And Also With You

Grace-bearing hand

2012-01-16T08:18:00.000-08:00

The morning started out all wrong. My drive to church takes an hour, which I use as morning prayer and psalm-singing time. It's important to me as celebrant at the Eucharist to arrive as centered as possible, given the unpredictable nature of travel. This winter, I've taken to counting the cars I see on the highway as I make my way to church. Last week, there were 4. Yesterday, there were 7. The number unsettles me. A lone driver experiencing car trouble could wait there for a long time.

Once inside the church building, more unpredictability awaits. The scheduled reader cannot come in. His replacement is there; that's good, but he looks scared, because he's not done this before. We work it all out. But, without my knowing it, another robed person fixes this problem another way. (That's fine, except that there's no time to communicate the change.) And, I should know better, by now, how to stay nonreactive when I must chase down the chasuble and body mic from the previous celebrant with 2 minutes left till the service starts. But he was nowhere to be found, and my centeredness was fading.

So it was that I processed in without the extra hymnal needed. As I stood, humming along while others sang words, a small child walked right up front to face me, handing me the hymnal -- already turned to the right page. She is dear in many more ways than I would share in a public space such as this, but she has hands that do not look like everyone else's, and already has endured surgeries at her young age.

In that hand she bore the hymnal, offering to me not only words and music, but more than enough grace to sustain me through the long morning. I called to mind that outstretched hand later, before responding to two people at odds with one another. When the day began, I didn't know that a hand so small would bear such a generous helping of grace.

Ring in the thousand years of peace

2011-12-29T20:00:00.000-08:00

In the hope of peace and good will in the New Year, here's a poem from one of the masters:

In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells]
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Diving grace

2011-11-17T20:17:00.000-08:00

One of my colleagues from the Standing Commission on Liturgy and Music Task Groups posted about a typo in a document to be released in a few months: instead of "divine grace," the words "diving grace" ended up on the page. She posed a question about how we have experienced "diving grace" in our lives.

As a child, I was drawn to water and to swimming, but was afraid of the high diving board at the local swimming pool. I remember being ten years old, terrified to take the first dive. I'd mastered the lower board, and now my swimming teacher, classmates, and my dad were pressuring me. I think that there was a bribe involved, some trivial material thing that I'd wanted. The bribe proved to me how utterly misunderstood I felt; this hesitation and fear were bigger than a fleeting reward.

I remember thinking that just diving would be so much easier than standing at the end of the board, watching the formation of clouds pass by, studying the wavy tree branches across the street, feeling colder and colder until even wrapping my arms around my body did not help one bit.

Just as it's quicker and easier to jump into a pool whose water is too cold than lower yourself an inch at a time till you're waist-deep and shivering, it would have been easier to extend my arms, tuck my head, and dive from that high board. But instead I backed up, started down the ladder, and was nearly at the bottom where I'd see all those disappointed faces when I looked straight up at the sky, back to the blue of the pool floor. Not comprehending why, I knew that I wanted to be right inside the blue colors and the lapping sounds of the others in that pool. I didn't care if I got water up my nose or whether I landed on my belly, because all of it was an invitation to something I couldn't miss.

Holding out our arms to God's grace is like taking that dive. We can go slowly, slipping one leg in at a time, or we can look right into that water and just go for it. The water will be there when we land. God's grace will be there when we extend our arms. We don't need to be good enough, deserving enough, skilled enough, or smart enough to complete the perfect dive, nor to receive grace. It's simply there. How we embrace it, how much we desire it, and how we finally take that joyful jump that scares us out of our wits is up to us.

Serving a hidden flame

2011-11-01T09:14:00.000-07:00

"Saints, like revolutionaries, walk headlong into the cool, dry wind, are always serving a hidden flame, are terrifying because of what they do not need."
--from Stephen Dunn's poem, "Saints."

Terrifying because of what they do not need! Our culture not only suggests, but insists that we need so many things, many more than we ever knew. What did the saints know that we refuse to listen to?

Jane Austen meets Julian of Norwich

2011-10-07T08:43:00.000-07:00

Last evening after dinner, J and I each took up the Jane Austen novels we're reading (Emma and Persuasion, respectively). It's more fun to read these novels if you're Anglican, I'd think, as Austen's writings mention Michaelmas often!

I found these lines, from Captain Wentworth: "'Here is a nut,' said he, catching one down from an upper bough. 'To exemplify, -- a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn. Not a puncture, not a weak spot any where. -- This nut,' he continued, with playful solemnity, -- 'while so many of its brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all the happiness that a hazel-nut can be supposed capable of.'" -- Austen, Persuasion

Meanwhile, I tried to recall these lines from Dame Julian: "And in this he showed me something small, no bigger than a hazelnut, lying in the palm of my hand, as it seemed to me, and it was as round as a ball. I looked at it with the eye of my understanding and thought: What can this be? I was amazed that it could last, for I thought that because of its littleness, it would suddenly have fallen into nothing. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasts and always will, because God loves it; and thus everything has being through the love of God." --Julian of Norwich, Showings

And all manner of things shall be well.

Forty years later

2011-09-05T08:01:00.000-07:00

It was Labor Day in 1971; my parents had moved me into Spanish House (one of several Language dorms at Oberlin College) and were on their way back to Chicago. Almost sick with excitement, I organized books and LPs (long-playing records!!) in anticipation of classes beginning the next day.

Also that day, I had an audition scheduled for the Oberlin Choir. Having trained for nearly ten years as a violist, I'd rejected a full scholarship to the university my viola teacher had selected as the place to train for a life with professional orchestras. Instead, I had fallen crazy in love with this small liberal arts college and conservatory in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio, and was taking advantage of things never tried before, like a demanding choir.

When I arrived at the doorway to the choir room, a tall, wavy-haired student with the most delightful light dancing in his big brown eyes waited to greet the hopeful singers. He stuck his hand inside the neck of his blue striped shirt, and I looked up at him and asked, "Are you a tester?"

Huh? What kind of weird question was that? But he said, "Well, yes and no." He was the assistant choir manager, sending students in and out of the room. I went in, sang a Handel aria, and was told on the spot that I would be assigned to Alto II because I had such rich low notes.

So, here it is, forty years later, that same week. The wavy-haired "tester" is reading a book while I type, and we've been married for 36 years. We don't get to sing together in an ensemble anymore, but perhaps after we both retire from the priesthood, we can do so again.

Auditioning for the Oberlin Choir changed the direction of my life. I'd been determined to complete college and then join a Roman Catholic convent. That didn't happen, which is for the best. I had been bored silly by young men before landing outside the Pennington Choir Room that September day in 1971. The same tall, brown-eyed assistant manager still makes me laugh, as no one else can. I don't know how anyone should deserve to be as lucky as I am.

Stacks of books

2011-08-07T17:56:00.000-07:00

On our coffee table at home, J and I each have a stack of books we're currently reading. The two stacks often are wildly different from one another. Curiously, at the moment, the top books on both stacks are lovely Penguin Classics editions of novels written in the 1800s: Austen's Pride and Prejudice on J's stack, and Bronte's Jane Eyre on mine.

Such gorgeous (and very wordy) descriptions abound in these novels, and in the dialogues, characters take a long time to say what they mean. We don't write or speak like that anymore; reading Bronte has made it impossibly funny to interpret text messages I've begun to receive as people gradually make their way back to campus from summer vacations.

Underneath the Penguin Classics, we have other wonderful books:
Martin Geck's biography, Johann Sebastian Bach: life and work
Robert Greenleaf's Servant Leadership
Mary Oliver's poems, Blue Iris
Katharine Jefferts Schori's The Heartbeat of God
Stephen Prothero's Religious Literacy
Wendell Berry's Leavings

Many of these books came from our recent visit to Elliott Bay Books in Seattle, the biggest independent bookstore I've ever seen. I visited it most every day we were on our trip, and successfully lost myself in the abundance.

This summer, I'm having some tough headaches, along with lack of concentration -- especially in the evenings. And then there's the matter of older eyes. To think I used to stay up reading till nearly midnight! It's hard to make it past 8:30 now. Yet why dare I complain? We do, after all, have the gift of our sight.

If I ever get to retire (!) maybe I should find a place where I might read aloud to those unable to read themselves. That, too, would be abundance.

Good night, gentle reader.

Grace's gold stars

2011-07-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

This summer I'm finding ways to reconnect with earlier years, and with the passions that claimed my time. I've returned to time at the piano -- the baby grand purchased when I was seven years old, an unusual instrument due to its two curved sides. I'm working through a collection of solo piano works, now with pages falling apart, which have dates the pieces were "finished" pencilled in by my beloved teacher Grace, along with the large gold stars she affixed to the pages. Many of these dates show the year to be 1966.

Seeing and playing from this book (left on the piano by N when he was last home for a visit, looking for music to sightread) call to mind my awkward childhood self: newly cropped blonde hair, skinny legs and knobby knees, the smell of wood polish in a home that always was so well-kept and cleaned that it looked unused, and even the tension in my back as I struggled with fingers that missed notes.

With amusement I note that even now, my hands ignore the marked fingerings. I wonder if the memory of these piano pieces still lives in my fingers, so that they naturally move in the same ways they once did. Or am I just as resistant and rebellious when it comes to doing every last thing I'm told?

Bringing this same question to my work as a parish priest, I wonder what equivalent there might be to ignoring fingerings imposed by someone else? Hmm. One thing for sure: I'm not looking for accomplishment marked by gold stars.

Salt and laughter

2011-06-23T08:01:00.000-07:00

Today I give thanks for two dear people. The first is J., a colleague in several ministry settings. J is recovering from a heart attack; we nearly lost him. One of the hardest parts of his new lifestyle has been giving up salt, as much as that's possible. It's challenging when most of our foods contain ridiculous amounts of salt. In solidarity with J., I'm giving up salt, too, not only to become more healthy, but to think of and pray for him every time I make a better dietary choice.

The second person I name is Ruth, my mother-in-law, who would have been 100 years old on this day. I give thanks to her in so many ways, but especially for her gift of laughter. I can still see her reacting to one of the many corny Horn jokes, the laughter coming straight from her toes (which we never saw; she was properly dressed at all times in a skirt, stockings, and tie shoes).

Cheers to J. in his recovery, and thanks to Ruth for her music, her laughter, and her six children -- especially that youngest one. :)

The Chalice and the Fly

2011-06-06T15:39:00.000-07:00

It finally happened.

I started the Eucharistic Prayer yesterday, and noticed a slight movement over the altar. There it was: a fly. I've not seen one in the chancel in the four years I've served at this parish. It's one thing to have an outdoor Eucharist, where flies and bees and ants like to see what's for lunch. And because I was trained to perform a minimum of "manual acts" and to celebrate with simplicity and reverence, I don't normally cover and uncover the chalice with the pall multiple times. I'm wary of creating distraction, so I've joked with our deacons that if I see a fly, I'll cover the chalice right quick.

