I had lunch with one of my best friends today and she was bemoaning the nature of the Episcopal Church in her part of the woods. "They're just to 'self-important'," she was saying.
"Do you mean they take themselves too seriously?" I asked.
"They take everything too seriously!" she said.
Then she reminded me of an ordination to the priesthood sermon I gave for Michael Spencer, about how I made him stand up and told him, "always remember, Michael, that you are an almost irrelevant functionary is a mostly irrelevant institution."
"That's what I like about you," she said.
"My clinging to irrelevancy?" I asked.
"In a word," she said, "exactly...."
And it is true. I don't ever 'not' think of myself as mostly irrelevant. Some people I have told that get rather huffy. "Why, for goodness sake, you're an Episcopal Priest," they say.
And I reply, in a word, "exactly...."
You need to hear me out on this. I'm not saying priests don't 'make a difference' and a contribution to the world. We do, quite often. But so do other irrelevant things. Take poetry--poetry brings beauty and truth and wonder and insight to me...but poetry, in our time and culture, is essentially irrelevant in the overall scheme of things. The economy is relevant. War and Peace is relevant. Poverty and discrimination are relevant. Climate change is relevant. Disease is relevant. The vast distance between the rich and poor in this country and even more so in the developed and developing worlds is hugely relevant. The incredible deep divides among people is relevant.
But poetry and the Episcopal Church? Give me a break.
There is nothing wrong with being irrelevant. Actually it's a great way to go 'undercover' and make a difference in people's lives. Poetry and the Episcopal Church do that--behind the scenes of what is Important and Relevant and Serious in the world. It's that poetry and the Episcopal Church simply aren't that big a deal in the day-to-day relevancies of Life. (My spell check didn't like 'relevancies' though it offered 'irrelevancies' as a doable option--but that would make a really awkward sentence structure to say what I said, so I'll go with my, apparently, new word.)
My bishop at the time, who heard me say the 'irrelevant' stuff, tried to tear me a new one in the vesting room after Michael's reception. But Michael had some very good wine at the reception and I'd had enough that I just said, "Bishop, think about it! You are the mostly irrelevant titular head of a mostly irrelevant institution." And left him gaping at my audacity...or,, perhaps, my accuracy. (I don't think I've used the word 'titular' in conversation before or since. But it cut him short and I went back for another glass of Michael's good wine.
So here's an example: our bishops in CT have been very vocal about gun control since the tragedy in Sandy Hook. I appreciate their stand and find it moving, but it is irrelevant. Gun control is fought out on the political front--the NRA vs. 'gun control groups'. Nobody is ever going to say, "oh, my God, the Episcopal bishops of CT are for gun control, obviously we must do what they want!"
Even more irrelevant are Episcopalians who are members of the NRA getting upset with our bishops. I know a member of the Episcopal Church who has, for all intent and purpose, left the church because of what our Bishops have stood for. In the first place, what Episcopal Bishops say is irrelevant to the larger discussion. In the second place, to, in effect, leave a loving, irrelevant community because of what a bishop thinks is cutting yourself off from the love, affirmation and affection 'church' can give and does give for some irrelevant (in the 'big picture') conversation.
It's OK to be irrelevant. That doesn't mean the ministry of the church doesn't matter. It does 'matter' on the individual level, just not globally. The irrelevancy of the church in no way precludes the church 'making a difference' in an individual's life.
We just have to stop taking ourselves so seriously about everything. In the 'forest', the church doesn't matter, but it matters greatly to the 'trees'.
And that's good. That is healing. That is life-giving in many ways.
We just to have to stop thinking we 'matter' on the Big Picture stuff and deal with the day-to-day of ordinary people stuff.
Really.
You can be vital and life-giving and important without being relevant.
Really.
Ponder that for a bit....Don't take stuff too seriously, just notice how it IS serious on the micro-level. Just that.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Saturday, November 15, 2014
My Dad's day
I know it was in Princeton, because I can see my Mom and Dad around the table in the Dining Room there. They were doing the bills. That's what they did every month, together. Bern does our finances and has for years. If she dies before I do I'll have to get a CPA to do my finances as well as a cleaning service and a yard service. (I don't do anything of importance besides empty the litter box, take out the trash and feed the creatures.)
