A Christmas memory I would rather forget....

I was the only child of Virgil (41) and Cleo (40) when I was born. What a surprise for them!

Everyone in our families was afraid I'd be horribly spoiled. I wasn't really, but I do have a Christmas memory that is cringe-worthy.

We didn't have a TV when I was growing up. I used to go to Mrs. Martin's house, which was behind 'Martin's Hardware Store' that her husband owned and ran to watch TV. It was only a vacant lot away and Mrs. Martin was pretty much wheelchair bound and enjoyed my company. (This was a really small town--400 people tops--so everyone knew who had a TV and who didn't.)

Then one Christmas when I was 12 or so, my father (who was a frugal man with a capital F--like this, he bought a new black Ford every 3 years with money he'd saved over the three years...for cash. My father was so 'frugal' that when he tried to get a credit card in his 60's, it was difficult because he always paid cash and had no credit record. I was a college student by then and got a credit card in the mail every few weeks. My parents also bought the only house they ever owned--I grew up in a rented apartment in a part of the world where everyone either lived in a house they owned or a house the coal company owned--they bought that house in Princeton with cash.)

Ok, that was the longest and most wandering aside I've probably ever written and I lost the gist of what I wanted to say, so let me start over.

Then one Christmas when I was 12 or so, my father decided to buy a TV for me for Christmas. For him to part with that much money for something he considered frivolous was an incredible gift and commitment to me. When I got up on Christmas morning and went into the living room and saw it, the first words out of my mouth were, "It's not as big as Mrs. Martin's TV."

So my father drove to Adrian Vance's house, the man who owned the appliance store in Anawalt and got him to come out on Christmas morning to exchange the TV my father had bought for one that was as big as Mrs. Martin's. On Christmas day he did that because his 12 year old son was an ingrate of an asshole.

And he never once said something snarky like, "is this big enough, asshole?"

He just did it, for me.

If I could speak to my father, dead over 30 years now, I would tell him I was an awful and ungrateful son on that Christmas morning and everyone in our families had been right--they had spoiled me horribly and I was an asshole back then, 52 years ago now.

And the second thing I would tell him is that I hope and pray I turned out better than I might have, given the 12 year old I was. I would tell him that why I turned out better than I was at 12 and complained about a gift of love that wasn't big enough was because he and my mother taught me about gratefulness and wonder and joy in ways they never imagined. In ways they never knew.

I'd want to tell him that his asshole son of 12 became a person of compassion and understanding and love--because he showed me all those things even when I didn't deserve them.

That's what I'd like to say to my Dad this Christmas Eve.

Thank you for understanding what an asshole a 12 year old can be and never holding it against him. I think that made me who I am and have been.

And the memory of that Christmas makes me cringe and regret and almost weep.

Unconditional love is so difficult, so hard. and such a gift to 12 year old's when they look back on it and cringe.

I love you, Daddy, wherever you are. Merry Christmas.....

Eve of the Eve

I picked Mimi up at the train station in New Haven today--Christmas cheer can begin....

I was in Stop and Shop today and they kept making an announcement to 'make sure you have your own shopping carriage'. Apparently someone's cart was highjacked by someone else. When I got to checkout, all the clerks were in hysterics because the guy whose cart went missing was making a huge fuss.

I really don't seem to have much to write about right now if I'm reduced to absconded shopping carts--still waterlogged from the rain. Will write tomorrow for sure.

OK, what's going on...?

I just checked The Castor Oil Tree stats (which I can do and do sometimes) and saw that I'd had 151 pages views already today--which is a record for a day and it's only 6:16 p.m.!

So, what's going on? Advent IV is the day people just view random blogs? I said something worth reading (doubt that...)? Everyone I know thought today was a good day to look at my blog? Some problem with the stats do hickey? One person was drunk and signed onto my blog 151 times trying to get to UTube?

Well, whatever happened, thanks. I've said before I'd write this even if no one read it because it is therapy for me to write. (Lots cheaper than a real therapist too!) But thank you, whoever you are, for reading this junk I write.

Today I went to Rowena's first Eucharist. I did the 9 a.m. at St. James in Higganum and then drove to Northford and got there at the end of the Prayers of the People so I got absolved by Rowena, received the first bread and wine she ever consecrated and got her blessing at the end of the service. A trifecta (a word I'm pretty sure is a word...like when betting on horse races...but my spell-check neither acknowledges or gives me a reasonable option to) much to be desired.