So there they were: the chalice and the fly. I covered and uncovered and then covered that chalice, all the movement feeling at odds with the way I prefer to minimize it. I recall that when our bishop visited, he, too left the chalice uncovered, saying with a grin, "If a fly appears, I'll cover the wine." I admit it: I was never so glad to have that pall nearby; the fly gave up, and did not dive in for a happy, drunken end. And I learned that it's a good thing to keep alert!

Imperfect birds

2011-05-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

So many of the people I encounter, either in the Church or in the university setting, push themselves hard, holding themselves and others to a standard so high that it encourages an obsessive drive for perfection.

Last weekend, my body sent me a clear message to stop this insane perfectionism. Is it so hard to be content with doing our very best, and praying to do better? We're human, and humans make mistakes, don't always get things done, offend others when it's the last thing intended.

This line from Anne Lamott's newest book, Imperfect birds, stands out, and I'll share it here: "Rae had once made a room-sized weaving for Audubon's Bolinas Lagoon Preserve, of egrets and herons nesting in redwood trees, and Elizabeth remembered now the secret ribbon woven into one branch, which bore the words of Rumi: 'Each has to enter the nest made by the other imperfect bird.'"

Only a boy

2011-05-02T13:49:00.000-07:00

"Then I said, 'Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.' But the Lord said to me, 'Do not say, I am only a boy; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you.'" (Jer. 1:6-7)

This passage leaped into my mind when I learned yesterday that our bishop has asked me to preach at this week's clergy conference. If there's any more intimidating setting, I don't know what it is. At the recent Chrism mass, I recall thinking as I watched a colleague ascend the steps to the pulpit, "Glad it's not me! Tough crowd!"
Ha. So it is that many of us take our turn, at least one of us each year when we come together at the retreat center. So, if you're reading this, please offer up a prayer that the word of God, the mystery of God, and the love of God may be revealed through my speaking.

What I didn't say to the barista

2011-04-22T19:13:00.000-07:00

At our local coffee house, the barista asked, "So is your son coming home for Easter?" (Well, not exactly. He's a church musician at a huge, busy parish -- there's a special reward in heaven for church musicians -- and he's working nonstop. We're all working, all weekend.)

"And what are you doing for Easter dinner?" she continued. (Are you kidding? We're all in different cities, and by the time two of us get back home, we'll be pretty wrecked. But when we're that tired, we can be awfully silly. That sounds good right now.)

I'll be grateful when we've gotten through the weekend, praying that we'll give those we serve a glimpse of the great mystery. In the end, the liturgy and the music pull us through, and even in our human mistakes and imperfections, the Christ-light shines.

Slowing down after a broken bone

2011-04-14T10:41:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, I fractured a finger after falling in the parsonage. After four days of wearing a confining splint and seeing an orthopedic specialist, I'm wearing a smaller and simpler immobilizer, and he's determined that surgery will not be necessary. I am grateful that I'll be able to use the hand to rehearse and play in an orchestra concert this Sunday. I don't recommend breaking a bone, but the injury has slowed me down, and it's been instructive. I'm paying attention to movements I make, catching myself operating at top speed to save five minutes. There's grace in slowing down. It's been challening to write, to drive a car, to type on a keyboard, to wash a dish, to get dressed. Hopefully I'll be more attentive to the practical needs of others with broken bones, too. (Now if only I could write a blog post with paragraphs! Does anyone out there know how to fix this? I've already tried doubling the usual spacing.)

Messy as mud

2011-04-06T08:49:00.000-07:00

As a reader kindly advised me, blogger paragraphs currently are disabled. Instead of posting 4 pages of a sermon here, all in a single paragraph (and hard on the eyes), I'll post the link to sermons on our church web page: http://www.trinityic.org/_whoweare/Sermons/sermons_raisin.htm. Unhappily, italicizing and footnotes did not transfer to the web page. That's too bad, because I think it's important to note sources. But at least the paragraphs are back.

Labor & delivery

2011-04-04T10:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's sermon (labored over and delivered three times) is ready to post here, though not quite -- I cannot separate the text into paragraphs, so matter how many times I re-edit. I've not posted sermons in this space, but on occasion I think I'll start doing so. For now, the text is saved as a draft, awaiting the expertise of my favorite man in black.

Good words for Lent

2011-03-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

In this Lenten season, my goals include: listen more (talk less), and don't judge others. Work toward the first goal is going fine. The second is more problematic. Sitting with a small group the other day, someone who claimed to know about music and the arts described a string player as a "cello-ist." And "click, click" went my judgmental self, snapping right into place. Anyone should know that it's a cellist, right? Well, obviously not. (And why is it usually music that brings out this bad quality in me?)

So, it's back to the words of John Climacus: "Don't judge anybody. Period. Even if you see them doing something wrong with your own eyes! Appearances can be deceiving. You may be wrong. Don't judge."

Aquamarine

2011-03-03T18:18:00.000-08:00

Today a student, C., called while I was in my office. (This was unusual enough; more often I receive a text or facebook message.) Would I be there for a while longer, so that she might come by and show me a present for her mother's birthday?

When C. arrived, she had a large, steaming hot cup of jasmine tea, and it was important to her to share half with me. I divided the tea into two cups. C. presented the gift for her mother: a gorgeous yet simple, custom-made bracelet of aquamarine beads. I admired it (and quite honestly thought her mother was very lucky!) and thought it fun that C. wanted me to see it. But that's not why she stopped by.

The real reason for the visit was C.'s request that I bless the bracelet before she send it off. We went into the quiet church, stood at the baptismal font, and shared a lovely few minutes of prayer and blessing, complete with the sprinkling of holy water. Then we finished our tea, talked about her future and what it feels like to be truly inspired by someone, and she (and the aquamarine beads) were on their way to the post office. Moments like this come rarely, and I'm grateful for every one of them, for every time someone thinks that blessing makes a difference.

Paying attention in church

2011-02-14T12:32:00.000-08:00

Yesterday after our third Eucharist of the morning, an earnest young man shook my hand and said, "Thank you for the sermon, Reverend. I really enjoyed it." The problem? I wasn't the preacher! My colleague (male, half a foot taller, and with a speaking voice greatly different) preached, and was ahead of me in the greeting line. Still, he didn't get thanked for the sermon.

Normally, when someone tells me they really liked the sermon, I'll ask what in particular they liked. This time, I thought it best just to say thank you and not embarrass the poor guy.

Ampersand

2011-02-07T14:18:00.000-08:00

While reading the biography mentioned in my previous post, I noted that in letters exchanged between Franklin and Eleanor, each writer used ampersands in place of the word "and." A few days ago, a friend who'd just read a different biography remarked that in earlier decades, writers abbreviated & misspelled often, & no one thought much about it.

I might have done better in those times, given how judgmental I am about grammar, punctuation, & writing in general. It would be much easier not to care, especially when reading newspapers.

Still, I grin every time I see an ampersand. When our son was about to turn 4, he was looking at the journal House & Garden at his Godmother's house. A neighbor who was visiting remarked doubtfully upon N's actually being able to read already. So, the wise Godmother (who knew better) said, "N, can you spell that magazine title?"

N read aloud, "H - O - U - S - E - Ampersand - G - A - R - D - E - N." Maybe you had to be there, but it was a really fun moment & that was because of the matter-of-fact reading by a small boy, who had no idea why the neighbor then clapped her hands.

Franklin and Eleanor

2011-01-17T17:31:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I read a biography. When I stopped in at Prairie Lights Books earlier this month, Hazel Rowley's new book, Franklin and Eleanor: an extraordinary marriage (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2010) was on display, so I picked it up.

Two aspects of biographies fascinate me. We usually see many excerpts from letters exchanged throughout the person's lifetime, and letters such as those do seem to be something long gone. So I feel transported to another time and place (a good thing). Also, the number of pages the biographer takes to relate certain parts of the life story varies wildly. In this book, the account of Franklin's boarding school days and subsequent courtship with Eleanor takes up a goodly portion of the long opening chapter, but the birth of their first four children (in roughly five years' time) requires only eight pages.

Reading biographies helps to take us, as readers, out from underneath those parts of our own stories that rear up and lead to obsession over unmet goals, unresolved relationships, or past times that now look much different than they actually were. It's helpful to read that Franklin and Eleanor, each in their own ways, struggled with such similar family and vocational (or career) issues as those of us who are -- thankfully -- just ordinary people moving through Ordinary Time.

Second Sunday after Christmas Day

2011-01-02T16:36:00.000-08:00

We had some lovely moments in church today. I enjoyed celebrating our bilingual service more than usual. The second lector (reading in Spanish) was relaxed and easy to follow. Those who haven't spoken the Spanish responses in the past were now doing so. And the later service was lovely and unhurried. I liked singing the Christmas hymns much better after Christmas, knowing that in the world outside of church, many people discarded their decorations and trees on December 26 and had "put away" Christmas. We did not put away Christmas just yet. And now we joyfully look forward to Epiphany in a few days.

The best part of the morning came when a first-time, exceptionally nervous acolyte appeared, practically glued to her mother's side. I could tell that she was right on the edge of pulling out entirely. As I worked to reassure her, another acolyte, M., showed up. His natural charm shone through as he approached the anxious girl, extended his hand and said, "Hi, I'm M. I'll show you what you need to know. It's easy, and you'll be fine." Together they went down the hall, and I knew that she was in excellent hands.

At the Passing of the Peace, both the deacon and I showered her with encouragement, but by then she was already fine. M. had been the best teacher ever. She grinned back at me with the widest and most natural grin I could hope for. And that's when I thanked God for this day, these particular people in this particular place, and resolved to write a note of thanks to M. for his outstanding leadership. I hope that when he receives it in a few days, he'll be surprised. I think that Great Things are ahead for this young man.

More books!

2010-12-26T14:12:00.000-08:00

In our household, books are friends. I drink in their splashes of color, their wondrous smell when new, the book jackets which distinguish them one from another -- and I take a moment to feel their weight in my hands. I don't think I ever could be a Kindle reader!

Under our Christmas tree were the following new friends:
American Grace: how religion divides and unites us, by Robert Putnam and David Campbell
Being with animals: why we are obsessed with the furry, scaly, feathered creatures who populate our world, by Barbara King
The dog who ate the truffle: a memoir of stories and recipes from Umbria, by Suzanne Carreiro
God drops and loses things (poems), by Kilian McDonnell
I love bacon! (recipes), by Jayne Rockmill
My reading life, by Pat Conroy
Psalms, v.4 from The Saint John's Bible
Sunday Soup: a year's worth of mouthwatering, easy-to-make recipes, by Betty Rosbottom

Thanks be to God for the gift of sight, that we may read these books; thanks for the authors who received the gift of inspiration.