So, I must have been home for a holiday or summer vacation from college, because I never lived in Princeton until I went to college.
Anyhow, what happened was this: it was the first month ever, in their marriage, that my father made more money than my mother. She was a school teacher and he had lots of jobs--running a bar, working my uncle in a grocery store, picking up dry cleaning and finally, as an insurance agent. I have no idea how insurance agents are paid, but it has something to do, I believe, with a cut of each policy they sold.
And that day, sometimes after 1965, his cut of policies was more than here teacher's salary.
He was delighted, that I remember, as excited as I ever saw him, happy and fulfilled. Given that he was a man born in the first decade of the 20th century, to have gone that long having his wife make more money than him must have stung.
That's all I remember. His unhidden joy to, at last, have been the main wage earner in our family.
I don't remember what my mother said, though I'm sure she was fine with the reversal. She, after all, was a 'woman' of the early decade of the 20th century. She might even had been uneasy about bringing home more bacon than my dad for all those years.
I'm not sure why I'm thinking of my parents so much these days. They've both been dead over half of my life.
But I remembered that night around the dining room table when my father finally was the 'wage earner' of the two.
I remember that clearly.
So, I must have been home for a holiday or summer vacation from college, because I never lived in Princeton until I went to college.
Anyhow, what happened was this: it was the first month ever, in their marriage, that my father made more money than my mother. She was a school teacher and he had lots of jobs--running a bar, working my uncle in a grocery store, picking up dry cleaning and finally, as an insurance agent. I have no idea how insurance agents are paid, but it has something to do, I believe, with a cut of each policy they sold.
And that day, sometimes after 1965, his cut of policies was more than here teacher's salary.
He was delighted, that I remember, as excited as I ever saw him, happy and fulfilled. Given that he was a man born in the first decade of the 20th century, to have gone that long having his wife make more money than him must have stung.
That's all I remember. His unhidden joy to, at last, have been the main wage earner in our family.
I don't remember what my mother said, though I'm sure she was fine with the reversal. She, after all, was a 'woman' of the early decade of the 20th century. She might even had been uneasy about bringing home more bacon than my dad for all those years.
I'm not sure why I'm thinking of my parents so much these days. They've both been dead over half of my life.
But I remembered that night around the dining room table when my father finally was the 'wage earner' of the two.
I remember that clearly.
Friday, November 14, 2014
I'm always finding stuff in my desk....
Maybe I should just clean out my desk once and for all, make a clean break with the past and the things I find in it when I open it up and root around from time to time.
But I've come to think of my desk as a Keeper of Memory that I should only dip into from time to time and find something wondrous.
Tonight it was a picture of my mother: Marion Cleo Jones Bradley.
Cleo, which is what everyone called her, was a school teacher, so she had her picture taken when the folks came to take school pictures. The one I found tonight must have been taken in the last years she taught, before she grew ill and died. She was teaching in those years in Switchback Elementary School, though all the years I was growing up she taught at Pageton Elementary School. Pageton was closed at some point when I was in college and she moved to Switchback, further away but because my parents moved from Anawalt to Princeton when I was in college, she didn't have to cross any mountains to get there.
Her hair is turning gray in the picture. She has on a blazer with one of the pins she always wore--costume jewelery and a tad tacky for my taste, on the left lapel. She has on a blouse with wide collars and her head is tilted to the left, probably because the photographer told her too. She is smiling slightly. Her glasses are clear, like a pair I had not too long ago. I have her nose and her hair.
She died when I was 25. She never met her grandchildren. She died young, in her 60's. I am five years older than she was when she died.
And here's the awful truth: I don't remember much about her at all. Not at all. Not her voice or her manner or her smile (which looks forced in the picture) or her laugh or her smell. She died 42 years ago and all that detail has faded.
My father lived another 12 years or so. Miserable without her. So I remember lots more about him.
They were older parents--much older in those days. She was 38 and he was 40 when I was born. They were the age of my young friend's grandparents.
And I don't remember her voice.
That haunts me.
Both my children are a decade older than I was when my mother died. I hope they will never forget the sound of my voice. I hope they are never haunted that they don't.
