Posts
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Communion -- Open or Closed?
Episcopal Cafe, a good blog with lots of Episcopal news, has a report on a study about the communion of the unbaptized. Some would not be at all happy with St. Dunstan's practice of "open" communion, which is not in compliance with the official canons of the church. What do you think? Should only baptized Christians receive communion? Or should all people be fed at the altar? You can find the report at www.episcopalcafe.com/lead/theology/report_on_communing_the_unbapt.html
Sunday, June 28, 2009
if only I knew how to blog....
Sibley,
This was is today's Writer's Almanac, I loved it and would like to share, if only I knew how to blog....
Nancy Dillon
The VCCA Fellows Visit the Holiness Baptist Church, Amherst, Virginia
by Barbara Crooker
We are the only light faces in a sea of mahogany,tobacco, almond, and this is not the only way we are different. We've come in late, the choir already singing, swaying to the music, moving in the spirit. When I was down, Lord, when I was down, Jesus lifted me. And, for a few minutes,we are raised up, out of our own skepticism and doubts, rising on the swell of their voices.The singers sit, and we pass the peace, wrappedin thick arms, ample bosoms, and I start to think maybe God is a woman of color, and that She loves us, in spite of our pale selves, so far away from who we should really be. Parishioners give testimonials, a deacon speaks of his sister, who's "gone home," and I realize he doesn't mean back to Georgia, but that she's passed over. I float on this sweet certainty, of a return not to the bland confection of wispy clouds and angels in nightshirts, but to childhood's kitchen, a dew-drenched June morning, roses tumbling by the back porch.The preacher mounts the lectern, tells us he's been up since four working at his other job, the one that pays the bills, and he delivers a sermon that lightens the heart, unencumbered by dogma and theology. For the benediction, we all join hands, visitors and strangers enfolded in the whole, like raisins in sweet batter. We step through the door into the stunning sunshine, and our hearts lift out of our chests, tiny birds flying off to lightin the redbuds, to sing and sing and sing.
This was is today's Writer's Almanac, I loved it and would like to share, if only I knew how to blog....
Nancy Dillon
The VCCA Fellows Visit the Holiness Baptist Church, Amherst, Virginia
by Barbara Crooker
We are the only light faces in a sea of mahogany,tobacco, almond, and this is not the only way we are different. We've come in late, the choir already singing, swaying to the music, moving in the spirit. When I was down, Lord, when I was down, Jesus lifted me. And, for a few minutes,we are raised up, out of our own skepticism and doubts, rising on the swell of their voices.The singers sit, and we pass the peace, wrappedin thick arms, ample bosoms, and I start to think maybe God is a woman of color, and that She loves us, in spite of our pale selves, so far away from who we should really be. Parishioners give testimonials, a deacon speaks of his sister, who's "gone home," and I realize he doesn't mean back to Georgia, but that she's passed over. I float on this sweet certainty, of a return not to the bland confection of wispy clouds and angels in nightshirts, but to childhood's kitchen, a dew-drenched June morning, roses tumbling by the back porch.The preacher mounts the lectern, tells us he's been up since four working at his other job, the one that pays the bills, and he delivers a sermon that lightens the heart, unencumbered by dogma and theology. For the benediction, we all join hands, visitors and strangers enfolded in the whole, like raisins in sweet batter. We step through the door into the stunning sunshine, and our hearts lift out of our chests, tiny birds flying off to lightin the redbuds, to sing and sing and sing.
Call for Morning Prayers & Meditations (and Thoughts)
My husband Ron was cleaning behind bookshelves a couple of months ago when a small book enveloped in dust and cobwebs appeared on the tip of the broom. The title of the book was “Always We Begin Again: The Benedictine Way of Living.”