I got all this advice about how to get from Higganum to Northford from people in both places. One involved Little City Road (though I assure you, there is not even a Tiny City anywhere near that road) and the other involved several roads whose names I don't remember, all of which, supposedly inexplicably end up in Durham from which Northford is about 7 miles on Rt 17. I even tried one of them once and got agoraphobic driving through such emptiness. So today I just got on RT 9 and drove 85 mph and got off at the 155/17 exit. Got there in just under 25 minutes, just at the end of the Prayers of the People when Rowena read the Proper Preface for Advent, which is lovely but not what you're supposed to read.

Hey, it was her first Eucharist, cut her a break! Besides which the Eucharist at St. James will be loosely referred to as "how many ways can Jim mess this up? Sunday". I even announced after the offering had come up and I'd somehow set the table, that if 'you give me a week off, I forget how to do this stuff...." All three Cluster churches cancelled last week because of weather, which was wise, so Rowena had to wait a week to celebrate her first Eucharist. And she was flawless except for the Advent Proper Preface thing and actually knows how to do the 'manual acts', which, in Episco-speak,
means the gestures and movements that go into celebrating the Eucharist.

I, on the other hand do only two manual acts--I cross myself at one point in the service and make the sign of the cross over the bread and wine...oh, and elevate them at the end of the Prayer of Consecration. I went to Virginia Seminary, the ultimate "low church" seminary where any 'fussiness' at all way discouraged. There was a professor at VTS that could celebrate Eucharist without moving  his hands at all. So, for Virginia Graduates I'm almost Anglo-Catholic.

I thought Rowena's manual acts were restrained, respectful and right on! Some priests I know turn the 'manual acts' into a form or calisthenics or pseudo-yoga. I close my eyes when they start wildly gesticulating and pounding their chests. Rowena has it right. If you have to involve yourself in such things, the way she does it is the way it should be done. God bless her. (I would say I'll start holding my arms out to the side humbly during much of the Eucharistic Prayer the way she does...but I probably won't.) But I liked the way she did it.

I need to hear her preach if she's going to get any value from me as a supervisor (I'll blog about how I supervise like a 'crabbing buddy' some day). She has a phone that can do anything short of delivering a baby or bringing world peace, so maybe I'll ask her to record sermons so we can listen to them together. But I'm pretty sure her sermons are just like everything else about her--restrained, respectful and right on.....

Just wanted to make sure...

...that I could get back to my blog. I'm now a tad anxious every time I click on the Do-Hickey that gets me here.

I really am a babe in the woods when it comes to on-line stuff. So much I don't understand.

But I got back, no problem.

Christmas, for us, is going to be quiet and sweet. Mimi is coming Monday and John Anderson will eat dinner with Bern and Mimi and me on Christmas. But Josh and Cathy and the girls are going to California to be with her brothers so minus three girls 7,7 and 4 it will be quiet here. Which I don't mind. We'll go down to Baltimore on Dec. 29 after church for 'second Christmas' with them. Not bad, two Christmases.

Bern's even going to let me cook Christmas dinner. Pretty cool for me.

More later.

Walking backward through my mind...

The last two days I haven't been able to get on my blog. It was terrifying! It was especially terrifying considering that the only things I know about computers is how to turn them on and off....

For some reason, Blogger.com is run by Google. The reason I know that is that I've spent several hours trying to convince Google that I have a blog and should be allowed to use it through the back door--the door you go in to write...like I'm doing now.

I succeeded in getting a g-mail account, which I'll never use...and in filling out countless evaluations of the Google 'help' pages--which did not get sterling grades since nothing they said helped me find the back door to my blog in the least.

I figured out why it kept asking me for the blog's name and a password. The problem was, when I gave them the blogs name and the password it didn't recognize either. And there is no-one to talk to at Google. I searched high and low (sideways and upside) down for a PHONE #! Google apparently either doesn't want you calling them or doesn't use phones at all and is just one big main-frame with no real people anywhere.

But I know that's not true because Tim, Mimi's fiancee (how writing that 8 letter word thrills me!) used to work for Google and Tim's a real person. Now he works for LinkedIn which he has tried to explain to me several times to no avail.

