No Spring again?

After gray, cold, wet days with temperatures in the 40's and 30's at night, today was in the 60's and tomorrow Connecticut might reach 80.

So, no Spring again. Straight from late winter to summer. Bummer.

I've probably told you this before, but Anawalt, West Virginia, where I grew up, had the perfect weather. Anawalt is farther south than Richmond, Virginia, but at an altitude just under 2000 feet above sea level, we had two months of winter, two months of summer, four months of spring and four months of autumn.

Lots of snow in January and February--much of which melted in a day or two before the next fall. Temperatures in the high 80's (seldom 90+) in July and August and March-June a long, mountain spring--cool at night and warm in the day--and an Autumn that started in September and went until Christmas or so.

Not a bad climate to live in, believe me.

Spring often skips Connecticut. I've lived here since 1980 and we generally go from snow on Palm Sunday to 80 degrees on Easter. And winter is a bear in New England.

I miss a 4 month spring more every year.

Video sermon (maybe...)

At Emmanuel, Killingworth, my fried Ted Dinsmore sometimes videos my sermons for Facebook Live.

I'm sending you the link.

I'm not on Facebook and don't want to be (not with a ten foot pole!) so I wasn't able to open it.

Since I think people who read this blog are more 'tuned in' to the strange and barren desert (as I see it) of the tech world, maybe some of you can watch it.

Good luck and best wishes.

https://www.facebook.com/helen.brady.5688/posts/10211210977288934 

I kind of liked the sermon about Palm Sunday. Hope you do too.

Get this

Kentucky Coal Mining Museum converts to solar power

Charles Wm. Dimmick to youshow detailsshow image slideshow

From	Charles Wm. Dimmick cdimmick@snet.nethide details
To	Jim G. Bradley padrejgb@aol.com
Cc
Bcc
show image slideshow

Jim,  I thought this might interest you.

charles

Kentucky Coal Mining Museum converts to solar power

Click on the above underlined and I think you'll be able to get to the web site.

A coal mining museum converting to solar. How cool.

How much smarter they are to our President.

Could have told you mountain people had some smarts....

Mary, full of grace

Just finished tonight a five week book study about Mary, the mother of Jesus. Reed (last name only comes to mind) the author, is an Anglican priest who teaches in a School of Theology in Canada.

What was remarkable about the time together is how diverse our groups thoughts, beliefs, feelings, reflections about Mary were.

A couple of former Roman Catholics (I sometimes call Episcopalians who grew up RC "recovering Roman Catholics, like the Episcopal Church is a spiritual AA group, but I won't this time) a former Eastern Orthodox, a few life-long Episcopalians and several main-line Protestants (like me) who found the Episcopal Church in adulthood--it made for an interesting group and some discussion worth pondering long and hard.

Mary is such an enigma, in many senses.

Graced by God and then made a slave to God and then her heart was broken and filled to overflowing by the child she birthed.

Each gospel handles her differently, which makes it difficult to get a clear picture.

She is the absolute star of Luke's early chapters. And then disappears until she loses Jesus in the Temple (every mother's nightmare) and can't get in to see him because of the crowds and he doesn't come out to her.

She's always by the cross.

In John's gospel (never called by name!) she is at the first miracle--water to wine--which Jesus seems to do just because he's a good Jewish son and his mother asked him to. And at the cross Jesus gives her to his disciple John--'behold your son....behold your mother'. But she shows up nowhere else in that gospel.

Most Protestant Christians think of Mary as 'merely Jesus' mother', not much else.

Catholics and some Anglicans adore her.

(I was with the vestry of St. John's at a retreat at Holy Cross Monastery, an Episcopal Benedictine group of brothers in upstate New York, when after Vespers, the monks went to an Icon of Mary and began to say the rosary. The guy I was sitting next to, who grew up Congregational and married into the Episcopal Church, said, aloud, "Oh, my God!" And I replied to him, "No, His Mother...."

Something worth pondering this last week of Lent and into Holy Week, is how does Mary figure into your Spirituality. And how might that change as you ponder it.

An illiterate, teenage, first century Jewish girl who meets an Angel and become, literally, the Mother of God.

Reflect on that for a time.

Well worth the reflection and the time....

Holy Week is coming....