I stare at the picture and don't make any emotional contact with it. It looks kinda like I remember my mother, but not quite. She's too thin--maybe she'd lost weight because this was near the end of her health. She had a series of strokes and died. Once, at our kitchen table, she grabbed and pill bottle and put a pill under her tongue with no comment. Just a deep breath as the pill dissolved. I looked at the bottle later and realized it was nitroglycirin and my mother's heart was in deep trouble. She's never mentioned it to me and I was already married. Two years later, she died.
One thing I realized long ago is that my parents kept me from knowing 'what's wrong?' always.
Even when I was grown, they didn't tell me my mother had a severe heart problem. My father never told me he was having memory problems until the dementia was full blown.
I was an only child of older parents. Their instinct was to shelter and protect me. I know they meant well and thought that was best.
But it wasn't.
And I can't hear her voice. I never dream of her, almost never. I dream of my father often.
Flesh of my flesh and I can't remember her voice....Maybe looking at the photo every day might bring it back. Who knows?
Who knows anything about parents and children? Really....
If I can figure out how to do this, I'll share a post from August of last year about all this.
Looking through these papers is like experiencing deyavu "all over again" as someone wise (I've narrowed it down to William James, Mark Twain and Yogi Berra) once said.
Marion Cleo Jones Bradley was my mother. God bless her for that. She grew up during the depression and had a hard life. She somehow, climbing out of poverty and ignorance, became a teacher and taught 1st or 2nd grade for years, decades.
I found this poem about her. It seems a bit harsh, but I wrote it over seven years ago and who knows (certainly not me!) what I was thinking when I wrote it. But it was like meeting an old friend in Grand Central Station to find it. And I share it with you.
As the Africans say, 'this is my story, receive it with a blessing and send the blessing back to me...."
MOTHER'S DAY
Well, every day is 'mother's day',
if we are to acknowledge the broad, inclusive
knowledge of our best friend, Dr. Freud.
Who among us can disentangle from the clever, ubiquitous web
of deceit, devotion and dread she wove around us?
"Step on a crack and break your mother's back."
She didn't make that up,
but she would have, given the choice.
Control, control and more control:
that is the currency of Mother Love.
However, this is about my mother
(write your own poem about yours!)
My mother made a mistake in timing.
She died the week of my 25th birthday.
Elsie, her younger sister, my aunt,
put her hand on my shoulder as I sat
by my mother's death bed, feeding her vanilla ice cream
from a little paper cup with a weird wooden spoon
as if it were exactly what she would want
as she lay dying--which is True as True can be.
"Happy birthday, Jimmy", my aunt Elsie said,
(though she may have said "Jimmie"--the spelling
of my nickname was almost Shakespeareanly varied)--
"did anyone else remember?" she continued,
into more ice cream I was feeding to an almost dead woman.
No one else had--not even my father,
not even me--I'd forgotten my own birthday,
twenty and five: a Big One.
He, at least, could be forgiven.
His wife, after all, was dying.
But why did I forget such an auspicious date?
Because 'mommy' was more important?
Of course she was--she'd made it so
through innocence and guile
and the web she'd woven around me
in all the years before.
She never hit me--not once--I swear it is true;
except with guilt and 'responsibility' and the sticky
lace of Mother Love.
I've lived a life-time since she finally died,
sated on ice cream from my hand.
I only remember her face from photographs
and remember her voice not at all.
She was a good mother--believe you me.
She did all she knew to do and more besides.
And she loved me. She did--she did.
And would love me more if she knew
the man I am today.
Yet, over three decades later, I remember this:
my father and I standing on the loading dock
of Bluefield's hospital, watching the dawn.
Nurses were unhooking all the lines that had held my mom
to this life. I expected some tender moment,
sleep deprived as we both were.
What I got was this: my father looked down at my shoes
and handed me thirty dollars--a twenty and two fives.
"Buy some new shoes for her funeral," he said.
And I said, holding the bills in my hand,
"this isn't enough...."
Although, in those days, it really was.
jgb-1/19/06
But I've come to think of my desk as a Keeper of Memory that I should only dip into from time to time and find something wondrous.
Tonight it was a picture of my mother: Marion Cleo Jones Bradley.