The small volume, paperback $10, was written by an Episcopal lawyer, John McQuiston. In the intro, he writes that he really didn’t have a spiritual routine until middle age when, upon the death of his father, he lamented to a friend that while he himself regularly attended church, it didn’t hold the same meaning for him as it had for his father. The friend recommended that he read “Living with Contradictions: Reflections on the Rule of St. Benedict.” The next summer McQuiston and his wife had the opportunity to stay in the dormitory at the Canterbury Cathedral, which is apparently Benedictine-centric, as it were.
Anyway, when the author returned home to Memphis, a priest recommended that he start his day with the Morning Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer. Soon, reading the Rule of St. Benedict became part of that morning routine. Over time, McQuiston translated the Rule from the more traditional language of St. Benedict and “institutional images of the church” to something more modern and easier for him to get at what he calls the “core insights.” While there is wording in some prayers like “grace to us and peace”, which is recognizable, it is pretty much written in a way that a non-church going person could get the meaning.
For all I know, half of the Episcopalians in the world have a copy of this book sitting on top of the Book of Common Prayer (or fallen behind their bookshelves). The title track prayer in my copy, which ends with “and every day we begin again” is gone because I actually cut it out to send to my son Wolfie his first year in Germany. It’s one of the best in the book.
Despite the missing page, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the book again lately. And I share with McQuiston’s interpretation of the first rule:
Live this life
And do whatever is done,
In a spirit of Thanksgiving.
Abandon attempts to achieve security,
They are futile,
Give up the search for wealth,
It is demeaning,
Quit the search for Salvation
It is selfish,
And come to comfortable rest
In the certainty that those who
Participate in this life
With an attitude of Thanksgiving
Will receive its full promise.
Morning prayer and meditation, for me, has been an off-again, on-again sort of lifetime pursuit. When I am in the habit, I find that it’s a good way to begin the day, good for mental health, spiritual health and overall well-being. (Sort of like coming to church regularly--which was really good this morning, by the way, Peter Bauer gave a guest sermon.)
I ask fellow Dunstanites, would you mind sharing your favorite morning meditation or prayer, or perhaps offer any insight you may have about your morning spiritual routine?
Click on the comment section below this blog post. I think it wants an email address and password but just follow the links. If you have any trouble, email me: sibleyfleming@comcast.net.
If you would like to just post your writing as a separate blog, rather than make a comment on an existing blog, just send it to me at the same email address and I’ll make sure it gets posted. Grace to all and peace!
The small volume, paperback $10, was written by an Episcopal lawyer, John McQuiston. In the intro, he writes that he really didn’t have a spiritual routine until middle age when, upon the death of his father, he lamented to a friend that while he himself regularly attended church, it didn’t hold the same meaning for him as it had for his father. The friend recommended that he read “Living with Contradictions: Reflections on the Rule of St. Benedict.” The next summer McQuiston and his wife had the opportunity to stay in the dormitory at the Canterbury Cathedral, which is apparently Benedictine-centric, as it were.
Anyway, when the author returned home to Memphis, a priest recommended that he start his day with the Morning Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer. Soon, reading the Rule of St. Benedict became part of that morning routine. Over time, McQuiston translated the Rule from the more traditional language of St. Benedict and “institutional images of the church” to something more modern and easier for him to get at what he calls the “core insights.” While there is wording in some prayers like “grace to us and peace”, which is recognizable, it is pretty much written in a way that a non-church going person could get the meaning.
For all I know, half of the Episcopalians in the world have a copy of this book sitting on top of the Book of Common Prayer (or fallen behind their bookshelves). The title track prayer in my copy, which ends with “and every day we begin again” is gone because I actually cut it out to send to my son Wolfie his first year in Germany. It’s one of the best in the book.
Despite the missing page, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the book again lately. And I share with McQuiston’s interpretation of the first rule:
Live this life
And do whatever is done,
In a spirit of Thanksgiving.
Abandon attempts to achieve security,
They are futile,
Give up the search for wealth,
It is demeaning,
Quit the search for Salvation
It is selfish,
And come to comfortable rest
In the certainty that those who
Participate in this life
With an attitude of Thanksgiving
Will receive its full promise.