Good grief, it's Holy Week again!

Funny how it sneaks up on me, even though passing through Lent should alert me. For your Holy Week I want to share something I wrote many holy weeks ago.

Holy Week 2017 (1984)

Back in 1984, I was asked to write the February to April Forward Day by Day , the Episcopal 'meditation for each day' that I'm sure some of you are familiar with. Looking for something else (isn't that always how it happens?) I found a copy of that publication.

So, for my sharings with you for Holy Week, I am going to copy those musings and ponderings by a much younger man. I've read them over and still stand by them after all these years.

May your week be truly holy....

Shalom, jim

PALM SUNDAY

Luke 19.28-38 “Blessings on the King who comes in the name of the Lord.”

Are you waiting for the parade? It's coming, you know. God is going to pass by.

I wonder how God will come—like a victor returning from war with armies and tanks and drums and cheers?

I wonder how God will come—what will God's parade be like? Maybe like a circus parade with strange beasts and exotic costumes and clowns to make us laugh.

I wonder how God will come? Will God's parade be like the World Series' heroes, waving to the crowds from the back of a huge flatbed truck, brushing the ticker tape away?

Maybe it will be a solemn parade, like the funeral of some great person—slow and stately, with much respect and the uncovering of heads. Do you think that will be it?

However God decides to come, it will be a glorious thing. God's parade witll be grand and spectacular. Something we'll never forget!

….Wonder what's happened? Do you suppose there was a mistake? We've been waiting so very long and no one has come by yet except for that sad man on a donkey and those silly people waving branches.

I'm sure it was suppose to be today. Where is God's parade?

HOLY MONDAY

Mark 11.12-25 “So they reached Jerusalem and he went into the temple....”

Jesus walked into the Temple as if he owned it. He walked right in and threw the merchants out. They must have been dumb struck at it all; they had a right to be there; their wares were necessary to the sacrifices of the faithful. Then a stranger upset the tables, scattering doves and coins. They must have been too astounded to protest, too surprised to fight back. From all Mark tells us, they did not resist their eviction.

Even the officials—the chief priests and scribes—did not oppose him. He must have seemed like a man possessed, aflame with holy passions, acting as one would act on coming home to find robbers in his house.

And so it was. Jesus went into the Temple as if he owned it, as if he had come home.

HOLY TUESDAY

Mark 11.27-33 “Jesus said, 'I will ask you a question.'”

When Jesus came again to the Temple, the authorities had collected themselves and confronted him, demanding to know why he was doing the things he was doing. “What authority have you?” they asked.

Jesus was a master of answering a question with another question. He knew what they were up to. He knew they sought to trap him by forcing him to say too much. The rope was available for him to hang himself. So he replied by asking them a question about John the Baptizer. Jesus' question  had a noose in it for their necks....

The people were standing near, straining to hear. The chief priests were stymied. They could not respond for fear of the people.

Jesus won that round. He continued teaching in the Temple. He had come home.

HOLY WEDNESDAY

Mark 12.1-11  The stone rejected....

Jesus had come home, home to Jerusalem, home to the Temple of God's people. But in the parable of the wicked tenants, he revealed that he knew he would not be welcome and that he knew why.

For the time being, the chief priests would leave him alone. But their time would come soon enough and they would have their revenge. The people too, would turn on him and demand his life. Those who had welcomed him home with palms and hosannas would jeer him as he carried his cross.

It must have been with much irony that Jesus spoke of the son murdered, the stone rejected. It must have been with great sadness that he spoke of the wicked tenants. They were his people, the chosen of his Father. With great pain, he must have watched the scribes slip away.

The circle was complete. He had come home to die.

MAUNDY THURSDAY

Mark 14.12-25 “You will meet a man carrying a pitcher of water....”

“My name is Asher of Jerusalem. I have seen strange sights, heard strange words in my time. But none so strange as today. Some Galileans followed me to my master's house from the well. They asked for a room for the Passover. My master is a tight fisted, cautious man, but he showed them the finest room and bargained much too generously. Then, when they were gone, he told me I would wait upon them during their meal.

“While they ate I watched from the shadows. They had a master too. He spoke4 wild, unbelievable words. He called the Passover loaf his body. He called the cup of blessing his blood. Crazy talk! I have never heard such things before.

