerd like me is fascinated by, enhanced by, challenged and hooked by Science.

The constant refrain of all the Physicists, Earth Scientists, Chemists and even more esoteric segments of science and math I encounter on NPR is this: The US has to begin competing again in Science and Math.

My quandary is simple: how do we propose to do that when all the candidates for one of major party's nomination for President are still embroiled in denying evolution and global warming. How can that party--which can, by the way, block any legislation whatsoever--help us regain our leadership in Science and Math? How can anything happen when one of the major parties has wrapped themselves in a 19th century anti-intellectualism? Or, make that 14th century....Never has the time been riper for burning scientists at the stake since then....

And, until we allow teachers to 'teach' rather than 'test', how can we even imagine a turn-around in the steady drop among nations of the world of the US's standing in Science and Math?

Tell me that?

And if you disagree with me I'll probably just yell at you....

Sad news

Bob Ruthman, 92, died yesterday. Probably no one but his family and friends would have known that if it weren't for the fact that he was Andy Rooney's college roommate at Colgate in the '30's and Andy's life long friend.

He died at Andy's memorial service.

I know that is sad news, but I can't help thinking that by now Andy Rooney must have an office and a desk in the Kingdom of God and must be doing commentaries for the Heavenly Host.

I can just see him now, behind his desk, looking into the camera.

"Don't you just hate it when someone dies at your funeral?" He would say.

"Don't you think there are a few things left that are 'just for you'? Shouldn't that be true?"

Then he'd hold up his death certificate and say, "dying is a private thing. No one should horn in on your death by dying at your memorial service.

"Besides Bob and I shared a lot of things. It just doesn't seem right we'd have to share death as well. Bob deserved to die in a way that didn't get all over the internet. Thank God, and I mean that literally, we don't have internet here...."

Good-bye, Andy, I will sorely miss thee and the irony you brought to my world. And good-bye, Bob as well. Sorry you couldn't have a more private departure from this lovely sod.

Unfair

Poor Herman Cain, everyone's on his for alleged sexual abuse.

Heck, one of the women admitted that Cain asked, after he stuck his hand up her skirt and she objected, "You want a job don't you?"

Herman's was just trying to put Americans back to work....

Cut him some slack.

And my man, Mitt Romney. Everyone complains he has come down on both sides of every issue.

Heck, he's just proof that there is a parallel universe and he's stuck in this one.

Then there's Rick and Michele--ah, hell they're so down in the polls it isn't even fun to make fun of them.


****
My friend told me this joke.

Job is calling out to God about all the things he's had to endure though he's really done nothing to deserve the punishment.

"Oh God," Job says, "why me?"

"I don't know Job," God replies, "there's just something about you that pisses me off...."

Calendar issues (again)

I dutifully keep a calendar on my desk and transfer it a week at a time to the sticky note feature on my computer screen. But, from time to time, what I put on my calendar is either so vague or badly abbreviated that I have no idea what it means....

I've got one for Friday, November 18th. I just can't read my writing. From 10-12 I have something to do in some unknown location that is either 'beyond bass' or 'behind base' or 'behind bar' or 'behind bars'.

So, either I'm going fishing for exotic fish ('beyond Bass' or trout or normal things) or I'm supposed to umpire some sort of ball game or I'm meeting someone behind the Dew Drop Inn.
Or, more frightening, I'm supposed to surrender to authorities and serve time for some forgotten offense.

I've stared at the words for so long they seem to transfer themselves around. I suppose the first word could be 'Beyonce' but why would I have her on my calendar.

I flummoxed. (Something I am more often that I'd like to admit.)

The last time this happened, someone reading my blog emailed me and translated it. It was easy when I was working at St. John's because Harriet and Sue had become more able to read my writing than I am and could usually decipher my appointment.

Now, I'm mostly on my own in trying to figure out what my writing means. I'll just hang out around home and see if anyone calls me angry on the 18th....

The storm we missed

Well, not really. We drove by Newark Airport in a white out situation. A big plane suddenly dropped out of the sky just above us. Usually you see them coming for a while. Pretty amazing....

Lots of wrecks on the Jersey Turnpike. One guy in a big, double cab truck, had slid into the median fence and was talking on his cell phone outside his truck, right in traffic on slippery roads.

Another guy had tried to exit at Molly Prichard and slid down into a gully. He was fine but wasn't driving out of that.