The Red Carpet

2010-12-04T16:29:00.000-08:00

Last week's trip to California for work with the Standing Commission on Liturgy & Music task force groups required four flights, and many hours waiting in airports. I was fascinated by the "perks" granted travelers who elect to pay for the elite or gold star status. One perk is being invited to board the plan first, by means of walking to the jetway via the Red Carpet.

The red carpet is less than an inch away from the regular carpet, and leads to no separate, fancier door. These elite travelers spend megabucks in order to spend more time inside the cramped space of the aircraft (or "airbus" on some flights) with its peculiar -- or at times nonexistent -- flow of artificial air; they are offered pillows and little squares of blankets, and may get free drinks. Who knows, maybe these passengers feel special enough not to mind the intrusive security measures, delays, and countless irritations of air travel.

I can't explain why the red carpet caught my eye as it did, but it has me thinking about those things that we imagine will help people to feel privileged or special. All this could be useful in thinking about recruiting church members, but I'll have to ponder that some other day, when the intensity of stories heard at these meetings has less of a grip on my soul.

Falling off the church

2010-11-20T14:58:00.000-08:00

During a campus ministry-sponsored supper last Sunday, one of our young adults (who is bilingual) was asked if he'd attended an Episcopal church in Chicago, where he grew up. (Side note: The young adult and I grew up on the same street on the south side of Chicago, which I find absolutely remarkable.)

He replied that no, he'd grown up Catholic, but that he'd "fallen off the church." We knew that this really meant that he'd fallen away from church, but I'm still thinking about his words. Various images of a person literally falling from the roof come to mind (likely because we've completed a major construction project that had many people up on the church roof), but I also consider the phrase to describe part of my past week.

Three critical situations with families called me away from church: one visit to the county jail, followed by about 24 hours being present or on-call for two hospitalizations. One of these involved 8 hours of preparations for and heart surgery on an infant; the other was an unexpected emergency admission that remains serious. By the time I returned to church the next day at noon, I was just in time for a meeting, followed by discussion out in the hallway.

The problem here was that I felt as though I'd "fallen off the church." Shifting from critical, intense and chaotic to "ordinary and expected" mode left me with little patience for the ways in which members of a church can neglect to speak of (or to) one another with respect or graciousness. At the hospital, I'd witnessed graciousness and hospitality over and over, and it seemed ironic that I didn't find it in church. There's no surprise here; parish life can and does bring out the best and worst in people's reactions to one another. But the image of falling off the church still describes how it felt to encounter behavior I wish I hadn't witnessed. (If you're still reading: yes, I responded to the behavior. And yes, by the grace of God, I have regained patience.)

A Nod to Nouwen

2010-10-25T08:32:00.000-07:00

Three months ago, J and I spent part of a day at the Abbey of the Genesee in New York, where Henri J. M. Nouwen spent seven months, and wrote The Genesee Diary: report from a Trappist monastery. Last week, I finished reading the Diary, and once again experienced the sense of sadness I feel when I have read the final sentence in a book I've loved. Do any of you feel something similar at the end of a cherished book, as though a dear friend walked out the door?

Nouwen's honest writing about his painful struggles while in the monastery include excellent entries about prayer, the psalms, manual labor, community, moodiness, the need for approval, and the communion of saints. His dedication which precedes the book's opening pages reads as follows: "To all contemplative men and women who by their commitment to unceasing prayer offer us hope in the midst of a troubled world."

I commend this book to you, and I hope that Nouwen's descriptions of baking the abbey's Monk's Bread (famous in upstate New York) will make you prayerful over the next piece of bread that you eat.

Please pardon this proud mom moment

2010-10-18T09:23:00.000-07:00

Happy feast day of St. Luke!

Normally I reserve this space for poking fun at myself, or relating a story from church life which serves as a reminder that we can take ourselves too seriously. Today I want to share this link from last night's Anglicans Online. The authors went to the Evensong service at the church where our son serves as choirmaster.

Several paragraphs down in the article the authors begin, "Tonight, we attended a service of sung Evening Prayer that was flawless in every respect." Of course I'm delighted to see the recognition, but I'm happier still to hear in that 25-yr.-old choirmaster's voice today such complete joy in his work, such passion for the music and text. That N has found this degree of joy in his work and has such a parish that both receives and shines forth joyous light makes me happier than I can say.

Vichyssoise

2010-10-02T08:05:00.000-07:00

On this date 39 years ago J and I had our first date, sitting together at an Oberlin Alumni Association dinner for which we (in the Oberlin Choir) were part of the evening's entertainment. J was my entertainment; he spent the whole dinner making me laugh. Our older table companions likely were rolling their eyes at his nonstop antics. The vichyssoise that we ate that night was fantastic, and we still talk about it. Little did I know that J had planned to sit with me, nor that we would laugh so much, no doubt raising many a distinguished eyebrow.

After that night, I discovered that J walked down Professor Street at a certain time each night to the dining hall, so I "happened" to walk down the same street, several days in a row, till we met up -- and the sparkle in those dancing brown eyes won my heart all over again. After that, we were obvious as a couple. A fellow choir member (now a well-known conductor) dubbed us "Mr. and Mrs. Farm America." The title may have come from J's wearing plaid flannel shirts -- who knows?

And how could we have known that, years later, we'd be living in the heart of wavy cornfields, not quite on the farm, but firmly planted in Iowa. We won't be eating vichyssoise this evening, but we will have dinner together -- better than way too many evenings, now that we work as priests in cities 75 miles apart. Ah, soup of the evening, beautiful soup!

The Grammar Police

2010-09-04T08:57:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I received the latest draft of a document to which a number of colleagues have contributed. Some grammatical problems remain from earlier revisions, but they are minor. I am going to leave them alone.

Be it curse or blessing, grammatical errors jump out and make me crazy. I suppose it's (its its its) to be expected that grammar seems to matter less and less, judging by many newspapers these days. And those who write actual letters and send them in the mail are seen as dinosaurs by those who only e-mail or text, writing words reduced to shortcuts (RU4 sure?).

Instinctively, I still want to fix every mistake I notice (and I no longer catch as many as I once did). In part, I'd like to fix poorly penned sentences because I've sensed that the more bad writing that we read, the more removed we as readers are from how good writing works. What if we, then, gradually lose the ability to write well?

My decision not to correct the document to which I referred earlier has more to do with recognizing my own pride and judgment when spotting what to me are maddening errors. What, I wonder, makes reading ghastly punctuation maddening for me? What does it say about my need to be around those who write vividly and speak articulately, judging others as though they are less worthy?

On the other hand, some of us have got to stand up for excellence in writing, before that excellence diminishes even more. But for now, I am going to let the errors I noted rest, putting aside perfectionism and turning my eye to more basic needs of those for whose souls I care.

Remembering Ruth

2010-08-30T07:38:00.000-07:00

It's the fifth anniversary of my mother-in-law's death, so I honor her and give thanks for her life. Ruth would be 99, were she still here. In many ways, she is very much here.

I still see her at the piano after dinner, playing hymns from a well-worn hymnal. She passed on her fine musicianship to three of her six children, and did so with humility. Of course, I remain especially grateful to her for producing that sixth child.

As Ruth aged, she took to eating dessert (especially chocolate and ice cream) before dinner, just in case she wouldn't have room for it after a meal. While raising her large family on a pastor's salary, she still made sure there was dessert on the table every night.

She spoke her thoughts freely, the way young children sometimes do. I recall one harrowing trip in heavy traffic as we transported her to the wedding of one of her grandchildren. From the backseat (as we held our breaths hoping the wild drivers would not crash into us) came Ruth's declaration: "Such a nice, relaxing drive, dear."

There was the time I sliced open my index finger on a bottle of fine olive oil, and appeared at her door with a very noticeable gauze-wrapped hand. Ruth asked what I'd done, and I explained the accident. "Wasn't that rather dumb?" she asked. (It was!)

I never once saw Ruth wear anything other than a skirt or dress, and sensible, tie shoes. Her attitude was no-nonsense; outright affection and compliments could be minimal. So I was floored when, right after I'd miscarried a child and felt like a deeply flawed person, she peered at me over her steel-rimmed glasses and said simply, "I love you." I never heard her say such a thing at any other time. In her family, that love was understood without words.

As I remember Ruth this day, I will set out her wedding china for dinner. We rarely use it, but even for the simple meal we will enjoy on this work day, we will give thanks for a great lady as we bow our heads -- and eat dessert first.

More on poetry

2010-08-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

As poetry makes its way back into my life these days, I was delighted to open the newly-arrived (August 24) issue of The Christian Century, in which editor John M. Buchanan writes: "When I am blessed with a little more leisure time than usual, I like to spend some of it with poetry. This summer, I am thoroughly enjoying God Particles, by Thomas Lux, who teaches poetry at the Georgia Institute of Technology."

Tom Lux directed my honor's thesis in poetry while I was at Oberlin College; he was both brilliant and spooky. The spooky part had to do with his health, about which we students knew little other than to be worried. He wore lots of black clothing, and his book of poems, Memory's Handgrenade, sports a memorable all-black dust jacket. But spookier still was what Tom wrote inside my copy: "Raisin, This book is yours & the moon which shines over my grave is yours. Best, Tom."

Every time I find a new book of Tom's poems, I'm both excited and relieved -- that he's writing, that he's teaching, and that he's still breathing. Like editor Buchanan, I too have enjoyed reading God Particles, and I remember that this is a poet whose use of sharp, clean imagery fills my mind with movement and color, despite all the black that, in the mid-seventies, seemed to surround him.

Patience

2010-08-12T14:55:00.000-07:00

When I think of Patience, an immediate memory is a beautiful golden retriever of that name, owned by a (very patient) English professor I had in grad school at Hollins College.

More recently, in days when patience seems to be in short supply, I call to mind a poem that I'd love to share with you. The author is Pat Schneider, from the book Another River: New and selected poems (c2005).

The Patience of Ordinary Things

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
how the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
how the floor receives the bottoms of shoes or toes.
How soles of feet know where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience
of ordinary things, how clothes
wait respectfully in closets
and soap dries quietly in the dish,
and towels drink the wet
from the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

Extreme definition

2010-07-28T06:57:00.000-07:00

We're in Evanston, where we went to a movie -- something we haven't done at home since last September. At the ticket counter, we were told that the showing at the time we'd selected would be in XD (Extreme Definition). "Better sound, sharper images, leather seats." (Leather seats?!) And twice the price, I should add. We were about to turn the tickets in, but decided that we'd try it once. But we didn't last past the 4th preview.

XD actually means Extremely Deafening. Even with fingers stuffed into my ears, I couldn't stand the volume. A shock of bright images and repeated, rapid movements coming from all directions made me queasy and dizzy. My nervous system felt assaulted. J didn't fare much better. We left.

We returned for a different showing of the movie (Inception), without the extremes. That was better, though both of us closed our eyes during the Big Bad Gun shootings and constant explosions, neither of which were advertised in the movie synopsis. Much of the acting, at least, was fine. But the story seemed silly, and the ending predictable. One teen behind us, after the show was over, joked, "Where am I?"

