Yes, my far-left Environmentalist friends, they take trees to make. But you can find partially recycled paper towels and copy paper and even toilet paper.
My well being and piece of mind depend on having an abundance of paper products in the house.
I don't know exactly where this comes from but I do remember using my grandmother's out house and having to make do with a Sear's catalog! You never quite forget the feel of those glossy pages on your nether regions.
So, once in a while I check our three bathrooms--one of which I never use--to assure myself there is adequate. And when I check the cabinet beside the stove where the paper towels are kept, I get a tad anxious if there are less than half a dozen. And I'll buy copy paper when I get half way through a 400 sheet package.
I assumed for years that everyone shared my need for a stockpile of paper products until I was at a friend's house and, after using their downstairs bathroom, casually mentioned they were getting low on toilet paper. She looked and said, 'there's plenty on the roll and another roll as well.'
Like I said, they were getting low on toilet paper. We usually have five spare rolls in each bathroom. Less than that and I make a trip to Stop and Shop.
It may be my only idiosyncratic trait....No, I just checked with Bern and she told me it was but the tip of the iceberg.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Transformation
The Mastery Foundation, which I've been a part of for 25 or so years, is all about 'transformation'.
Transformation is different than 'change'. Change is arduous and difficult and almost never works. Change is about re-arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. The chairs are in different places but the ship is still going down. That's what 'change' is like. The more things change, the more they stay the same--like that.
Transformation is effortless and without the exertion of energy. Transformation is about moving over a bit and seeing things from a different angle. That's all. Just that. And all is altered--the very 'occurring' of life is altered. Transformation is about 'being', not 'doing'.
At the Convention of the Episcopal Church in Connecticut last weekend, there was a transforming event.
A gay priest from Hong Kong, who lives with some nuns on a farm in upstate New York, led us in an exercise. It went like this: we sat side-by-side with another, in a way that we couldn't make eye contact but could speak softly into each others ears. And we asked and answered three questions.
*What breaks your heart?
*Who do you admire?
*(And I can't find anyone who remembers the third question, but it was something like: 'what makes you whole?')
I did it with a young female priest who had her three month old baby, Andrew, with her. She's an assistant at Christ Church, Greenwich. I'd never met her before and don't know her at all. But, asking and answering those three questions, without looking at each other, tied me to her in a transforming way. It was a powerful and enlightening experience.
How close we can be with another by admitting what breaks our hearts, who we admire and what makes us whole.
The Asian priest asked us to imagine what would happen if we talked with each other like that at coffee hour after Sunday Eucharist. What a thought! What a wonder that all was. Maybe we should share like that at coffee hour instead of discussing surface things.....
Transformation is wondrous, but frightening....
Transformation is different than 'change'. Change is arduous and difficult and almost never works. Change is about re-arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. The chairs are in different places but the ship is still going down. That's what 'change' is like. The more things change, the more they stay the same--like that.
Transformation is effortless and without the exertion of energy. Transformation is about moving over a bit and seeing things from a different angle. That's all. Just that. And all is altered--the very 'occurring' of life is altered. Transformation is about 'being', not 'doing'.
At the Convention of the Episcopal Church in Connecticut last weekend, there was a transforming event.
A gay priest from Hong Kong, who lives with some nuns on a farm in upstate New York, led us in an exercise. It went like this: we sat side-by-side with another, in a way that we couldn't make eye contact but could speak softly into each others ears. And we asked and answered three questions.
*What breaks your heart?
*Who do you admire?
*(And I can't find anyone who remembers the third question, but it was something like: 'what makes you whole?')
I did it with a young female priest who had her three month old baby, Andrew, with her. She's an assistant at Christ Church, Greenwich. I'd never met her before and don't know her at all. But, asking and answering those three questions, without looking at each other, tied me to her in a transforming way. It was a powerful and enlightening experience.
How close we can be with another by admitting what breaks our hearts, who we admire and what makes us whole.
The Asian priest asked us to imagine what would happen if we talked with each other like that at coffee hour after Sunday Eucharist. What a thought! What a wonder that all was. Maybe we should share like that at coffee hour instead of discussing surface things.....
Transformation is wondrous, but frightening....
Wiley
Not 'Cayote', Dietrich.
"Wiley" was the name everyone called my Uncle Russel's butcher in the 'H&S Grocery Store' in Anawalt, West Virginia. I've long ago forgotten what the 'H&S' stood for--the people who started the store before Uncle Russel took it over, I believe.
I worked for him, after school and on Saturdays (no store, back then, was open on Sunday, Heaven for fend!")
