(Pentecost is a big deal, but you probably know that already. Usually, though I do prepare sermons and often have a text, I prefer to preach without the text. But when I want to say things exactly the way they are, I use a text. I intended to use a text on Pentecost at Emmanuel Church in Killingworth. Unfortunately, as I was diving through Durham, I realized I had left the text on my desk in Cheshire! So, I didn't give this sermon on Pentecost. I used parts of it and it was, I think, between OK and quite good, but it wasn't this. So I'll share it with you here.)
PENTECOST 2014/Emmanuel, Killingworth
Fear always says 'no'.
If you're going to remember anything I say this Pentecost morning, remember this: FEAR ALWAYS SAYS 'NO'.
And remember this as well: GOD ALWAYS SAYS 'YES' TO US....
***
Jesus' friends were gathered in the same room they'd been using to hide. How many there were isn't clear. The book of Acts says 120--though that number may be high. They huddled together, still frightened that the Temple authorities might be after them, still grieving in some way--though they had seen the Risen Lord time and again, felt his breath upon they faces--and most, most of all, they were terribly, wrenching lonely.
Jesus had promised them they would be clothed in power. Jesus had promised them he would send and Advocate to be with them. Jesus had promised them they would be baptized in fire. Jesus had promised them he was already preparing a place for them.
But the promises seemed like so much pie crust to the disciples. They were still waiting for the promises to be fulfilled. They were frightened. And they were so lonely--so profoundly lonely.
***
That image...that metaphor...that paradigm of being crowed into a lonely, frightening room rings true for us today.
Fear haunts us these days. And though we huddle together in our fear, we are so profoundly lonely. Fear speaks but one word and that word is "NO".
Our faith teaches us to be hospitable to strangers--but our Fear says 'no' and we distrust those who are different from us.
Our faith teaches us to be compassionate--but our Fear says 'no' and we ignore the 'least of these' in our midst.
Our faith teaches us that God is Love--but our Fear says 'no' and most states still do not recognize marriage for loving same-sex couples who wish to marry.
Our faith teaches us to share our gifts with those in need--but our Fear says 'no' and we live in the richest nation in the history of human kind where the gap between the rich and the poor widens every day.
Our faith teaches us that 'a little child shall lead us' and that we must become like children to enter the Kingdom of God--but our Fear says 'no' as millions of children go underfed, undereducated and neglected around the world and in our country.
Remember this if you remember nothing else: Fear always says 'NO'.
***
There is no easy or simple way to explain it, what happened in that closed and fearful room on the first Pentecost--it happened like this: one moment the room was full of fear and the next moment the room was full of fire and a mighty wind fanning the flames until the fear was burned away and all that was left was hope and joy and those formerly frightened people 'found their voices' and left their hiding place and spoke words that transformed the world.
We need the Fires of Pentecost to burn away our fears and the Winds of Pentecost to blow away our loneliness. We need the Spirit to give us our voices so we may proclaim the 'YES' of God to the world.
Fear always says "NO"--but God always says "YES"....
We need a Pentecost. We know that God says "yes" to us. That God calls us to wonder and joy and love and compassion and hospitality. And not just in the 'big things'--God's "Yes" to us is about little things too.
This is a poem by Kaylin Haught titled "God says Yes to Me". It is a Pentecost poem, whether she knew it or not.
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
Who knows where she picked that up
What I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
What Pentecost is about is God saying "Yes" to you and you and you and you and all of us. What Pentecost is about is the Spirit coming so we are never, ever, not ever lonely again.
What Pentecost is about is Fire burning away Fear.
What Pentecost is about--and listen carefully, this is important--Pentecost is about God saying to you and you and you and you and you and all of us:
Sweetcakes, what I'm telling you is Yes, Yes, Yes!
Amen and Amen.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
I'm Baaaack!!!