Morning prayer and meditation, for me, has been an off-again, on-again sort of lifetime pursuit. When I am in the habit, I find that it’s a good way to begin the day, good for mental health, spiritual health and overall well-being. (Sort of like coming to church regularly--which was really good this morning, by the way, Peter Bauer gave a guest sermon.)
I ask fellow Dunstanites, would you mind sharing your favorite morning meditation or prayer, or perhaps offer any insight you may have about your morning spiritual routine?
Click on the comment section below this blog post. I think it wants an email address and password but just follow the links. If you have any trouble, email me: sibleyfleming@comcast.net.
If you would like to just post your writing as a separate blog, rather than make a comment on an existing blog, just send it to me at the same email address and I’ll make sure it gets posted. Grace to all and peace!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Sacrament of Pink Shoes
By Helen Branch
One of our founding members, Helen Branch, offers this story of what she imagines someone's first visit to St. Dunstan's (and an Episcopal Church) might be like.
An older friend of mine had died and I wanted to go to her funeral. It was to be in an Episcopal church but I had never been to an Episcopal church before. I had heard that it is sort of formal and you need to know how to do some things. But I really wanted to go so I figured that I could just watch what other people did and maybe get it right. I was very anxious but I decided that I could make it o.k.
As I was getting dressed to go, I didn't know what to wear -- dressy clothes or my best jeans. I figured that if I wore what I wear to work it couldn't be too bad. I found the church, a small building in a wooded area.It didn't have stained glass windows and I thought all Episcopal churches had stained glass windows. When I got inside, it looked great to me. They didn't need stained glass because the windows looked out on a beautiful variety of pretty plants. Somehow they knew they didn't need stained glass. Nature provided the beauty.
I went to sit down and worried that I might sit in the wrong place -- maybe where some regular person always sat. People who were sitting near me smiled, so I guessed I was o.k. I saw a pipe organ and I worried that I wouldn't know when to sing and when to listen. I would just do what the people in my row did. The church was not full so I feared that I would be conspicuous. I would be careful to do just like the others.
I looked at the bulletin that I received as I was entering, and read that there will be Holy Communion. Oh Lord. What do I do now? My little country church didn't often have Holy Communion so I really wouldn't know what to do here. I prayed hard that I wouldn't do anything terrible.
After a while the organ began playing. What a beautiful sound. Then I saw a procession of what I guessed was the choir, being led by a big cross held by a young person in a white robe. Most of the people bowed their head as the cross passed so I did, too. That seemed nice, showing honor to the cross. At the end of the line was the minister in a white robe. I guessed that it was the minister.
At some place in the service bulletin it said something about the Peace. I surely didn't know about that. I was really surprised to see people all over the church shaking hands with someone. Fortunately, the people on my row quickly took my hand and said "God's peace be with you," so I made it through that unknown.
When it came time for the Holy Communion, I was beginning to feel that this place is all right. But I still had one unknown to dread. I was afraid when, during the Holy Communion, everyone went from their seat to the rail up front. All of that was beginning to giving me a peaceful feeling of God's presence. I know why my friend was so fond of it and always went to church on Sunday. When my row went, I went along, too.
I held my hands just like they did. When the minister put the piece of bread in my hand, she had a very gentle look on her face and I felt less anvious.
But when I looked down toward the floor, I really felt wonderful. The priest wore PINK shoes. Surely, I didn't have anything to worry about anymore! Anyone who would wear pink shoes and the beautiful white robes would not think badly about my not knowing what to do in that service.
I think that I will go to that church next Sunday and get to know the people there.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Back from a Three-Day Country Funeral
Until this morning at 8:15 a.m., I had been away from St. Dunstan’s for three whole weeks. The first week I was working, the second, I couldn’t get out of bed and the third week I was I Blount County, Alabama for a country funeral that lasted three days.
