I was a Deputy to General Convention three times--Columbus, Anaheim and Minneapolis. I would have to google it to tell you in what order. It was I think: 2003, 2006 and 2009.
I was in the hallway at Minneapolis when I saw one of my bishops, Jim Curry, coming out of the display room--where you could buy anything you'd probably never want about the Episcopal Church.
Jim saw me and came running over. "I've got you something--just for you!" He handed me a small red button you can attach with a wire to your coat.
On it was one word: HERETIC.
I still have it and wear it from time to time. Bless Bishop Curry!
I probably am a heretic since I either don't believe or could care less about a lot of Christian Doctrine and Dogma.
I'm just not interested in 'believing'. I'm interesting in having "faith"--pistos in Greek--which could just as easily be translated as "trust".
I 'trust' in the Almighty Power. I don't 'believe' much of anything.
So people figure that out and give me stuff to read.
I guess they're trying to 'save' me. I'm not sure.
The latest is a book called Proof of Heaven by Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon who was in a coma and journeyed into the 'afterlife'.
I'll dutifully read it and thank the woman who loaned it to me.
But if someone jumped out from behind a tree on a dark street and yelled, "do you believe in heaven?" I'd answer, "I don't know."
I know the Almighty Power I trust in would never have a hell. That Power is Love, pure and simple and punishing people for eternity would never occur to him/her/it.
So: "heaven"?
Who knows? Not me.
But I trust and will go into that good night with faith.
Enough for me.
Friday, April 12, 2019
Thursday, April 11, 2019
Palm Sunday sermon
(I haven't preached it yet, but it's ready to go. Here it is.)
PALM SUNDAY 2019—St. Andrew’s,
Northford
It
probably wasn’t as big a deal as we make it out to be.
We
call it THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM.
It
was probably more like sneaking in the back door.
Who
was it, after all? A country bumpkin of a rabbi (what good can come from Nazareth?) along with his
equally provincial followers—ragged and dusty from three years of traveling—and
the riff-raff hanging around the gates of the Holy City, looking for some
entertainment.
Oh,
it caused a stir—Jesus arriving and going immediately to the Temple. The Pharisees were nervous because
the rabble seemed to love him and the rabble could never be trusted to toe the
line. The ones who welcomed the strange prophet from the sticks were
uncontrollable by the authorities of the Temple.
So the Sanhedrin—the equivalent of the Bishops in our church—watched and waited
and bided their time. This troublesome Teacher was a problem that could be
dealt with successfully.
Oh,
it caused a stir….The Zealots, those “freedom fighters” of the Jews—the ones the
Romans saw as “terrorists”—had a breath of hope. Perhaps Jesus was the figure
around which a popular rebellion could be mounted. Perhaps he could be the one
to restore the Throne of David and return the land of Israel
to the Israelites.
Oh,
it caused a stir….Pilate was troubled because his wife was having nightmares
about this Prophet Jesus and when Pilate was troubled the Roman Legion was
troubled. It was almost Passover and the city was full of pilgrims who were
full of religious fervor. And religious fervor is always a threat to the
“status quo” and the rule of the occupying army.
Oh,
it caused a stir….The common folk were mesmerized by the wisdom and the
miracles of Jesus. He brought them something that touched them deep in their
souls, something so long missing from their lives, dashed by oppression and
almost extinguished: he brought the faint, almost bitter sweet hope that God
still loved them.
But
it was probably still much less spectacular than we make it out to be. A little
band of people—dispossessed, powerless, mostly poor…outsiders of all the
political and religious intrigue of the day—laying palm branches and, yes,
their own cloaks, on the path up to the city for this strange, eccentric,
inscrutable rabbi who had “rocked” their marginal lives with the possibility of
love.
In
his letter to the Philippians, St.
Paul wrote—as you heard today—that Jesus “emptied
himself out”. The Greek word is lovely. Kenosis:
“to empty out”.
It
seems to me that Jesus was practicing “kenosis” all the way up to Jerusalem.
He
was emptying himself of pride and ego and whatever ambitions he might have had.
He
was emptying himself of anger and resentment and petty disagreements.
He
was emptying himself of power and influence and the ability to “change the
world” in some profound way.
He
was emptying himself of the hope that clings to life against all odds, of the
longing to “make a difference”, of the glitter and attraction of worldly
things.
He
was making himself completely empty—cleaned out, purged—creating a vacuum
within his heart that could hold LOVE for the whole world, for all of it, every
single bit of it.