(I've been off line Since Sunday. Here's something I wrote on Monday)
WRITING WITH A PEN--6/9/14
It's amazing, writing with a pen. I've typed so much in the past 30 years or so that my handwriting has degenerated to a bizarre degree. I'm writing my hand because my Internet connection--Foxfire--has suddenly decided I did something to it Sunday night to make it impossible to open. I even know the time: 6/8/14 at 9:30 pm.
All I can remember doing is a Control/Alt/Delete when my screen froze trying to see how Tracy Morgan was after a Walmart Truck hit his limousine and killed his friend and writer. (Since I couldn't view the story, I don't even remember his friend's name, alas....)
To say I'm 'writing' with a pen is a misnomer. I never conquered the Zaner/Blosser cursive script I was suppose to learn in 3rd grade. I mostly print, though some of the printing--like the 'some' and 'of' and 'the' in that line are loosely connected.
And I most often make 'e' like a backward '3'.
John, my friend and computer guru, will know how to get Foxfire back but he hasn't returned my call or email (the 'e' in 'email' is a backward 3, by the way).
So, who knows when this will get worked out and you'll read this....
(by the way. John hasn't gotten here and it's Thursday but I figured out how to get my email and blog back all by myself!!! Yea, Me, the computer dope....It's easier with Foxfire but I can't believe I figured it out....A cause for a glass of wine, I'd say....)
WRITING WITH A PEN--6/9/14
It's amazing, writing with a pen. I've typed so much in the past 30 years or so that my handwriting has degenerated to a bizarre degree. I'm writing my hand because my Internet connection--Foxfire--has suddenly decided I did something to it Sunday night to make it impossible to open. I even know the time: 6/8/14 at 9:30 pm.
All I can remember doing is a Control/Alt/Delete when my screen froze trying to see how Tracy Morgan was after a Walmart Truck hit his limousine and killed his friend and writer. (Since I couldn't view the story, I don't even remember his friend's name, alas....)
To say I'm 'writing' with a pen is a misnomer. I never conquered the Zaner/Blosser cursive script I was suppose to learn in 3rd grade. I mostly print, though some of the printing--like the 'some' and 'of' and 'the' in that line are loosely connected.
And I most often make 'e' like a backward '3'.
John, my friend and computer guru, will know how to get Foxfire back but he hasn't returned my call or email (the 'e' in 'email' is a backward 3, by the way).
So, who knows when this will get worked out and you'll read this....
(by the way. John hasn't gotten here and it's Thursday but I figured out how to get my email and blog back all by myself!!! Yea, Me, the computer dope....It's easier with Foxfire but I can't believe I figured it out....A cause for a glass of wine, I'd say....)
Friday, June 6, 2014
Gag reflex
This is not a pleasant thing to read. There is more information in it than I would share face-to-face. It is gross. So, stop reading now, if you're wise.
OK, I've warned you.
I have a very sensitive gag reflex. Lots of things make me gag. Drives my dental hygienist and my dentist crazy, though they are kind about it.
It all comes down to swallowing pills. I can swallow anything that is in a capsule. I don't know why but I cam. But pills are an issue. A pill the size of a capsule I can easily swallow makes me gag.
What I do is chew pills up. Even something the size of an un-coated aspirin is impossible for me to swallow.
I know this and know it well and from long experience.
And yet today I was about to take a Claritin-D 24 hour pill and thought to myself, "if this is time release and I chew it up the whole time release thing might be screwed up.
I'm looking at one of them now. It's not as large as capsules I swallow with ease. But I should have know better--it's a pill twice the size of an aspirin--but I tried to swallow it anyway.
It got stuck in my esophagus somewhere, just below my breast bone is where it seemed to be. I could breathe fine but anything I tried to eat or drink wouldn't go down. (Here's the unpleasant part I tried to warn you about--a piece of white bread with butter came back up in the sink. Nothing I tried to drink would go down. I even had to spit out my saliva from noon until almost 4:30.
