Sunday, December 27, 2009

Dear Eight-Pound Six-Ounce Baby Jesus

This year, I bought my first $25 fake, four-foot tall, pre-strung-with-colored-lights Christmas tree from Wal-Mart. I did pull out some of our regular family ornaments to personalize the thing, including a 24-year-old drugstore star, so beloved and such a staple of the experience that in its last appearance, it was snowballed in a wad of white icicle lights for a 10-foot tall tree. The weight of the old star made the wire tip of the Wal-Mart tree nod uneasily into the room.

Otherwise, I made no cookies, filled no stockings, bought only a couple of presents for Wolf and my little nephews, Candler and Oliver. I did not succeed in making Wolfie get a haircut. My hours at work lengthened and the only Christmas events that we took part in this year were at church.

It seemed like at St. Dunstan’s one day it was Sunday School season, and we had just hired our new choir director, Tom Gibbs. Then the next day Tom was asking me to play my flute on Christmas Eve. It all went by in a flash.

Because my heart warmed at the thought of seeing my lanky 19-year-old son playing the cello with the choir on Christmas Eve, I had actually put his name forward with Tom as a candidate. After they met at the church one Saturday to go over Wolfie’s music, about a week later, Tim was tapping me on the shoulder, telling me Tom Gibbs wants to see me.

I was curious until Tom greeted me with his warm smile and said that he understood that I was a “professional flutist,” according to Wolfie, and perhaps I would also be willing to play a couple of pieces on Christmas Eve? Well, I hadn’t played since college and my “professional” career entailed a couple of years of music school and a few pay checks from the smallest, least-known, not-really-at-all-professional symphony, in the world.

From then on, about a month before Christmas Eve, the few precious spare minutes I had after work were not spent in the mall or cleaning and decorating the house, or wrapping presents. When I got home on most days, I ran upstairs to play some scales and long tones, work out the kinks in my relationship with an instrument that I have all but abandoned for 20 years. It’s amazing what fingers will remember. After warming up, I spent the rest of my time going through the music with the funky rhythm, which I frankly was not feeling.

But St. Dunstan’s has a way of getting one ready for Christmas. One Wednesday night rehearsal, I lucked into 30-minutes of carol singing, which started getting me in the spirit.

There was the vestry Christmas party at Joe and Patricia’s house, on a Friday after work, in the rainy, cold, dark night. Joe’s lasagna, Lynn Hood’s secret lobster dip from Cosco, a veritable museum of crèches from around the world. Good cheer.

There was a final figure-out-the-funky-rhythm practice time with Tom in the sanctuary on the Saturday of Tim Black’s ordination. As we counted and ran through the rough spots, Gilda and Lee Morris were busily decorating the church Christmas tree in the background. There was a ladder up on the altar behind them, a bulb being changed in the high ceiling in advance of the Christmas Eve service.

Two hours later, probably the whole congregation was at the cathedral for Tim’s ordination as a deacon, which means he can now wear a white clergy collar. I sat by Joseph Henry on the one side and Christine Beard on the other. For a list of who was there, just look at the directory. We made a nice crowd.

Then there was the Christmas pageant, with its cherub-sized angels. That included Ginny Harris’ leadership in gathering materials and hands to remake all of the pageant costumes, which were lost earlier this year when the basement flooded.

So when Christmas Eve finally came, when Patricia stood up and marveled at her surroundings, the candles, the choirs, all of the pews filled by regular parishioners and visitors from everywhere, I believe she meant every word she said: “Everything about this evening is special – the music that our choirs and instrumentalists have practiced so many hours; the beautiful flowers and altar, arranged and prepared by faithful and loving hands; the glittering candlelight that adds to the magic and mystery of this night.”

Then she told the story of Ricky Bobby from the movie Talladega Nights: “But there is one scene in the movie that perhaps unintentionally makes a theological statement about the birth we are here to celebrate this night.

Ricky Bobby, the country’s most successful NASCAR driver, is seated with his family around a table laden with every fast food imaginable. Before the family digs in, he insists on saying grace.

“Dear Lord baby Jesus,” he begins, “we thank you so much for this bountiful harvest….”

Suddenly his wife interrupts. “You know, sweetie, Jesus did grow up,” she says. “You don’t always have to call him baby. It’s a bit odd and off putting to pray to a baby.”
Ricky Bobby will not be dissuaded.

“I like the Christmas Jesus best, and I’m saying grace,” he says. “When you say grace, you can say it to the grown-up Jesus or teen-aged Jesus or bearded Jesus or whoever you want.” Then he closes his eyes and begins again.

“Dear 8-pound, 6-ounce newborn baby infant Jesus, don’t even know a word yet, just a little infant, so cuddly, but still omnipotent…Thank you for all your power and grace, dear baby God. Amen.”

“One commentator calls it the “scandal of Christmas,” that God comes into human history completely helpless, as a newborn, and is placed in a cow’s feeding trough…. God slips unobtrusively into a remote province in a far corner of the empire, born to a peasant couple on the road, begging for the crudest shelter in which to spend the night.”

The point wasn’t lost. It isn’t the tree. It isn’t in a cathedral. It isn’t the Vatican. Or yards and yards of golden brocade and silver scepters. After the service, my whole family commented on Laura Withers’ voice—in fact, my older brother, Bird, thought she was what some might call a “ringer.” My stepfather, Ron, was stunned. He has a serious musical background and a good ear. And there is that fact that Laura’s voice is something like the sound crystal would make if it could breathe. When anyone hears her sing a solo the first time during a service, the sound isn’t easy to forget.

“I want her to sing at my funeral,” my mother, Mary, said. It is her highest compliment. No one takes more pleasure in planning their own funeral.

And now here I am, the day after Christmas, still chuckling a bit over the sermon, while Wolfie is outside working on his truck. It wasn’t by choice and there was definitely no grand design. This year, Christmas just happened and it was a nice surprise!

Thursday, December 24, 2009

St. Dunstan’s Christmas Pageant Captivates Audience

Beautiful pageant photos courtesy of Vicki Ledet
The long-awaited St. Dunstan’s Christmas pageant, “Good News of Great Joy,” written by Gretchen Wolff Pritchard, was presented Sunday morning to a packed house that was instantly enchanted by the cast of dozens (two to be exact) of players.

The lead role — the baby Jesus — was played by Laura, whose chubby legs could be seen by the audience kicking her socks off. Kudos also go to Katie and Will (Mary and Joseph) who soothed baby Jesus, using rattles and a pacifier, a device believed to be invented in early Rome. “No crying she makes” was almost completely true. AND, okay, this reviewer and the audience just thought she was adorable!








The part of the donkey ridden by Mary to Bethlehem was portrayed by Grant, who displayed serious attention to his art. He did not miss a beat in the whole performance and got the holy couple safely to their destination, the second inn.

However, it is worth noting that Joseph Henry, fondly remembered in previous years for his role as one of the three wise men, this year took on a new challenge: the innkeeper who throws Mary and Joseph out of his business establishment. Joseph Henry was completely believable as the mean innkeeper, who throws Joseph, Mary and the donkey out onto the streets.









Molly and Josie also did a fine job of narrating the story, speaking clearly and eloquently. The kings—Sean, Connor and James—were stunning in their new costumes and frankly, just precious kneeling before the baby Jesus with their gifts. Meanwhile, the sheep, with their fuzzy little ears and heads, wandered around and slept on the stage as if they were real, live animals. The sheep were played by Carson, Noah and Brennan. Sophie was a lovely star.