I enjoy viewing films on the big screen, but it's a highly unpleasant experience to sit through half a dozen excessively loud, boring, or offensive previews, and then watch the violence at which (apparently) much of our culture doesn't bat an eye. And we think this explains, in part, why so many people are losing their hearing while they're still young.

History or mystery

2010-07-19T13:24:00.000-07:00

"From my Shelf" is the name of the used book store in Wellsboro, PA, where we're visiting family. J and I wandered into the store, and I deliberately browsed away from the Religion/Theology section. We're on vacation, and even though we've engaged in multiple daily conversations about church, I was making an attempt to think about Something Else.

A woman passed by with a tall stack of books. She paused and asked the person behind the desk, "Do I shelve this under History, or Mystery?

I became momentarily obsessed with finding out which book she had in her hand. I didn't want to ask, because who the heck was I to be listening to her conversation? So instead, I followed her around for a moment or two, oh so discreetly. I figured that whatever book this was, it must have to do with church. When I figured out the reason for my interest, I decided to abandon the effort. Vacation, vacation, vacation...right?

In the end, though, I don't ever really let go of church. I miss it when I'm away, and although it's great to let go of responsibilities for a few weeks, passion for the work remains alive no matter where we are geographically. What would it mean if we never gave church a thought during this time? I don't suppose we'll ever know the answer.

Keeper of fortunes

2010-07-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

Gentle reader, this blog post does not concern money. It's about something frivolous: fortune cookies. I confess to a fascination with the fortunes hidden inside (usually stale) cookies that in their best days revealed just a hint of orange.

The best fortune I ever received proclaimed: "You will have god luck." This one came years before I began the ordination process, and still I marvel at it. First runner-up, opened on the weekend of my ordination to the transitional diaconate, said: "You are going to have some new clothes."

Another favorite is a keeper because of the lovely image within: "Alas! The onion you are eating is someone else's water lily."

Today's, however, remains a puzzlement: "The luck that is ordained for you will be coveted by others." I'm still trying to reconcile "luck" and "ordained" inhabiting the same sentence. In the meantime, all of this reminds me how great my passion is for Asian food, and how I wonder if my colleagues find it peculiar that I have an entire collection of chopsticks in the desk drawer in my office -- just in case.

Advice for novices

2010-06-18T11:13:00.000-07:00

From William of St. Thierry's Golden Epistle (written in 1145) :

"Not that, to follow the Apostle's teaching, it is not in keeping with human nature or unfitting or undue or unjust to have an occasional headache in God's service..." Hmm.

The water of baptism

2010-06-05T13:42:00.000-07:00

We just had a baptism rehearsal with one of our newer families. I'll baptize their 2-yr.-old tomorrow using a bilingual liturgy, praying more of the service in Spanish than usual. (We offer a Spanish/English service once a month.)

I knew that the baptismal candidate does not like water on his head (!), so when he stood on the step stool in front of the font, I invited him to touch the water, and then to put water on my head first. It worked! He was happy as could be as we rehearsed tomorrow's liturgical actions (until we got to the Chrism, and the Squirm Factor went way off the charts...I'll have to think of something for that!). This will be our first baptism done in Spanish, and I'm ready.
Demos gracias a Dios. Aleluya, aleluya!

Numbers

2010-06-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

I'm old-fashioned when it comes to numbers. I like to balance them either in my head, or on a piece of paper, putting aside all offers of a calculator. Like doing crossword puzzles, learning a language, and eating blueberries (so I've heard), simple math is one more way to keep one's mind sharper.

In my work as a parish priest, I'm not normally the one who worries most about numbers and retention of parishioners (except for this temporary period when I'm acting rector). In this past week while contacting newer members and visitors, I've learned that in the race to claim new members, it's easy to overlook the needs of established members. Sometimes, the reliable people who maintain the life and health of the church (and who appear to have it All Together) aren't doing well at all. But it takes sitting with them long enough to unearth the clues. It takes deeper listening that could have been used to connect electronically with more people or urging visitors to become members.

I'm happier connecting more deeply with a smaller number of people, which means I may never be the best person to grow a church in terms of increasing numbers. Give me more face-to-face communication and handwritten notes or letters. (Let me eat my blueberries and use a pencil to balance my checkbook.) It's important to pay attention to the people we already call our parish family members, and we don't always remember to do so. For me, it is not all about numbers.

Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury, 988

2010-05-19T08:27:00.000-07:00

O God of truth and beauty, you richly endowed your bishop Dunstan with skill in music and the working of metals, and with gifts of administration and reforming zeal... (from the Collect for Dunstan's feast day)

Today, one of our students celebrates her 21st birthday. Not only does it fall on Dunstan's day, but her home church is St. Dunstan's -- and so is the name of her violin! To my delight, she and her roommate (also a violinist), agreed to bring their instruments to the 5:30 Eucharist at which I'm talking about Dunstan. I'm going to ask this smaller midweek congregation to sing St. Dunstan's hymn (Hymnal 1982 #564) while our musicians harmonize to their heart's content. How many 21-yr.-olds in this university town would spend time in a midweek church service when they could be out at one of the bars in town that give the birthday person 21 free pitchers of beer? (Yes, pitchers -- not glasses.)

The musical delight that I was not expecting today, however, took place at the Agape Cafe, where we serve a hot breakfast each Wednesday. One of the regular guests summoned me to his table, pulling out a guitar of an unusual shape (round), assuring me it was not a mandolin. He asked if I would play it. Yikes! I haven't had one in my hands for a long time.

So I took it, checked to see if its strings were in tune, and picked out notes that were pretty close to the Dunstan melody. Then, one of the crusty, gruff guests said, "That's the prettiest thing I ever heard." So, Dunstan, this day is for you.

Connected

2010-05-15T14:11:00.000-07:00

On Friday, I decided to fast from all internet activity for 24 hours. (I lasted 23, and thought that was pretty good.) I've observed in myself and others an increasing lack of patience when expecting immediate responses to requests and questions, many of which have a tone of urgency.

Too many times to report here, I've been in face-to-face conversation with someone who, in the middle of a sentence, responded to a text message -- all the while still engaged (maybe) in our discussion. A majority of people in my daily life are "connected" at all times. It's great to be available in that way, and once in a while I'm envious. But being connected at all times makes us very bad at waiting.

Some good comes out of waiting, which sometimes includes silence. What I noticed during this 23 hour experiment was that toward the end of it, my anxiety level was nearly through the roof, imagining urgent messages waiting and the authors of those messages frustrated.

I've learned from this that I need to confront whatever it is that makes me think my response to something that's not an emergency is urgent enough to break into most of my days off. I've also decided that my irritability this past week has something to do with having responded to most everything immediately, day or night. This needs some work. For starters, I'm on my way back to Iowa City now, where I will not have internet access till Sunday morning when I arrive at 7 a.m. for church.

Patience, where art thou? One of my grad school professors back in the late 70s had a golden retriever named Patience. This dog did exhibit all the patience a human might want. I'm praying for the same, right now. And may your day, gentle reader, also be filled with patience and peace.

Mary's Prayer Book

2010-05-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

Eight years later, I still miss my friend Mary. She chaired my parish discernment team, was the first to tell me I should be a priest, and promised to go with me when I interviewed at my seminary. Mary died unexpectedly 6 weeks before that happened.

Perhaps I think of Mary in part because the discernment team I've chaired these past months concluded its work last week. I will miss the gatherings; such bold honesty shone through them. I hope I was as gracious as Mary was for my team.

Mary's husband gave me her prayer book. She had written her name on the inside cover in sharp, black ink. Mary was a school teacher with that distinctive ability to write perfectly formed words in cursive. I used her prayer book when I preached at her funeral. I am drawn to it, even though we own...well, let's just say several others.

Mary has a way of making an appearance at times when I wish I could talk with her. Sometimes it's a shudder of wind, or one of God's creatures running through the grass that remind me of her. Her relentlessly positive attitude greatly influenced others to look at a situation from a better angle.

These past two weeks have brought news of people I care about who are toppled by serious personal crisis. I spend hours in prayer on their behalf. I pray I will be helpful when I sit with them. But with so many at one time, anxiety over missing something or not listening well bats its wings over my sleep.

I know that I am allowed a few slips; we're imperfect humans. Mary would tell me this in a way so real that thick clouds seemed to part in the sky, illuminating such extravagant light! I hope that her wonderful spirit shows up soon.

Thomas Merton saves the day (again)

2010-04-19T13:47:00.000-07:00

"The only unhappiness," Thomas Merton wrote, "is not to love God."

I'm reading Merton's Dialogues with silence in preparation for a Contemplative Prayer session I'm offering this week. For several days now, I've entered into a time of unrest and anxiety, which relates to the imminent sabbatical of my rector -- and my stepping into his role (all the while running my own race in our lovely, crazy church). Merton calms the madness. His words jump from the page to my ears like notes played in perfect tune:

O flaming Heart,
Unseen and unimagined in this wilderness,
You, You alone are real, and here I've found You.
Here will I love and praise You in a tongueless death,
Until my white devoted bones,
Long bleached and polished by the winds of this Sahara,
Relive at Your command,
Rise and unfold the flowers of their everlasting spring.

(from Dialogues, p. 7)

Peace be with you

2010-04-09T14:36:00.000-07:00

One of the preachers I admire suggests that a sermon does its job best if someone becomes uncomfortable (or gets mad at the preacher) upon hearing it. This Sunday, I may make some people uncomfortable. (It's time; I've been pretty gracious for three years.)

A visiting liturgist spoke at our recent clergy day, and gave evidence that the passing of the peace in church can so easily be unwelcoming, when the intent is the exact opposite. While newcomers or visitors awkwardly await a handshake, others around them share extended, effusive bear hugs or kisses as though it's a family reunion (which, some will argue, it is). But the more the exchange of words get away from passing the peace (making lunch plans, exchanging recipes), the time becomes a kind of intermission with gymnastics -- or at least some crazy pew-leaping -- which can give the offertory sentence a quality of desperation when attempting to call people back into worship.

Not long ago, I received the gift of an authentic, brief, and much-needed passing of God's peace from a colleague during an extremely chaotic Eucharist. This exchange meant so much to me that I'm willing to offend some people to get the circus atmosphere to stop. We'll see how it goes.

Carrot orange and electric blue

2010-03-22T13:01:00.000-07:00

Ever since my former seminary dean posted his reflection on Crayola crayons and the natural world (Feb. 28, '10), I've wanted to paw through a box of crayons. I had such an opportunity a few days ago, while waiting in my doctor's office. Gary was right. He'd read an article suggesting that the maker of these crayons no longer used color names that are drawn from the natural world.