I was just about to go to Urgent Care down on South Main Street when I took a sip of water and it went into my stomach. Since then I've eaten a crab cake and a hamburger and a salad. It's fine.
Bern was reasonable and kind to me for those 4 and 1/2 hours. But she finally said, "You know you can't swallow something like that. You've known it for years. Why would you try today?"
A reasonable question.
I started to try to explain about my concern about time release but I knew it was futile.
I do know I can't swallow that and yet I tried to anyway.
It's sort of like the difference between rats and human beings. Rats will go down the maze to where the cheese used to be once or twice but then not again. Human beings keep thinking there will be 'cheese' down that path when they should know better.
Rats are smarter than me, that's for sure.
OK, I've warned you.
I have a very sensitive gag reflex. Lots of things make me gag. Drives my dental hygienist and my dentist crazy, though they are kind about it.
It all comes down to swallowing pills. I can swallow anything that is in a capsule. I don't know why but I cam. But pills are an issue. A pill the size of a capsule I can easily swallow makes me gag.
What I do is chew pills up. Even something the size of an un-coated aspirin is impossible for me to swallow.
I know this and know it well and from long experience.
And yet today I was about to take a Claritin-D 24 hour pill and thought to myself, "if this is time release and I chew it up the whole time release thing might be screwed up.
I'm looking at one of them now. It's not as large as capsules I swallow with ease. But I should have know better--it's a pill twice the size of an aspirin--but I tried to swallow it anyway.
It got stuck in my esophagus somewhere, just below my breast bone is where it seemed to be. I could breathe fine but anything I tried to eat or drink wouldn't go down. (Here's the unpleasant part I tried to warn you about--a piece of white bread with butter came back up in the sink. Nothing I tried to drink would go down. I even had to spit out my saliva from noon until almost 4:30.
I was just about to go to Urgent Care down on South Main Street when I took a sip of water and it went into my stomach. Since then I've eaten a crab cake and a hamburger and a salad. It's fine.
Bern was reasonable and kind to me for those 4 and 1/2 hours. But she finally said, "You know you can't swallow something like that. You've known it for years. Why would you try today?"
A reasonable question.
I started to try to explain about my concern about time release but I knew it was futile.
I do know I can't swallow that and yet I tried to anyway.
It's sort of like the difference between rats and human beings. Rats will go down the maze to where the cheese used to be once or twice but then not again. Human beings keep thinking there will be 'cheese' down that path when they should know better.
Rats are smarter than me, that's for sure.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Happiness is what you say it is
OK, time for existentialism post grad level.
I heard a report in the last few days about how 3/4 of Americans don't like their jobs, even though they have a job and almost 7% of folks don't--much higher in rural areas and among minorities.
Gone, I suspect, are the days that were what they were for my parents' generation: having a job = happiness.
I was a full-time priest for over 30 years. For the first decade of that, I can't say that I 'loved' my job that much. I felt beset upon by the things that happened and the meaning those things drug after them. Then, in 1987 I think (though my linear time stuff is halting, as you probably already know) I went to The Making A Difference Workshop and learned that meaning is 'what we say it is' and that it is possible to 'be' in the face of what happens and what we say about it.
I know the first time I heard that kind of language I was perplexed and confused. But believe me on this (going back to a recent post about how life is 'empty and meaningless') stuff that happens doesn't 'mean' anything. It just happens and the happening of it is empty and meaningless. The "meaning" comes from WHAT WE SAY about WHAT HAPPENED, not from 'what happened' itself.
"Stuff happens": a baby is born, a war begins, someone visits the moon, a child dies in an accident, the stock market crashes, a war ends, an election is held, a marriage breaks up, someone gets AIDS, two people fall in love, the stock market rebounds, Congress passes a bill, you get cancer, your daughter gets married, you father becomes senile, you get a raise, a hurricane sweeps in off the south Atlantic, on and on.
Believe me on this: nothing about "what happened" had 'meaning' attached. It's just 'what happened'.