The shepherds, Monte, Whit, Greg and Rick, explored their abilities to ad lib, which drove the audience to roars of laughter. And last, but not least, the angels from Gabriel (Greer) and Meg to the littlest angels—Carly, Anna Marie, Janae, and Jackie and Wally—were heavenly. There’s nothing like a gaggle of sleepy angels wearing golden wings, white tights and black patent leather shoes to get you into the spirit of Christmas.


Bravo to Ellen Gallow, director, for the excellent performance!

Behind the scenes
This year theater at St. Dunstan’s reached new heights in costumes, following the destruction of the old costumes by floods in the basement. Costume designer Ginny Harris led an excellent effort to replace a little more than two dozen costumes, including eight angels, plus Gabriel, six shepherds and three wisemen, the Holy Family, the innkeepers and various animals. In fact, everything was replaced with the exception of the props used for the gold, frankincense and myrrh.

To accomplish this, Ginny had to gather enough volunteers to physically design and sew the costumes as well as reach out to secure donations of materials. On the help front, Ginny was able to entice parishioners as well as five members of the Atlanta Chapter of the American Sewing Guild (which meets at the church monthly).

“The thing that was the nicest about it was the day—there were a half dozen sewers and the rest couldn’t sew at all but we had a good time. There was a real sense of community going on in that room that day,” said Ginny shortly after the performance. In all, there were a dozen volunteers, including Dick Harris, Ginny’s husband, who achieved the realistic heaven-like quality of the angel’s wings using 14-guage wire wrapped in gold tinsel garland purchased from the Dollar Store.

Patricia donated hand woven cloth from Thailand, a remnant of her experience in the Peace Corps. “She said she wouldn’t use it after 30 years,” Ginny explained. Other beautiful fabrics leftover from home decorating projects were also donated. Nancy Dillion, for instance, gave the fabric from pillows that didn’t get put together, which was transformed into a collar for a king.

Finally, a local favorite fabric shop frequented by members of the guild, heard about the need for shepherds costumes’, says Ginny. He donated 40 yards of fabric to the cause. I share this correspondence from Ginny, preceding the event in the parish hall on October 24:

“The seamstresses have offered to bring their own machines and notions to go with them. Others, please bring scissors, needles, pins, tape measures, thread, and anything else that you think might be handy.

All volunteers, bring your good humor!”

And I believe, that’s just what they did.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Third Sunday of Advent

Sunday School Class
Topic: Virgin birth

We weren’t really getting into whether or not we believed in the physical biological birth (although Patricia did ask for our thoughts). And we really weren’t worrying ourselves over those Christians who unequivocally and literally believe that the Holy Spirit came down and left Mary in the family way. The discussion really came down to the real issue: what happens to literal minded folks who can’t believe in the virgin birth and therefore every other thing that happens after Jesus' birth has no meaning for them?

Joe Monti made a good point, that in our literal society it’s really tough for people to answer that question, unless, of course, they can appreciate poetry. Unless they can appreciate shades of storytelling, layers of meaning, and I would add, an innate sense that life is actually quite full of mysteries that cannot be explained away scientifically. As Patricia said, in reality, never mind the strange miracle birth of Jesus—-any birth, every birth is a kind of a miracle.

I mentioned in class that my mother’s childhood friend, a brilliant woman, former journalist and about as well-read as you can be—is an atheist. She has become so much so that she and her grown children now go out of their way to observe the day of Christmas by non-observance. “Geez,” I said. I love this woman but it seems a little extreme.

My mother then told me her friend’s daughter, who recently opened a yoga studio in San Francisco, has given the whole top floor in her building to be used by alcoholics in recovery to do their exercise. “Tell Katie Mae,” I told my mother, “that’s a very Christian thing to do.”

And I meant it. And not in a sarcastic way.

After that, Bill Hancock added that there are no atheists in fox holes. When the bullets start flying past your ears, God becomes terribly immediate. In a fox hole, we need God. As in, “God save me, help me to see another day.”

Penny, who has a lovely British accent, chimed in. When she was a single mother and life was really difficult, God was evident everywhere, she said, all the time, immediate, easy to find.

A friend of mine, who’s been pinching pennies as a result of job losses in her family, the economic uncertainty that many of us face, told me the other night when she was pulling into the drive through line at Burger King, a man approached her, asking for money so that he and his wife did not have to sleep on the street. At first she told him, “I’m about as broke as you are,” but even as she spoke the words, her hand was fishing in the bottom of her purse for the twenty dollar bill she’d planned to use during the week for pocket money. “I told him, stay warm,” she said simply. But then she dreaded facing her husband who wouldn’t approve. He told my friend that the man in the parking lot was probably running a scam, that there were people begging in the parking lot at Burger King who lived in nicer houses than they did.

Not being the smartest scam detector, I shrugged. “How are you supposed to know? What did you tell your husband?”“I told him the truth,” she said. “I just didn’t have the nerve to spend money in a drive-thru and then tell that man that it was okay for him and his wife to sleep on the street in 36 degree weather!” The man thanked her and blessed her. For him, for her, I think the evidence of God was probably overwhelming.

But as far as not observing the Christmas season—not to prepare for the coming—it is not a lot of things. It is not to have a place to go where people are rushing past you with angel wings and clothes racks full of costumes for wise men and shepherds. It is not to have your very own place to sit when it’s foggy and cold and wet outside, where candles are burning in the windows and the choir is singing its heart out during a Sunday afternoon Festival of Lessons and Music for Advent. It is to not feel the comfort of a familiar hand on your arm asking after your mother’s health. It is to not be part of a whole community of people praying together: “May God bless us with gifts of grace, compassion, and generosity; may Christ awaken us to the wonders of this life and the joys of the life to come; and may the Holy Spirit come to us all during this blessed season of Advent. Amen.”

Qualifications for Service

By Bruce A. Lafitte

Can you teach someone how to pitch a tent? How skilled are you with a map and compass? What is your sexual orientation?

Does one of these questions seem out of place to you? I don’t know how often the last question is actually asked, but only heterosexuals are officially allowed membership in the Boy Scouts of America.

Let’s start with some background. In 1990, a 20-year-old named James Dale was an Assistant Scoutmaster of a Boy Scout troop in Matawan, New Jersey. As a youth member of this troop, he earned the rank of Eagle and was a member of the Order of the Arrow, the Boy Scout (BSA) honor society. Mr. Dale was also a student at Rutgers University and happened to be co-president of the Lesbian/Gay Student Alliance. He attended a seminar on the health needs of lesbian and gay teenagers where he was interviewed. When this interview was published in his local paper, BSA officials read it and expelled him from Scouting because he stated in the interview that he was gay. He sued for reinstatement and the New Jersey Supreme Court ruled in his favor. The BSA then appealed to the US Supreme Court and it overturned the lower court’s ruling. That is a very brief synopsis of the history behind the current state of affairs.

Those who support the BSA policy not allowing gays to participate might quote the portion of the Scout Oath requiring that a Scout be “morally straight” and the point of the Scout Law requiring that a Scout be “clean.” I could quote other points of the Scout Law on the other side of the issue, but the main point is that all of this is so unnecessary. A Scout leader’s sexual orientation, whatever it may be, should not be a topic for discussion among Scouts. My own observance in Scouting has been that the policy in the trenches is “don’t ask / don’t tell.” For a young friend of mine, that worked for a while, but not forever. That’s partly why I am writing this.