Cleo, which is what everyone called her, was a school teacher, so she had her picture taken when the folks came to take school pictures. The one I found tonight must have been taken in the last years she taught, before she grew ill and died. She was teaching in those years in Switchback Elementary School, though all the years I was growing up she taught at Pageton Elementary School. Pageton was closed at some point when I was in college and she moved to Switchback, further away but because my parents moved from Anawalt to Princeton when I was in college, she didn't have to cross any mountains to get there.
Her hair is turning gray in the picture. She has on a blazer with one of the pins she always wore--costume jewelery and a tad tacky for my taste, on the left lapel. She has on a blouse with wide collars and her head is tilted to the left, probably because the photographer told her too. She is smiling slightly. Her glasses are clear, like a pair I had not too long ago. I have her nose and her hair.
She died when I was 25. She never met her grandchildren. She died young, in her 60's. I am five years older than she was when she died.
And here's the awful truth: I don't remember much about her at all. Not at all. Not her voice or her manner or her smile (which looks forced in the picture) or her laugh or her smell. She died 42 years ago and all that detail has faded.
My father lived another 12 years or so. Miserable without her. So I remember lots more about him.
They were older parents--much older in those days. She was 38 and he was 40 when I was born. They were the age of my young friend's grandparents.
And I don't remember her voice.
That haunts me.
Both my children are a decade older than I was when my mother died. I hope they will never forget the sound of my voice. I hope they are never haunted that they don't.
I stare at the picture and don't make any emotional contact with it. It looks kinda like I remember my mother, but not quite. She's too thin--maybe she'd lost weight because this was near the end of her health. She had a series of strokes and died. Once, at our kitchen table, she grabbed and pill bottle and put a pill under her tongue with no comment. Just a deep breath as the pill dissolved. I looked at the bottle later and realized it was nitroglycirin and my mother's heart was in deep trouble. She's never mentioned it to me and I was already married. Two years later, she died.
One thing I realized long ago is that my parents kept me from knowing 'what's wrong?' always.
Even when I was grown, they didn't tell me my mother had a severe heart problem. My father never told me he was having memory problems until the dementia was full blown.
I was an only child of older parents. Their instinct was to shelter and protect me. I know they meant well and thought that was best.
But it wasn't.
And I can't hear her voice. I never dream of her, almost never. I dream of my father often.
Flesh of my flesh and I can't remember her voice....Maybe looking at the photo every day might bring it back. Who knows?
Who knows anything about parents and children? Really....
If I can figure out how to do this, I'll share a post from August of last year about all this.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Another found poem
Marion Cleo Jones Bradley was my mother. God bless her for that. She grew up during the depression and had a hard life. She somehow, climbing out of poverty and ignorance, became a teacher and taught 1st or 2nd grade for years, decades.
I found this poem about her. It seems a bit harsh, but I wrote it over seven years ago and who knows (certainly not me!) what I was thinking when I wrote it. But it was like meeting an old friend in Grand Central Station to find it. And I share it with you.
As the Africans say, 'this is my story, receive it with a blessing and send the blessing back to me...."
MOTHER'S DAY
Well, every day is 'mother's day',
if we are to acknowledge the broad, inclusive
knowledge of our best friend, Dr. Freud.
Who among us can disentangle from the clever, ubiquitous web
of deceit, devotion and dread she wove around us?
"Step on a crack and break your mother's back."
She didn't make that up,
but she would have, given the choice.
Control, control and more control:
that is the currency of Mother Love.
However, this is about my mother
(write your own poem about yours!)
My mother made a mistake in timing.
She died the week of my 25th birthday.
Elsie, her younger sister, my aunt,
put her hand on my shoulder as I sat
by my mother's death bed, feeding her vanilla ice cream
from a little paper cup with a weird wooden spoon
as if it were exactly what she would want
as she lay dying--which is True as True can be.
"Happy birthday, Jimmy", my aunt Elsie said,
(though she may have said "Jimmie"--the spelling
of my nickname was almost Shakespeareanly varied)--
"did anyone else remember?" she continued,
into more ice cream I was feeding to an almost dead woman.
No one else had--not even my father,
not even me--I'd forgotten my own birthday,
twenty and five: a Big One.
He, at least, could be forgiven.
His wife, after all, was dying.
But why did I forget such an auspicious date?
Because 'mommy' was more important?
Of course she was--she'd made it so
through innocence and guile
and the web she'd woven around me
in all the years before.