Instead of burnt sienna and cornflower blue (my favorite), today's colors reveal that young people spend less and less time outdoors looking at trees, grass, birds, and sky. The new colors derive from images seen on television, on video games, and other electronic entertainment. Indeed, the colors I just saw had names like electric blue, green apples, and carrot orange. Probably there's one called big bird yellow, as well. (Sure, one might argue that apples and carrots are outdoor things, but I have doubts that many kids dig for carrots in the dirt, when they can reach into a plastic bag in the fridge for "baby" carrots.)

The natural world and I don't see a lot of each other in times of snow and ice, and it's been a long winter. But now, thanks to Gary's homily and the grass greening up right outside my back door (which opens out to an expanse of open field and its ceiling of sky blue), I'm determined to spend more time out in God's good creation. Right before my eyes, here's a colorful world that I'm lucky enough to be able to see, smell, hear, and touch. And most days, it's the ideal place to sit: on a bench with my dog, watching the turquoise water of the pond where ducks and geese dip their beaks and trees bat at the wind with their burnt sienna arms.

Fit for a queen?

2010-03-15T08:26:00.000-07:00

Let's just say it's been a rough week, and time to remember that God gave us the gift of laughter. I came home yesterday and heard the delightful sound of my dear spouse chortling. He was reading one of our local newspapers, whose name I won't mention here.

The article described a local fine dining experience. "Tuesday evening's theme was Italian, with the courses being caprese antipasto salad, Italian wedding soup, bison osso bucco and tiara misu for dessert." Ah, yes, the crowning touch!

An ordinary day

2010-03-05T16:43:00.000-08:00

Some of my colleagues make a name for themselves in the community or in wider circles. One just had a curriculum published and placed on the reading list of one of the Episcopal seminaries. I am delighted for her. It's well-deserved recognition for hard work. Another colleague is known for making acquaintances all over town.

While I have some recognition within our Province and in the national Church for experience related to General Convention, that is not the work that is life-giving. I don't know a better way to say this, but I just want to be ordinary, do my job, and do it well. I'd like to make a difference, one person at a time. I'd rather be someone who's in the building, who's available and present when life presents situations that people can't deal with.

Such a thing happened yesterday; I had my coat on and was ready to walk out to a scheduled appointment. A couple passing by on our block walked into the church, the woman in extreme distress. Her 21-yr-old child is dying in the hospital nearby, and it's literally more than her body can stand. At one point I had to prop her up. The time with them, probably 30 minutes, was very intense and difficult. I cannot change what is to come for them. But I was the one present, while others were away. It's terribly hard work, and today I ache for them. This is what I signed up for: meeting people who at times have no where else to turn.

This is the work that means more to me than being out meeting people in the wider community. I am okay with being less visible -- and simply doing the best I can moment to moment, in the context of an ordinary day.

Second chair

2010-02-12T14:35:00.000-08:00

Several months back, the journal Congregations featured an article on clergy who sit in "second chair," or assistant positions. The author proposes that a majority of second chair occupants use the position only as a stepping stone to the head pastor spot, while a few remain in the supporting role because it suits them.

This is my third year in a second chair spot, and as much as I would love to overrule decisions on some days, it seems that I'm one of those unusual people who have gifts for being No. 2. Two of our staff members told me (independently of one another) that I serve as the "glue" which holds our staff together in a way that hadn't been possible before. I'm amused by being called glue, but as I ponder the sense that I do not desire to be the guy [sic] in charge of everything, I'd describe it more in terms of how many pieces of a puzzle I choose to see.

Whether I like it or not, I continue to serve as City Dump (i.e., my office and my ears collect the complaints, dreams, anger, tears, and frustration of any and all who maintain that under no circumstances would they feel free to express these emotions in the rector's office). I don't claim to be a nicer person, nor more approachable, nor wiser. I learn constantly from the longer experience and non-reactivity of my colleague and boss. But there is something about speaking to the boss that stops people. Second chair looks safer. And people do, after all, love to triangle leaders, so why not start with the assistant?

This isn't a matter of glue, but of sitting with, and sifting through, a situation from many viewpoints offered to (or thrown at) me, as if presiding over all the puzzle pieces in a jumble and knowing that they will fit -- but only after a great deal of patience, and hours, or months, of work.

Words we are given

2009-12-26T18:54:00.000-08:00

I don't always know why I gravitate toward a particular writer during those rare days that reading time opens up. Most recently, I opened Annie Dillard's For the time being (1999). I have an odd relationship with her books, having shared a writing program with her (Hollins College) and having her former husband as my adviser. I loved her writing most before it became popular to say so.

As I read a segment of the narrative tonight, I came across words suited to this holiday season, when we so easily fall into the trap of trying to outdo ourselves or our neighbors in preparing elaborate meals, adorning ourselves in finery, or standing out as the most eloquent person at a party. Instead, listen to this:

"Seventh-century Chinese Chan Buddhist master Hongren advised: 'Work, work!...Work! Don't waste a moment...Calm yourself. Quiet yourself, master your senses. Work, work! Just dress in old clothes, eat simple food...feign ignorance, appear inarticulate. This is most economical with energy, yet effective."

The field is wide open

2009-12-16T10:01:00.000-08:00

I served breakfast today at the Agape cafe to some 90 hungry, cold neighbors here in Iowa City, many still dressed in multiple layers as they placed their orders and waited for a hot breakfast. After the first rush ended, I spent a few minutes with our guests. Occasionally someone will recognize me from church. That happened this morning, even though I wore a big, fluffy Santa hat. "Aren't you that priest from Sunday?" a young man asked today.

"No kidding, she's the priest? Cool," said Keith, who doesn't mind if I use his name. "You know what," he continued, "that's big big job, being in the ministry. You take on a lot. I mean, the field's wide open."

I'm contemplating that field today. Our new home looks out on a grassy (snowy) expanse of field, also wide open. Maybe this house picked us.

Come for tea

2009-12-04T14:17:00.000-08:00

In her book, The Meaning is in the waiting: the spirit of Advent, Paula Gooder writes, "When I was a child there was a song sung quite regularly in church that began, 'Comfort ye, comfort ye my people,' drawn from Isaiah 40. In the way that children do, because those words didn't make immediate sense to me, I translated them into words that did, and I was convinced they meant, 'Come for tea, come for tea my people.' I had a mental image of God, sitting in a comfortable chair with a huge teapot, inviting everyone in for a cup of tea."

So, what would it be like sitting at tea with God? Who would be there? (Everyone. Both sinners and saints whom I miss.) What would we wear to tea? (God doesn't care.) What would I say? (Nothing. Just listen. Or maybe, remembering the multitude of blessings easily overlooked in a fit of melancholy, I could say thank you, just thank you.)

In which the Episcopalian anoints a Buddhist

2009-11-23T13:44:00.000-08:00

Last week, I visited a comatose patient in the ICU, but haven't felt able to write about it. Even now, what I'll say will be brief.

The patient, R., has been the chief potato cook for several years at the Cafe which my university chaplaincy sponsors. About 2 weeks ago, he fell from his roof. He has, among other problems, a brain injury. Thus, during my visit, he was as though asleep.

Never mind that he basically considers himself a Buddhist -- I anointed him anyway, making a small sign of the cross on his forehead as I whispered a blessing. I've anointed comatose patients three times in this same hospital, but this was the first time that the patient responded.

As I lifted my finger from his forehead, R. opened his eyes wide, looked at me, and then closed them again. In those few seconds, I saw in his eyes the most powerful light streaming toward me. When his eyelids closed, the light stayed in the room. R. has had great support, and a steady stream of loving family and friends. I felt such a magnificent presence of the Spirit during those few minutes, it was all I could do to get safely back to the church, for my own steps seemed just slightly lifted above ground.

Very thin suspect

2009-11-17T18:07:00.000-08:00

Another gem from our local newspaper in southeastern Iowa:

"About 5:43 a.m., police investigated a theft at the Superwash car wash that occurred during the overnight hours. The suspect(s) entered the coin machine, and approximately $50 in quarters was taken. A similar theft was reported on Nov. 11."

It's amazing how much I look forward to these funny back-page reports. It's good to laugh out loud after the first wacko day back in the office in two weeks.

Duck

2009-11-15T18:20:00.000-08:00

Today I wondered why it is that I sit in church, or (some years back) in a seminary class, or a dinner party, and still find that I'm an outsider when someone inevitably says "We all know that character in ____ ___ ____ ___" (Random Cable TV Show), or "like that song everyone learned as kids," or "the latest couple from XYZ Current Reality Show."

We don't all have Cable TV, or we don't choose to watch TV when we have free time at home, or maybe we never went to camp as a child (and so never learned a single camp song). Today, listening to a sermon, I simply noted that I've never seen the History Channel. I wondered if I should regret this, since it sounded as though I needed to have seen it to understand the preacher. But it's not even that I feel removed from the majority; I just plain don't care. I'm old enough, finally, that it doesn't matter if my unfamiliarity with popular culture marks me as an odd duck. Quack, and quack.

Soup and hospitality

2009-10-28T17:38:00.000-07:00

A Korean pastor, on sabbatical in Iowa City, teaches at a women's university. When she returns to South Korea, she wants to start up a campus ministry program. I was asked to befriend her.

This week we had our second lunch meeting. We went to a place that serves Korean food, at K's request. When we arrived, K spoke to the owner in Korean, and we were shown to a table. K asked what I wanted to order. It has been a cold few weeks in our church building (still without heat during construction) and my hands were icy to the touch. K was concerned about warming me up, and apparently told the woman at the restaurant to bring me hot soup. I ate it gratefully. Then our big bowls of noodles and vegetables arrived.

My new friend K asked "you like the soup?" and I nodded yes. I started on the vegetable dish and couldn't imagine how I'd eat it all, having eaten a large bowl of soup first. Then the wait person brought another bowl of soup! In the meantime, K asked if I'd like to try her spicy noodle dish. I was thinking a spoonful would be fine, but she called the wait person for another bowl for me! Yikes.

I wanted to finish all the food, because my friend ordered it, and it was her turn to pay for lunch. This was her best effort at hospitality. I thought it would be rude not to eat it, but finally had to say, "This is so good. But I cannot eat more." Offering hospitality is only part of the story. Receiving it can be more complicated that it appears.

For Eliza Doolittle

2009-10-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

"Words, words, words! I'm so sick of words!" Eliza sings in My Fair Lady. I love the song, and the character. I both agree and disagree with Eliza's sentiment about words. I love words, sometimes so much that I linger over them in a book and read the same sentences again and again. I love words which evoke colour, or sound. I love old-fashioned words that I haven't heard in years.

But I get very sick of my own words, and sometimes other peoples' words, because I also love silence.

Then there are the words that simply rub people the wrong way. Someone very dear to my heart dislikes the word "moist." I can't stand the word "hubby." It must remind me of either "cubby" or "hobby," both of which are too cute to bear. I would love to hear of words that make others of you shudder. And here's another song from my growing up years: "Silence is golden, but the eyes still see."