As a youth, I spent 10 years in Scouting. I earned the rank of Eagle and the youth religious award. I was inducted into the Order of the Arrow and was a charter member (“plank owner”) of Atlanta’s first Sea Explorer Ship. I returned to Scouting when my sons got involved and have been an adult leader for 18 years. I was a Scoutmaster for four years and a Roundtable Commissioner for five. I have stayed active in OA and am a Vigil Honor member. Last year I took two weeks of my vacation to serve on the staff of a major OA service project in Bridger-Teton National Forest in Wyoming. I have been good to Scouting and it has been good to me. When I was a Scoutmaster, I often struggled to find enough adult help for campouts and other events for the Scouts and would have welcomed any adults who wanted to help. When I was Roundtable Commissioner, we had a long discussion at a meeting one night about the BSA policy against gays. There were several of us who agreed that the policy needed to change. As we say about certain matters in OA, “it’s only right.” As Episcopalians, we are charged at Baptism and, again, at Confirmation to “respect the dignity of every human being.” That’s what needs to happen here.

In OA, I had the privilege of knowing a young man who is a born leader. He is an Eagle Scout, a Vigil Honor member in OA, one of the best ceremonialists I have ever seen, Chief of our OA Lodge, and a recipient of the coveted Founder’s Award in OA. After serving as a counselor at summer camp for the second or third year, he announced to his staff-mates at the closing campfire that as a gay man he could no longer abide by the BSA policy and they would not see him any more. He disappeared from OA and Scouting. It breaks my heart. Scouting needs more leaders like this young friend of mine, not less.

During my youth in Scouting, I never saw a person of color because the program was segregated. There were some courageous individuals in Scouting then who realized that the policy needed to change, and it did. Next year is the 100th anniversary of the BSA. What better time than this to end the discrimination against gays. It’s only right.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Death Is Not a Tragedy, It Is an Unfortunate Circumstance

By Rev. LTC Peter E. Bauer

         On this Second Sunday of Advent, I was out taking a walk at Fort McPherson. As I made my way past Hedekin Field, there he was, a dead squirrel laying out in the middle of the road. I couldn’t pass him by. I walked up to him as he lay there on the pavement. He had survived the fall and early winter well. He was fat and furry and now here he was dead with blood on his head and abdomen. Already, his front feet had curled up stiff. I thought he must have been hit either by a driver going too fast or one was too inattentive. I picked him up by the tail and took him to the side of the road down the embankment where I gave him a proper burial. 

         Previously, I had been in conversation with a fellow Army officer. The topic came up regarding the deaths of civilians during an operational mission, particularly when the civilian deaths occur after the civilians in question have attacked military forces. I mentioned that death is a tragedy. The officer replied, “You can’t say death is a tragedy, especially in public, but you say death is an unfortunate circumstance.” 

          I didn’t take offense at the officer’s remark. I can appreciate that for those who have  experienced combat and have seen and experienced death at close range that it can be described as "an unfortunate circumstance." One could present a good theological argument either way regarding this supposition.

          Pauline theology, for example, argues “death, where is thy sting?" (Romans 8), and yet other theological tradition argues that death is a part of our life experience and we just have to get used to it. Consider the liturgy we say at Ash Wednesday, “From dust you were born and to dust you shall return.”

          We are in the season of Advent, this strange time when the earth is starting to shed its leaves, leaving the trees bare, and where the mercury plummets and the reality of cold weather returns. At the same time, we celebrate with gaiety the birth of Jesus in a stable, a birth that we probably can pinpoint happening more during the months of late spring or summer, rather than in December. We are celebrating the birth of a Savior, a Messiah who will go on to die on a cross, to face a criminal’s death at the hands of the imperialistic first century Roman Empire.

           So if Advent is about preparing for the birth of Jesus and for the coming of the Kingdom of God into our lives, what does the birth of Jesus have to say about our experience of death? Was Peggy Lee right? Is that all there is?

 

            What got my attention about my friend’s comment is that his observation is correct: if you have been subjected to a lot of trauma in your life, combat or otherwise, it becomes all too easy to say that death is just an unfortunate circumstance. Death becomes more than just a companion, it’s the guy or gal who is around the corner that you know sooner or later will catch up with you. Therefore, fatalism becomes your gospel. As Jim Morrison of the Doors said, "No one gets out of here alive."

              The Gospel declares, however, that with the birth of Jesus all of creation, you and I and everything that exists, was transformed. God’s Kairos, God’s new time penetrated our lives and the universe,and made it new and whole. Right now, many people are finding it challenging to experience this transformation through God’s Kairos. A lot of us are consumed with worry and anxiety regarding the war that appears to be continuing without end, continuing economic and employment problems and the fall out that this is generating for families and communities. We helplessly see the killings of people abroad and the killings of our own service members right here at home. We desperately need Good News, we need the “balm of Gilead,” we need the experience again of Emmanuel, of "God with us" in all times and in all circumstances.

                Our faith speaks of a God who is with us in all times and places, in our life and in our death and in our life beyond death. God’s Emmanuel and shalom promises to guide and empower us every step of the way through out all of life. How might God’s Kairos, how might Jesus’ birth really transform you and I this Advent and Christmas?

                 Transformation means that you and I have to be open and receptive to the surprises that God can bring to us. As I returned from my walk back to my apartment, I saw another squirrel, this time alive, scurrying fast across the street with a big nut in its mouth, obviously delighted in the feast that was to be had.  When I see the squirrels scurrying across the road and up the trees, I experience hope and pleasure. For I am reminded that despite my worries and anxiety that there is joy, there is spontaneity, there is life and it is abundant.

                  May this Advent and Christmas be such a time for you and your family and for our world, we pray in Jesus’ Name.

                                                                             Amen

Writing the Story of Christmas

On the first day of Advent, Patricia opened a new topic in Sunday School appropriate to the season—the birth of baby Jesus. First she explained how the Christmas story was really a combination of elements taken from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. On the eraser board, she laid out what each Gospel contributed to what has become the Christmas Pageant. 

On the Matthew side of the ledger was the conception of Jesus; Joseph’s dilemma over what to do with Mary, given that she’s already pregnant. Mary has no speaking part. She bears a son. Wise men come from the east bringing three gifts, which we now extrapolate to mean “three wise men,” though it doesn’t say that. There are no angels or shepherds. There is a star. Joseph and Mary don’t travel to Bethlehem on a donkey—they’re already there. The magi arrive to adore the baby, bringing, yes, gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Matthew says the star was actually over a house, not a stable. The wise men flee from Herod, who had pretty much told them to go seek the baby Jesus out, and so then there’s the slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem—in other words, all male children two years old and under, were put to death. Definitely not part of the Christmas Pageant.

I need to pause a moment. These points, as with all great bodies of points in Sunday School class, were certainly not made without interruption or commentary from us in the peanut gallery. Patricia gave us fair warning though--we weren’t there is judge the veracity of any of it--virgin birth, the number of wise men, none of it. If it is important to a person’s faith to believe in a virgin birth, she said, why would you want to poke holes in that faith? 

Despite the two stories, which don’t mirror each other in the details, perhaps the bigger point is what the whole thing means--that this is the season of hope? Besides, there’s a practical reason for leaving the Christmas Pageant just as it is--with the wise men from the one story and the shepherds from the other--there are enough parts for all of the children. And of course, nobody argued with that.