So who died? Well, that’s in some ways a modern, city question. Where my husband grew up in the green rolling terminus of the Appalacians in rural northern Alabama, it wasn’t really a question at all. In fact, when I packed up my suitcase to leave Thursday night, I had no idea that I should be packing my bathing suit. I did have the feeling that I could be sleeping on a blowup mattress snuggled next to four of his relatives at some aunt’s house I’d never met. But honestly, I didn’t think he would subject me to that. We’ve been married nearly 13 years and I’ve been a fairly decent wife.
In the car through the night as we burned up the highway, the smell of smoked pork butt rising from the back seat, I dropped hints about how a hotel would be better than imposing on grieving relatives. But he seemed not to hear. He was happily going through complicated family connections. The newly passed away relative was named Sibby (an awkward coincidence given that my name is Sibley). She was one of his mother’s seven sisters’ son’s x-wife, a Polish Catholic woman from Massachusetts.
Her kinfolk were arriving from as far away as London and as nearby as Tupelo and B’ham. I listened to stories about how cousin J.P., Sibby’s son, broke into the school with some other boys and stole a bunch of toilet paper to roll a teacher’s house, and how that gave him a police record at age 16. I heard stories about Aunt Ruby who had her daughter-in-law, Sibby, out hoeing rows in her vegetable garden 30 minutes after she met her.
When we arrived at the farm, Ron’s 1st cousins Joe and Martha Ann came out to meet us. Martha, like Sibby, had married into the family, so she shared a special bond with Sibby. They were not Blount County girls, but by God, they could show their country in-laws that they indeed knew how to work.
In the distance, I saw candles burning on the porch, which was mostly dark and filled with the tired murmur of voices. Two goofy yard dogs wagged their way to us as I stretched my legs and took a deep breath of jasmine and summer night. Joe hugged me, sized me up, and kindly steered me toward our accommodations, an air-conditioned camper with a kitchen and sitting area. There were similar campers set up around the yard. Then the wide porch of the house became a gathering place for all of the cousins who had, like us, just arrived, or come from the airport, or driving in from Birmingham or Boulder.
So there were three days of this. Little boys underfoot with water guns, hooting, and back-slapping. As the heat of the afternoon subsided, a caravan of six cars filled up for a trip to the old swimming hole. That was down the road a few miles off at the Black Warrior River’s Locust Fork, down a steep bank, and reflecting in its surface yellow stone footers that once supported a covered bridge built by the ancestor of my husband and his kin.
So I’ll wrap this up. Sibby was Catholic and the funeral was held at St. Henry’s Catholic Church in Warrior, about four miles from Hayden. Her daughter spoke during the memorial service and said that whenever someone walked through Sibby’s door, she would drop whatever she was doing, no matter what it was, and stop her world for them. And that may be why her Southern Methodist kinfolk felt called home to see her off, all at once and together.
That’s why it jolted me to hear the priest say only Catholics were invited to take communion. For one, I hadn’t been to church for two Sundays. For two, well, I mean shouldn’t everyone be invited to share in the Eurcharist? Indeed, about half of the people in the church for Sibby’s funeral had been breaking bread for two days in a community of family. Like Frost wrote, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
Like home, it seems like the Eucharist should be a place where you can’t be turned away.
So this morning, when I pulled up to St. Dunstan’s, there were just two cars in the parking lot. I was so glad to see Patricia getting ready to robe up for the 8:30 service. “I’m back!” I said. “I’ve been away at a three-day country funeral.”
“Who died?” she asked.
“My husband’s first cousin-slash-aunt,” I said. I went on a minute about the Catholic service and not being able to take communion. I’ve been to a Catholic mass on Christmas Eve, honestly, but it was so long ago, I don’t remember their communion practices or being excluded. I told her I ended up being seated next to the priest for the lunch that followed and how I was essentially tongue-tied.
“Did you tell him you have a girl priest?” Patricia smiled.
