Thursday, May 24, 2018

Church Time

I published this in the early days and then again in 2014. But I'd like as many folks to read it as possible, so here it is again.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Church Time

I want to write about my concept of 'church time'. This concept and belief comes from over 30 years of being a parish priest. This is what I notice when I seek to explain 'church time' to people: most clergy acknowledge it as vaguely interesting but bogus. Most people just don't get it because in our culture 'time' is an absolute: an hour is like every other hour, a day just one more day, and months--except for February of course--are equal opportunity time measurements. However, some lay people--most of whom are very involved and committed to the parish--really get it and it gives them comfort as well as understanding.

Here's Church Time in introductory fashion: Most church going folks, even if they are very committed might spend two hours a week in church--one for a Eucharist and one for a coffee hour, an adult ed class, a committee meeting. So, at two hours a week, people spend 104 hours a year in church. That is the equivalant of 13 8-hour work days spread over a year. Imagine having an 8 hr a day job which you only went to one a month or so. I would content that you wouldn't accomplish much because the memory and learning curve would be so compromised and when you showed up for your day of work you would have missed almost a month of what your company was doing. No way to catch up or stay even.

Church Time is like that. I have trouble remembering what I did yesterday, but because I was back at church today, it began to come back and I could move on and make progress. A week has 148 hours (those reliable measures of time). If two or even three of them are spent 'thinking about or participating' in church, that's barely 2% of the weeks hours. Next to nothing. You might expect to spend that much time stuck in traffic in a week--and how much of the stuck in traffic time do you retain to build upon so you might progress and grow and expand????

However, 'church professionals', like me--I sometimes tell people who ask me what I do for a living is that I am paid to be religious--spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about church stuff--worship, music, education, outreach, program, evangelism...on and on. We have, at the least 50 hours a week to obsess on church stuff. Most clergy spend more time than that, let me tell you, because we clergy are so anxious to justify our very existence and being paid to be religious...which we--and most people--would think a silly thing to make a living doing. That's another post right there...But consider this: the 'professionals' spend at least 1/3 of every week thinking about church while even active members spend 2% or so. So, should we be surprised that most church folks don't seem to understand, appreciate, respond to 'church stuff' the way the clergy and staff do? If you spent 1/3 of your time obsessing on cacti and succulents and I spent, at best--who could imagine it--2% of my time in the same study, would you expect me to appreciate the subtleties and wonder of those plants?

"Church Time" requires those of us who get paid to do it to realize that those we work with, serve and minister to simply don't have the 'connection' to the issues we worry and fret and plan and scheme about. Their learning curve is very slow rising--it looks mostly like a straight line! And that is as it should be. So when they forget a meeting or say, "I meant to come to that class but just forgot" we should realize why. Lay folks are wonderful and profound and loving and truly committed to the parish. They simply have other lives, as they should, and don't live, breath, sweat and digest church stuff.

I'll leave it at that until later. But 'church time' helps explain why clergy misinterpret lay folks so profoundly and don't recognize the beauty and grace of their contributions. It also explains why clergy are almost continually frustrated because the enormous amount of time they spend wishing, hoping and dreaming about all the church could do is totally lost on lay folks because they really don't spend much time at all worrying about that stuff.

Monday, May 21, 2018

Pentecost

(This is some of what I said--and some I didn't say--in my sermon at St. Andrew's, Northford on the Feast of Pentecost.)

Today is Pentecost.

It is the day the wind blew and the fire fell. The wind blew and the fire fell and the Holy Spirit inhabited the lives of the followers of Jesus.

The wind blew and the fire fell.

No one in Connecticut doubts the power of the wind--not after this week when tornadoes touched down around the state. The wind is Power incarnate.

The first week I spent as Rector of St. John's, Waterbury, where I spent 21 years, tornadoes came across Connecticut. They took out every tree on the campus of Albertus Magnus College in New Haven. And one of them sheared off two crocheted pinnacles around the spire of the church. One fell on the sidewalk and one came through the roof of the church and destroyed to organ.