Then you and I talk about 'what happened' and weigh it down with 'meaningfulness' and then imagine the 'meaning' came from what happened and not what we said about it.
People hate their jobs and believe, totally believe, their jobs bring the hatefulness with them.
Instead, the jobs are just what they are--no meaning attached--and the transforming, liberating reality is that you and I get to 'say what they mean'.
Stuff happens and we talk about it and we believe what we have to say about what happened came from 'what happened'. NO! We made up the meaning.
Ponder, if you can, what a wondrous thing it is that we can 'name' the meaning of 'what happens' to us.
I'll leave you there. And, I'll be back.
I heard a report in the last few days about how 3/4 of Americans don't like their jobs, even though they have a job and almost 7% of folks don't--much higher in rural areas and among minorities.
Gone, I suspect, are the days that were what they were for my parents' generation: having a job = happiness.
I was a full-time priest for over 30 years. For the first decade of that, I can't say that I 'loved' my job that much. I felt beset upon by the things that happened and the meaning those things drug after them. Then, in 1987 I think (though my linear time stuff is halting, as you probably already know) I went to The Making A Difference Workshop and learned that meaning is 'what we say it is' and that it is possible to 'be' in the face of what happens and what we say about it.
I know the first time I heard that kind of language I was perplexed and confused. But believe me on this (going back to a recent post about how life is 'empty and meaningless') stuff that happens doesn't 'mean' anything. It just happens and the happening of it is empty and meaningless. The "meaning" comes from WHAT WE SAY about WHAT HAPPENED, not from 'what happened' itself.
"Stuff happens": a baby is born, a war begins, someone visits the moon, a child dies in an accident, the stock market crashes, a war ends, an election is held, a marriage breaks up, someone gets AIDS, two people fall in love, the stock market rebounds, Congress passes a bill, you get cancer, your daughter gets married, you father becomes senile, you get a raise, a hurricane sweeps in off the south Atlantic, on and on.
Believe me on this: nothing about "what happened" had 'meaning' attached. It's just 'what happened'.
Then you and I talk about 'what happened' and weigh it down with 'meaningfulness' and then imagine the 'meaning' came from what happened and not what we said about it.
People hate their jobs and believe, totally believe, their jobs bring the hatefulness with them.
Instead, the jobs are just what they are--no meaning attached--and the transforming, liberating reality is that you and I get to 'say what they mean'.
Stuff happens and we talk about it and we believe what we have to say about what happened came from 'what happened'. NO! We made up the meaning.
Ponder, if you can, what a wondrous thing it is that we can 'name' the meaning of 'what happens' to us.
I'll leave you there. And, I'll be back.
Made my day....
N. is a dear lady who attends St. Peter's Episcopal Church here in Cheshire. She sometimes volunteers in the office and since I hang out there on Tuesdays I met her a couple of years ago.
Today I was in Stop and Shop--as I am most days, Bern and I are European in dinner, usually getting the ingredients on the day we intend to eat them--and N. tapped me on the shoulder.
She wanted to tell me that one of the last things she does each night is look to see if there's something new on "Under the Castor Oil Tree". She told me how much it meant to me and that she felt she knew Bern and our dog and when I miss a few days she worries if something is wrong in my life.
It made my day in a big way.
I've said before I'd probably write this blog is no one read it. And I would. It is a discipline I need as an 'almost retired' Episcopal priest. I am capable of whiling away vast quantities of time with no regrets. I average reading two books every three days--some 250 books a year. I'm perfectly happy to spend whole days reading.
I used to have a poster on my office wall when I was Rector of St. Paul's in New Haven that had a drawing of a comfortable looking chair on it and said, "Sometimes I sits and thinks...and sometimes, I just sits..." I'm capable of that with no guilt.
So writing the blog I would do just to give a modicum of order to my rather disorderly days. I've always been good at doing not much of anything--something I have brought to an art form since 2010!