I stocked the shelves with cans along with Gene Taylor, the only Black person who's name I knew back then--except for his wife Celeste, who was my Uncle Russel's Housekeeper and sometime cook.
But I also manned one of the two cash registers with Maria Tagnesi, one of the few Roman Catholics in town--half the people in Anawalt's 500 were black and I only knew two of their names--there were, perhaps a dozen Roman Catholics and I knew all their names.
I also carried and bagged and did whatever needed doing. This was from the time I was 12 or so until I went to college. I think Uncle Russel paid me but I don't know how much. I was just above slave labor, I think.
And sometimes I'd help Wiley in the meat department. I'd slice cold cuts on the big machine. I'd pack chicken parts and beef and pork to be weighed and priced on Wiley's scale. I liked being the butcher's assistant a lot more than the rest of the many things I did--especially the things involving carrying things up from the basement to put on the shelves.
Wiley was a bit of a trip. He kept a bottle of Bourbon in the walk-in cooler that he sampled from time to time when he was chopping up a side of beef.
Once the meat deliverer was singing "bringing in the sheaves" as he carried in huge slabs of meat. Wiley told him, "never mind about the sheaves, just get the beef in here."
Wiley was a huge man--about 6'2, at least, though I was a child and not good at height, and weighed 260 or so. A perfect sized man to be cutting up huge portions of meat.
I watch the young--and not so young--people who work in the cold-cut section of Stop and Shop and wonder what it would be like to change places with them--to be slicing ham and turkey and pastrami--while they waited for their order.
Wiley is surely long dead--like most of the people from my childhood. And I miss him. I really do.
"Wiley" was the name everyone called my Uncle Russel's butcher in the 'H&S Grocery Store' in Anawalt, West Virginia. I've long ago forgotten what the 'H&S' stood for--the people who started the store before Uncle Russel took it over, I believe.
I worked for him, after school and on Saturdays (no store, back then, was open on Sunday, Heaven for fend!")
I stocked the shelves with cans along with Gene Taylor, the only Black person who's name I knew back then--except for his wife Celeste, who was my Uncle Russel's Housekeeper and sometime cook.
But I also manned one of the two cash registers with Maria Tagnesi, one of the few Roman Catholics in town--half the people in Anawalt's 500 were black and I only knew two of their names--there were, perhaps a dozen Roman Catholics and I knew all their names.
I also carried and bagged and did whatever needed doing. This was from the time I was 12 or so until I went to college. I think Uncle Russel paid me but I don't know how much. I was just above slave labor, I think.
And sometimes I'd help Wiley in the meat department. I'd slice cold cuts on the big machine. I'd pack chicken parts and beef and pork to be weighed and priced on Wiley's scale. I liked being the butcher's assistant a lot more than the rest of the many things I did--especially the things involving carrying things up from the basement to put on the shelves.
Wiley was a bit of a trip. He kept a bottle of Bourbon in the walk-in cooler that he sampled from time to time when he was chopping up a side of beef.
Once the meat deliverer was singing "bringing in the sheaves" as he carried in huge slabs of meat. Wiley told him, "never mind about the sheaves, just get the beef in here."
Wiley was a huge man--about 6'2, at least, though I was a child and not good at height, and weighed 260 or so. A perfect sized man to be cutting up huge portions of meat.
I watch the young--and not so young--people who work in the cold-cut section of Stop and Shop and wonder what it would be like to change places with them--to be slicing ham and turkey and pastrami--while they waited for their order.
Wiley is surely long dead--like most of the people from my childhood. And I miss him. I really do.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
What's up?
Ok, for some reason there is a current run on this post. Nearing a hundred people have viewed it in the last two days. I don't know why. But here it is, from a while ago....
I've been reading a lot of Ian Rankin's novels about a Scottish
detective named John Rebus. One of the things I've noticed in all
Rankin's novels is that Rebus' partner, whose name is Siobhan Clarke,
always finds a way to tell someone how to pronounce her name. It is
pronounced Shivon, but how would anyone know if she didn't find a way to
tell them.
I recommend the series (and there are lots of them) because Rebus is tough and terribly ironic (and I love irony).
All that reminded me to tell people (maybe even some new readers) what "Under the Castor Oil Tree" means...how it's pronounced, so to speak.
My favorite book of the Bible is the book of Jonah. Jonah, you might remember, is called by God to go to Nineveh and convert the people there. He agrees to go but then takes a ship in the other direction. When the ship is about to sink, he tells the crew he has disobeyed his God, Yahweh, and the crew throws him overboard and he is swallowed by a big fish--or a whale, if you prefer, though whales are not fishes--who vomits him up on the shore of Nineveh.