So, the remaining pieces of the story, on the other side of the ledger, on the big white eraser board in the classroom, were from Luke. It begins with the conception of John the Baptist to Zacharias and Elizabeth, who are old and childless. Zacharias doesn’t believe the Angel Gabriel, who tells him he’ll have a son. So he’s struck dumb during the pregnancy. Meanwhile, Gabriel visits Mary and tells her that she’s with son and that her cousin Elizabeth has also conceived a son, even in her old age. For God nothing is impossible, says Gabriel. Mary visits Elizabeth, sings the Magnificat. John the Baptist is born. Zacharias gets his tongue back and names the baby. Joseph takes Mary to Bethlehem to register for the census, ordered by Caesar Augustus. There “she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room at the inn.” An angel appears to some lowly shepherds in a field and tells them about the baby. And they go to Bethlehem and find Mary and Joseph and the baby lying in a manger. 

Now, the point of all this may not be apparent. There’s something I left out--a friend of mine who has recently made noises about joining the church. This friend has also made it clearly and painfully known that she does not exactly believe in a literal interpretation of the Bible. And of course, as Betty said this morning as we were walking out of class, although in her life, she’s been a Baptist and a Catholic, she finally became an Episcopalian, a denomination in which it’s quite okay to both have questions and voice them aloud. This is, after all, the church that seeks to balance scripture, tradition, reason, and experience.

But there still are, I think, some irrefutable beliefs. And for those, I’ll borrow from Patricia’s sermon last Sunday: 

“We begin Advent with the reality of the direness of our situation, but also with the attitude of hope and expectancy that God’s promises of justice and righteousness will be fulfilled.

“We believe, as our collect for the first Sunday of Advent says, that with God’s help we can cast away the works of darkness and put on the armor of light.

“And we remind ourselves that Jesus is continually coming into the world bringing peace and love and justice and hope.”

Sunday, November 29, 2009

The Word Made Flesh

There is something about winter that makes me tired. Barren branches, frozen dirt, a yard full of misplaced balls, benches and flower pots now exposed with no tall grass or leaves to frame them. I should go pick all of that stuff up and hide it beneath the porch but my body says "No." Even my mind lazily childes "To what end?" Winter has brought me a fine chest cold.

And this is after all the holiday season, time to relax and work puzzles. But I don't feel like it. I lie in bed with two good books, Barbara Brown Taylor's "An Altar in the World" and PD James' "The Private Patient." But as much as I believe I should use this time to enjoy some leisure reading, I keep dozing off.

For the third day in a row, my family has remarked that I do not know how to rest--not even if I wanted to. Given that I spend most of my waking hours in an office, I feel compelled to make practical use of my four-day weekend at home. I start with the immediate: groceries, laundry, cleaning the kitchen and changing the sheets on the beds.

I make phone calls to family members spread across the country, calls I've put off far too long, shoved on the backburner in favor of deadline and deadlines and more deadlines. Indeed for the past couple of days I've had this recurring dream--I have three hours to write a story and I haven't read any of the background material or completed any of the interviews and I can't find my car in the parking lot. (Never mind this dream deadline is a quadruple homicide and I actually spend most of my days writing financial stuff).

Day three: I've not done most of the things that I've put off. I've been to the post office and correctly addressed, stamped and shipped a little plastic box of jumping beans to my 5-year-old nephew in Savannah. They've been in my desk drawer for a month, though periodically I've taken them out and put them under the light to make them jump and to make sure they're still alive. I've sent off books I promised my little sister in July at which point the biography of Bonnie and Clyde was the newest thing on the market. (It may no longer be the final word on their ill-fated lives).

So now I am sitting on the back porch, trying to distract myself with Barbara Brown Taylor's book so that I do not notice the green algae hue of the ropes in the still hammock, or the wheel barrow left in the ivy, standing with a bag of wet cement from I project I don't remember now.

Here on page 46, Taylor is writing about her prayer habits and how she likens them to doing laundry:

"The socks go all in a row at the end like exclamation points. All day long, as watch the breeze toss these clothes in the wind, I imagine my prayers spinning away over the tops of the trees. This is good work, this prayer. This is good prayer, this work."

Taylor is big on the Word made flesh. In fact, I guess you could call it a theme of hers--and it's lovely.

Only sometimes the flesh isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Sometimes it isn't spritely arms and busy hands plucking clean sheets from a wicker basket, the smell of fresh-turned earth from the garden pungent in prayerful nostrils.

Sometimes the Word made flesh means that those nostrils can't smell a thing. They need a cup of hot tea, some Vick's vapor rub and some unwanted time under the covers.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

St. Dunstan's Children Reenact the Story of the Exodus

Please enjoy this wonderful photo essay of the Exodus. Photos courtesy of Vicki Ledet.

"During the story of finding Baby Moses in a basket, which we acted out, my daughter Molly was Pharaoh's daughter," said Ellen Gallow. "The bible story tells us that when Pharaoh's daughter found Moses, he was crying. As Molly reached into the basket and took out our Moses (a doll), I coaxed her, 'What do you do with a crying baby?' She looked perplexed and said 'I have no idea!'"

Ellen also added that when the actors were up at the top of the nature trail (Mt. Sinai), Joe Monti was talking to the kids about the 10 commandments. When he mentioned "Honor your mother and father", Sean Robertson said "I have no idea what that means!"

At one point, Ellen says Joe rephrased the "Don't Murder" commandment to "Life should always be . . ." But before he could finish (perhaps with the word "respected") Connor Mark jumped in with the word "Fair!"

Children hear the story about the plagues and Passover. Pharaoh (Monti Kimball) reacts to locuts, etc. Kids take turns as Moses leading the Israelites with the staff.

Moses leads the Israelites through the Red Sea.

The basket has mannah for us all to share (bite-sixe whole wheat pita bread).

Pharaoh and his army get swallowed in the Red Sea.

The Exodus begins.

Moses and Joshua on Mount Sinai; the 10 commandments. The kids were given oversized playing cards numbers 1-10 and asked which commandment the card they held represented. Puzzled expressions as they tried to remember which commandment was which, and then what the commandment meant. Some very eagerly admitted that they had indeed broken that particular commandment.

(Guess which current world leader Joe Monti resembles!

They have reached the Promised Land! Joshua leads them through the river.

Someone (Ethan Stansbury) gets caught in the deep end.
Tired Israelites reach the land of milk and honey!

The kids perform "Go Down Moses" at the beginning of the 10:45 service.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Charlie, the Evangelist

By Sarah Hancock

Many of you who were at church on Sunday the 15th got to meet the adorable lost dog who was captured by Michelle in our parking lot. We have several dogs and cats so I am not in need of any more pets, but I thought it would be fun to take "Dunstan," the lost dog, home on Sunday. Some signs were made and left in prominent places, I thought I would find his owners before I even got home. Well, the rest of the day passed and no phone calls.

Monday morning I received a cryptic phone message stating that "I had a found dog sign at the Mount Paran store and that there was a lost chihuahua sign at the same store." I called and got the people at the country store to give me the number from the lost dog sign. I called and Dunstan/Charlie was found.

I offered to meet the Christy, the owner, at Galloway because I was picking up Emma. She said that her son was at the Schenck school and they had recommended Galloway for him next year. That opened up a lengthy conversation because Emma had been to Schenck for four years and is doing beautifully at Galloway and I was able to tell her all about our successful transition. Of course I invited them to come to St D's. She is Baptist and her husband is Catholic. Perfect. Hope to see them in church one day.

A note about Charlie: Christy and her family had only had him for 4 days before he ran away. She lives on Monte Carlo just up the street, but owns a house in Virginia Highland. Last week she was working on her house and saw a woman walking Charlie.

She commented on what a cute dog he was, the woman told her that she could have him. He was her Dad's dog and her Dad had died last week. She tried to take the dog to the Humane Society but they were full, so she was going to take him to the pound. Without another thought Christy took him. A few minutes later there was a knock on her door and all the dog's bed, food, leash, etc., was left on the porch. Not too sentimental. A happy ending and little Charlie, the evangelist, is finally home.