She never hit me--not once--I swear it is true;
except with guilt and 'responsibility' and the sticky
lace of Mother Love.
I've lived a life-time since she finally died,
sated on ice cream from my hand.
I only remember her face from photographs
and remember her voice not at all.
She was a good mother--believe you me.
She did all she knew to do and more besides.
And she loved me. She did--she did.
And would love me more if she knew
the man I am today.
Yet, over three decades later, I remember this:
my father and I standing on the loading dock
of Bluefield's hospital, watching the dawn.
Nurses were unhooking all the lines that had held my mom
to this life. I expected some tender moment,
sleep deprived as we both were.
What I got was this: my father looked down at my shoes
and handed me thirty dollars--a twenty and two fives.
"Buy some new shoes for her funeral," he said.
And I said, holding the bills in my hand,
"this isn't enough...."
Although, in those days, it really was.
jgb-1/19/06
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Why I'm an Episcopalian
Here is a sermon I preached well over a decade ago. And I stand by it yet. This messy, confusing, fragmented church is the one I still stand with. Mostly because it is 'messy, confusing and fragmented'. Go figure.
Why
I’m an Episcopalian….
July
27, 2003
This
little book is called 101
Reasons to be an Episcopalian.
Since much of what I want to say today is about the Episcopal Church,
I’m going to read several of them to you as we go along.
#
87 by a woman priest from Florida: “We don’t have all the answers
and we welcome others who love the questions.”
#
86 by a laywoman in Rochester: “Catholic, without the pope and with
women; protestant without the gloom….”
Tomorrow
at 9:55 a.m., God willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll be on an
airplane headed to Minneapolis, Minnesota and the General Convention
of the Episcopal Church as one of our Diocese’s 4 clergy deputies.
I
want you to know this: I am both proud
and humbled
to be one of the four priests representing the Diocese of Connecticut
at the General Convention. Proud and
humbled—both at the same time…. Both together…. Just like
that….
Reason
# 52: “this is the only church that is as lovingly loony as your
family.” Mary Lyons, Diocese of Olympia
#80—a
layman from Atlanta: “We don’t quiz you on your beliefs before
worshipping with you.”
What
I want to tell you about the General Convention of our church is this
(it’s a quote from Dame Julian of Norwich): “All
will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be
well….”
That’s
not the message you will hear in the news media about the goings-on
at General Convention. What you will hear—unless you log on the St.
John’s web site and get my “reports” from the Convention—is
this: the church is in a mess it can’t get out of…everything is
falling apart…the Episcopal Church is about to split asunder and
blow up like a cheap balloon.
My
advice is this: don’t listen to that negative stuff.
My
mantra is this: “all
will be well….”
***
In
today’s gospel, Jesus walks on water.
Twenty
years ago or more now, one of my favorite poets, the late Denise
Levertov, said this: “The
crisis of faith is the crisis of imagination. If we cannot imagine
walking on the waters, how can we meet Jesus there?”
Denise
Levertov said that at a conference of poets and theologians. For my
money, you couldn’t beat that combination—poets and
theologians…people who anguish over “language” and people who
fret about “God”. Poets and theologians—now you’re talking….
***
Let’s
cut to the chase—the real issue facing the General Convention, in
one way or another, is the issue of homosexuality.
There
is a remarkable amount of disagreement within the Episcopal Church
about homosexuality. And that disagreement will come to the General
Convention in several ways. It will come up over the confirmation of
the election of Gene Robinson as the next bishop of New Hampshire.
Gene Robinson has been a priest for 30 years. He is currently the
assistant to the Bishop of New Hampshire. He heads committees for the
national church. He happens to be a gay man in a committed
relationship with another man.
There
are 10 other elections of Bishops that will come to the General
Convention. Not since the 1870’s has the larger church overruled
the choice of a Diocese as their bishop. And the 10 other bishops
elected in the last 3 months will be approved by General Convention
without debate and unanimously. But not Gene Robinson….
If I were a betting man, I’d say the odds of Gene Robinson being
approved by General Convention are 4 to 1 in favor. And when that
happens you will read and hear how the Episcopal Church is about to
fly apart and self-destruct.
I
would urge you not to believe that.
I
would urge you to believe this instead: “all
will be well….”
