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 cafĂ© 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!