Sarah Hancock

Monday, November 16, 2009

Who’s Got A Hold On You?


Having been fortunate enough to hear Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori speak and give a sermon last week at the Diocesan Council meeting, I bought her book “A Wing and a Prayer: A Message of Faith and Hope” just in time for a four-hour flight to Phoenix, where I was traveling to the GreenBuild convention. 
I had to delay my original flight on Tuesday due to hurricane weather wafting up from the Gulf to Atlanta. So by the time my actual flight left on Wednesday morning, I had already read some 50 pages, divided into small chapters, which are really sermons that Bishop Katharine calls essays.
In her introduction, she ends by saying “The essays look at my dream for the Church and the reckless, abundant love of the God we serve. That’s the dream that I bring to the Episcopal Church as I serve as presiding bishop. Breathe deeply, know the wind of God is always beneath your wings, receive the Holy Spirit, and change the world.”
Reading the presiding bishop’s words is a lot like hearing them in person—they are calming and inspiring. Looking at life and the Kingdom of God through her lens, you start to see small ways that perhaps you can make a difference in the world. The essay that stuck with me from my waiting on Tuesday was entitled “Who’s got a hold on you?”
The old gospel language was used to describe what happens at baptism when we are “claimed” for God’s mission. “It’s about vocation, and it’s about hearing with compassion.” As I read over several examples of lonely or poverty stricken or mentally ill people who had briefly entered and exited Bishop Katharine’s life, thereby laying a claim to her heart, I started to see just how many people had a “hold on me.”
There was the elderly African-American cleaning lady in the airport smoker’s lounge across from the waiting area at my gate. As the travelers sat puffing hurriedly before their flights, talking incessantly on their cell phones, she might have been invisible. I watched as she made her way around the room, cleaning in a cloud of smoke, swishing her broom under feet and emptying dirty ash trays, each of which she cleaned out with a wet rag held by her bare hands.
I saw not a single person acknowledge this woman, not one visible sign that she existed, let alone the fact that her hair was nearly all gray and her body was thin and frail. For a brief moment, I wondered how much they pay in the airport for such nasty work, figured probably not much, and then tried to imagine what kind of a home this old woman lived in, if she had trouble buying Christmas presents for her grandchildren.
I thought: “That’s just the kind of person I would help if I could.” And in that statement of course is the idea that I am not in the position to help or pray or maybe even care. And it’s probably a little self-righteous in implying that there are others who would actually be able to change that little woman’s life—if only they had my good intentions. I’ll add, my distant, theoretical good intentions.
I was considering what I might actually do when I read over the sermon again. In the examples, there wasn’t necessarily a material cause and effect. The bishop often just prayed for these people in pain, acknowledged their existence by not turning away.
By the time I had to reschedule my flight, gather up my things and head for the ticket counter, I looked around for the little cleaning lady. It was as if she had disappeared. I do not know why that wasn’t enough for me. I actually took off down the long, wide, busy corridor that is terminal B, looking for her and her dust pan, behind fast moving foot traffic and at least eight gates, trying to recognize the gray hair and the maroon apron top. Not that I knew what I would do if I found her. 
Just as I was about to give up, I saw the elderly lady resting by a column with her cleaning station, gray rubber garbage can that came up to her chest, the broom and stand-up dustpan now safely secured. I was so happy that I still had a chance to speak to her, to not leave her unnoticed, I walked up to her joyfully, holding back a hug. “There you are!” I said looking her in the eyes, noticing the perfect row of false teeth as she returned my greeting with a smile. I pressed a five dollar bill into her hand because I think actually even small tips are nice to get once in a while. And besides it gave me an excuse to speak to her and not look too insane. “I never got a chance to thank you for cleaning up. That’s a nasty job. Thank you so much for doing that,” I said.
She brightened up and thanked me back. Now she’s got a hold on me. I wonder if I’ve got a hold on her?   

Monday, November 9, 2009

Learning the Primary Task

Perhaps 25 years ago when I was answering mail for my grandmother, a former Atlanta Journal-Constitution columnist and reporter, I opened a letter that said, “Jesus loves you Celestine Sibley.” I read it aloud thinking she might appreciate the no-doubt well-intentioned note and was a little taken aback at her response.

“Imagine that,” she seethed, “someone thinking they can speak for Jesus!” And until her death 10 years ago, it was just such practical pronouncements that helped to shape my own opinions. She was my main guide, the person who taught me how to notice the world.

So when I heard my grandmother’s voice coming out of the mouth of my priest Patricia Templeton just minutes before the 103rd Annual Council of the Diocese of Atlanta was about to begin, I smiled. The background is this: For a few years now I have really wanted a special cross that I could wear all the time on a necklace. Something modest with a longish chain, that could be tucked discretely under my shirt but that I could finger as a reminder to behave better, something tactile to center a prayer. The style that I’ve been coveting in the Monastery Greetings mail catalog I get is the Jerusalem cross, which looks something like a waffle or a grill.

In my shopping fervor at council, I left the St. Philip’s cathedral bookstore with a Jerusalem cross, not quite the size of a silver dollar. And I put it on right away, the bookstore ladies assuring me that it went fine with my pearls against the black backdrop of my shirt. I bought a couple of books, too. At the St. Dunstan’s/Grace Calvary table in the meeting room, I showed Patricia my purchases.

She made no real comment but as we were winding our way back to the hall through the tightly packed sea of round table tops and chairs, she turned to me, indicating the cross, and said one word: “Shiny.”

“Very,” I agreed, still well-pleased with my purchase.

She then said that wearing it on the outside could make me an evangelist. Not the knocking-on-doors, Jesus-loves-you, thumping-the-Bible-on-a-street-corner kind of evangelism, she quickly said when she saw my expression. But that was exactly what my grandmother’s voice would say.

That my priest is so similar in thinking to my grandmother is not particularly surprising. My grandmother had known and loved Patricia from the time Patricia was on her high school paper, through her career as a journalist, as a Peace Corps volunteer, and finally a priest. I think she even took a little pride in Patricia’s accomplishments.

Patricia’s remarks about the shiny cross reminded me of the first lunch we had before I started coming to church again a few years ago. Being a smart-mouthed, know-it-all liberal, I felt compelled to share with Patricia my uncertainty about the literal possibility of some of the miracles pertaining to Jesus.

“Doesn’t matter,” she responded with complete certainty. “It’s the example of his life that counts.”

So when the Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori was answering questions from the delegates, lay people, missionaries and priests, I didn’t give it a second thought when she said she thought it was more unusual that she was a scientist who became the head of the Episcopal Church rather than the fact that she was a woman. In my world, women do great things. My doctor is a woman. My priest is a woman.

In her deep, resonant voice, Bishop Katharine spoke to us about the need for inclusion, the need to follow the example of Christ, about not fueling issues with angry rhetoric. She said she strived to be a “non-anxious presence” as the head of the church, but she also quite firmly stated, “I’m called to do what I’m called to do and your reaction is your problem.”

As the day wore on, we delegates from St. Dunstan’s were both uplifted and overwhelmed by the speakers who spoke of great need and great works being done in the church to address HIV orphans, sex trafficking, hunger, poverty, mental illness, disenfranchisement, ignorance. Our group included Maggie Harney, the priest who runs Martha and Mary’s Place at St. Dunstan’s; Renee Kastanakis, a vestry member and lawyer who heads up our sustainability efforts; and Laura Withers, an 19-year-old member of St. Dunstan’s who has the most beautiful voice you’ve ever heard and who is also a freshman at Emory.