It
was LOVE that entered Jerusalem
by some side gate, riding on a colt, listening to sounds of “Hosanna!”, being
fanned by fronds of palm.
It
was LOVE—love for the Pharisees, for his close friends and companions, for
Pilate and the Romans, for the Zealots who would make him King, for the common
folk who ran beside him, guiding him toward the Temple Mount. Love for you.
Love for me.
It
was LOVE…love and love only, always love, already love, total love,
all-embracing love, love to fill his heart and break it too, love beyond
imagining, love beyond pain or suffering or life or death, love “once and for
all”. Simply LOVE and nothing else at all….
Just
that.
Love
on the back of a colt entering the Holy
City.
So,
I guess it was a “big deal” after all….
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
coins in the mail
I should go downstairs and get them all and be accurate. I think I will. Back in a moment.
OK, sorry for the delay.
Equine Voices Rescue and Sanctuary sent me a nickle and two pennies,
The SPCA sent me four nickles.
PETA sent me four nickles.
The Humane Society sent me three nickles,
And the SPCA sent me four more nickles.
That's 82 cents.
And, to my knowledge I've never given any of those groups money.
I do support local rescue groups.
Perhaps they share their donors with national groups.
I understand, Animals suffer greatly at the hands of humans.
The only cases I would support the death penalty for would be people hurting animals. I really would. I'd pull the trigger myself if invited.
Nothing worse that people hurting animals they aren't going to eat.
(I'm a carnivore, but I don't want to look at that too closely....I do love meat and fish.....)
But why send me 82 cents?
To make me feel guilty about taking their money and not giving them mine?
I guess that's it--along with pictures of horses being dragged by trucks and abused cats and dogs.
It won't work. I'll put that 82 cents in the jar where I put pocket change and support local rescue places--like "Almost Home" in North Haven where we found Bridget.
Though I try to not give advise on this blog, you should support local rescue facilities. They do the work of God and Angels.
Really!
But don't mail me coins.
OK, sorry for the delay.
Equine Voices Rescue and Sanctuary sent me a nickle and two pennies,
The SPCA sent me four nickles.
PETA sent me four nickles.
The Humane Society sent me three nickles,
And the SPCA sent me four more nickles.
That's 82 cents.
And, to my knowledge I've never given any of those groups money.
I do support local rescue groups.
Perhaps they share their donors with national groups.
I understand, Animals suffer greatly at the hands of humans.
The only cases I would support the death penalty for would be people hurting animals. I really would. I'd pull the trigger myself if invited.
Nothing worse that people hurting animals they aren't going to eat.
(I'm a carnivore, but I don't want to look at that too closely....I do love meat and fish.....)
But why send me 82 cents?
To make me feel guilty about taking their money and not giving them mine?
I guess that's it--along with pictures of horses being dragged by trucks and abused cats and dogs.
It won't work. I'll put that 82 cents in the jar where I put pocket change and support local rescue places--like "Almost Home" in North Haven where we found Bridget.
Though I try to not give advise on this blog, you should support local rescue facilities. They do the work of God and Angels.
Really!
But don't mail me coins.
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
Another poem
(This one is about our dog, Bela, who died last year. Alas.)
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A PULI AND A MAN
It is just about 3 degrees Fahrenheit,
according to the thermometer on our back porch.
And the wind is blowing, oh, I'd say
about 15 miles an hour.
The ice has iced over a couple of times
and every thing wood and metal creaks
from the cold.
Puli dogs were built for weather like this.
When Attila left the steppes of Mongolia
to cross the know world,
conquering everything in his pat,
(raping and pillaging along the way)
he already had dogs
that had survived cold that killed horses,
camels, oxen and men.
Hungary, in the deepest winter of those years
we think of as long, long, long ago,
was like moving from Connecticut to Florida
for the Hun's dogs.
Their tangled, cording hair--black as midnight,
or two a.m.--kept them warm,
made them think Budapest was tropical
compared to the gales in winter
off the steppes.
That is the difference between a Puli dog,
like mine,
and an aging white man
like me.
In the back yard, he runs in circles,
pausing only to eat ice and snow,
guarding sheep that are not there
from wolves that don't exist.
He finds a mound of ice
and splays himself on it,
feeling the genetic connection,
the DNA link, the marrow deep instinct of his breeding.
Then he grabs a stick and runs to the edge of the yard,
stopping to bark for me to come chase him
And I, wrapped in clothes that will take five minutes
to rid myself of back inside,
call to him to return
to what aging, white men love:
central heat, fireplaces, hot coffee.
