Pearl...Rest in Peace...

My cousin, Pearl Rich Perkins died yesterday with her three children around her.

I knew Pearl probably before her husband, Bradley Perkins. did. She lived in Pageton, in the last house before the house of J.D. Poe, my friend, and his family lived in the 'big house'. Her father was Louie Rich (shorted from Ricchelli or something like that because Italians did that back then).

Pearl was bright, funny, full of life. After Bradley died a decade or so ago, she had some health problems and then suffered from early onset Alzheimer's for the last years of her life.

Living in the moment, as I mostly do, is a problem when it comes to keeping up with the past.

We pass close by where Pearl has been for years every September on the way to the beach in North Carolina. We could have stopped some of those years and said 'hello'. And we didn't.

I regret that now. Pearl was dear to me but I've spent years without seeing her. And now she is dead and there is nowhere to stop on the way to the beach.

Ponder this (I will!) who in your past do you want to be in touch with before it's too late?

I love you, Pearl. You deserved better from me.

Sermon from long ago....

(here's a sermon I preached over a decade ago I wanted to share....)

The “good” shepherd (5/11/03)

When I was a child, my Uncle Russell managed The Union Theatre in Anawalt, West Virginia—the little town where I grew up. So I got to see most every movie that came to town. The Union Theatre got mostly cowboy movies. Lots of cowboy movies, it seemed to me, were about the bad blood between cattle ranchers and sheep ranchers.

In those movies, the cattle ranchers were always noble, upstanding, law-abiding citizens who lived in decent, well-kept ranch houses and did their best to “do the right thing.” Sheep ranchers, on the other hand, were usually disreputable, desperate, land-grabbing rogues whose only purpose seemed to be breaking the law and annoying the cattle ranchers.

The cattle ranchers always had pressed shirts and little string ties and shiny, leather boots. The sheep ranchers were dirty and unshaven and were constantly casting lascivious looks at the cattle ranchers beautiful girlfriends.

So, in Sunday School, I had some problems identifying with Jesus as the Good Shepherd. In the little colored pictures we got of Jesus, the Good Shepherd, he looked more like a cattle rancher than a sheep rancher. His flowing white and crimson robes were spotless and his hair and beard were neat and perfectly groomed. The truth was, if it hadn’t been for the beard, Jesus would have looked more like a cattle rancher’s beautiful girlfriend than anything else.

I just didn’t get it….

***

Shepherds are romanticized these days. That’s probably because most of us have never met a shepherd. We tend to think of shepherds as humble, gentle, dedicated, somewhat dreamy characters who rescue sheep and commune with nature. More often than not, we think of shepherds as being musical folks—playing little flutes to their sheep—wearing sandals and soft, hand made clothing.

The truth is, shepherds in Jesus’ day were much more like sheep ranchers than cattle ranchers. According to Alan Culpepper, a well-respected New Testament scholar, “shepherding was a despised occupation at the time.” Though we have a rather romantic view of shepherds, Culpepper goes on to say, “…in the first century, shepherds were scorned as shiftless, dishonest people who grazed their flocks on other people’s land.” Another scholar, John Pilch, points out in his book The Cultural World of Jesus that shepherds were considered “unclean” by observant Jews of the day because of their violation of property rights and their neglect of their families by being away from home for long periods of time.

On the other hand, most people I know don’t think very highly of sheep. Sheep are thought of as cowardly, dumb and stubborn all at once. Calling someone “sheepish” usually means they are too timid and fearful to stand up for themselves. “Wool gathering” is a waste of time. Comparing people to “sheep” implies they will mindlessly follow the leader and not think for themselves. And sheep are so uninteresting and boring counting them is almost guaranteed to put you to sleep.

However, in first century Palestine, sheep symbolized something remarkably different than they symbolize for us. The highest virtue in the Mediterranean world of Jesus was honor. “Honor” was so valued that it was vital to maintain it even to the point of death. An honorable person in that culture would face death in silence, without complaint. John Pilch, again, writes that “while being shorn or even prepared for slaughter, the sheep remains silent and does not cry. This is how Isaiah describes the ideal servant of the Lord: ‘like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, the servant of Yahweh does not open his mouth.’’ “

Sheep came to be the animals that most clearly symbolized “honor” in Jesus’ world. In fact, it was the silent, suffering servant of Isaiah—the figure so like a sheep—that came to be identified with Jesus in the early Church. Jesus is, after all, “the lamb of God.”