An accident going north had backed up traffic for 10 miles.

But we hit Maryland and the snow eased off. And we spent a great 3 days with our grand-daughters.

My friend Fred called and told me power was out in Cheshire. He went to our house and got in, since we leave the back door open, like fools, but he took our two parakeets to his house where there was a generator making warmth.

Saved their lives--Rainy and Maggie--God bless Fred and his generator.

But when we got home on Tuesday afternoon, we had power and Thursday afternoon the phones and TV and internet came back via cable. God bless Cox cable....

So we suffered not and not having email from Saturday to Tuesday makes me wonder why I have it at all. TV too, but I'd miss Masterpiece and football games....

So I could go to a sports bar and drink, eat chicken wings and watch football....if they had WVU on, that would work....

I feel like I'm in Mount Washington, NH

Someone told me today, "I feel like I'm in Seattle...." because of all the rain.

Well, I was in Seattle for a week this year and it didn't rain once. It was in June and it was even hotter than it was in CT.

So, I decided to look up the average rain fall for the US to figure out this image of Seattle as always raining. There is a TV mystery show called "The Killing" that takes place in Seattle and there hasn't been a scene in it yet when it was raining or threatening rain. Very Noir.

So, here's what I found out via the mystery and wonder of the internet:

*Seattle has 38.60 inches of rain a year and it rains, on average, at some time, on 158 days.

*However, Bridgeport, CT has 41.56 annual inches of rain but it only rains on 117 days. All Bridgeport needs is a bunch of coffee shops and a big-ass mountain to become Seattle-East.

*Charleston, West Virginia, where both our children were born, has 42.43 inches--almost 4 more than Seattle and only 7 fewer days at 151. And Charleston already has big-ass mountains, none like Rainer, I grant you, but a bunch of them. And Charleston is at least as hilly as Seattle.

*But, here's the killer: do you know where it rains the most inches and most days in the US? Mount Washington, NH. A whopping 89.92 inches, more than twice Seattle's total, and 209 days a year. And it is a big-ass mountain.

Go figure.

Next time it rains a lot, say, "I feel like I'm in Bridgeport/Charleston/Mount Washington" anything but Seattle.

Seattle has pulled the wet wool over our eyes and convinced us it's always soggy there. They've got a long way to go to beat Mount Washington....

(I do wish it would stop raining. My dog hates the rain and he really needs to poop.....)

Three and out ('so far, so strange')

My daughter is in Oman or Dubai (she's going both places, I just don't remember which is first.)

She sent me a cryptic email: "Arrived. So far, so strange."

I've felt that way over the past year or so. I've done the funerals of three people who were not only my dear friends but my profound mentors. Ginny, Reed and Kay all played a remarkable role in the forming of my ministry and my life over the past 25 years. And now they are dead, each of them, all of them.

Ginny was the head of the Council of Churches in Waterbury when I arrived in Waterbury in 1989. She was an Episcopalian and sometimes came to St. John's though she was a member of a suburban parish. She was tough and nails and funny as hell. Ginny loved to work and she loved to play and she taught me a lot about how to navigate the weird, unpredictable waters of ecumenical relations.

Reed was, at the same time, the director of a non-profit called Green Community Services (not because it was near the Waterbury Green but because the Rector of St. John's, the Pastor of First Congregational and the Minister of First Baptist had a green file box they passed around, taking a month at a time to try to meet the needs of the urban poor and weed out the urban con-men. He was a member of St. John's and one of the most outspoken Liberal voices I've ever heard. He taught me how to treat people who disagreed profoundly with you with the kind of respect and kindness that made them at least 'listen' to what you had to say. And he liked nothing more than to laugh.

Kay was a long-time member of St. John's who was a political activist and mover and shaker. She was no nonsense but compassionate, dedicated but deeply humorous.

(As I write this, I realize that I admired each of them for their ministry and commitment AND because each had a great sense of humor. My wife decides who she likes by 'how smart' they are and that matters to me as well. But my first priority for a dear friend is 'how funny' they are. If we aren't having fun we should find something else to do.)

I only had notes for Ginny's funeral sermon and can't find them. But I have the text for Reed's and Kay's. I thought I'd share them. What I said in those sermons will tell you a bit about why I loved them so much and why I'm declaring a moratorium on the death of mentors. Anyone else 20 years or so older than me who taught me much must remain alive, for my sake. I'm three and out in the past year. I can't lose anymore people like these from my life.