He argues with God throughout the book and tells him he knows God will save the people of Nineveh, so why did he drag him half-way around the known world to do it? Sure enough, God saves Nineveh and Jonah finds himself on a hill overlooking that great city 'so angry he could die'. Plus, it's getting hot.
So God causes a plant to grow to give Jonah shade. Then, that night, God sends a worm to kill the plant.
Which just gives Jonah one more thing to whine about. "Why did you kill my plant?" he cries out to God, once again 'so angry he could die'.
So God tells him something like this: "Jonah, why are you so worried about your shade tree--that you didn't plant--when you weren't worried about all those people in Nineveh who I saved through your calling them to repent?" And something about all the animals in the city too.
And that's where the story ends. With Jonah on the hillside, sweating, pondering God's words....
Well, it so happens, some Biblical scholars think that plant, which God caused to grow to shade Jonah and then sent a worm to kill was a castor oil tree. Who knows why they think that? But nevertheless they do.
In a sense, I identify with Jonah. I never, ever intended to be an Episcopal priest. The fish (or whale) that swallowed me was the Viet Nam war. If I had gone to the University of Virginia to get a PhD in American Literature and taught that for all the years of my life like I wanted to...I would have been drafted and perhaps died in some rice patty half a world away. But I was given a 'Trial Year in Seminary' from the Rockefeller Foundation, was exempt from the draft and got hooked on Theology.
So, like Jonah, I sit under my dead Castor Oil Tree and ponder the mystery and mischievousness of God's ways.
That's why this blog is called that. In case you wondered.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Under the Castor Oil Tree explained
I recommend the series (and there are lots of them) because Rebus is tough and terribly ironic (and I love irony).
All that reminded me to tell people (maybe even some new readers) what "Under the Castor Oil Tree" means...how it's pronounced, so to speak.
My favorite book of the Bible is the book of Jonah. Jonah, you might remember, is called by God to go to Nineveh and convert the people there. He agrees to go but then takes a ship in the other direction. When the ship is about to sink, he tells the crew he has disobeyed his God, Yahweh, and the crew throws him overboard and he is swallowed by a big fish--or a whale, if you prefer, though whales are not fishes--who vomits him up on the shore of Nineveh.
He argues with God throughout the book and tells him he knows God will save the people of Nineveh, so why did he drag him half-way around the known world to do it? Sure enough, God saves Nineveh and Jonah finds himself on a hill overlooking that great city 'so angry he could die'. Plus, it's getting hot.
So God causes a plant to grow to give Jonah shade. Then, that night, God sends a worm to kill the plant.
Which just gives Jonah one more thing to whine about. "Why did you kill my plant?" he cries out to God, once again 'so angry he could die'.
So God tells him something like this: "Jonah, why are you so worried about your shade tree--that you didn't plant--when you weren't worried about all those people in Nineveh who I saved through your calling them to repent?" And something about all the animals in the city too.
And that's where the story ends. With Jonah on the hillside, sweating, pondering God's words....
Well, it so happens, some Biblical scholars think that plant, which God caused to grow to shade Jonah and then sent a worm to kill was a castor oil tree. Who knows why they think that? But nevertheless they do.
In a sense, I identify with Jonah. I never, ever intended to be an Episcopal priest. The fish (or whale) that swallowed me was the Viet Nam war. If I had gone to the University of Virginia to get a PhD in American Literature and taught that for all the years of my life like I wanted to...I would have been drafted and perhaps died in some rice patty half a world away. But I was given a 'Trial Year in Seminary' from the Rockefeller Foundation, was exempt from the draft and got hooked on Theology.
So, like Jonah, I sit under my dead Castor Oil Tree and ponder the mystery and mischievousness of God's ways.
That's why this blog is called that. In case you wondered.
Today's gospel
I found a sermon I preached a bit ago on the Gospel for today--the 'end days' passage from Mark. Thought I'd share it since I can't write down what I said today, it was off the top of my head.
November
18, 2012—St. James, Higganum
Mark
13.1-8
The
first couple of verses of today's gospel lesson has been used by some
scholars of the New Testament to 'date' Mark's gospel. Jesus said
that the enormous Temple would be overthrown and destroyed. That
happened, for real, in 70 A.D. So, those people smarter than me and
you, decided that Mark must have been written in that year or after.
That's
really just an aside.
In
today's Gospel Jesus is talking about eschatology—the 'end things'.