One
thing the Episcopal Church is blessed with in abundance is
“imagination.” We will walk on the waters…. And all will be
well….
#32
by Elizabeth Geitz, a Canon at the Cathedral of the Diocese of New
Jersey: “The Episcopal Church taught me that Jesus came to
challenge, not just comfort; to overturn, not maintain; to love, not
judge; to include, not cast aside.
Most
likely the Convention will also vote on whether or not to ask the
Standing Liturgical Commission to prepare a ritual for the blessing
of committed relationships outside of marriage. No matter what you
hear in the media—General Convention is
not voting to
approve “gay marriages”.
“Marriage”
is a function of the state, not the church, so General Convention has
no say in “marriage law”. Because of Connecticut state law, an
Episcopal priest can legally sign a marriage license as an “agent
of the state”. What I do, as
a priest, in a
marriage, is ask God’s blessing on the commitment and fidelity of
the man and woman. What General Convention will most likely consider
is whether there should be a service to bless the monogamous,
faithful, life-long relationship of two people that is
not marriage. The
resolution is, in one way, separating what the “church does” from
what the “state does.” If that resolution passes—and I’d put
the odds at 2 to 1 in favor of it passing—the church will develop,
over the next three years, a ritual to bless “relationships”
other than marriage.
If
that resolution passes, you will hear that Liberals and Conservatives
are about to tear our church apart. I’d urge you to suspend your
judgment and remember this: “all will be well, all manner of things
will be well….”
#
11, Barbara Ross, Diocese of Oregon: “At our best, Episcopalians
can respectfully disagree about a great many things—and still break
bread together.”
#13,
by Carter Heyward of Massachusetts, one of the first 7 women ordained
a priest…before the General Convention approved women’s
ordination: “We believe that love without justice is
sentimentality.”
There
is a sense of daja
vu about all the
media hype about this year’s General Convention. The Episcopal
Church and the Anglican Communion, critics said, were about to
implode and fragment a quarter of a century ago over revision of the
Prayer Book and the ordination of women.
And
it is true that a small number of Episcopalians chose to leave the
church after those changes. But the great schism
nay-sayers predicted
did not happen. We had the patience and imagination to walk on stormy
waters. And, if we in the Episcopal Church can find—in the midst of
great conflict and disagreement—if we can find “our better
selves” we can walk on waters again.
The
secret to our “imagination” as a church is that we
Episcopalians—deep-down, value “each other” more than we cling
to our divisions. And we are, as a church, dominated by a commitment
to Justice.
Reason
#62 of the 101 reasons to be an Episcopalian comes from Nancy Vogel
of the Diocese of Vermont: “Despite or
perhaps because
of our
present disagreements in the Episcopal Church I am reminded that God
calls us all together because we aren’t WHOLE without each other.”
Reason
#68, a lay person from New York: “I love our church because we
don’t think UNITY means UNIFORMITY.”
“All
will be well” with us, if we can cling to our passionate commitment
to “be together” in the midst of deep differences. We
Episcopalians are the only denomination that is practiced at that.
Somehow, over our history, we have found the imagination necessary to
“belong to each other” even though we disagree. This is a
“lovingly loony” church. You don’t have to leave your questions
or your intellect or your deeply-held opinions outside the door to be
here and share in the sacrament with each other.
We
Episcopalians define our “identity” by our worship
instead of our
dogma. When Queen Elizabeth the First was asked, centuries ago, if
members of her church should cross themselves during the Eucharist,
she said, wise beyond words: “none
must, all may, some should….”
That
is the openness and inclusiveness that is one-half of the genius and
glory of our church. The other half of that genius and glory is this:
we are the most “democratic” church in Christendom. We make our
decisions on small matters and great matters by “voting”.
I
was “elected” nearly 15 years ago to be your Rector. We “elect”
our bishops. The Presiding Bishop of the Church is “elected” by
the other bishops. The deputies to General Convention are “elected”
to vote for their Dioceses by their Diocesan Conventions. You “elect”
the vestry members that make the decisions about St. John’s. And
the Vestry makes decisions by “voting”.
The
Episcopal Church is a unique American institution, formed at the very
same time as our nation by some of the same people. And the founders
of our Church understood the wisdom of the founders of our nation—the
way to make decisions is by voting…majority rules…. Here in the
United States and here in the Episcopal Church, we don’t believe
“unity” means “uniformity”. We vote on difficult issues. Then
we move on, unified
but not uniform.