For anyone who doesn’t read the Sunday bulletin closely at St. Dunstan’s, they might have missed the words “All people are invited to receive Communion”. And of course, that’s how you feel at St. Dunstan’s, accepted and at home.
Now, I qualify for Communion, as it were, and I particularly savored the fresh wheat bread this morning and the feeling of friendship kneeling at the altar next to Joscelyn, who had slipped in beside me just after the service started. With a joyful ‘thanks be to God!’ the service was over, and I went back to my pew, not to retrieve my purse, but to sit down and chat with Joscelyn, who I hadn’t seen in a while given my three-week absence.
When we finally did get up, we went to the kitchen where Peachy was arranging fresh cut blue hydrangeas from the church yard. Joscelyn and I poured a cup of coffee each, chatting as we slowly made our way to the front door, where outside the parking lot had begun to fill for the regular service.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Beekeeper At Vacation Bible School
Vacation Bible School was pretty exciting and Ellen and her helpers all deserve a good rest.
I was able to attend on Friday, when a beekeeper came to make a presentation to the kids. She mentioned she had a blog, so when I got home after lunch, I thought I would check it out. She had already posted her visit on her blog!
Here is her visit to St. Dunstan's. I haven't had chance to fully check her blog out but you can do so yourself at http://beekeeperlinda.blogspot.com/
I was able to attend on Friday, when a beekeeper came to make a presentation to the kids. She mentioned she had a blog, so when I got home after lunch, I thought I would check it out. She had already posted her visit on her blog!
Here is her visit to St. Dunstan's. I haven't had chance to fully check her blog out but you can do so yourself at http://beekeeperlinda.blogspot.com/
Summer Reading
(from Tricia's article in the June Bellows)
One night last fall, Joseph Henry chose Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for bedtime reading. I’m a great Harry Potter fan, so I was delighted that Joseph Henry was ready to enter the magical world of Hogwarts. When we finished reading the first book out loud, he immediately wanted to continue with the next. Seven months and 4,100 pages later we finally finished the seventh and last volume. As I closed the book, Joseph Henry looked at me with concern. “Now what do we do?” he asked.
I recognized the feeling. It’s the same anxiety I get if there is not a stack of books waiting to be read on my bedside table. It’s the same concern that made me use more than half of my baggage weight allowance on books when I set off for the Peace Corps in Thailand years ago. For those of us who like to read there are few things more reassuring than the alluring promise of a stack of unread treasures. Here are some of the treasures that I have read in the past year. If you’d like to add to the list post a comment to this blog or send your list to stdunstansatl@earthlink.net and we’ll print them in the next Bellows. In the meantime, happy reading!
Fiction
Evil Intent by Kate Charles. This is the first of a mystery series set in London, whose protagonist is newly-ordained Anglican deacon Callie Anson. Women clergy are still a fairly new phenomenon in the Church of England, and Callie expects to meet resistance from both parishioners and colleagues. But even she is surprised by the vitriol spewed at her at a clergy meeting by hard-line conservative Nigerian priest Father Jonah Adimola. When Adimola is found dead in the sacristy the next morning, strangled by a priest’s stole, Callie finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Before I started this book I was skeptical – a strange title, two authors, and a book written as letters. None of that sounded particularly appealing. But I am glad I put that skepticism aside and read this charming and engaging novel about the German occupation of the British island of Guernsey in World War II, and its aftermath.
Bombingham by Anthony Grooms. Walter Burke is a black American soldier in Vietnam. The bombings and killings he witnesses there lead to flashbacks to his childhood in Birmingham and the violence he witnessed there growing up in the days of Jim Crow laws and the struggle for civil rights. A powerful novel about a bleak part of our history.
The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan is a bit of a misfit. She graduates from college in 1962 and returns to her parents’ cotton farm in Mississippi. Unlike her friends, she is in no hurry to get married and wants a career as a writer. An editor advises her to write about what interests and disturbs her. She finds her topic literally right in front of her – the way the white women of Jackson, her friends and family, treat the black women who raise their children and clean their homes.