Just something for you to toss into your next cocktail party: “how
about eschatology?” Jesus
is talking about the last days. Listen, “When you hear of wars and
rumors of wars, do not be alarmed. Such things must happen, but the
end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation and kingdom
against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places, and
famines. These are the beginnings of the birth pangs.”
Jesus is being 'prophetic' here.
He is echoing the style of the Old Testament Prophets.
But 'prophecy' does not mean, in
a scriptural context, what it means to us today. In just a month or
so you'll see the tabloids in the supermarket with someone 'being a
prophet' about what will happen in 2013. It used to be Jeanne
Dixon...I don't know who it is now.
Prophecy, most people believe,
means 'telling the future'.
Biblically, that isn't what the
Prophets were doing at all. Prophecy, in the Biblical sense, means
speaking God's Truth into the present moment.
Speaking God's Truth into the
present moment.
Any of this sound familiar? “Wars
and rumors of wars...Nations rising against nations...earthquakes and
famines.”
We are, I believe, always in the
End Days. Wars and rumors of wars have haunted humankind since the
beginning of history. Earthquakes and Famines and Super Storms are
contemporary and real to us. Terrible things happen in the End Days.
Perhaps we've always been in the End Days and need to hear God's
Truth spoken in the moment.
Terrible
things happen. I don't want to denigrate the wonder and joy of
living. But terrible things do happen every day. Young people and
innocent people are killed in war and violence. Israel and Gaza are
on the verge of something that could be catastrophic. Young men,
working on their own property, can be senselessly killed in an
accident. Our fragile economy—the whole world's economy—is only
one unexpected thing away from disaster at any moment.
Things fall apart. The world is
too much with us...what rude Beast slouches toward Bethlehem to be
born?
But the Word of Prophecy
proclaims that, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, God is
in control. In the midst of terrible things, God is still God and
God's truth is that all will be well after the birth pangs are over
and life is born anew.
I want to share a reading with
you. It is called 'The Wisdom of the Hopi Elders'. It is a word of
prophecy into our present moment. It is the Truth of God. Listen:
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
the river has its destination.
The
Elders say we must let go of the shore,
push
off into the middle of the river,
keep
our eyes open and our heads above water.
And
I say, see who is there with you and celebrate.
At
this time in history,
we
are to take nothing personally.
Least
of all ourselves.
For
the moment that we do,
our
spiritual growth and journey comes to an end.
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 HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR.
Remember
that in these End Days. Remember to 'gather yourselves', be be
'community' to push out into the middle of the river and know that we
are the ones we've been waiting for. Always. No matter what evidence
to the contrary. God's Truth will be God's Truth. Now is the time to
be Christ's Body in the world and lean into the sacred and
celebration.
Amen.
Democrats
I watched Rachel Maddow's interviews with the three candidates and the debate at Drake University.
I'm sure I've told you that I'm a 'Yellow Dog Democrat'--if Mother Teresa was the Republican candidate and a yellow dog was the Democratic candidate...I'd vote for the dog.
I blame my father for this. He was a Republican his whole life, in spite of being blue collar and a coal miner--he voted straight Republican his whole life. So, my rebellion was to be a Yellow Dog Democrat. Truth is though, I AM a Democrat in heart and mind and apologize not for any of it. I would tax and spend--like Robin Hood, I'd take from the rich and give to the poor every time.
And I 'love' Obama. I really do. I love him more the longer he's president since he seems now freed from the restraints of trying to reason with the Republicans in Congress. He just does what he thinks is right these days, in the face of all opposition.
OK, to the three candidates: I love, love, love Bernie's positions. I, too, am socialist leaning. And I've come to love O'Malley (never mind that my son goes to the same gym in Baltimore with him and Josh and Cathy know both him and his wife, a judge in Baltimore). He seems incredibly sensible and in better times might have a chance.
Which brings us to Hillary. She's not my first or second choice--but she is the prohibitive favorite and I will vote for her as many times as I can.
But my preference would be for Bernie, or even O'Malley. That's what I would wish for--a Bernie/Elizabeth Warren ticket--though two candidates from New England might turn off much of the 'fly over' world between the two coasts.
But if came down to Hillary (she should take O'Malley as her VP) I would obviously vote for her.
Yellow Dog or not, at least she'd have Bill whispering in her ear!
I've also watched closely the Republicans. I am a politics junkie, after all. And it scares me to the soles of my feet that any of them might be our next President.
Bring on the Yellow Dog, I say.
I'm sure I've told you that I'm a 'Yellow Dog Democrat'--if Mother Teresa was the Republican candidate and a yellow dog was the Democratic candidate...I'd vote for the dog.