So N.'s words spoke deeply to my heart. Even if I'm seemingly 'do-less' most of the time, what I create in this space makes a difference for N. That makes writing this more than just a way to put a little order into a rather disorderly way of living.
From time to time I take a look at the statistics on "Under the Castor Oil Tree". There are well over a thousand page views a month. Daily average is between 30 and 90. And Lord knows how many pages they read each time.
So, I promise to ponder the possibility that my musings here actually matter and make a difference to a lot more people than N. That ups the ante of these otherwise rather self-centered and random ponderings.
Thank you, N., you not only made my day but altered the occurring of this blog for me. Thanks so much....
Today I was in Stop and Shop--as I am most days, Bern and I are European in dinner, usually getting the ingredients on the day we intend to eat them--and N. tapped me on the shoulder.
She wanted to tell me that one of the last things she does each night is look to see if there's something new on "Under the Castor Oil Tree". She told me how much it meant to me and that she felt she knew Bern and our dog and when I miss a few days she worries if something is wrong in my life.
It made my day in a big way.
I've said before I'd probably write this blog is no one read it. And I would. It is a discipline I need as an 'almost retired' Episcopal priest. I am capable of whiling away vast quantities of time with no regrets. I average reading two books every three days--some 250 books a year. I'm perfectly happy to spend whole days reading.
I used to have a poster on my office wall when I was Rector of St. Paul's in New Haven that had a drawing of a comfortable looking chair on it and said, "Sometimes I sits and thinks...and sometimes, I just sits..." I'm capable of that with no guilt.
So writing the blog I would do just to give a modicum of order to my rather disorderly days. I've always been good at doing not much of anything--something I have brought to an art form since 2010!
So N.'s words spoke deeply to my heart. Even if I'm seemingly 'do-less' most of the time, what I create in this space makes a difference for N. That makes writing this more than just a way to put a little order into a rather disorderly way of living.
From time to time I take a look at the statistics on "Under the Castor Oil Tree". There are well over a thousand page views a month. Daily average is between 30 and 90. And Lord knows how many pages they read each time.
So, I promise to ponder the possibility that my musings here actually matter and make a difference to a lot more people than N. That ups the ante of these otherwise rather self-centered and random ponderings.
Thank you, N., you not only made my day but altered the occurring of this blog for me. Thanks so much....
headed for 'the home'
I had my annual physical yesterday. I've been with my primary care physician for 25 years, so he knows me very well. I'd lost six pounds in the month since I last saw him and that was cause for celebration and high fives! He knows I don't take well to nagging about my weight (or anything for that matter) so he resorts to gentle nudges and outlandish praise when I do something that actually contributes to my health and well-being.
It's my opinion that doctors giving physicals should have to wear one of those little gowns that tie in the back why doing the examination. That way it would be a level playing field with two people looking silly.
We did all the stuff you do in a physical except I talked him out of sticking his finger up my butt since I'd just seen my urologist less than a month ago. He doesn't like to stick his finger up my butt anymore than I like him to, so he was glad to pass on that. It's a good thing, too....
I went into one of the bathrooms to pee when I was leaving and couldn't for the life of me find the opening in my boxer shorts. I took off my pants again and discovered I had the boxers on backward! By avoiding butt probing, he didn't get to see that every day or so I do something that indicates 'the home' is in my future.
It's my opinion that doctors giving physicals should have to wear one of those little gowns that tie in the back why doing the examination. That way it would be a level playing field with two people looking silly.
We did all the stuff you do in a physical except I talked him out of sticking his finger up my butt since I'd just seen my urologist less than a month ago. He doesn't like to stick his finger up my butt anymore than I like him to, so he was glad to pass on that. It's a good thing, too....
I went into one of the bathrooms to pee when I was leaving and couldn't for the life of me find the opening in my boxer shorts. I took off my pants again and discovered I had the boxers on backward! By avoiding butt probing, he didn't get to see that every day or so I do something that indicates 'the home' is in my future.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
empty and meaningless
OK, just take a moment and ponder this: what if life is, in its essence, empty and meaningless.
