opposites attract--thank God!

If opposites didn't attract I wouldn't have been married to Bern for 46 hours, much less 46 years!

Here's an example: 'focus'.

Bern gets really focused on things. Like today, I came home to find her working on the candy houses she's making for our three oldest granddaughters. I complimented her on how they were shaping up. I think she grunted in reply. It may have been a sigh or a growl, but it tipped me off to keep several rooms and hopefully, a floor between us this afternoon.

When she is in 'focus-mood' best not try to do 'small talk'...or any talk! If the house were on fire I would risk telling her--but 46 years is long enough to learn when to back off.

I, on the other hand, could be doing brain surgery and carry on a conversation about the weather! Which, as I think of it, is a good reason for me not to do brain surgery.

I don't have much 'focus' at all. I mean, I can get things done, but I don't go 'into myself' like she does. I'm an extrovert and she's an introvert and that explains things around the edges. But not fully....

You see, when she's 'candy house focused', I want more than anything to 'chat' with her. Since I don't 'focus' like she does, I (somewhere deep inside of me) want to prove she doesn't 'focus' like she appears to. Why? So I can prove she can't do something I can't? 'Opposites' are a red flag before my bull? Or, most likely, I am toward ADD on the scale, like she and my daughter say....

"Focus" and attention disorder. Thank God opposites attract....

This is what got more views than Blue Christmas

Sunday, March 15, 2015

"Christianists"

So, I was reading an article on the Huffington Post about Ben Carson, the Black retired surgeon who may be running for President.

The article was about how Dr. Carson had said on TV that homosexuality was 'absolutely a choice' and how he later backed away from what he said.

Well, the article was what it was. Then I made the mistake of scrolling down to the comments about the article. I got hooked. Hundreds and hundreds of comments from every point of view from "Dr. Carson didn't go far enough...homosexuality is a Sin!" to "what a load of b.s. this Carson guy is!"

Somewhere in the 30 or so comments I read was one that really got me thinking. I wish I remember what commenter wrote it but I'm not willing to go back and sift through them to be able to tell you....

Anyway, that comment was about, not Dr. Carson, but one of the several comments that said gay folk will burn in hell.

The writer said, "I don't call those folks 'Christians', I call them 'Christianists'."

That really resonated with me. Being painted with the same brush with "Christians" who deny climate change, hate homosexuals, want to cut off food stamps to teach people the 'value of work', support the Keystone pipeline because Jesus wants us to have enough oil, support Israel without reservation--not because they love Jews but because they want Armageddon to come,  want to deny all abortions, believe Obama was born in Kenya, on and on and on...because they say Jesus would believe all that just drives me crazy.

From now on I'm referring to those folks as "Christianists", pure and simple.

As far as I can tell (and this is just me talkin') the length and breath of  'being a Christian' could be summed up like this:
      *love your neighbor as yourself
      *treat everyone as you wish to be treated
      *realize God loves every one of us
      *reach out to those less fortunate than you
      *seek the face of God in everyone you meet

I'm sure I left something out--but not much.

Stop there and you'll be in the company of angels.

"Christianists" want to make God in their own image and use God/Jesus to champion all their causes. I'm through with them. Really and forever. Being a Christian, it seems to me, involves the 5 things above...few enough things to count on the fingers of one hand. Simple enough.

And I think (just me talkin') 'being a Christian' is that simple.

Blue Christmas #2

I had to go back to March 15, 2015 to find a post that got more views than "Blue Christmas" on December 2, 2016 has already gotten.

There have been almost a post a day, on average, since 3/15/15. But in the past three days more people have read "Blue Christmas" from 12/2/16 than any of the others in over a year!

So, what's that about?

Did I really touch a cord about the negative feelings around this time of year and how we are all pressured into not admitting to them?

Did people tell other people to read about the Service of Remembrance and Support that the Cluster Churches host because it might speak to them?

Does it go that deeply?

I'm obviously out of my depths here since I don't have very many negative feelings attached to Christmas but acknowledge and support those who do.

I've always thought the season was fraught with artifice and pretense. Since I take Advent with great seriousness (my most spiritual time of the year) my feelings about this time of year are deep and quiet, not public and frivolous.

But there must be a real undercurrent of feeling out there in blog land about the 'blue' side of Christmas.

Since I make my living around this time of year, I'd love to hear more from you about those painful memories during the Christmas season. You can comment on the blog. I don't know if others can read that, however. So it would be safer to email me at Padrejgb@aol.com with your thoughts.