I blame my father for this. He was a Republican his whole life, in spite of being blue collar and a coal miner--he voted straight Republican his whole life. So, my rebellion was to be a Yellow Dog Democrat. Truth is though, I AM a Democrat in heart and mind and apologize not for any of it. I would tax and spend--like Robin Hood, I'd take from the rich and give to the poor every time.
And I 'love' Obama. I really do. I love him more the longer he's president since he seems now freed from the restraints of trying to reason with the Republicans in Congress. He just does what he thinks is right these days, in the face of all opposition.
OK, to the three candidates: I love, love, love Bernie's positions. I, too, am socialist leaning. And I've come to love O'Malley (never mind that my son goes to the same gym in Baltimore with him and Josh and Cathy know both him and his wife, a judge in Baltimore). He seems incredibly sensible and in better times might have a chance.
Which brings us to Hillary. She's not my first or second choice--but she is the prohibitive favorite and I will vote for her as many times as I can.
But my preference would be for Bernie, or even O'Malley. That's what I would wish for--a Bernie/Elizabeth Warren ticket--though two candidates from New England might turn off much of the 'fly over' world between the two coasts.
But if came down to Hillary (she should take O'Malley as her VP) I would obviously vote for her.
Yellow Dog or not, at least she'd have Bill whispering in her ear!
I've also watched closely the Republicans. I am a politics junkie, after all. And it scares me to the soles of my feet that any of them might be our next President.
Bring on the Yellow Dog, I say.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Conventions
What a difference a few years makes.
A few years ago when I went to the Conventions of the Diocese of Connecticut, I sat near a microphone so I could comment on resolutions. I probably annoyed people the way people who have to comment on resolutions annoy me today.
And I got myself elected to three General Conventions of the Episcopal Church in Columbus, Minneapolis and Anaheim and got to mikes as much as I could.
Today was the Convention of 'the Episcopal Church in Connecticut'--we've been 're-branded', in a good way, to be the Episcopal Church in CT rather than 'the Diocese of CT'--like a 'Diocese' was a 'thing'.
Convention was yesterday and today. I didn't go yesterday because my class on Gnostic Christian literature at UConn in Waterbury meant I'd miss most of it. Today was tolerable. Our two bishops moderated the convention with style and grace. The 12 resolutions caused much more debate and microphone time than needed and the closing Eucharist was much truncated. But all was well.
What strikes me is that when I 'retired', I truly 'retired'. The governance of the church I love no longer matters to me in any meaningful way.
I attend but don't speak and am pleased when it is over. I grabbed communion on my way to my car and went home as fast as possible.
I leave it to others now--these conventions. I'm done with caring in any significant way, I know conventions are necessary and vital, but I simply don't care anymore.
Bless those who do 'care' what happens. I used to be one of them. But now, I'm not.
I've moved on. The church I love still 'matters' to me, but only locally.
I'm finished with all that.
Now only the people I serve matter to me. Let the details and debates belong to others.
It's really liberating, really, to be free of worrying about an institution and turning my attention to people I love and serve.
What a joy.
A few years ago when I went to the Conventions of the Diocese of Connecticut, I sat near a microphone so I could comment on resolutions. I probably annoyed people the way people who have to comment on resolutions annoy me today.
And I got myself elected to three General Conventions of the Episcopal Church in Columbus, Minneapolis and Anaheim and got to mikes as much as I could.
Today was the Convention of 'the Episcopal Church in Connecticut'--we've been 're-branded', in a good way, to be the Episcopal Church in CT rather than 'the Diocese of CT'--like a 'Diocese' was a 'thing'.
Convention was yesterday and today. I didn't go yesterday because my class on Gnostic Christian literature at UConn in Waterbury meant I'd miss most of it. Today was tolerable. Our two bishops moderated the convention with style and grace. The 12 resolutions caused much more debate and microphone time than needed and the closing Eucharist was much truncated. But all was well.
What strikes me is that when I 'retired', I truly 'retired'. The governance of the church I love no longer matters to me in any meaningful way.
I attend but don't speak and am pleased when it is over. I grabbed communion on my way to my car and went home as fast as possible.
I leave it to others now--these conventions. I'm done with caring in any significant way, I know conventions are necessary and vital, but I simply don't care anymore.
Bless those who do 'care' what happens. I used to be one of them. But now, I'm not.
I've moved on. The church I love still 'matters' to me, but only locally.
I'm finished with all that.
Now only the people I serve matter to me. Let the details and debates belong to others.
It's really liberating, really, to be free of worrying about an institution and turning my attention to people I love and serve.
What a joy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)