“And yet...yet, as I listened, his eye caught mine and he smiled a gentle, calming smile that seemed to try to draw me in. He was holding the cup and he lifted it toward me, as if to say, 'for you also, Asher'.”

GOOD FRIDAY

John 19.38-42 “A disciple of Jesus—though a secret one....”

(Nicodemus speaks.) “My heart is broken now. My friend Joseph and I have buried the prophet from Nazareth. We did so at great risk. Neither of us has taken such a chance before. Always, our talks about his teachings have been in secret. We dared not discuss it with the other leaders. They would have turned on us. We urged moderation in the councils. We urged them not to act—but they would not hear of it. Our words were like smoke to them...like the wind that blows.

“I carried the spices myself. I anointed his cold, broken body. And I felt my heart breaking as I touched him.

“What can I do now? It doesn't seem to matter anymore—the rituals will be hollow today. My  heart is not in them. My heart lies broken in the tomb.

“Why did he fail us? Where are his promises now? Where is my rebirth?

“His promises are like wind. His promises are as broken as my heart....”

HOLY SATURDAY

Lamentations 3.37-58 “My eyes weep ceaselessly, without relief....”

Most of us have lived through the day after the burial of one we loved.

Such days are long, pensive and painful. The light of the sun holds no warmth. The air itself seem fragile—as if moving too fast would break it. Food tastes sandy and does not satisfy. Favorite things hold no comfort. Conversation falls helplessly between us. Calls from friends seldom come and when they do they are awkward and strained. There is nothing to do that makes sense.

The day after someone has been buried has the quality of a bird flying into a window on a cold morning. There is no help, no relief to find.

The friends of Jesus could find nothing to do on that first Holy Saturday. They wandered like shadows within the room where they were hiding.

Finally, as darkness came, the women began to gather together spices to take to the tomb at dawn. At least in that they found some crushed comfort—it was something to occupy their time.

EASTER DAY

Luke 24.13-35 “Did our hearts not burn within us?”

Alleluia, Christ is risen!

Imagine the warring emotions in the hearts of those two disciples on the way to Emmaus.

First, the still fresh pain and despair at losing Jesus numbed them. And the fear that they were being sought by the authorities chilled them. They imagined themselves wanted criminals, co-conspirators with an executed man. (Could that be why they journeyed from Jerusalem—to feel safe?) Finally, the women's story of the empty tomb tore them apart with confusion and disbelief.

The stranger on the road hears them out and then, incredibly, lectures them on how the scriptures give meaning to all that has happened. A new emotion to deal with, new feelings smoldering in their much too burdened hearts.

At bread's breaking, all comes clear and bright. They see at last and the burning of their hearts at the stranger's word bursts into flames of hope.

They race back to the road—back to dangerous Jerusalem—back with hearts overflowing with joy and the message: 'The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!'

Feeling old...

It's not just my knees or my gray hair. It's that THE GRADUATE is coming back to theaters for it's 50th anniversary. That's FIVE-OH, Beloved!

The most iconic movie for my generation is half-a-century old.

Lordy, Lordy.

Seeing Dustin close to age I was when I saw the movie and Ann looking much younger than she was and that seduction scene may make me remember my youth.

So, it's not all bad, I guess.

But "The Graduate" is 50? What a bummer....

No joy in Mudville

In case you're not familiar with "Casey at the bat" by Earnest Thayer, here it is.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his
     shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the
     air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled
     roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his
     hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered
     “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles
     strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children
     shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

I was reminded of that poem last night when Morgan Williams of Mississippi State

hit a field goal at the buzzer to defeat UConn's women's team after 111 straight

wins.

No joy in Mudville or the Nutmeg state.

I've been amazed in my over 30 years in Connecticut (The first 100 years are the

hardest if you move to New England from somewhere else!) at how devoted to the 

teams of the University of Connecticut almost everyone is. It's not unlike a 

religion, especially in the last decade with the Lady Husky basketball team.

St. Geno is their coach and all the players ascend to the stratosphere with folks

in CT.

Amazing devotion.

And last night upstarts from Mississippi State burst the bubble on UConn's path

to a fifth straight Women's National Championship.

No joy in Mudville today at all...