Eventually he will return--even if that means
I have to go and get him,
playing 'catch me if you can'
all the way back to the porch.
He could fall asleep nestled in ice and snow,
while I would simply die of hypothermia.
That, if nothing else (and there is much else indeed!)
distinguishes me for my Puli....
Or, more accurately,
distinguishes the Puli
from his man.
2/5/07--jgb
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A PULI AND A MAN
It is just about 3 degrees Fahrenheit,
according to the thermometer on our back porch.
And the wind is blowing, oh, I'd say
about 15 miles an hour.
The ice has iced over a couple of times
and every thing wood and metal creaks
from the cold.
Puli dogs were built for weather like this.
When Attila left the steppes of Mongolia
to cross the know world,
conquering everything in his pat,
(raping and pillaging along the way)
he already had dogs
that had survived cold that killed horses,
camels, oxen and men.
Hungary, in the deepest winter of those years
we think of as long, long, long ago,
was like moving from Connecticut to Florida
for the Hun's dogs.
Their tangled, cording hair--black as midnight,
or two a.m.--kept them warm,
made them think Budapest was tropical
compared to the gales in winter
off the steppes.
That is the difference between a Puli dog,
like mine,
and an aging white man
like me.
In the back yard, he runs in circles,
pausing only to eat ice and snow,
guarding sheep that are not there
from wolves that don't exist.
He finds a mound of ice
and splays himself on it,
feeling the genetic connection,
the DNA link, the marrow deep instinct of his breeding.
Then he grabs a stick and runs to the edge of the yard,
stopping to bark for me to come chase him
And I, wrapped in clothes that will take five minutes
to rid myself of back inside,
call to him to return
to what aging, white men love:
central heat, fireplaces, hot coffee.
Eventually he will return--even if that means
I have to go and get him,
playing 'catch me if you can'
all the way back to the porch.
He could fall asleep nestled in ice and snow,
while I would simply die of hypothermia.
That, if nothing else (and there is much else indeed!)
distinguishes me for my Puli....
Or, more accurately,
distinguishes the Puli
from his man.
2/5/07--jgb
Sunday, April 7, 2019
The Future
(I found all these old poems. Here's another that's worth pondering about how you live you life.)
THE FUTURE
"There is this about magic doors:
You pass through them unawares."
--Celtic saying
The Future is out there, obscured from sight
by the mist that flows up from the sea at dawn,
impenetrable--a fog wall closing in, narrowing
the moment down to its nub, its essence, a particle of time.
Straining to see doesn't help. Squinting is useless.
Standing on tip-toe in the ccold damp grass, vaining
trying to peer above the close, cliinging clouds,
the future undoes your hope,
unties your pleasures and aches alike,
stripping away this moment, this 'now'.
"The present", someone told me once, "is just what
you miss while you await the future". Something
like that is what they said. But I missed it then,
wondering what they would say next,
not wanting to miss that....
On this side of the future, fog is all we have
or can have, A road beneath two trees,
sweet wet grass for walking barefoot and maybe
some magic door we entered already.
jgb/2005
THE FUTURE
"There is this about magic doors:
You pass through them unawares."
--Celtic saying
The Future is out there, obscured from sight
by the mist that flows up from the sea at dawn,
impenetrable--a fog wall closing in, narrowing
the moment down to its nub, its essence, a particle of time.
Straining to see doesn't help. Squinting is useless.
Standing on tip-toe in the ccold damp grass, vaining
trying to peer above the close, cliinging clouds,
the future undoes your hope,
unties your pleasures and aches alike,
stripping away this moment, this 'now'.
"The present", someone told me once, "is just what
you miss while you await the future". Something
like that is what they said. But I missed it then,
wondering what they would say next,
not wanting to miss that....
On this side of the future, fog is all we have
or can have, A road beneath two trees,
sweet wet grass for walking barefoot and maybe
some magic door we entered already.
jgb/2005
Saturday, April 6, 2019
Reality Check
(Today I came across a poem I wrote 15 years ago. I have no idea what prompted it, what event caused it to come into being. But I thought I'd share it since it moves me.)
REALITY CHECK
What was it Pilate said to Jesus?
"What is Real?" No, no not that.
"What is Truth?" more like it, as I recall.
But not nearly so interesting a question.