We didn't know they were called 'crocheted pinnacles' until the wind blew and they fell down.

I often tell people that the best way to begin a long ministry is with a natural disaster. People tend to focus on a hole in the roof and a destroyed organ rather than small things....

On Pentecost, the fire fell. No one should doubt the power of fire. Remember the fires that ravaged the West Coast in the past year. Ask the people of Hawaii how powerful fire bursting out of the earth can be.

Wind and Fire are beyond our control, beyond our ken--their power is undeniable. Their power is beyond our ability to resist.

And on Pentecost, the fire fell and the wind blew and the Spirit descended on the followers of Jesus.

Imagine that--our God is as Powerful and Wind and Fire. And that power falls on us this day.

When my son Josh was 4 or so, I was driving him home and he asked me, "Daddy, what is the Spirit?"

"It is like the wind," I told him, "and it is like fire."

He was in the back seat in a car seat and I looked at him in the rear view mirror. He was blowing on his hand. Wind and breath and heat--the Spirit falls today.

Here is my prayer for us on this Feast of Pentecost--that we realize that the power of wind and fire and Spirit are within us. Here is my prayer today-that we realize our God is more powerful than we imagine...more powerful than we can imagine. Here is my prayer today--that we can realize in some way that we have that Power within us.

We can burn away injustice and prejudice.

We can blow away the differences that divide us.

We can burn for hope and equality.

We can blow for peace and harmony.

None of us can, on our own, change the world--this dark ling world we live in, this world of pain and suffering and loss and cruelity.

But the wind has blown on us and the fire has fallen on us and the Spirit of our God of Wind and Fire is within us.

We can be the wind of Change and the Fire of Justice and equality each moment of our lives. We can 'make a difference' in this oh so troubled world.

We can.

We can.

The fire falls and the wind blows and we carry God's Spirit into the world.

Blow! Flame! Be the Spirit. Be Christ's body in this world.

That is my prayer for each of us and all of us.

Amen and Amen.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Brooklyn and back

OK, I now believe in GPS.

We went to Brooklyn and back today to see Mimi, Tim and (of course) Eleanor. We used the GPS on my phone (or Bern did, I don't know how, Luddite that I am). The trip down was 2 hours and the trip back 2 hours and 27 minutes. We have spent those times added together to go one way in the past.

Just over 90 miles in 4 hours! What a nightmare that was.

They live in a different area of Brooklyn now, with more on street parking than they had in Fort Green (which was 'none'!)

So we drove though we've taken the train the last few times. The train from New Haven to Grand Central is about 2 hours and then we'd have to get to Brooklyn.

The GPS changed our route several times both down and back. We went down on I=95 because it told us to but back on Bronx River Expressway and Hutchinson/Merritt because it told us to.

I used to think GPS was vain and silly.

No more.

And then, in Brooklyn was that little family on the 13th floor on Washington Ave. Sigh!

So lovely to see them.

Bern and Mimi rearranged the living room of their (for New York) 'roomy' apartment. It made Tim and I anxious to watch them do it.

Bern sometimes moves things around in our house just to see if I notice. I give her pleasure by pretending not to notice.

I'd put furniture in one place and probably never move it unless it broke.

I must admit, the living room was better when they were finished.

GPS and rearranging furniture--two things I normally shun--both worked out.

Maybe I'm not as stuck in my way of being as I think.



Friday, May 18, 2018

It's been 9 weeks

Nine weeks. Sixty-three days.

The bag Bela's ashes came to us in is a foot  and a half from my right foot.

The container they were in is in the bag. The top of the container says, "Until we meet again at the rainbow bridge."

I have no idea what that means and don't want to know. But I keep it near me. His paw print from the crematorium is on my desk, near me.

Just like the hat Bern made me for Christmas some 5 or 6 years ago that looks like a Puli dog, down to the black mark on my hat's tongue...a Puli trait--near me.