***

The 4^th Sunday of Easter every year is “Good Shepherd Sunday”. I’ve pretty much run out of things to say about shepherds and sheep. And since I don’t know any shepherds or sheep, I don’t get any new material year to year. The cowboy movie image is new this year—but that was scraping the bottom of the barrel, believe me. I should probably stop now, move on to the Nicene Creed and cut my losses….

But there is something in today’s gospel to wrestle with before we do that. Listen: I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.

I don’t talk much about “evangelism”. I don’t talk much about inviting those who “do not belong to this fold” to join our community. And since I don’t have anything new to say about sheep and shepherds, this is perhaps the time to talk about “evangelism.”

A few years ago, there was a survey by the Gallop Poll people that revealed that Episcopalians tend to invite someone to church every nine years.

That’s a remarkable statistic. I’ll give you a moment to consider that and see how you fit into the Gallop Poll.

I’m a part of a group called The Mastery Foundation. I went to one of the Mastery Foundation’s workshops for people who minister in 1987. Since then I’ve been active with the Mastery Foundation. I now lead the workshop I attended 16 years ago and I’m one of the 12 members of the Mastery Foundation’s Board of Directors.

For 16 years I’ve heard about what the Mastery Foundation calls “enrollment”. And until last week I didn’t “get” what enrollment means. I thought it meant “asking people to take four days and pay nearly $500 to do the workshop.” And I’ve been hesitant for the most part to do that. I hate to “ask people to do things.” I feel like I’m imposing, like they’ll think I’m some kind of fanatic, like I’ll be implying something’s missing from their life.

But just last week, at a workshop I was helping to lead in Maryland, one of the other leaders said this: Enrollment is an invitation that enables someone to discover the full possibility and vitality and commitment of their life.

All that time—16 years—I’ve thought “enrollment” was about getting people to “enroll” in the workshop. Instead, I now realize, “enrollment” means “enrolling” people in the fullness of their own lives.

What a difference that makes. And it only took me 16 years to understand it! That’s seven more years than it takes the average Episcopalian to invite someone to church!

John Wesley—the Anglican priest whose followers formed the Methodist Church—used to ask people: HOW DOES IT GO WITH YOUR SOUL?

Evangelism isn’t about getting people to come to St. John’s and become Episcopalians. Evangelism is about “enrolling” people in the health of their soul and the fullness of their lives. And we are not only “called” to do that—it is what God intends us to do.

At the first meeting of each of the Discernment Groups we’ve been creating for over a year now, we ask people four questions as their homework. The fourth question is this: “how responsible are you willing to be for the experience and well being of the others?”

That’s the question I want to leave you with—for your home-work and your SOUL-work this week. HOW RESPONSIBLE ARE YOU WILLING TO BE FOR THE FULLNESS OF THE LIVES OF OTHERS? Are you willing to ask someone this week—in whatever way make sense to you—“how goes it with your soul?” Are you willing to be open and concerned and attentive to those who are not of this fold? Whether you invite anyone to church or not, are you willing to invite someone to a deeper relationship with you and with God? Are you willing to let someone know that God loves them in a way that can make their lives more abundant, more wondrous, more real?

I’ll be asking myself all that this week. I’ll be wresting with that along with you. I speak to you of God’s love for us. But do I speak to others, outside this fold?

And will I?

Apologies for long time readers....

As I was typing "Toy Soldiers" I began to think I'd typed this before...and not 43 years ago.

I searched my posts and found "Toy Soldiers" was a post in December 2010. I didn't remember it and that's on 3 and a half years ago. So not remembering it 43 years ago blushes in comparison.

If you read it before and feel cheated, I apologize.

If you read it before and enjoyed it again, I celebrate.

I often read books again and certainly poems.

So, forgive my forgetfulness and enjoy, if you did, reading "Toy Soldiers" a second time.....