Truth, it seems to me, having learned it recently,
sounds forth like a gong in a gigantic marble room,'
echoing an re-echoing with (what shall we say?)
integrity, constancy, eternity even,
that puts 'honesty' to shame as the self-serving
little slave of convention that it is, truly.
Truth is self-defining, it gives life and hope and
possibility mother-wet wingsmost would deny.
Pilate shold have had eyes to see and ears to hear.
Truth stood before him, stripped and raw,
Truth whispered in his ear and he heard not.
"What is REAL?" Now there's a query worth some salt.
There's a wrestling match worthy of an angel foe.
There's something to wake up just before dawn and parry with--
sword against sword, making sparks, drawing blood.
There's a nightmare full of incomprehensible images
requiring ause during a sudden afternoon rainstorm
with lightening, thunder and a touch of hail.
When someone drag's 'reality' into the field of play,
play stops.
Being realistic, someone told me recently--with words
that echoed like Truth off marble walls--kills the Spirit.
Poor dead Spirit, slain by Reality's arrows!
(Here's the secret Truth that Reality can never quench:
ice water poured over you in sufficient amounts produces gratitude.
Gratitude is an alias of Truth. Truth is the twin of Love.
And there's this--the Spirit never dies.)
Finally, there's simply no where in the cosmos to cash a Reality Check.
There's no currency available. The banks are closed for holiday.
6/4/04 JGB
REALITY CHECK
What was it Pilate said to Jesus?
"What is Real?" No, no not that.
"What is Truth?" more like it, as I recall.
But not nearly so interesting a question.
Truth, it seems to me, having learned it recently,
sounds forth like a gong in a gigantic marble room,'
echoing an re-echoing with (what shall we say?)
integrity, constancy, eternity even,
that puts 'honesty' to shame as the self-serving
little slave of convention that it is, truly.
Truth is self-defining, it gives life and hope and
possibility mother-wet wingsmost would deny.
Pilate shold have had eyes to see and ears to hear.
Truth stood before him, stripped and raw,
Truth whispered in his ear and he heard not.
"What is REAL?" Now there's a query worth some salt.
There's a wrestling match worthy of an angel foe.
There's something to wake up just before dawn and parry with--
sword against sword, making sparks, drawing blood.
There's a nightmare full of incomprehensible images
requiring ause during a sudden afternoon rainstorm
with lightening, thunder and a touch of hail.
When someone drag's 'reality' into the field of play,
play stops.
Being realistic, someone told me recently--with words
that echoed like Truth off marble walls--kills the Spirit.
Poor dead Spirit, slain by Reality's arrows!
(Here's the secret Truth that Reality can never quench:
ice water poured over you in sufficient amounts produces gratitude.
Gratitude is an alias of Truth. Truth is the twin of Love.
And there's this--the Spirit never dies.)
Finally, there's simply no where in the cosmos to cash a Reality Check.
There's no currency available. The banks are closed for holiday.
6/4/04 JGB
Friday, April 5, 2019
today
I was about to get up at 8:44 a.m. but Bridget was in bed with me and I rubbed her for a while and woke up at 10:30!
I'm trying to finish a P.D. James book but have also been trying to complete my tax stuff and keep getting distracted.
I spent half an hour looking for my figures about unreimbursed business expenses and finally found them in one of the manila envelopes I put receipts in.
So I took my tax stuff in and drove around a while.
Then I came back and plunged into P.D. James until I needed to go out and get some wine.
It was sleeting when I went for wine!
Sleeting in April!
I talked on a conference call with two folks from upstate New York and Block Island and it was snowing in West Park, NY.
Bern cooked dinner tonight and it was great--chicken tenders she fried, slaw and a vegetable salad. Yum!
Then Oregon was ahead of Baylor in the women's NCAA at half-time.
And that brings us up to date on today.
I'm trying to finish a P.D. James book but have also been trying to complete my tax stuff and keep getting distracted.
I spent half an hour looking for my figures about unreimbursed business expenses and finally found them in one of the manila envelopes I put receipts in.
So I took my tax stuff in and drove around a while.
Then I came back and plunged into P.D. James until I needed to go out and get some wine.
It was sleeting when I went for wine!
Sleeting in April!
I talked on a conference call with two folks from upstate New York and Block Island and it was snowing in West Park, NY.
Bern cooked dinner tonight and it was great--chicken tenders she fried, slaw and a vegetable salad. Yum!
Then Oregon was ahead of Baylor in the women's NCAA at half-time.
And that brings us up to date on today.
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