By the time we found our seats for the evening Eucharist with Bishop Katharine, we were tired, short on caffeine but full of expectation. Others from St. Dunstan’s had arrived to share in the feast—Nancy Dillon, Beverly Hall, Laura’s mother and sister, Vicki Ledet and Meg Withers. Peachy Horne, who rules the gardens surrounding our church, smiled at us and waved like the queen from across the nave, which was packed with hundreds of bodies.

Finally, the service started, with solemn pageantry and awe. We listened to Bishop Katharine’s voice filling the hall and sounding something like I imagine to be the voice of God. She preached to us: “The church’s primary task is to help us care for, heal, and reconcile the world. We do that by becoming like the one we worship, into whose family we are baptized, and whose members we become as we share in his body at this table. We become what we eat here, we become the living water with which we are washed, we become what we worship, we become whom we emulate.”

“John speaks of how this begins: ‘no one has ever seen God; it is Jesus, God in the flesh, who has made God known.’ As we become part of the body of Christ, we share in that mystery and that ministry.”

When communion came, quite by accident, several of us women from St. Dunstan’s found ourselves kneeling at the altar taking bread and blessings from Bishop Katharine. By the time we were back in the pew, tears were streaming down my face. The example was so profound and so easy to see in our Presiding Bishop that for a moment I saw the example all around me, in every face, every bowed head, filing up to the altar to share in the feast.

And I felt my grandmother’s presence in Patricia’s warm hand that covered mine, accepting the strange mystery as I silently wept until each person in the cathedral had received the Eucharist.

The next morning before council started, I exchanged my big Jerusalem cross for a dainty one, smaller than a silver dime that I could wear discreetly under my blouse. I was sitting in the hall fooling with the chain when Patricia arrived. I showed her my purchase and she approved. “I’m all for evangelism,” I said. “But I don’t want it to be the door-knocking kind.”

“There are better ways,” she agreed. What she did not say, what did not need to be said, was that the best way is by example.

P.S.After the service this morning at the back of the church, Patricia reached in her pocket and pulled out a dime-sized, silver Jerusalem cross—the one I had been looking for all along.

Grace in the Hotel Bar, Grace at the Party

By LTC Peter E. Bauer MS USAR

The Westin Peachtree Hotel in Atlanta is a beautiful space. I recently spent three days there attending this year’s conference for the International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies (ISTSS). The hotel feels safe like a bunker or a fortress accented by lovely fauna and floral displays and striking wall hangings.

The conference was a real treat. I heard spectacular presentations by many world renowned researchers and clinicians regarding the treatment of trauma, including combat trauma. I got a chance to get see some old friends and meet and get acquainted with some new friends.

Thursday afternoon I went down to the hotel bar to meet a new friend for dinner. I must admit the space for this hotel bar was soothing, lots of beautiful paintings, and art work, indirect lighting, and a great jazz ensemble were playing in the background. As I walked into the space, I saw a woman walking towards me looking distressed. She saw me in the Army ACU uniform, walked up to me, hugged me and proceeded to burst into tears.

I looked at her and said, “What’s wrong?” She responded, “Have you heard about what happened at Fort Hood today?” I replied no.

She proceeded to tell me about the shooting of the soldiers and civilians. “I feel so helpless,” she said. “I wish I could be there to help them.”

This almost felt like when Mary says to Jesus, “If you had been here, my brother Lazarus would not have died.” When we are suffering and experiencing pain and loss, we want immediate answers to realities that sometimes can become intangible.

I felt numb. We talked for a few minutes. I called my friend George, an Army Chaplain and Episcopal priest, to see if he was OK. I then called his wife Lynn and guided her regarding a Critical Incident Stress Debrief that she was to facilitate that evening at St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church in Kileen, Texas. I called my boss to see if we would send anyone from our program, the Army Reserve Warrior and Family Assistance Center, to help out.

I must admit it felt surreal. I was on the phone for over two hours. No time for a drink, not even for a Starbucks coffee. I then sat down in a nice chair talking to a friend and looking at a nice batik painting, and I thought, “If you are dealing with human misery, it’s nice to be in beautiful surroundings.” I don’t know if Jesus experienced a lot of beautiful surroundings when he was in the midst of providing intense ministry, maybe the Sea of Galilee, maybe the Garden of Gethsemane. All I know was that I was feeling exhausted with all of my energy being focused on helping the folks at Fort Hood and I felt grateful to be in a beautiful space with friends.

Later that evening I received two e-mails from Tricia. One described her shock and concern regarding the tragedy at Fort Hood, “When I heard about this, I thought about you right away.” Within a minute, I received another message and this one read, “Sometimes clergy need a priest. I am here and available for you. Call me if you want to talk.”

I burst into tears. This was the first moment that I had an opportunity to consider how I was doing. I felt a lot of gratitude and felt truly blessed by Tricia’s message of love and concern. I will always remember it.

The last night of the conference featured a nice buffet of salads, pasta and other dishes. There was a jazz band playing. I stood in line to get some pasta and struck up a conversation with a film maker who was doing a piece regarding trauma. She must have sensed that I was feeling upset, because she abruptly massaged my shoulders. Her touch felt very comforting and compassionate. I realized once again that when we least expect it God comes to meet us in our confusion, in our loneliness, in our pain and even in our despair.

Here we were waiting in line for gourmet pasta and bread, what an image for the heavenly Eschatological banquet. For me, it is in these experiences of love and support, of great food and comfort and companionship that God’s grace becomes so powerfully real. Jesus seeks us out when we least expect it, in a hotel bar and in a hotel banquet room. Jesus comes to bless us with a hug and tears and with the loving touch of a shoulder massage.

May we be open to the grace that is around us, that we see in lives of other people and most important, may we see the grace of God extended to us in our lives this day and always in Jesus’ Name.
Blessings

Monday, November 2, 2009

Choosing Thailand Over France

By Bob Longino      

I don't know how you were raised. But at my family home, there was always a belief that those who performed well and acted well, were elevated from the crowd.

     They became the chosen ones.

     Picked first for games. Singled out at school for good grades. Celebrated. Honored. Selected. Plucked from the masses. Ushered to the front of the room for fame and glory.

     So today I have been chosen from among all of you for the privilege of delivering the most thankless, unwanted, dreaded job in churchdom ... That of uttering the words dripping with guilt that no one on Earth ever wants to hear.

     Stewardship. Giving. Pledge. Bank account withdrawal.

     This is an honor? What it is is the revelation of my shame.

     Trust me on that shame part. True story.

     It was a pleasant Thursday just a few weeks ago. At Habitat, where I work, we get paid every other Thursday. And I am old-fashioned guy. I dutifully separate my income in a ledger with pen and paper. There's a column on the far left for savings, another for my condo mortgage, for insurance, yadda yadda. At the top of the column on the far right is the single word CHURCH. That's where my pledge goes.

     I don't know the reason, but on this Thursday I looked at that column under Church. I saw the accumulation of money. I pay quarterly and I thought about the total for the year. And I had a fleeting thought. What ... if next year ... I just kept this money.

      Oh, what I could do with it. I don't think I've been to France in three years. If I worked it right, I could get a seat at the World Series of Poker Championships in Las Vegas. If you know me, you'd understand how important that would be to me.

     It was a fleeting thought. It was here and then gone. Vanished.

     That very Sunday, I came to church. Everything was great as usual. I saw Craig Withers coming towards me. We shook hands. We always do. We each wondered how the other one was doing. And then Craig began a new sentence ... "The stewardship committee ..."

