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.”