Anyhow, how I got in this blog-less state was I was fooling with my 'history' on the line above the line that tells you what programs are open and succeeded in erasing it. I have a "Under the Caster Oil Tree' hickey on my whatever it's called that lets me go to things like Moviefone and MapQuest and the Huffington Post by clicking on them. (I can never remember the names of things you have on computers). And yes, my Under the Caster Oil Tree hickey IS misspelled but it did get me to the blog with one click. But it must have been searching my 'history' to do that, so by accidentially erasing my "history" hickey I confused my Under the Caster (sp) Do-hickey. Or something like that.

But then I walked backward in my mind to the day that Tracy Simmons (bless her soul) set up my blog at least four years ago because I was still Rector of St. John's. And I remember her telling me slowly and in words of one syllable how to 'sign on' to my blog. But then I remembered the name of the blog wasn't "Under the Castor Oil Tree" like I'm been typing for two days whenever Google asked me but "Castor Oil Tree" because Tracy wasn't sure I could remember more than three words. And then, still walking backwards in my mind, I remembered the password she chose for me because it was the name of something I'd never forget (though I had for the last two days).

Though we used to tell our kids to "walk backward through your mind" whenever they forgot something, I never really believed it worked. I just thought it was something you told kids to give them an experience of the futility and meaninglessness and randomness of life--a dose of Sartre before they could even read...and experience of the dark side of existentialism (though existentialism doesn't seem to have much of a 'bright side' when you think about it).

But "By God, It worked!" And here I am, back typing, which is something I do much better than deal with Google or remember the real names of the Hickeys and Do-Hickeys and Thing-a-ma-bob's on a computer.

You're not rid of me yet, Beloved. I'll be typing more stuff than you'll want to read! Depend on it!

(Merry Eve of the last Sunday of Advent....)

The sweetness of Advent

I'm sure our neighbors wonder why we don't have Christmas decorations up yet. I mean, I'm the professional Christian on the block, so where are the lights and creche and other stuff at our house?

One of the many reasons I'm glad to be an Episcopalian is that we take Advent seriously. Sure, there's lots to do these days and many plans to make and buying and selling...and we will decorate our trees this weekend rather than waiting until Christmas Eve, but I love Advent--the counter-cultureness of it, the silence and the darkness, the waiting and the anticipation.

And Advent, for us Episcopalians, isn't a 'little Lent'. It isn't about penitence in any way. It is a sweet season in the darkest time of the year when snow brings an eerie silence over the land.

The horrendous weather cancelled all the three Cluster services last Sunday. We missed Advent III and I mean 'really missed it'. There's an incompleteness not to have 'Rose Sunday'. I wrote a sermon I'll never preach for the Sunday that wasn't...and it made sense, roads don't get plowed as early on Sunday as they would be on a Tuesday and since these or rural churches many people live down gravel roads that have to wait to be cleared. But I missed it.

And I missed preaching this sermon. I already sent it to the Cluster email list, but I'll share it with you as well.

Advent iii, 2013

John Baptist was out of control.

He lived in the desert for years—eating only what he found in the wilderness. He did not participate in society—instead he railed out dire warnings to the sand and the rocks. He wore strange clothing he had fashioned from animal skins and never cut his hair. Little wonder then that when he appeared from the wilderness, proclaiming that the Kingdom was near, people were both frightened of him and yet almost irresistibly drawn to his strangeness.

And one thing John never forgot—he was a ‘prophet’ of the One Who Was To Come. His whole life and everything he did pointed, not to himself, but to another. He was to make the Way straight—to clear the ground for the Coming One of God. He was not ‘the One’—he was the forerunner, the harbinger, the messenger of One greater than him.

Little wonder then, when John found himself in prison, soon to lose his head for daring to condemn the royal family, that he suddenly wondered if his life-work had been in vain. Had he made the rough ground smooth or had he wasted his time and energy…had he failed to fulfill his only mission in life?

John sent disciples to Jesus. “Are you the One?” they asked him.

“Are you the One, or are we to wait for another?”

In all the gospels, Jesus almost never gives a direct response to a question. He either asks a question in return or tells a story or gives what seems like a non sequitor in reply.

His response to John’s disciples is no different. Instead of answering their question—instead of claiming to be The One all Israel was awaiting—he tells them to go back and tell John what they see and hear.

“…the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised and the poor have good news brought to them…..” Jesus tells the disciples of John that what he “does” should answer the question of who he “is”.