     That's all I heard. It was all I needed to hear. In an instant I realized I was getting a gotcha from God.

     In a way I thought it was funny. And now this is my penance.

     I also figured this was how I would begin my talk. With the story you just heard. And like any goofus, I needed to try out my material.

     So recently I was having lunch with Patricia and a Habitat colleague of mine. When we were done and on the way to our cars, I began my little story. You know. to see how it might play to a crowd.

     I should have known what would happen.

     I have known this woman for more than 30 years. I helped bury Patricia's cat. I helped her by editing story after story she wrote when we worked at the newspaper in Nashville. And all this time, she's never cut me any slack. None.

     So I gave my little spiel. Without missing a beat, she said ... and I should mention right here the fact that I paid for lunch ... but she said, and I quote, "You know this means that now you have to increase your pledge."

     Why me?

     OK. So I have to start thinking about why I need to pledge. Why I need to give. Why I need to do it with a whole heart.

      That's really what I would like. So I tried to think of a situation where I could honestly say I've never had a fleeting thought like that. And it came in an instant.

      Those of you who are parents, I'm not going to tell you anything you don't already know. I have two grown sons. They mean everything to me. 

     I think most everyone knows I am divorced. And it was not a pleasant experience. It was the darkest, most soul-shattering event in my life. And to top it off, my ex-wife and I both worked at the AJC at the time. Our desks were roughly 10 feet apart. If I looked up and to the right and if she looked up and to her right, we were eye to eye. For one solid year. Imagine going through a divorce like that.

     I am so much happier now. And people have asked me, knowing what you know now, would you go through it again and marry Miriam.

     It's such an easy answer. Absolutely. Of course. Without Miriam and me, there would be no John. There would be no Daniel.

     I would go again through every wonderful, horrible, miraculous, disastrous moment just to have John and Daniel.

     I know that's how I want to feel about my pledge. I want there to be no question, no alternative.

     So I've thought recently about what my church means to me. Can it mean as much to me as my sons?

     In the past year, I've gone through a tremendous life change. I thought long and hard about leaving a profession that I firmly believed in my youth would define my entire life. I found new work, inspiration and fulfillment in Habitat for Humanity.

     You just don't know what you ... all of you ... did to help make it happen. The sermons, so wonderfully written, the Sunday school discussions (on very rare occasions when I am there), the choir, the vestry, the comforting ritual, the communion of people ... Foyer, the monthly bridge sessions. And let me tell you, you haven't really played bridge until you've played against the the ultimate ringer, Helen Bealer, who when she's sitting on your right and you are stumped and sure you won't make your game and you happen to utter, "I'm not going to make this," she responds, without missing a beat, "I know. You won't." ... all of this has helped me.

     It all gives me strength, it helps me perservere.

     I could not manuever through Habitat, where every single person believes he or she runs the place without having had the wonderful experience of St. Dunstan's, where every single person does run the place. 

     I find comfort that sometimes during the work week, driving back and forth between Atlanta and Americus, I find myself singing. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

     This church has been healthy during troubled economic times. But it has done so mainly by cutting Outreach. There is no honor in that. And I cannot believe I am the one that is about to say this, but the diocese should be supported at 100 percent.

     Trust and believe and God provides. I'm not going to France this year. I am going to Thailand. On Tuesday. For Habitat. On money provided entirely by donations from people who expect me to help others.

     That's what I've wanted. That's now what I'm being blessed with.

     I promise you, I am now closer to the point of my church meaning the same to me as my sons.

     What I ask of you is just this: Love your neighbor, love your self, love your family, love your children, and love your church.

     Make your pledge with faith and love.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Emanuel Biggs Gets Ramen, Not $5

Buddhist teachers will tell you that if you have trouble giving, practice by taking a thing or money and pass it back and forth between your left hand and you right hand. With enough practice, the premise is you’ll eventually be able to release said object to another person (presumably who needs it more than you do).

And while I think that’s a wonderful idea for those who cling to material possessions and wealth, that’s not a problem for me. I’m one of those people who finds that they never really have enough to give, which is one reason why I daydream about winning the lottery. In my mind, I buy a house and good car for one of my little brothers and pay for my nephews to go to the best schools all the way through college. My mother gets an apartment in Atlanta by Piedmont Park. I call Patricia and set up a lunch where we hash over plans for a St. Dunstan’s mountain spiritual retreat center for church members and poor children to experience nature.

As we’re having this mental lunch at which Patricia expresses thrill and approval of my retreat center idea and of course the orphanage south of town and the a soup kitchen, I find my present self suddenly awash in guilt. “Gifts should be anonymous,” I remind me. “I’ll have to sneak my $10 million into the offering plate.”

And then, I’m pulling into my driveway and the daydream dissolves of its own accord because, after all, it’s hard to win the Georgia Lottery when you never buy lottery tickets.

But in reality, for the little I do have to give, it’s really in knowing how to give and when to give and who to give to that usually trips me up. Patricia’s sermon last Sunday was about Jesus asking a blind beggar named Bartimaeus what he could do for him. She went on to share an example in her own life about when she was in the Peace Corp. and taught school in Thailand. One of her favorite students needed glasses and seeing the problem, Patricia went about taking the girl to the eye doctor, getting her fitted for glasses, and in the end giving the child the gift of sight. At first the little girl wore the glasses every day. Soon, she wore them only in Patricia’s English class, and then eventually not at all.

“None of the other children wore glasses and it made the child different from everyone else around her. And suddenly I realized that I had never asked the child if she wanted glasses. I had assumed that I could fix this child’s problem by giving her the gift of sight. After all, it was obvious that’s what she needed,” Patricia preached.

Now Jesus, the good teacher, does not assume anything about what the blind beggar needs, he asks what Bartimaeus wants.

For me, the sermon was a needed reminder because I have a long history of misguided giving. For instance, as a young mother, a man knocked on my door, asking for work for food. His name was Emanuel Biggs and the specific amount he needed was five dollars. Feeling sorry for him, I took him around the house to the backyard, which was covered in kudzu. That was work that he could start right away, I said. Emanuel scratched his head and mumbled something about being hungry, the gist of which was that the work would take a long time but he really needed the money right away.

Misreading the request, I insisted that Emanuel come inside and I would make him something to eat. I “cooked” him a bowl of ramen noodles, about the extent of my food repertory at the time, and he suffered through that scant meal, finally leaving without the money.

A couple of weeks later, I was having lunch with a police sergeant. When I told him the tale, he was incredulous. “Emanuel Biggs is a known glue sniffer!” said the sergeant. “Haven’t you heard about the Alday family murders?!”

And I could go on about giving unwanted clothing, furniture, an extra umbrella to someone on the street one day when it was raining. About giving with the expectation of approval, about giving with the expectation of being paid back, about giving with regret.

As ill-equipped as I am to continue this practice, I’m not giving up on giving really. Lately, I’ve been thinking how it’s good to sometimes depend on the experts to make the best use of small resources. Fortunately, at St. Dunstan’s, I have options. For one, we’re kicking off this the Parishioner Relief Fund, via Patricia’s discretionary fund. It’s to help with real needs of parishioners during this terrible recession and the money is given with complete discretion and wisdom—Patricia’s. And then we’re also heading into stewardship season, the time of pledge making for the next year.