And we deeply, profoundly value the “loyal opposition”.
An
“inclusive democracy” is what the Episcopal Church is. The “loyal
opposition” is greatly valued by the majority. That was true for
those who opposed women’s ordination and the 1979 Book of Common
Prayer. It will be true two weeks from now toward those who are
disappointed, broken and angry about whatever happens at General
Convention. They will be loved. They will be comforted. They will be
included. Without them, the church will not be whole.
“All
will be well…” It will take a while and some few may choose to
leave the church if I’m correct about how the votes will go. But
those who are happy about the “votes” won’t want anyone who is
unhappy about the “votes” to leave. If they leave it will be
their choice and their leaving will be mourned greatly.
And
this church will go on. We will welcome all
to taste and see how sweet the Lord’s Body and Blood truly is. We
will value everyone, no matter what they think or believe. We will
never require “uniformity” to have “unity”. And we will stand
for love and justice—love and justice and the wonder of God.
That
will not change. Not one iota, not one jot.
And
all will be well, all will be well, all manner of things will be
well….
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Swearing off the news
I'm swearing off the news today for a week. I've read on-line today how President Obama's disposing of his chewing gum had international repercussions, how a man was electrocuted because he had on a copper ring while fixing a garbage disposal, how a woman thinks her son is possessed by the ghost of a Marine killed in Beirut 20 years ago, how Ted Cruz things 'internet neutrality' is like Obama care, how a Texas lawmaker wants to change the Constitution to make it OK to fire GLBT employees,how Mama June of Honey Boo-Boo wants to explain her relationship with a man who abused her as a child, how bread may cause cancer and how the Kardashians are doing most anything--none of it interesting.
So, I'm off the news for a week. I'll probably have withdrawal signs--eating newsprint, sobbing at my computer, having nothing to add to the conversation.
But I'm media-morose. I'm signing off for a week to get back my mojo and my balance.
Join me if you'd like. Don't look at any 'news' in print or on line for a week. Let's see how much purer and nobler it will make us.
So, I'm off the news for a week. I'll probably have withdrawal signs--eating newsprint, sobbing at my computer, having nothing to add to the conversation.
But I'm media-morose. I'm signing off for a week to get back my mojo and my balance.
Join me if you'd like. Don't look at any 'news' in print or on line for a week. Let's see how much purer and nobler it will make us.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
What you don't know (part II)
Tonight, a week after my musings about the Cluster Council officers meeting, I was at the Cluster Council meeting. Only one member was not there--it's usually only one or a full house--what you get working with deeply committed people.
We're under-budget for the year--rare enough anywhere, much less in Episcopal Churches. And we passed a balanced budget for next year with no increase in the amount each congregation contributes. (If you're around churches at all, you'll know how remarkable that is.)
The meeting lasted less than an hour even though we were saying good-bye to Rowena Kemp, who has been one of the Presbyters for a year and is moving on to a full-time job at Trinity on the Green in New Haven as Assistant Rector. (Trinity, thank you're lucky stars and God--you got the real deal as a priest in Row....)
And there was some serious sharing about problems. And there was even more sharing about successes. And there was a lot of laughter and good humor. Rare to be able to touch pain and joy and humor in a meeting. Rare indeed in a church meeting!
These are good people, very good people who are committed to their congregations. And they are the tip of the iceberg of good, committed people I get to work with in the Middlesex Cluster Ministry.
I've been feeling so blessed and grateful lately I'm probably wearing you out with my joy and gratitude--but here to, to be with these people, these three little churches, these astonishing congregations is yet another blessing of my life for which I am profoundly thankful.
Really.
Maybe I should pinch myself just to make sure I'm not dreaming about how blessed I am....
(Just did. Didn't wake up....)
We're under-budget for the year--rare enough anywhere, much less in Episcopal Churches. And we passed a balanced budget for next year with no increase in the amount each congregation contributes. (If you're around churches at all, you'll know how remarkable that is.)
The meeting lasted less than an hour even though we were saying good-bye to Rowena Kemp, who has been one of the Presbyters for a year and is moving on to a full-time job at Trinity on the Green in New Haven as Assistant Rector. (Trinity, thank you're lucky stars and God--you got the real deal as a priest in Row....)