Jesus’ words echoed the description of the “holy one” from the prophecy of Isaiah. His identity is found, not in who he ‘says’ he is, but in the works he does.

When John heard the message he must have realized that he had fulfilled his mission. John must have known that Jesus was “the one”.

It is really no different for any of us. The proof is in the pudding. By the fruits we will know who someone truly IS.

The Kingdom is near—the Kingdom is always near, always ‘at hand’, always just out of the sight of our periphery vision. Close, but ‘not yet’.

So the question is not, ‘who do we say that we are?” The question that matters is how do we live into the coming Kingdom? How do we lean into the reign of God? How are we part of the in-breaking of Light into the Darkness?

We are the children of the Kingdom that was and is and is to come. We are God-bearers, Light bringers, the vehicles of healing in this tragic and suffering world.

It is not who we ‘say’ we are that draws the Kingdom nearer. The Kingdom is unveiled in our midst by what we ‘do’.

Advent is not simply a time of ‘waiting’ for the Coming One. It is a time to ‘prepare’ to welcome the Kingdom just at hand.

Make straight the road of Kindness.

Smooth out the way of Compassion and Generosity.

Tear down the mountains on Indifference and Judgment and build highways of Love and Inclusion and Acceptance.

Through the Wilderness make a path for Forgiveness and Mercy to walk on.

We too must ‘prepare’ the way of the Lord.

We are the ones for whom the Kingdom waits.

We are the ones God is expecting to welcome the Child.

(Wisdom from the Hopi Elders)

There is a River flowing now, very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer greatly.

Know this: the River has its destination. The Elders say we must let go of the shore, push out into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and our heads above the water.

At this time of history, we are to take nothing 'personally'. Least of all, outselves. The moment that we do that, our spritual growth and journey comes to a halt.

The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves!

Banish the word 'struggle' from your attitude and your vocabulary.

All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the ones we've been waiting for! Amen and amen.

Jim Bradley
padrejgb@aol.com

I feel like Alice

OK, I saw this 90 second clip of a speech Rick Santorum made the other day where he told 4 lies I caught. Chris Matthews caught a fifth (yes, I watch MSNBC and am proudly on the left!) but my granddaughters told me I can't call someone a 'liar' or 'fat' or 'stupid' or 'ugly'. So, in honor of the code of Morgan/Emma/Tegan, Rick Santorum was 'short of the truth' five times in 90 seconds. Which makes him (sorry girls) a 'liar' in my book.

Each of the 'short of the truth' statements were met with wild applause.

I feel like, at some point, I fell through the Looking Glass and am in a Wonderland of sorts.

The Republicans I grew up with--Sen. Dirkson, Sen. Brooke, Sen. Goldwater, Gov. Rockefeller, even President Reagan, argued principles and policy. Even when I didn't agree with them I didn't think they were engaging in 'short of the truth' stuff.

What has happened to 'civil discourse' in this country? When did Truth become irrelevant to political argument?

I'll tell you when: when a black man was elected president, that's when.

We may--we just may--pass through this 'disturbance in the Force' and come out somewhere where 'compromise' and civility is again the economy of politics. But though calling out 'racism' is considered, by most, rude and too confrontational, if you look back at the opposition President Obama has encountered, it is strident and irrational in the way racism is.

And, in spite of the mean spiritedness of all prejudice, I think the majority of the country has sniffed it out and are not pleased with it. Besides, thank God, we are no longer a 'majority nation'. The Black and Hispanic vote is growing leaps and bounds. I welcome 'minority' status. That means you can't blame me for the choices America makes.

I pray I am right--that most people would like to return to a civil discourse about policy and principles rather than the chaotic 'short of the truth' rhetoric of the far right.

When I heard the complaints that Obama shook hands with Raoul Castro I was flabbergasted! What did Right-Wing nuts want him to do? Slap him on the face? They objected to his taking a 'selfie' with the leader of Denmark and Great Britain. And also shaking hand with Castro. So he shouldn't be friendly with close allies OR friendly with a perceived enemy?

Maybe he shouldn't be friendly with any body. Well, that seems to the the extreme Rights's res son Dedra.

I'm waiting for a hookah smoking caterpillar to show up on Fox News. Or a woman who looks like a playing card. Nothing will surprise me ever again.

More when I've calmed down....