I've resisted bringing the little 2 inch sized Puli brass depiction downstairs to be near me.

My cup with a Puli on it is on the desk where I write. But it has been for several years. Only now I look at it with longing that I didn't have 9 weeks ago.

And on a little file folder holder to my right there are still Bela ashes from where I divided them between Bern and I to scatter at the Canal where we walked him thousands of times.

Oh, Jesus, I still mourn him and miss him so....

The 63 days without him hurt so much though we had 5015 days with him (I did the math for him).

Deep breath.

I miss him so.




Back from tranformation and deep joy

The workshop I helped lead at Holy Cross Monastery in West Park, NY (a truly beautiful place on the upper Hudson River) may have been one of the top five experiences of the over 50 Making a Difference workshops I have helped lead.

The 'breakthroughs' were not just amazing and tingling, they were complete and equally shared.

The Making a Difference Workshop is not easily described. It must be experienced. It is not 'linear' in any way and it doesn't claim to 'give you something' to 'improve' your ministry.

What it seeks to share is the ability to create 'who you be' in a way that empowers and enlivens you so you can have your hands more on the levers and wheels of what 'makes a difference'.

I'm not sure I've ever been at a workshop where every single person (20 of 20 in this case) truly 'got it'. "Got it" is what we say when people 'get it'. It can't be figured out or understood, what this workshop offers--it must come like an epiphany: "the sudden comprehension of the deep down meaning of things usually caused by something everyday, ordinary and commonplace."

In the case of the workshop the 'everyday, ordinary and commonplace' is a three day conversation about distinctions and a three day shared experience of the practice of centering prayer.

The workshop cannot be 'described'. It is only experienced.

And this one was experienced in a way I don't remember any other.

They are all different because the participants actually generate the experience and the participants are never the same.

This one was special.

(Though, truth be known {as it should be!} all of them are special in their own way.)

This workshop saved my life and ministry. As it has so many others'.

It also has touched everyone I've known since I participated in it.

Did I say 'touched'?

I meant to say 'transformed'.

That's what the workshop is about--transformation. Not 'change'--transformation.

I am honored and transformed by being a part of this work....

Every time.


Monday, May 14, 2018

Away again

Going to Holy Cross in the morning. Looking forward to it--hating to leave Bern alone without a dog to keep her company.

So, I won't be writing again until Friday. Don't like going so long without touching base with you.

But it must be so. See you then.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Mothers Day

Marion Cleo Jones Bradley was my mother. She was born in 19ll. I was born in 1947--a late and unexpected baby.

She came to my marriage in 1970. I have the photos to prove it. She wore a orange dress and a black hat and was very happy for me.

She died two years later when I was 25. I fed her ice cream on a wooden spoon in her hospital room on my birthday. My aunt Elise, her youngest sister, came into the room and wished me Happy Birthday. She was the only person besides Bern who remembered. My father didn't.

Cleo had a hard life as a child. She and her sisters would go through slate dumps from the coal mines to find pieces of coal to burn.

She eventually earned a MA in Education going summers and nights to classes at Bluefield State College and Concord College. She started teaching with only a high school diploma.

Her sister Georgia did the same thing. Aunt Elsie finally earned a Ph.D.

All this by three girls whose parents never finished Junior High.

I once asked my mother, when I was 12 or so, why I had to go with her and my father to visit relatives when I was old enough to be alone. All they did was visit our many relatives--I never remember them having 'friends' come or to visit. She told me it was because, if they died in a car wreck, I would be with them and not be left alone.

Crazy, I know. But it made sense to a 38 year old woman who had an only child.

I can't remember her much at all. I don't remember her voice--though I wish I did. I'd like to hear it today.

She never hurt me. She protected me too much. She loved me so much she couldn't imagine me living without her.

I spoke at her funeral but don't remember what I said.

She died 46 years ago.

Today, I miss her.

Happy Mothers' Day, Mommy, wherever you are.



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About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.