And there was some serious sharing about problems. And there was even more sharing about successes. And there was a lot of laughter and good humor. Rare to be able to touch pain and joy and humor in a meeting. Rare indeed in a church meeting!
These are good people, very good people who are committed to their congregations. And they are the tip of the iceberg of good, committed people I get to work with in the Middlesex Cluster Ministry.
I've been feeling so blessed and grateful lately I'm probably wearing you out with my joy and gratitude--but here to, to be with these people, these three little churches, these astonishing congregations is yet another blessing of my life for which I am profoundly thankful.
Really.
Maybe I should pinch myself just to make sure I'm not dreaming about how blessed I am....
(Just did. Didn't wake up....)
Monday, November 10, 2014
My five favorite writers
I'm an English major, for God's sake, and should have more refined taste in writing. But I'm also someone who reads five books a week and I know what I like.
My favorite writer of all time is Kurt Vonnegut. I even drove to Pittsburgh at some point to hear him speak. He was wonderful and at some point, right in the middle of something, he looked at his watch and said, "they paid me for an hour and the hour is up" and left the stage. Wonderful. My two favorites are Slaughterhouse Five and The Sirens of Titan but I've read them all. I haven't re-read them, though I should, because I don't want to know if the years have made his writing less wonderful.
My second favorite writer is William Shakespeare, just because I'm an English major and should have him in my top five. I love his sonnets and plays though I must admit I've not read any of them for decades, though I think I should, being an English major and all.
Tied for third are J.J.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, who knew each other and talked about their writing for hours. I read the Narnia books every year again. Nothing else Lewis wrote interests me. He was too Christian for my sensibilities. But the Narnia books stay fresh and wondrous every time I read them. We once owned a house on Oak Island, North Carolina and it was called 'Aslan'. Also, lots of people gave me lions over the years. I've not re-read the Tolkien books recently, but I have The Hobbit on my bedside table and will read it at some point.
John Sanford is my fourth favorite writer. He's written lots of books with 'prey' in the title about a Minneapolis Detective, named Lucas Davenport, who is also rich because he created computer games. He also writes about a detective named Virgil Trucks who knows Lucas and is in rural Minnesota. Priceless, all of them, and they are many.
A newcomer to my top five is Laura Lippman, who writes amazingly crafted novels that end up being mysteries that all take place in Baltimore, where my son and daughter-in-law and three grand-daughters live. She is a remarkable writer you should read.
There are lots of others straining for the top five: P.D. James, for example. But I'm sticking with these five for now.
My favorite writer of all time is Kurt Vonnegut. I even drove to Pittsburgh at some point to hear him speak. He was wonderful and at some point, right in the middle of something, he looked at his watch and said, "they paid me for an hour and the hour is up" and left the stage. Wonderful. My two favorites are Slaughterhouse Five and The Sirens of Titan but I've read them all. I haven't re-read them, though I should, because I don't want to know if the years have made his writing less wonderful.
My second favorite writer is William Shakespeare, just because I'm an English major and should have him in my top five. I love his sonnets and plays though I must admit I've not read any of them for decades, though I think I should, being an English major and all.
Tied for third are J.J.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, who knew each other and talked about their writing for hours. I read the Narnia books every year again. Nothing else Lewis wrote interests me. He was too Christian for my sensibilities. But the Narnia books stay fresh and wondrous every time I read them. We once owned a house on Oak Island, North Carolina and it was called 'Aslan'. Also, lots of people gave me lions over the years. I've not re-read the Tolkien books recently, but I have The Hobbit on my bedside table and will read it at some point.
John Sanford is my fourth favorite writer. He's written lots of books with 'prey' in the title about a Minneapolis Detective, named Lucas Davenport, who is also rich because he created computer games. He also writes about a detective named Virgil Trucks who knows Lucas and is in rural Minnesota. Priceless, all of them, and they are many.
A newcomer to my top five is Laura Lippman, who writes amazingly crafted novels that end up being mysteries that all take place in Baltimore, where my son and daughter-in-law and three grand-daughters live. She is a remarkable writer you should read.
There are lots of others straining for the top five: P.D. James, for example. But I'm sticking with these five for now.
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