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.

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.

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

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?   

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

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.