Toy Soldiers

(OK, this is nuts. I just came across a stapled together little magazine called "OFFERINGS 71", which was from Harvard Divinity school when I was there. It was part of 'The Festival of Religion and the Arts' and contained some poems and some fiction. And one of the stories was mine. I had totally forgotten it, it having happened some 43 years ago, after all. I read it and decided to share it with you from my 24 year old self.)

Toy Soldiers

I had hundreds--two shoe boxes full. One shoe box said NUN-BRUSH on the end. The other said BOSTONIAN. Both said 9 1/2 C on the end which, though I never thought of it then, must have been my father's shoe size.

Not all my little men were soldiers, though most were. I had a few baseball players on little platforms with names on them--Grany Hamner, I remember, and Billy Pierce and Ray Boon with his glove hand high above his head. And there were bright colored cowboys and brighter colored Indians. A knight or two, with their legs spread wide for either an unnatural sex act or for horses I didn't have. I didn't have horses for my knights, but I had a statue of George Washington that I found in a cereal box I thought was going to have a model racer in it.

But most were soldiers in various positions of war--throwing grenades, crawling under non-existent bob wire, shooting from prone positions, marching...things like that. They were mostly hard plastic which felt good to bite, so some of my men had a hand or arm missing, long chewed up and spit out, or else swallowed to keep peas and carrots company in my stomach.

My soldiers were an all-alone-time toy. I shared them with no one except my mother. I guess I didn't trust anyone else to know about them but I would talk about them often with my mother. She even remembered their names--I had named them from a box of books I found in the attic. Their names were Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Will Durant, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Dickens, Percy Shelly. Names like that.

But my soldiers never played soldier. I didn't play war with them because somebody had to die and then, when they died, I'd have to go to the attic and find a new name and that was a lot of trouble and sometimes I'd forget the names and wouldn't know who I was playing with--so, anyway, war was out.

Most of the time I'd get a piece of clay and shape it like a tiny football. Clay, if touched with the tip of tongue, will stick to plastic toy soldiers, just as if they were carrying it and running for a touchdown. Those who were throwing grenades were quarterbacks since they looked like they could have easily been throwing a football.  And those who were marching were ends because they looked like they were about to break into a z-out pattern. And those who were crawling under imaginary bobbed-wire could just as easily be trying to crawl under guards and tackles and trying to get to half-backs.

After every game, played out on my bed, that was roughly the shape of a football field, I'd talk to my mother--sort of a post game wrap-up--and tell her what had happened. Slashing Sam Jonson was the leading rusher and Bullet Lord Byron was close behind. She seemed interested in their rivalry, but her favorite was Spinoza. Benedict Spinoza, as they say in the game, did it all. He was a quarterback, fullback and middle linebacker. He was the most charismatic of all my men since he stood nearly a sixteenth of an inch taller than any and was in a pose that reminded one of strength, character and leadership. He was red instead of olive green as most were. He just stood out. After a long game on a rainy afternoon, my mother would ask me, "How did Benny do?"

I'd tell her about her hero. Sometimes I even exaggerated, told her he caught a pass when it was really Thomas Mann, or made a tackle that belonged, instead, to George Elliot. But it made her smile to hear of Benny Spinoza's feats so I didn't think it mattered to lie a little.

And because she liked him, I liked Benny too. I would carry him around in my pocket and more than once he went through the washing machine. Once, I remember, I thought he was gone forever. He wasn't in my pocket when I came home from playing tag with Herbie Lowman and Billy Michaels and Arnold Butler. I finally got up the nerve to tell my mother and then burst into tears, thinking she would be angry that I had lost her favorite.

But the next day, he was on my dresser and she claimed no knowledge of how he got there though I heard my father ask her why Mrs. Lowman had seen her in the vacant lot on her hands and knees.

My mother said, "Shhhh!", which is what she said a lot when she wanted to wait until they were whispering in bed. I could hear the whisperings through the wall, but not the words, and may was the night that their soft music put me to sleep.

But the whole point to all this is that when I came home 20 years later, after my father and Aunt Lizzy had called me and told me what had happened in this: I just had to be alone and before I knew it I was up in the attic sitting in the dark. I moved to lay down on the floor and my hand touched a shoe box. I sat for almost an hour, taking each man out and looking at him, trying to remember his name, trying to remember something we had done together.  Suddenly, red and strong, Benny was in my hand.