Had enough time? Take a moment more.
So, what if, just like a possibility, life is, deep down, empty and meaningless?
If you haven't run screaming from your computer at this point, let me point out what a liberating thing that would be. What if one of my favorite bumper stickers--"SHIT HAPPENS"--is on target and correct?
Know what that means? It means that the 'meaning' of life doesn't exist in any way in the stuff that happens. Meaning--such as it is--doesn't come from the world or from the passage of time or from the events of life...'meaning' is what we say it is.
Can you begin to see how liberating that could be?
I used to be terrified of flying. One night, before I was to fly the next day, I was telling my friend, Tom, how scared I was already, knowing that in 15 hours I'd be getting on an airplane.
Tom asked, "what does it feel like?"
And I said, "I'm terrified, scared to death, horrified!!!"
And Tom said, calmly, "no, that's not what I mean. I mean, tell me about the actual feelings in your body, not what you call time."
So I went through the litany: tight butt, racing heart, dizziness, muscle tension. The whole thing.
And Tom said, calmly (as Tom said all things), "ok, why don't we call those feelings excitement?"
It was one of the biggest breakthroughs of my life. From that moment on, my feelings were transformed. They didn't 'change'--oh, no, whenever I get on a plane my butt is tight, my heart is racing and I'm a tad dizzy with tension in my muscles. All that has happened is that I came to understand that the 'meaning' about those feelings is mine to assign and name.
So, I name it "excitement" and I love to fly.
It is really liberating and transforming to realize that the 'meaning' of what happens comes, not from 'what happens' but from what we say about it.
"Meaning" comes from us and we are free to re-name it and embrace it differently in a way that makes a difference for the better.
So, you could either call it 'anger' or 'whimsy'. You could either call it 'envy' or 'appreciation'. You could either call it 'fear' or 'astonishment'. It IS what you name it.
Just something to ponder. That's all....
Had enough time? Take a moment more.
So, what if, just like a possibility, life is, deep down, empty and meaningless?
If you haven't run screaming from your computer at this point, let me point out what a liberating thing that would be. What if one of my favorite bumper stickers--"SHIT HAPPENS"--is on target and correct?
Know what that means? It means that the 'meaning' of life doesn't exist in any way in the stuff that happens. Meaning--such as it is--doesn't come from the world or from the passage of time or from the events of life...'meaning' is what we say it is.
Can you begin to see how liberating that could be?
I used to be terrified of flying. One night, before I was to fly the next day, I was telling my friend, Tom, how scared I was already, knowing that in 15 hours I'd be getting on an airplane.
Tom asked, "what does it feel like?"
And I said, "I'm terrified, scared to death, horrified!!!"
And Tom said, calmly, "no, that's not what I mean. I mean, tell me about the actual feelings in your body, not what you call time."
So I went through the litany: tight butt, racing heart, dizziness, muscle tension. The whole thing.
And Tom said, calmly (as Tom said all things), "ok, why don't we call those feelings excitement?"
It was one of the biggest breakthroughs of my life. From that moment on, my feelings were transformed. They didn't 'change'--oh, no, whenever I get on a plane my butt is tight, my heart is racing and I'm a tad dizzy with tension in my muscles. All that has happened is that I came to understand that the 'meaning' about those feelings is mine to assign and name.
So, I name it "excitement" and I love to fly.
It is really liberating and transforming to realize that the 'meaning' of what happens comes, not from 'what happens' but from what we say about it.
"Meaning" comes from us and we are free to re-name it and embrace it differently in a way that makes a difference for the better.
So, you could either call it 'anger' or 'whimsy'. You could either call it 'envy' or 'appreciation'. You could either call it 'fear' or 'astonishment'. It IS what you name it.
Just something to ponder. That's all....
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