It must be Monday

2009-10-05T14:47:00.000-07:00

It must be Monday, because I spilled an entire box of grape tomatoes at the grocery store checkout counter.

It must be Monday, because I brought home Chinese takeout and found I'd carried it upside down from the car to the kitchen.

It must be Monday, because after all day Saturday at Clergy Day and all day Sunday in church, committee meeting, chapter meeting, and late afternoon festive Eucharist in a nearby town, the thought of tomorrow's clergy lunch makes me a little crazy. Too many collars!! (You know I love you all, but geez...)

It must be Monday, because this is the day I cook. Tonight's menu includes fresh spinach sauteed in olive oil, garlic, and lemon, baby portabella mushrooms (sorry, E), and chicken breasts baked with oregano, lemon, white wine, red onion and capers.

Music box

2009-09-23T17:39:00.000-07:00

I retrieved a small package from my mailbox last Saturday, which was my birthday. No matter what I was about to find in that package, I was happy to see it, because it came from Noah in New Haven. The more stories I hear from parishioners about their family relationships (and their brokenness), the more I'm amazed at the blessings given to me through my family. Why should I be so fortunate, while others are not?

Inside the package was a golden music box, only 3 inches wide and 1 inch tall, that plays Simon & Garfunkel's "Sounds of Silence." The music box came from the Haus der Musik in Vienna, where Noah spent several days in August. This music puts me in touch with my formative years, prior to college, when I was overwhelmed by experiencing God through music. I say to this day that music put me most directly in my path toward priesthood, and I believe it will keep doing so. Receiving a gift from as far away as Vienna from a son I don't see nearly enough but am so grateful to have, I can only give thanks and praise to the God who puts up with me and with all of humans who try one another's (and God's) patience often -- yet, we surprise one another with wondrous gifts.

What do your plates say about you?

2009-09-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

Nope, not dinnerware, but license plates. After nearly thirty years with Scott County plates, our new ones reveal that we live in Henry County. I've had a devil of a time finding my car in a parking lot a few times already. Rural Henry County -- us? The two that grew up in Chicago and Philly?

For years, J and I had plates with ERC (Episcopalians are Really Cool, or Episcopalians Read Compline) on them. I gave mine up in '08 after an accident on the interstate and got new plates with TJP (Tidings of Joy and Peace). My former rector's plates read HOA (Host of Angels), while a chronically annoying person had plates that suggested a nice cuss word.

Our new plates have WHB on them. J's is easy: William Horn's Boy. Mine could be Wife of Horn's Boy, but I need something more creative.

What do your plates say about you?

Hard to read

2009-09-09T19:50:00.000-07:00

Since my last posting, we moved to Mt. Pleasant, a small community between our two church jobs. The town square reminds us so much of the college where we met in 1971 that we were charmed from the first visit.

The local newspapers, we've learned, might be an unending source of entertainment. I came home this evening after two intense work days and found that my sweetie had circled a paragraph in one of the local papers so that I wouldn't miss it. I actually snorted when I read the following, in an article entitled "Car chase ends by striking house":

According to Mt. Pleasant police chief ____ ______, Miller past an officer while illegibly driving over the speed limit. By the time the officer turned in pursuit, Miller had turned a corner and was out of sight.

I hope that this made you laugh, too. Good night.

Honey Raisin Nut

2009-08-10T12:54:00.000-07:00

We move this week to our new home in Mt. Pleasant. While packing, I rediscovered something a friend had found: a sign from a bagel shop that resembles a name plate. It reads, "Honey Raisin Nut." My friend decided I should have it on my desk.

Yesterday while distributing communion bread, a parishioner who normally takes bread and responds, "Amen, Raisin" said instead, "Amen, Honey." Then he looked truly horrified. (So was I!)

He explained, "I would never say that to you, but I was just thinking about a bagel I like that's honey raisin, and it just slipped out."

And now, back to packing books. (How can we have 4 huge boxes of cookbooks??)

Packing power!

2009-07-05T16:17:00.001-07:00

While I pack for Anaheim and Napa, Noah is home to sort through and pack up his childhood room. His best friend, his significant other, and his best friend's significant other all are power-packing. The women are folding the clothing and the guys are working on the piles...and piles... of books, papers, musical scores, CDs, church bulletins, and other closet treasures. (But right now I hear them all laughing hysterically. Hmm.)

It's a fine thing to have dear friends when embarking on a task with this much nostalgia involved. As for my packing, I'm mostly avoiding it, since I don't cherish the whole airport scene for much of tomorrow.

And lucky J gets to stay home, getting the house readied yet another time for our realtor to show. Our closing on the house we just bought is at the end of this month, 4 days after J begins as rector in Burlington.

Then my rector leaves for the month of August, and I'll be on call for any and all pastoral needs at the time our actual move begins. We have a lot going on right now.

The Hymnal 1982 teaches the city girl about farming

2009-06-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

I grew up on the south side of Chicago proper (none of this "Chicagoland area" back then), where we bought tasty Chicago hot dogs from the vendor outside our apartment and didn't notice the constant noise of taxis and sirens and people out at all hours.

Later this summer, J and I are moving to quiet Mount Pleasant, Iowa, a small college town whose town square surrounded by funky shops reminds us of the college town where we met. But in Mt. Pleasant, we have farm equipment. And I'm familiar with almost none of it -- except the green and yellow John Deere tractors.

As we've driven to Mt. Pleasant, I ask J (why am I asking the Philadelphia city boy?), "Is THAT a silo?" or "What does that machine do?" He figured out the ideal way to teach me something about farming. He sang. See Hymn #290 (vs. 2): "first the blade, and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear: grant, O harvest Lord, that we wholesomes grain and pure may be."

Ah, good Hymnal, I treasure thee!

Preachers' Kids

2009-06-15T09:48:00.000-07:00

Recently, I met a retired priest whose son is a composer and violinist. I'd just heard the son's excellent live performance. I complimented the dad, who began talking about PKs, or Preachers' Kids. During our opening discussion of things clerical, I detected not a hair of humility in the dad, who then spoke of his son and said, "You know, they shouldn't be called Preachers' Kids. I prefer to call them TOs."

"TOs?" I wondered. "Theological Offspring," he said. As far as I know, I successfully avoided an eye roll. But, really. He's got to be kidding. (And why is this still annoying me, two weeks later?) Heh.

Okay, I admit it; that was fun.

2009-06-08T12:17:00.000-07:00

The phone rang, and the caller said, "Good morning, this is C.M. Almy calling. Is Pastor Horn available?" I answered, "Sure, which one?" (A moment of silence...) Then she asked for John. I had a smile on my face for a while.

Note to self after a week of sorting and packing

2009-05-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

Remember this useful motto when moving a household: "Of COURSE we don't need to keep this ______."

Down with clutter! Go away quietly now, you unused kitchenwares, wedding gifts, Christmas trees, baseball bats, college notebooks, record albums whose covers were chewed by at least one dog!

It wasn't just coffee

2009-05-18T15:25:00.000-07:00

Graduation weekend is over at the University of Iowa. One of the students from the highly competitive Iowa Writers' Workshop who spent Sundays at our parish during the past two years wanted to meet for coffee before she left town.

Before we finished our coffee, she handed me a gift: her MFA thesis, in which she ends her acknowledgement page by thanking me for support during her time in the rigorous program. I've received thank-you notes from students and always felt very grateful for them. Today, though, was a first. It's humbling. And I've been handed a gift of words!

Take my hand

2009-05-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

Our longtime friend, Helen, died last week. I've been thinking about the hours I was able to spent with her in the hospital.

Helen was hungry, but unable to receive food. She took my hand and, even through her oxygen mask, made eating motions, alternating trying to chew and swallow my hand with attempting to chew the bedsheet. She told me that there were 5 musicians in the room, singing and playing instruments. Later she said there were 25 more musicians outside her window, all there for her party. After a while she stopped "eating" and moved my hand as if to suggest I were conducting the gathered musicians.

For Helen's friends, those last days were difficult and very sad. But I think that Helen was content: she thought she was eating, hospice allowed her cats into the room, and there were a whole lot of musicians at her party.

May Helen's soul, and the souls of all those whom we have loved and lost, rest in God's peace surrounded by a choir of angels.

Ensemble playing

2009-04-20T14:30:00.000-07:00

While onstage yesterday, playing viola in the Iowa City String Orchestra, many moments stood out as joyful ones; much of that joy was about breathing together as a section of seven players, sensing a ritard, a crescendo, a challenging entrance. The music was difficult enough that I knew I'd miss notes here and there. But the overall sound of our section had much to do with acting as one instrumental part. We don't have big egos, no one needs stand out, no one puts others down.

Being a member of this section is a fantastic experience. Taking care to listen to and watch one another's bowing is a valuable experience. As I think about my role in a particular parish, and then in a wider Church, I know that careful ensemble doesn't happen in this way. I don't believe that each member acts as though the other members count equally and need to be listened to carefully, as though they matter. Just food for thought today.

Father, Mother, Sweetie, Honey, Kiddo, and Dear One: a post-resurrection rant

2009-04-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

All of the above are how I've been addressed at church while in a collar (though, granted, not on the same day).

An Iowa City professor introduced me as "Father Raisin" last week at a downtown bookstore. I could deal with that, but it's not suitable. I don't care for "Mother," though it's still pretty popular around here. But one day, when I'm addressed as "Mother" I may begin singing "Climb Every Mountain."

As for "Sweetie" and "Honey," it's all I can do not to slap the person. Slapping is not in my nature and I'm generally too horrified to reply. Another female priest who serves this parish gets called "Kiddo," which provokes her no end. As for "Dear One," only one retired priest gets away with it; he's been part of the parish from the age of 10, and I receive his greeting as a sign of affection.

I'm fine with being addressed without a title, but when parishioners refer to the rector and me in the same sentence, as in, "Let's ask Father M___ and Raisin," I don't appreciate that, either. Call us M and R, or give us both titles. The next person who calls me "Honey" may be in for a good swift kick. Ouch.

Mr. Ed

2009-04-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

In the midst of Holy Week prep, I turned to Iowa Public Radio and heard a string orchestra with classical guitar soloist playing variations on "A horse is a horse, of course of course..." from that way-back-when, black-and-white TV show, Mr. Ed.

At first I thought I imagined the theme, but then the theme itself came back clearly, and more variations followed. The music successfully entertained and removed me (for at least several minutes) from some weighty concerns about people with whom I've sat this week. Three cheers for Public Radio, and the creativity it offers -- even in the midst of its Spring fund drive.

Y and K?

2009-03-20T07:17:00.000-07:00

In a meeting last week with members of the university administration, I heard concern and dismay over the increasingly diminished writing skills of undergraduates.

One of the academic deans explained it this way: "My own sons reply to my questions by texting. If the answer is yes, they text me a "Y." If the response is "OK," they send back the letter "K." Apparently it takes too long to type a whole word.