The Brothers K by David James Duncan. Hugh Chance is a baseball fanatic whose dreams of big league glory are ended when he smashes his thumb in an accident. His wife, Laura, is a religious fanatic. The Brothers K tells the story of their four sons, growing up in a household of competing obsessions and coming of age in the tumultuous 1960s. A very fun and poignant novel.
Nonfiction
The Faith Club: A Muslim, A Christian, A Jew – Three Women Search for Understanding by Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner. Shortly after September 11, 2001, three women came together to write a children’s book about their faiths. But they soon realized they first had to come to understandings among themselves. The Faith Club is the story of that coming together, of learning to respect each other’s differences, and the realization that by learning about and respecting another’s faith they deepened their own. A book of hope in a time when religious intolerance rages across so much of the world.
The Temple Bombing by Melissa Fay Greene. In the 1950s, as tension over integration and equal rights grew throughout the South, one of Atlanta’s most vocal defenders of civil rights was Jacob Rothschild, rabbi of the Temple on Peachtree Street. How dangerous a position that was became apparent when the Temple was bombed in 1958 by extremists who had no use for Jews or African Americans. Greene’s telling of that event goes beyond the crime itself to paint a rich portrait of a pivotal time and place in Atlanta history.
Wesley the Owl: The Remarkable Love Story of an Owl and his Girl by Stacey O’Brien. Biologist O’Brien was a student researcher at Cal Tech when she had the opportunity to adopt an injured four-day-old barn owl. For 19 years Wesley the owl was O’Brien’s constant companion. “He was my teacher, my companion, my child, my playmate, my reminder of God,” she writes. This memoir of their life together will captivate anyone who has a fascination with these lovely creatures.
The Last Week by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan. Borg and Crossan are familiar to those who attend Sunday School and the Lenten Lecture series. In this book the two scholars and friends present a day-by-day guide to the last week of Jesus’ life, based on the Gospel of Mark. The Jesus they depict is a political activist and moral hero who willingly gives up his life to protest power without justice. A very engaging and enlightening book.
An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor. From simple practices such as walking, working, and getting lost to meditations on topics like prayer and pronouncing blessings, Taylor reveals concrete ways to discover the sacred in the small things we do and see each day. Taylor is an Episcopal priest in this diocese and a professor of religion at Piedmont College.
One night last fall, Joseph Henry chose Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for bedtime reading. I’m a great Harry Potter fan, so I was delighted that Joseph Henry was ready to enter the magical world of Hogwarts. When we finished reading the first book out loud, he immediately wanted to continue with the next. Seven months and 4,100 pages later we finally finished the seventh and last volume. As I closed the book, Joseph Henry looked at me with concern. “Now what do we do?” he asked.
I recognized the feeling. It’s the same anxiety I get if there is not a stack of books waiting to be read on my bedside table. It’s the same concern that made me use more than half of my baggage weight allowance on books when I set off for the Peace Corps in Thailand years ago. For those of us who like to read there are few things more reassuring than the alluring promise of a stack of unread treasures. Here are some of the treasures that I have read in the past year. If you’d like to add to the list post a comment to this blog or send your list to stdunstansatl@earthlink.net and we’ll print them in the next Bellows. In the meantime, happy reading!
Fiction
Evil Intent by Kate Charles. This is the first of a mystery series set in London, whose protagonist is newly-ordained Anglican deacon Callie Anson. Women clergy are still a fairly new phenomenon in the Church of England, and Callie expects to meet resistance from both parishioners and colleagues. But even she is surprised by the vitriol spewed at her at a clergy meeting by hard-line conservative Nigerian priest Father Jonah Adimola. When Adimola is found dead in the sacristy the next morning, strangled by a priest’s stole, Callie finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Before I started this book I was skeptical – a strange title, two authors, and a book written as letters. None of that sounded particularly appealing. But I am glad I put that skepticism aside and read this charming and engaging novel about the German occupation of the British island of Guernsey in World War II, and its aftermath.