I really would like to hear them.

The readers of the original Blue Christmas post must have something they need to share....

snow

I had to clean about a quarter inch of wet snow from my car this morning. By noon, there was no snow left anywhere around.

I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to clear snow over the next few months--it is New England, after all. But this was a good way to get started.

A little snow, a couple of swipes with my windshield cleaner and off I go on wet, but not icy roads.

Makes me like snow more than usual that this first iteration was so gentle and short lived....

What I do....

Today I visited a woman who will most likely--almost surely--be dead before a week has passed. She was very alert and we talked....We talked....I anointed her and prayed with her and I drove home.

So, I found this poem, one I've shared before, about what (as a priest) I do....

I DRIVE HOME

I drive home through pain, through suffering,

through death itself.

I drive home through Cat-scans and blood tests

and X-rays and Pet-scans (whatever they are)

and through consultations of surgeons and oncologists

and even more exotic flora with medical degrees.

I drive home through hospitals and houses

and the wondrous work of hospice nurses

and the confusion of dozens more educated than me.

Dressed in green scrubs and Transfiguration white coats,

they discuss the life or death of people I love.

And they hate, more than anything, to lose the hand

to the greatest Poker Player ever, the one with all the chips.

And, here’s the joke, they always lose in the end—

the River Card turns it all bad and Death wins.

So, while they consult and add artificial poison

to the Poison of Death—shots and pills and IV’s

of poison—I drive home and stop in vacant rooms

and wondrous houses full of memories

and dispense my meager, medieval medicine

of bread and wine and oil.

Sometimes I think…sometimes I think…

I should not drive home at all

since I stop in hospitals and houses to bring my pitiful offering

to those one step, one banana peel beneath their foot,

from meeting the Lover of Souls.

I do not hate Death. I hate dying, but not Death.

But it is often too much for me, stopping on the way home

to press the wafer into their quaking hands;

to lift the tiny, pewter cup of bad port wine to their trembling lips;

and to smear their foreheads with fragrant oil

while mumbling much rehearsed words and wishing them

whole and well and eternal.

I believe in God only around the edges.

But when I drive home, visiting the dying,

I’m the best they’ll get of all that.

And when they hold my hand with tears in their eyes

and thank me so profoundly, so solemnly, with such sweet terror

in their voices, then I know.

Driving home and stopping there is what I’m meant to do.

A little bread, a little wine and some sweet smelling oil

may be—if not enough—just what was missing.

I’m driving home, driving home, stopping to touch the hand of Death.

Perhaps that is all I can do.

I tell myself that, driving home, blinded by pain and tears,

having been with Holy Ones.

8/2007 jgb

Blue Christmas

I was part of "A Service of Remembrance and Support" as St. James in Higganum tonight.

Churches in the Cluster where I serve have been having these for several years. It is a chance, an opportunity, a stand for the fact that the holidays are painful and full of loss/suffering/mourning for many people. And all that pain takes place most vividly in a time when the culture tells us to 'be merry and gay!" OR ELSE!!!!

People come forward at the end and light a candle while the names of those they are remembering on this oh, so, dark night are read aloud.

It is a very moving service. And it meets a huge need. Many of the people there aren't members of St. James. They just know about the service and need it.

I was the one reading the names and one of them was of a wondrous woman who died this year, much too soon. She was a regular at education events and a deep thinker as well as a lovely, dear person. I almost couldn't say her name. But I did, because it needed to be said aloud and her husband and son needed to hear her name spoken.

Advent calls us to introspection and stillness and silence and remembrance and hope and leaning into the dim light of December.

This service does all that.

Call St. James to get a copy of it for your church next year.

Christmas brings the brightest and most shadowed parts of our hearts and minds to the surface.

We need to acknowledge the latter as much as the former parts....

uh...uh...what's it called?

OK, one of the things about getting older is you often can't remember the right word.

I was about to tell someone yesterday how inept I am at all things media and how I really don't care that I'm not adept when I couldn't remember the word I needed.

"Well, uh," I mumbled, "I'm a what's it called....?"

At least my friend, about my age, by the way, didn't immediately shout out the word I was looking for though I know he knows it. Growing older, like I said.

I spent most of the morning trying to remember the term and the best I could come up with was "troglodyte"--which is a cave man.

So, I googled "British anti-industrial movement" (I'm not to inept to 'google'!) and found "Luddite"!

Luddite, Luddite, Luddite....There, it should be mine again.....

(At least until the next time I need it....)