So far, so strange....

Memorial for Reed Smith

“Then the Righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prision and visited you?'

And the King will answer them, 'Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least o these who are members of my family, you did it to me.'” Mt. 25.37-40

So here is something I saw one day, years ago, looking out the window of my office that was above the Close of St. John's in Waterbury and gave me a view of the whole Green and much of downtown.

I saw Reed crossing the street between St. John's and the little store owned and run by some folks from India where I went, often, to get coffee. School had just let out and the kids from the high school next to St. John's on Church Street were waiting in front of the little Indian store for the next bus.

The high school beside of St. John's was the school of “last resort” for the kids who when there. They'd been kicked out of one of the three high schools in the city for something or another—certainly untowardly—and they were going to school there because no other school could contain them. There were about 20 of those kids standing on the street where Reed was headed. They were goofing around and smoking and being generally unruly. And here comes Reed.

Reed was dressed, I swear to you, in navy blue knickers (I never knew anyone besides Reed who wore honest to God knickers), blue and yellow argyle knee socks, dress shoes, a blindingly white dress shirt, a red bow tie, a seersucker jacket and a straw hat.

“This will be good,” I said to myself, watching Reed approach 20 or more high school students who were jacked up on teen-aged hormones and God knows what else, and these where teens who had somehow fallen through the cracks of our society. “Bad kids” in the estimation of most people.

As Reed approached, the kids (who didn't give in to anybody) parted like the Red Sea and let him pass. He tipped his straw hat to them and they watched him, silent and staring, as he walked two blocks, greeting homeless people, a police officer and several people in serious suits on the way. Once he was out of sight, having turned a corner, the kids remained subdued, didn't revert to the nonsense they'd been up to before Reed appeared. They seemed to be pondering something until the buses they were waiting for arrived.

They had been “Reed-ed”. Reed Smith had crossed their paths, shared their journeys for a moment and I believe, I truly believe, some few of them will remember that encounter years from now. I truly believe that.

When Reed crossed your path, something shifted, something changed, life as you knew it was somehow subtlety transformed.

Reed was like that. When you encountered him, something shifted, altered, changed. You were 'Reed-ed' in a way that mattered and made a difference.

No one could possibly challenge his commitment to justice, to empowering the powerless, to serving the poor and marginalized of society. Reed's life was spent, as his daughter Pam called it, “saving the world every day”. And he did it with total integrity and utter authenticity. Every Day.

I remember watching him load a bus with people from Waterbury—people on welfare, the working poor, the neglected and forgotten of the city. The bus was parked in front of First Congregational Church so I crossed the street and asked him where they were going.

“An excursion to Hartford,” Reed said, smiling that little crooked smile he smiled and his eyes twinkling, “to have a little talk with their elected representatives....”

Reed had no compunction about walking into the halls of government to advocate for the poor—but he went beyond that: he empowered the poor to advocate for themselves.

It reminds me of a quote from Mother Teresa (though Reed, I'm sure, would object to his being worthy to be spoke of in her company). A cynical journalist asked Mother Teresa how she could possibly imagine she could save the poor and dying of Calcutta.

“One at a time,” she replied, smiling HER crooked smile, her eyes twinkling.

“One at a time” is how Reed entranced us all. His devotion to 'the least of these' was only equaled by his devotion to his family and friends. “His lady” Marty, his children, his friends. To be in his presence was to feel you had his total attention, his interest, his love.

One of the most conservative members of St. John's, the parish's long time Treasurer, would wax eloquent about Reed. Though they agreed on....well, 'nothing'...Ed always knew he was friends with a man of authenticity and integrity. Just that—being authentic and having integrity and being able to love those who don't agree with you—is devoutly to be wished by any of us.

If welcome to the Kingdom does rely on serving 'the least of these', then Reed has been welcomed with laurels. And I'm sure he accepted his welcome with humility and good humor and walked immediately into the Nearer Presence of God and said, “I've been waiting to meet with you. There are a few things back on earth we need to straighten out....”

I've often heard it said that a successful life would entail leaving the world a better place than you found it. Reed went beyond that. He made every person he encountered a 'better person' than they were before meeting him.

Since you're here today, I know you've been 'Reed-ed' in some significant way. And I'm sure he's glad to see you. His eyes are twinkling, he's smiling that little crooked smile and he's tipping his straw hat to each of us and all of us—most of all to Marti....