Bombingham by Anthony Grooms. Walter Burke is a black American soldier in Vietnam. The bombings and killings he witnesses there lead to flashbacks to his childhood in Birmingham and the violence he witnessed there growing up in the days of Jim Crow laws and the struggle for civil rights. A powerful novel about a bleak part of our history.
The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan is a bit of a misfit. She graduates from college in 1962 and returns to her parents’ cotton farm in Mississippi. Unlike her friends, she is in no hurry to get married and wants a career as a writer. An editor advises her to write about what interests and disturbs her. She finds her topic literally right in front of her – the way the white women of Jackson, her friends and family, treat the black women who raise their children and clean their homes.
The Brothers K by David James Duncan. Hugh Chance is a baseball fanatic whose dreams of big league glory are ended when he smashes his thumb in an accident. His wife, Laura, is a religious fanatic. The Brothers K tells the story of their four sons, growing up in a household of competing obsessions and coming of age in the tumultuous 1960s. A very fun and poignant novel.
Nonfiction
The Faith Club: A Muslim, A Christian, A Jew – Three Women Search for Understanding by Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner. Shortly after September 11, 2001, three women came together to write a children’s book about their faiths. But they soon realized they first had to come to understandings among themselves. The Faith Club is the story of that coming together, of learning to respect each other’s differences, and the realization that by learning about and respecting another’s faith they deepened their own. A book of hope in a time when religious intolerance rages across so much of the world.
The Temple Bombing by Melissa Fay Greene. In the 1950s, as tension over integration and equal rights grew throughout the South, one of Atlanta’s most vocal defenders of civil rights was Jacob Rothschild, rabbi of the Temple on Peachtree Street. How dangerous a position that was became apparent when the Temple was bombed in 1958 by extremists who had no use for Jews or African Americans. Greene’s telling of that event goes beyond the crime itself to paint a rich portrait of a pivotal time and place in Atlanta history.
Wesley the Owl: The Remarkable Love Story of an Owl and his Girl by Stacey O’Brien. Biologist O’Brien was a student researcher at Cal Tech when she had the opportunity to adopt an injured four-day-old barn owl. For 19 years Wesley the owl was O’Brien’s constant companion. “He was my teacher, my companion, my child, my playmate, my reminder of God,” she writes. This memoir of their life together will captivate anyone who has a fascination with these lovely creatures.
The Last Week by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan. Borg and Crossan are familiar to those who attend Sunday School and the Lenten Lecture series. In this book the two scholars and friends present a day-by-day guide to the last week of Jesus’ life, based on the Gospel of Mark. The Jesus they depict is a political activist and moral hero who willingly gives up his life to protest power without justice. A very engaging and enlightening book.
An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor. From simple practices such as walking, working, and getting lost to meditations on topics like prayer and pronouncing blessings, Taylor reveals concrete ways to discover the sacred in the small things we do and see each day. Taylor is an Episcopal priest in this diocese and a professor of religion at Piedmont College.
Why I am an Episcopalian
(The following is Tricia's article from the May Bellows)
Why are you an Episcopalian? How would you answer if someone asked you that question? Of all the different branches and flavors of Christianity, why did you choose this one?
If you are like me, there is no one single answer to this question. As a child I went to the Episcopal Church because my parents took me there. I liked going to church. But in college, like many other students, I opted for sleep instead of worship on Sunday mornings. I got out of the habit of going to church.
I was 30 before I came back to the church. I went because I was invited by a friend who knew I had grown up Episcopalian. I stayed because of what I found in that little church in Nashville.