While I've been aware of shortcuts and the briefest of replies, especially from younger people, I admit that I was startled to hear that some exchanges are down to a single letter.

If whole words or entire sentences are too much trouble, are these same "writers" even reading books anymore? Is one "entire" chapter too long? I contemplate this trend, and wonder what sort of chaplaincy activity I might create to combat it. I welcome your ideas, K?

3.1415926535897932...

2009-03-14T08:18:00.000-07:00

This blog takes a moment to wish everyone a Happy Pi Day, remembering especially Noah's senior recital at Oberlin on this date, during which he played an improvisation on the scale degrees of pi. (Marchand, J.S. Bach, Saint-Saens and Vierne stood waiting patiently.)

Thirteen

2009-03-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

It may be obvious from the silence here since my last post, but I'm just swamped, a bit overwhelmed by how much I've taken on outside the parish with provincial duties and assignments related to General Convention. And of course it's Lent, with more going on at church than ever. But the day got a shot of new energy, thanks to a thirteen-year-old.

My young friend came to my office to discuss a Global Studies project he'd like to do. He proposed that he and a friend put in ten hours volunteering at the Agape Cafe (a mission of the Episcopal Chaplaincy), raising funds for its continuing operation, writing an article about it, promoting awareness at school of hunger issues and homelessness, talking to legislators, and making a video.

I'll be ready for them when they come to the Cafe, and I hope that they get back at least as much as I imagine they're going to give. Thank God for them!

The priest goes to the gym

2009-02-05T18:11:00.000-08:00

It's my day off, so I went to the fitness center before driving home to Davenport. At the front desk, I had trouble scanning my membership card, which normally sets off a "BEEP!" right away. I tried moving the pass up and down and sideways so that it would scan.

Apparently, the guy at the desk watched this, and couldn't figure out the problem. Then, I moved my pass again and we heard a "BEEP!" The guy slapped his knee and broke out in a huge grin, "Hey, now that was pretty cool," he said, "I like that sign of the cross you made and then it finally worked!"

I swear I did no such thing. I just moved the card up and down and then sideways. But he saw what he saw. "No really," he said, "I saw that Hail Mary thing. I'm cool with that, that's great, I mean I'm a believer and all." "Me too," I said, and my workout had an extra kick in it today.

Poor potato underground!

2009-01-28T09:32:00.000-08:00

The Clergy Cluster of which I am part met with our bishop yesterday in a nearby city. Participating in the meeting and travel would have eaten up five hours, and I wasn't delighted at the prospect. While I respect community building and colleagues, I'm becoming more irritable about the time given up for these gatherings. I enjoy my colleagues most of the time, but really -- I'd rather do the work I'm given to do.

Shortly before we were to depart for yesterday's meeting, the volunteer coordinator at the Agape Cafe (a program that my Chaplaincy sponsors) called to say she was short on volunteers, and desperate for my assistance in preparing the weekly breakfast for about 90 hungry neighbors. Could I please come help chop potatoes and set tables?

Clergy talk or potatoes? I chose potatoes. As the coordinator said when I declined to attend the meeting with the bishop, "So you decided to do ministry instead of talk about it." Sure, some meetings need to happen, but I think that institutions such as the Church spend far more time meeting than can be good for the soul.

Instead of meeting yesterday, I got my hands full of grainy potato skins, heard the satisfying sounds of a bubbling kettle, and talked about music with a man who works as a janitor. While chopping potatoes, a poem from Jack Prelutsky's book Ride a Purple Pelican came to mind:

"Poor potato underground/never gets to look around/never has a chance to see/a butterfly or bumblebee/never sees the sunny skies...what a waste of all those eyes."

One year later

2009-01-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

On this date last year, I survived a serious auto accident on the interstate. Today I give thanks for that, and marvel at how long it's taken for psychological recovery. Until this week, I have spent the winter months terrified on the road. Then something shifted. The weather improved. Fear had set its grip deeply upon me, and only in the past few days, it's backing off. It's easier to be in the car (though not yet actually easy).

Time does matter in recovery, and as much we may wish to hurry it along, it won't be hurried. I'm hopeful that through this year I have gained some patience, not only with others, but with myself.

Part of gaining confidence came this week through joining a string orchestra in Iowa City. I'm one of seven violists. At the first rehearsal, the ability to sightread, play, and keep up with those who have not taken 20 years off amazed me. And finally, I have found both a new group of engaging friends and the joyous return of a passion that has nothing to do with church.

But, oh! The notes on the viola parts have gotten so, so much smaller!

Faces and books

2009-01-10T15:11:00.000-08:00

Whoa! John joined Facebook today -- a most unlikely turn of events for someone who feels so at home in centuries long past (or, at least, with books from ages long gone)! His Facebook photo alone is worth seeing (it's from 1972, a year after we met).

I still enjoy being surprised...just didn't expect being THIS surprised on this very snowy Saturday!

Living under a rock

2009-01-05T16:41:00.000-08:00

Well, no, I haven't been. But when I worked at the uppity wine shop before I left for "seminary school" (as they say on House, M.D.), my co-workers regularly asked me why I had no familiarity with television shows/plots/characters. At least two of them asked, "What, have you been living under a rock?"

During Christmas break, my favorite organist brought home a DVD with many episodes of House, and so introduced the series to us. I hadn't seen even one before that, nor did I suspect how much I would enjoy it. It's crazy funny!

Yesterday, after something in my sermon prompted it, another organist encouraged me to watch Joan of Arcadia, which I'd never seen, either. Better still, he loaned me a DVD set right away. J and I watched 2 episodes, and I'm hooked.

It seems as though the organists that make major appearances in my life are doing a great job of connecting me to the perfect way to finally relax, and to stop obsessing about work. Thanks...you know who you are!

Surprise on New Year's Eve

2008-12-31T17:35:00.000-08:00

We're staying in this New Year's Eve, enjoying Noah's last night in Iowa for quite a while. As I was preparing my friend Mary Lynn's pear frangipane tart, the phone rang. Calling from Germany was our friend and former high school exchange student Ulrich, now 21. He was with us in 2002, and provided much delight.

Ulrich loved to cook, and often made his homemade salad dressing for us. He took quickly to American fast food, particularly enjoying Wendy's hamburgers so much that he insisted he'd name his first child Wendy! Ulrich found it peculiar that at our churches, we sing "Alleluia" instead of "Hallelujah," so he'd pencil in the "H" on every church bulletin he could find.

It was a joy, especially on a day when I learned of the sudden death of a parishioner, to have this lively, excited voice on the phone -- calling us out of great fondness and already living in the year 2009 while we have a few more hours to go in 2008.

Happy New Year!

Dogs with friendly faces

2008-12-28T14:24:00.000-08:00

Travel conditions to and from our friend Henry's funeral yesterday were terrible. Heading to the Chicago suburbs on Friday in thick, deepening fog was slightly scarier than yesterday's return trip in heavy rain-turning-to-sleet. The funeral itself was a blessing, having been carefully planned with Henry's favorite scriptural passages and hymns.

Hymn #313 preceding the Gospel came from the 1940 Hymnal, chosen because Henry loved the line in the second verse about "dogs with friendly faces." The hymn made many of us grin. I was pleased to be asked to co-officiate, and had an excellent, experienced priest with whom to work. (Thanks, Lane.)

Having braved all of that weather, I was dismayed to awaken today to snow and ice. Part of the interstate west of here was shut down yesterday. The icy roads kept me from taking Noah to church in Iowa City. Instead, deciding it was wiser to be safe in town, I drove slowly and carefully to our home parish. The driveway (on a slope) is treacherous if it's icy. As I pulled in to park, going at about 2 mph, I slid on the ice right into the car of a parishioner -- while she watched from the sidewalk.

Her car has a small ding. She told me it wasn't my fault, since once you slide on the ice, you can't stop. But I do feel at fault, and last winter's serious accident on the interstate on black ice again reruns itself through my head. When we started to slide this morning, the black fear welled up all over again. Clearly, it's a setback. Now, I need to overcome it, rather than believing that I simply should have stayed under the covers in the first place.

During church I tried to rise above my frustration by calling to mind the dogs with friendly faces, but it didn't do the trick. Singing Christmas hymns with Noah at my side did cheer me up quite a lot, though. What a tenor! What a supportive presence!

A Line Attributed to Charlie Brown

2008-12-23T14:07:00.000-08:00

Happiness is a warm puppy (especially one who wags nonstop at the sight of you), but happiness also is spending most of Christmas with the church family you've freely chosen, and which has chosen you.

Happiness is the joyful noise of the youth choir as they pound down the hall to rehearsal.

Happiness is counting the hours till your children come home.

Wishing everyone a safe and blessed Christmas!

Wildly distracted and sad

2008-12-22T06:46:00.000-08:00

As we headed to our friend Meg's ordination on Saturday, I learned of the unexpected death of Henry, a very dear family friend. To say that he's the dad of my best friend from childhood doesn't describe the depth of our bond; perhaps saying that he's the one who bestowed upon me my Raisin nickname in June of 1970 tells you how strong the relationship is between our families.

The ordination was lovely, though sparsely attended due to wintry driving conditions. I told myself that I just needed to get through singing the litany, then get through celebrating 4 Advent -- then I could allow this grief to do what it will.

Imagine standing at the altar, and the altar book has two missing pages in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer. Oh, on some other morning I might have been able to call forth the rest of the words, but not so yesterday. I paused. The rector rescued me by handing me a prayer book. Human error is just that -- something with which everyone sympathizes. But I do very much mind that it showed up in the midst of our liturgy.

After that, I left my boots behind in my office, got stuck in the snow, forgot to put the garage door down,....what else? If I continue to be not quite all here in these next days, please bear with me.

(And yes, I did find the missing pages.)

Jazz instruments with fire alarm

2008-12-16T14:00:00.000-08:00

At Sunday's Evensong, our visiting priest had just sung the dismissal and the jazz combo started their last piece, when a curious child pulled the fire alarm. The alarm rang on a clear pitch, three short, piercing notes, over and over.

Within about ten seconds, the combo picked up the key in which the fire alarm rang, and continued to improvise with it till our attentive and quick-minded Minister of Music got the thing turned off.

The jazz studies program lives in our church building this year, after the music complex was flooded beyond repair last summer. I hope they never leave.

Snowy Advent Blessings

2008-12-03T09:41:00.000-08:00

It's snowing so hard that I can hardly keep my eyes away from my window!

Thanks to Sarah's comment on my previous post, it's time for a new colour. The border reminds me of chocolate and espresso. I'll add the sidebar links later; now, I'm dashing off in the wintry white world to lead Advent Noontime Meditations with two colleagues.