Let us thank God that we got to walk a little road with Reed.

And let us thank God—profoundly, joyfully, always and everywhere for him.....Amen.

Sermon for Kay

I saw Sandy at the nursing home the day that Kay started slipping away from life.

“I think she just decided to die and get it over with,” Sandy told me. “Just like Kay, still making up the rules.”

That got me started thinking about “KAY'S RULES”.

Kay's Rules would be demanding and passionate. Kay's Rules would be rigorous and committed. Kay's Rules would be full of dedication to justice, to fairness, to compassion and to action.

There would be a Rule in Kay's Rules that required standing with and advocating for those who were oppressed by our society because of poverty, gender, sexuality or race. Kay's Rules would fight against discrimination in whatever guise it raised it's ugly head. Kay's Rules would not let us rest until Justice was done.

There would be a Rule in Kay's Rules that demanded a passionate commitment to education and learning. Kay's Rules would give everyone access to Knowledge and the Power that knowledge brings.

There would be a Rule in Kay's Rules that would not tolerate 'unfairness' in any part of our society—in access to health care, in economics, in equal pay, in government services.

There would be a Rule in Kay's Rules that would insist that we 'get involved' and 'stay involved' in politics. Kay's Rules would hold us accountable for being a part of the forming and reforming of our political system.

There would be Rules in Kay's Rules that would deal with friendship, with loyalty, with personal integrity, with devotion, with responsibility. All in all, the world would be a much better place if we all played by Kay's Rules—just as the world and our lives have been made richer, fuller, more challenging, more complete, more compassionate by having known and loved Kay Bergin.

We are better off—each of us and all of us—that she lived in our midst and touched our lives. Truly. That is profoundly True.

The only Rule in Kay's Rules that I would object to is that there would probably be a rule about having to play golf.

I once played in a foursome in the Hastings Open that included Kay and Fran. I don't play golf but I'm reasonably good at anything that requires hitting a ball with a stick of some sort. Mostly I was comic relief for the real golfers.

Kay and Fran amazed me. I could hit the ball much farther than they could, but almost always to the left or right of the fairway. Kay and Fran always hit the ball straight down the fairway. Not to far but always on target, always straight ahead.

That is a metaphor for those two remarkable human beings. They always advanced things straight ahead and with consistency and with passion and with commitment.

Often, when I was Rector here, I would notice Kay going back to the Columbarium after the Eucharist and sitting with Fran for a while. Sometimes she brought some flowers in a vase. And she would just be with him for a spell.

And now she is with him again.

“When people die,” a friend of mine wrote in a poem for a mutual friend who died in Viet Nam, “When people die, it's like a bird flying into a window on a chill day.”

With Kay's death, the bird flew into the window again.

And we are here today to remember her, to mourn her death and to proclaim the promise of God in the midst of death and loss.

Memory is one of God's greatest gifts. All of us fear 'losing our memory' more than we fear death. Memory reminds us of 'who we are' and 'whose we are'. Memory is the anchor that keeps our small boat stable and safe in the storms of life.

So, we remember Kay today and thank God for the gift of her to each of us and all of us. And in our memory, our stories, our recollections, Kay lives with us.

So, we mourn Kay today and comfort each other in our loss. Grief shared is easier to bear. A touch, a hug, just 'being together' helps us endure the pain.

And, we gather to proclaim the promise of God that death is not the 'last word'. It is certainly the 'next to last word', but the last word is hope and life and resurrection. A priest wears white for a funeral—not the black of mourning but the white of Easter, of life, of hope.

In today's gospel Thomas says to Jesus as he announces his leaving them, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

Amen, Thomas. The land on the other side of the door of Death is not a place we 'know'. But I do know this, St. Francis of Assissi once wrote, “Death is not a door that closes, but a door that opens and we enter in all new....”

I do not 'know the way', but I do know the promise of God. And that promise is this: that in ways we do not imagine and perhaps 'cannot imagine', Death's door opened for Kay and she entered into the nearer presence of the One who loved her best of all, and she was made 'all new'....

We will miss you my dear friend, Kay, and we will mourn you. And we will also remember you and the rules you gave us to live by. And we will celebrate your life and the privilege it was to share some of the road with you as we journey to the Lover of Souls.

Amen.