I don't remember too well what happened then, but I remember when Lizzy embraced me after my mother's funeral, she felt something in  my shirt pocket and it was Spinoza. I guess I thought  he would want to say 'goodbye' too. And I guess he did, in his own way. I wondered if my mother ever thought of him after I quit playing with the soldiers...if she ever explained why she was in the vacant lot on all fours...if my father understood...if they shared that in their whispers?

The little things

OK, I know I've been really focused on what 'is good' about life lately. I haven't ranted and raved about a Republican in a while. I've waxed loopy about the weather. I know all that. But the truth is, I'm in a time when the little things in life have a special meaning. Maybe it's the long days and the extra light that makes me a 'sunnier' (excuse the pun) guy. But given that or any other explanation, I've just been struck with how much little things matter to me these days...getting soft in my old age....

The last two evenings, I've sat in one of the Adirondack chairs our friend Hank helped Bern build and read until it was too dark to read any more. And I've had a string of wonderful books in the last couple of weeks so reading until the light leaves is a real joy. I've not been alone out there as darkness fell--our dog, Bela has been at my feet--and I've had a glass of wine and a cigarette or two to make it all so pleasant. No bugs, no humidity, no heat as such. What could be better than a wonderful book as night comes on to embrace me?

I'm sure I'll get back to ranting and railing or to pondering perplexing and confusing questions or to writing a poem or two...but for now, I'm just, for some reason, reveling in the wonder of the ordinary.

The question to ponder would be 'why don't we appreciate the gifts of the ordinary all the time' rather than being mildly apologetic about appreciating them?

There's a pondering for you to ponder as the light fails and the print on the page is not longer readable.

Take what life gives you and love it. That's what I'm doing these wondrous June days....I recommend it....

What is so rare???

Why would anyone want to live anywhere besides New England. Sure, we get lots of snow in the winter--but that's what 'winter' is about. And there is nowhere where the leaves in Autumn involve people coming from all over just to see it.

I'll admit, the humidity of August is hard to put a positive spin on....But this day in June, how wondrous, how precious, how perfect can it be?

Temperature in the low 70's, a 10-15 mile an hour breeze, almost no humidity--how rare is that?

I read on our deck until the light was gone--almost 8 p.m. this time of year.

No fans on. Nothing feeling sticky. Just the rareness of a day in June. Several in a row now. Oh, I know August is just around a corner or two, and the snows of February will make me crazy--but for now, loving living in a four season place, give me Connecticut as the place to live.

Feeling punk, sleeping late

I woke up at 9:07 this morning, which is about average for me. I sleep well and long. I keep waiting for this old person sleeplessness to click in but it hasn't yet, not by a long shot.

But when I got up, I felt punkish--which is what I say when there is no discernible 'bad feeling' but just an overall malaise beyond definition. I took the dog out and had some oatmeal and a cranberry, banana, blueberry, raspberry smoothy that I have most morning...either with cold cereal or oatmeal or eggs and bacon or panchetia.

Bern took the dog to the Canal for the 'big walk' and I went back to bed to read the book I'm reading. When they got back, Bela found me, as he always does and we spent a couple of hours in 'the big bed' (a term he know and runs upstairs when we say it!) I honestly think he would stay in the 'big bed' all day, holding his bladder and alimentary canal for hours if one of us would stay there with him.

Anyway, we stayed there, dozing and reading (actually, Bela doesn't read and only dozes) with our cat Lukie with us for a while...well actually until 12:23, according to Bern's clock, so I got up and had a salad for lunch, still reading my book.

My punkishness had worn off by then.

So, for the rest of the day, I worked on my sermon for tomorrow, went to Big Y to get chicken wings, made potato salad, read some more, ate dinner with Bern and read some more and am now typing this.

Not the most exciting of lives, but it works for me.

I am a retired man who isn't anxious about being retired. I feel nothing but freedom and liberty and the ability to spend an extra two hours or so in bed reading with my Puli when I feel punkish in the morning.

What a life!