Blue

2008-12-01T18:00:00.000-08:00

Blue is the colour most often used by poets.
Blue is the colour of my parish's rich and glorious Advent vestments.
Blue is the colour of the tiny lights in my office, something fun to remind visitors of the liturgical season.
"Love is Blue" is the first popular song I fell in love with as a teenager.
Blue is the colour of my eyes, my dad's eyes, and my son's eyes.
I love blue.
But...I'm so tired of blue for my blog!
I'd change it in a flash, except that redoing all the links takes so much time.

So...does anyone know of a quick way (or any way) to save the links on a side bar? Every other time that I've re-customized my blog, they all disappear.

Magic Eight Ball

2008-11-24T14:08:00.000-08:00

This fall, I became Provincial Coordinator for Campus Ministry in Province VI, and spent last week in NYC meeting at the Episcopal Church Center with other Provincial Coordinators. The energy and passion for work with young adults convinced me that I made a sound decision in accepting this appointment. I have new colleagues who face similar challenges: needing to fight for funding, finding ways to come together within the province despite geographical distance, working to identify student leaders who can commit to national gatherings when they're already too busy.

We worked long days, not even leaving the conference room for the catered lunches. We planned ways to be noticed at the upcoming General Convention, shared experiences and fundraising ideas, and prayed together daily. We grew tired, and needed a good laugh after our discussion of the realities of the country's economic situation and implications for campus ministry.

To the rescue came someone prominent in the current life of the church (whose permission I wish I had to name, but don't) to greet our group. In her hand rested a Magic Eight Ball, nestled into a statue of Jesus. She explained that the statue was a gift she'd received from the Episcopal Church Women of an eastern diocese.

We all decided we needed to try the Magic Eight Ball. I had one (as many did) while growing up, and while I have no idea what became of it, I know that I loved posing questions and anticipating an answer.

Our question was: "Will our campus ministry programs get enough money this year?"

And Jesus' Magic Eight Ball answered, "I'll ask my Dad."

Why I keep my office door open

2008-11-12T13:55:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder if I should close my door so that I might get at least something done on weekdays. But I like to signal that I'm available, and even though I would've loved to get started on a sermon today, I'm glad I was here for my nine-year-old visitor (I'm guessing her age). She arrives early for children's choir and makes a habit of stopping by.

Today her questions included:
Do you have any chocolate?
Why are these paper cranes messed up? (Um, maybe because *somebody* plays with them every week...)
Is that a Jesus doll? Do his sandals come off? Why isn't he wearing any underwear?
Do you like being a priest?
Can I try your singing bowl?
Who became a priest first, you or your husband? (Me, by about two minutes.)
Do you have any homework?

Cup

2008-11-03T07:08:00.000-08:00

A few years ago in seminary, I stood next to a priest behind the altar as he was most of the way through the Eucharistic Prayer. He paused, leaned into me, and asked, "Where are we?" I remember being amused that he blanked out.

Payback time came yesterday.

All Saints was a rich and long day, with the third morning service beginning at 11 and ending close to 12:45. We baptized six babies (glorious -- especially holding the 2-week-old), received new members, had guest musicians, lit candles for those who had died, and heard a stewardship "moment." We grabbed some lunch, and there was one hour left to be quiet before a second run-through of the All Souls' Service beginning at 5, for which I served as Celebrant.

That remarkable service deserves an entire post -- let's just say that by the time I distributed hosts to the rest of the altar party, I went blank after returning the paten to the table. Luckily, the subdeacon whispered, "Cup." One simple word helped.

Having lost my concentration on this crammed-full day, I laugh at as I remember my judgmental self. Laughing at one's own silliness, or lack of understanding, can be a fine thing. I wish we all could remember that we're human beings, and as such, prone to make mistakes. We may mess up for a moment, but we still glorify God.

Marked as Christ's own for ever

2008-10-28T14:15:00.000-07:00

In seminary, I didn't get the chance in "Play Church" class to baptize everyone's favourite doll, Anita Dunkin (!). But I've known all along that the priestly role which I anticipated with greatest joy was presiding at Holy Baptism, and especially praying these words:

N., you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ's own for ever.

While organizing my sermons from the past years, I noted that I used the words above numerous times when describing how the baptized become members of the household of God, for me a turning point even now in making major decisions. Will what I choose to do in a particular situation reveal that I know that I'm marked as Christ's own for ever? And if not, should I be rethinking my actions?

This coming Sunday, I will baptize for the first time. We have five baptismal candidates; the rector and I will share duties. When it's my turn to speak the words, I pray I'll have sufficient grace to remember what action comes next, and not be so astounded by the liturgy that I become the image of "Still Life with Priest."

Trees of the field

2008-10-22T08:50:00.000-07:00

Never imagined it would happen, but my favorite botanist/priest/chef has a new blog. I join the trees of the field in clapping my hands in delight!

Plantman wanted

2008-09-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

The Plantman's job opening is posted today at St. Ambrose University, and soon will be in print at widely read journals in science.

Requirements for this "full-time, tenure-track...position in Biology beginning August 2009" include "training in botany, plant taxonomy, and/or wetland field experience. Ph.D. is required."

What's missing here are the qualities that have made Plantman beloved and popular among college students for 27 years: passion for teaching, energy, humor, patience, high standards, and most importantly, telling every class on the first day that they are, each one of them, of infinite worth in God's eyes. This may or may not be an easy position to fill. It will be more difficult to find a teacher who encourages students' sense of self-worth so strongly. I surely am biased here, but then I have every reason so to be.

Liturgy question

2008-09-15T07:18:00.000-07:00

In this morning's local newspaper, my eye caught a wonderful typo. The story features a woman who got flooded out of her home in June, detailing how she and her daughter received aid that was an answer to prayer.

According to the article, the woman is a "trained licensed processional nurse." Where in the procession should she be placed? Maybe right after the torchbearers?

Kitchen Duty

2008-09-11T18:28:00.000-07:00

Our church kitchen is large, and divided by a wall into two rooms. It's well-organized, as all cupboards and drawers have labels. There's a mighty dishwasher and plenty of counter space. I spent half the morning washing and putting away dishes, silverware, pots, glassware, mugs, plastic containers, jugs, long scary knives; scrubbing counters and unearthing piles of miscellaneous stuff from a fund-raising event last April, then more stuff from the rest of the summer.

I actually liked the work. My brain was on overload, so the physical work of making a large space orderly was welcome, and on Sunday afternoon I will very much appreciate having a clean space in which to prepare our first student dinner of the semester. What I do not understand is why EVERY church kitchen I've used has these same issues. A few people clean up after themselves "religiously," some help every once in a while, but most decide that the clean-up is someone else's job.

Does anyone have a good solution to keeping the church kitchen clean?

How lovely to see you

2008-08-25T06:57:00.000-07:00

After church, in the long line leading into the narthex, this is what I see: the Blurry People of God. While this isn't true of everyone, at least half the congregation gets so close to my face that I need to back away (gracefully, I hope) or else I'm looking at blurred facial expressions to which I really should pay attention.

So, I've taken to doing church without my bifocals, which then allows me to cope with those who get "in my face" and for whom it's important to touch or squeeze (ouch!) my arm when expressing an opinion or telling a story.

Thus far, the only problem with going without glasses is not reading any fine print in the bulletin, or some verses of hymns.

Yesterday, the last newcomer to get "in my face" had extraordinarily delicate, pretty eyeglass frames, which I noticed only because I'd taken mine off. I kept noticing her eyes. Then she said that she's an ophthamologist. Maybe I should consult her about the blurry people problem.

Meet my grandmother

2008-08-11T18:23:00.000-07:00

Her name was Evelyn, she lived to be 95, and she was one of the most feisty and outrageous women we ever knew. She also swore often and loudly.

Today, trying for an hour to resolve a problem with my new student loan company, I came close to losing my cool. Finally I logged into their new website and was asked for a password. The first word that came to mind began with "f" and since I try not to use that word much, I substituted the alternate "f" word (coined by a fellow seminarian several years ago): "filioque." So I typed in "filioque" and went on to the "secret" security questions.

The first question asked for my maternal grandmother's first name. I thought I'd typed in "Evelyn," but her name came out later on the approved personal page as "Filioque."

Now, every time I wish to access my information, I'll have to say my grandmother's name is Filioque. Oh, dear. I hope she's laughing right now.

Actually, for all her years of heavy swearing, the last words she spoke to me were, "God bless you."

Strings

2008-08-07T17:59:00.001-07:00

Now that it's August, and we're home from a 2300 mile drive to and from Connecticut, it's time that I honor my resolution to get out my viola once more, so that I'm ready to audition for the Iowa City community orchestra in September. I haven't played with a group since 2000. I've had this instrument since I was a teenager, back when everyone thought my future held a career as a professional violist. Hah --what did they know?

The strings are tuned, the bow tightened, and the concerto manuscripts look back at me. But the notes are not as frightened of me as I am of them.

Happy hour with wildlife

2008-07-30T17:37:00.000-07:00

We stopped in at a certain chain restaurant tonight in parts east of Iowa, got seated, and a breathless hostess greeted us with, "Would you like to start off with one of our margarita squirrels?"

Swear on a stack of bibles, Plantrev and I both heard those same words. "Uh...no thanks, how about some water for now?" While she disappeared, we looked at the drink menu. Ah, those were margarita swirls. Funny how two people can hear something absurd so clearly, though. Cheers (clink)!

Anticipation

2008-07-29T06:47:00.000-07:00

PlantRev and I leave this morning to continue care for my parents, whose coping skills are far poorer than I had hoped. But then we're off on our own to celebrate our 33rd wedding anniversary this coming Friday. More from the road, I hope!

The Rounder life

2008-07-26T18:21:00.000-07:00

Too much sitting is making me crazy -- and rounder. On a typical day last week, I drove for an hour to Iowa City, sat in a staff meeting, sat in the rector's office for our weekly chat, went back to my office to return calls and send messages, worked up a draft of another letter to students, had three staff people drop by and talk, tackled the summer budget, prepared for an afternoon small group meeting, and the morning was over.

Meanwhile, back in Davenport, Rev. Plantman had ridden his bike, walked the dog, painted the back door, painted the front door, cleaned out the garage, gotten some of the basement cleaned up, and the morning was over.

See? He's on the move, while I'm in a chair (various chairs in various rooms, but still...) and no matter where I am, someone comes by and chats. I love that. I wouldn't give it up. But I wonder if I might invite someone for a brisk walk while we meet. That depends. A person in need of privacy won't want a public meeting space. And I find that more times than not, the stated reason for requesting the meeting turns out to be a smaller part of our time together, leading to deeper conversation. Then I sit in the car and drive the hour home. Oh, the hours of sitting!

Maybe I need to be on a Standing Committee. (no, no, no....).

Oil stock

2008-07-08T13:04:00.000-07:00

I just heard this anecdote regarding a previous rector, who left Iowa for a larger city. His new parish wondered what a good welcome gift might be. He suggested an oil stock, since he was in need of a newer one. Well, they gave him oil stock (think Exxon...)!