The truth is, I’ll never be able to give as much as I want to, though I really should start playing the lottery. But with 2010 pledges and the relief fund, I'm pretty confident that I can't go wrong and can feel good in the knowledge that I've given in the right way.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Wish You Were There

I have been a member of St. Dunstan’s for about three years now. But until recently, my husband Ron has only been a few times, for Christmas Eves and a funeral. He’s one of those spouses who takes pleasure in saying things like, “My wife does the worshiping for me.” As a science person and “thinker” he’s the first to point out the ills of organized religion—the Inquisition, James Town, Jim and Tammy Faye Baker. Ron grew up Methodist in a small town in rural Alabama, where church attendance and outings were about as natural and expected as summer naps on the sandy banks of the Warrior River.

While my husband has never tried to sever my connection to organized religion, I really haven’t extended much of an invitation to church services or functions (other than Christmas Eve and yes, I am one of those mothers whose children will sometimes tell you they came to church ‘because my mother made me.’)

Anyway last vestry meeting Patricia pretty much commanded that we vestry members to be present at two church functions: the Flying Pig Bar-B-Q last Saturday and the Evensong service last Sunday for which the choir sang a piece commissioned especially for them by Dorothy Yates in memory of her husband Charlie. The third gathering—not mandatory—was an invitation for a fun night out, to hear country music provided by an old journalism buddy of Patricia’s from Nashville, Keith Miles.

I don’t know what made me ask Ron if he would accompany me to the church BBQ after three years of respecting his wishes to remain aloof of organized religion, but I did and somewhat to my surprise, he didn’t hesitate in accepting. A day later, I asked if he would come with me to the Evensong, again, sure thing. (I admit I knew that coming out to hear the St. Dunstan’s choir really wasn’t a hard sell, Ron has heard them on Christmas Eve and it’s a pretty damn good invitation.)

The deal with the Keith Miles concert last night was that everyone bring their own drinks and hor’ derves to share. Ron and I agreed the concert would make a good date night, something that is not a weekly or even regular occurrence (we’ve been married 13 years). When we arrived about 30 minutes before the music began, Ron headed straight for the kitchen, where he made himself at home with others who were putting the final touches on their dishes and waiting for the oven to reach 450 degrees. I left him there and went to reserve one of the intimate round tables, which were set up with flowers, an ambiance best described as what you might get if you crossed a French café with a night club and a church fellowship hall.

So we all enjoyed Keith Miles’ music and when he asked how much longer he should continue to entertain, Patricia rightly said that we, the audience, would stay as long as he wanted to play. We audience people were quite satisfied with our food and wine, our cozy seating arrangements, listening to Keith playing guitar, singing and telling us about his career as a songwriter, making the charts in Nashville, selling a song to Kenny Rogers, getting radio play in Norway.

As the evening drew to a close, there were small groups still lingering here and there in the shadows, chatting. Gilda came up with her camera for a group shot—me, Ron, Steve and Elizabeth Mark, and a friend of theirs who called herself “Momma Nature.” Gilda said she wanted to take a picture to show the parishioners who didn’t make it just what they were missing.

This morning Ron asked me if we had a sort of “recipe corner” on the St. Dunstan’s website, mainly because there were several recipes he wanted to get from last night and he was worried that Claudia’s daughter’s mother-in-law Ginger would not be able to read his recipe for rumaki, which she had jotted down on the back of a multi-colored paper napkin. As we hashed over the evening, he raved about a buffalo chicken casserole and then added, “Tim has a great recipe for bacon chili.”

“Was it good? I didn’t have any,” I said. I don’t cook but of course I married someone who does so I’m pretty much covered for food.

“He didn’t make it last night, he was telling me about it and he’s emailing me the recipe,” Ron explained. “It sounded really good.”

At that point I went ahead and asked if Ron if he would do the cooking next time I’m signed up for coffee time. And guess what? He enthusiastically agreed.

While I’m not quite ready to ask my spouse to get up at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning for the early service, I do think something has taken hold. And maybe unconsciously, he’s getting why showing up matters—sure part of it is to make a crowd and support something that usually somebody else has put a lot of effort into—whether it’s hearing the choir at Evensong or sewing angel wings for the Christmas pageant—but more importantly it’s what you get when you arrive that changes the equation from being asked “Will you come?” to you asking “What time shall I be there?” And I guess you could call that fellowship, a commodity that St. Dunstan’s has in abundance.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

White Man’s Chocolate and the Evolution of Racism

When my son Vincent was in grade school at Horizons School on Dekalb Avenue, I gave him a valentine. It was the same valentine I gave my boys every year—a box of chocolate and a teddy bear. Because Vincent and Wolfie were spending the night at their dad’s house on Valentine Day eve, I did not get to see the immediate reaction to the gift, which I had bought with love and expectation of, well, frankly thanks.

However, when I picked the boys up to take them to school the next morning and asked about their gifts, the reception from Vincent was quite cold. “How did you like your valentines?” I asked expectantly.

“It was okay,” Vincent replied.

“What do you mean ‘okay’?” I prodded.

“Mom,” Vincent said with a note of disgust, “that chocolate? That bear?”

“What do you mean ‘that chocolate and that bear’?” I asked.

“Come on, Mom,” my eldest son spat in disbelief. “White Man’s Chocolate? Don’t you think that’s a little racist?”

“Vincent, Whitman’s Chocolate. Whitman’s,” I corrected him.

It was a misunderstanding that I shared in Sunday School last week. The topic was: Justice and Race: White Privilege, Affirmative Action, and the Obligations of Reparation. The reason I shared the anecdote was that I thought it was a good example of how the generations in my family had changed with respect to racism. From my grandmother’s black Aunt Mary, who became a ‘family’ member as a result of losing her arm to a firecracker thrown by my grandmother’s father as a boy. To my mother running away from boarding school to go freedom riding with Dr. King. To my own experience at Spring Street School using the “N” word and spending that same night alone in my room without any supper. And finally to Vincent’s vigilance against racist chocolate.

But these were my stories. Others were told in Sunday School — and others were untold in that venue. These personal experiences spilled out into coffee time after church and into the parking lot. I heard at the vestry meeting last night that the conversation was carried on later Sunday evening at the welcome party for our new choir master Tom Gibbs held at Bruce Lafitte’s house. Indeed, as the vestry waited for everyone to arrive, we continued to share our memories of racism growing up in the South and points beyond. In short, the conversation begun by Joe Monti in Sunday School is far from over. And I invite all St. Dunstan’s parishioners to continue the conversation here on the St. Dunstan’s blog. 

Sunday, October 4, 2009

All Creatures Great and Small--Blessing of the Animals

Please take a look at these great pics that Vicki Ledet took! Note also there are more pictures of the visitors from the small dog rescue. Vicki has a great eye for photos AND unlike my photos none of these had to be doctored:) Enjoy.






























































The smallest creature to attend the Blessing of the Animals service this morning, Sunday, Oct. 4, was a praying mantis, who had the best view in the house on the altar at the top of a tall, white candlestick.




But there were also a wonderful number of visitors . . . from the Small Dog Rescue Organization, which parishioners Lindsey Reece and Fair Sutherline are involved with.





And the band played . . .All Things Bright and Beautiful (all creatures great and small. All things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all!)



Some of the blessed were quite fluffy . . .


























Some of the blessed got an extra tummy rub . . .
























Patricia even blessed this little animal, not the Velveteen rabbit, but you never know . . .
















And there was a little white bunny . . .




And my son Wolfie (I couldn't resist) brought a couple of puppies who are big and goofy and not yet leash trained . . .







And this guy (look close) has a big wet tongue . . .






Below, you can see the patience the animals displayed as they waited in line to see Patricia . . .












All in all, it was a cheerful community gathering of St. Dunstan's parishioners and friends. We lift up our hearts!