What I found was this – a place where all sorts and conditions of humanity were welcome, a place where I was welcome. At St. Ann’s there were lawyers and car mechanics, there were residents of the nearby housing projects and people from the wealthiest neighborhoods in Nashville, there were blacks and whites, gays and straights, young and old, there was a little bit of everything. St. Ann’s looked like I imagine the kingdom of God looks, a place where there was room for everyone.
I have been part of many Episcopal churches since my days at St. Ann’s. None have been as diverse as that small, inner-city congregation. But all have had that same spirit of welcome and inclusiveness. All have understood that in God’s kingdom there is a place for all of God’s children. All have been more concerned with breaking down barriers instead of putting them up. That is one reason I am an Episcopalian.
Another major reason I am an Episcopalian is because we are a denomination that embraces the intellect and encourages thoughtful questioning. An advertisement for the Episcopal Church some years ago captured this with a picture of Jesus with these words, “He came to take away your sins, not your mind.”
There are, of course, other reasons I love the Episcopal Church – I love the awe and mystery of the Eucharist, I love the music, I love the willingness to live with ambiguity and paradox, I love the concern for the world that God has created, I love the sense of community in each of the congregations I have been a part of.
We are not a perfect denomination by any means. And we are not a denomination that appeals to everyone. But that’s OK. Other denominations have different strengths and appeal to different people. The vastness of Christ’s love cannot be captured by any one group.
Tricia
(This was also the First Person Article published in the Summer 2009 edition of Pathways, the quarterly journal of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta. It was followed by a Special Section, "Why are you an Episcopalian?" where readers were asked to submit a 100-word essay. Good reading, if you get a copy of Pathways. Closer to home, and I'm thinking St. Dunstan's anyway, why are you an Episcopalian? - Steve)
Why are you an Episcopalian? How would you answer if someone asked you that question? Of all the different branches and flavors of Christianity, why did you choose this one?
If you are like me, there is no one single answer to this question. As a child I went to the Episcopal Church because my parents took me there. I liked going to church. But in college, like many other students, I opted for sleep instead of worship on Sunday mornings. I got out of the habit of going to church.
I was 30 before I came back to the church. I went because I was invited by a friend who knew I had grown up Episcopalian. I stayed because of what I found in that little church in Nashville.
What I found was this – a place where all sorts and conditions of humanity were welcome, a place where I was welcome. At St. Ann’s there were lawyers and car mechanics, there were residents of the nearby housing projects and people from the wealthiest neighborhoods in Nashville, there were blacks and whites, gays and straights, young and old, there was a little bit of everything. St. Ann’s looked like I imagine the kingdom of God looks, a place where there was room for everyone.
I have been part of many Episcopal churches since my days at St. Ann’s. None have been as diverse as that small, inner-city congregation. But all have had that same spirit of welcome and inclusiveness. All have understood that in God’s kingdom there is a place for all of God’s children. All have been more concerned with breaking down barriers instead of putting them up. That is one reason I am an Episcopalian.
Another major reason I am an Episcopalian is because we are a denomination that embraces the intellect and encourages thoughtful questioning. An advertisement for the Episcopal Church some years ago captured this with a picture of Jesus with these words, “He came to take away your sins, not your mind.”
There are, of course, other reasons I love the Episcopal Church – I love the awe and mystery of the Eucharist, I love the music, I love the willingness to live with ambiguity and paradox, I love the concern for the world that God has created, I love the sense of community in each of the congregations I have been a part of.
We are not a perfect denomination by any means. And we are not a denomination that appeals to everyone. But that’s OK. Other denominations have different strengths and appeal to different people. The vastness of Christ’s love cannot be captured by any one group.
Tricia
(This was also the First Person Article published in the Summer 2009 edition of Pathways, the quarterly journal of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta. It was followed by a Special Section, "Why are you an Episcopalian?" where readers were asked to submit a 100-word essay. Good reading, if you get a copy of Pathways. Closer to home, and I'm thinking St. Dunstan's anyway, why are you an Episcopalian? - Steve)
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