A Little Bit of Lent

Last year, I told Patricia I was going to hit all of the Holy Week services, work and other conflicts be damned. And I pretty much kept true to my word, with the exception of the Saturday evening champagne and cake and Easter Sunday morning, when I was in Alford, Fla. helping my mother move. (I did make the Methodist Easter service in Alford, however, and ended up visiting with some of my great-grandmother’s old cronies, over a big spread of country breakfast, gravy, biscuits, piles of sausages and scrambled eggs).

Last year, however, I did not make Ash Wednesday. Indeed when I got there this year at 7 o’clock, the solemn service was sparsely attended. Everyone else may have been at the noon service, but if I am any indication of how people behave, I think that a lot of people miss the best and holiest services of the year.

You can get so much accomplished within yourself by attending just one Lenten service. On Ash Wednesday, for instance, I left St. Dunstan’s feeling cleansed, forgiven, prepared to begin a season of study and contemplation. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I felt renewed, that everything had been put into perspective—the more I get outside of myself, I came away thinking, the closer I become to God.

That night I grabbed my prayer book and took it to bed. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” All of the wrong—self-indulgence, hypocrisy, envy, waste, love of stuff and dishonesty—for all of this, we asked forgiveness and received it. I lay there thinking, what a lovely feeling to feel forgiven, to be forgiven, like the glow you have when you wake up the first morning in your first house. It’s a kind of comfort, stability, warmth. Then of course you realize all of the things you have to do to keep that house—pay the mortgage, make repairs, clean, deal with sometimes whiny neighbors and taxes that are surely too high.

My new house/forgiveness feeling was immediately tested. On Thursday morning, it wasn’t 9:30 before I lost patience with a certain person I am wont to lose patience with and snapped. My boss came in, was probably irritable about something else, he snapped and instead of keeping my mouth shut, I snapped back, bigger, louder, with more bite. By the afternoon, I was picking up the phone giving some ad person what for. What for? For laying blame on someone else following an error. As a result of the call, I became the subject of a tattle-tale email with a bunch of people copied, just short of including the CEO. This is to say, I have a lot of repairs to make, many mortgages to go before I can call this new house mine. And maybe that’s one of the purposes of Lent. It is given to you and then maybe you have to work to actually deserve it.

So this morning, Sunday, Patricia referenced the line in the movie Broadcast News, about how we all know that murdering and philandering and stealing is wrong—that’s the obvious stuff--it’s the little compromises that change who we are until we no longer recognize ourselves.

The quote she gave: “What do you think the devil is going to look like? Come on, nobody is going to be taken in by a guy with a long, red, pointy tail. He will be attractive, he will be nice and helpful, he will get a job where he influences a great God-fearing nation, he will never do an evil thing, he will never deliberately hurt a single living creature. He will just bit by little bit lower our standards wherever they are important. Just a tiny little bit; just a tiny little bit.”

It was the part of the sermon that found its way to Sunday School, still vibrating in our minds as we listened to Tim talk about the first three Stations of the Cross.

So how does this apply to missing the Holy Season? I’m not sure but it feels connected. Maybe it’s like dancing around the edges of faith but then missing the most important part—because we aren’t bombarded by T.V. commercials, or ads, or big parties with eggnog and roaring fires and festive sweaters decorated with snow men and Santas. Maybe it’s because Lent is a season that begins when life is stripped bare from the earth. Like Caroline Miller wrote in Lamb in his Bosom, unlike a summer night when you are comforted by the sounds of creatures, a winter night leaves you lying there still and alone, the darkness marked only by the howling of the wind.

I’ll share one more thing—though this entry is getting long—it’s something I wrote after the Maundy Thursday service last year. It was never completely developed. I’m not sure that there was more to say, except that this year, I’m going to get a pedicure and wear shoes that I can easily slip off for the service.

I was telling my therapist that I had attended a foot-washing service during Holy Week. I told him how the service had moved me to tears. What I did not tell him was that in addition to crying, that when I reached my car in the parking lot at St. Dunstan’s, I began to sob. I could not put in words, dare not put in words the overwhelming feeling of closeness I felt to, well, God. But it was more than that. Watching my fellow parishioners quietly walk up to the altar and take turns pouring water from an earthen pot over each other’s feet, drying each other’s feet with a towel stunned, I was literally, not intellectually but literally stunned by the perfect example of humility.

I am basically a chicken. I sort of purposefully wore tights to the service so as to prevent any washing or being washed on my part. I had not had a pedicure and besides, the idea of foot-washing struck me as a strange and charismatic Baptist thing to do, something more akin to snake handling and public shows of salvation, fainting, laying on of hands, speaking in tongues.

“I didn’t actually wash anybody’s feet,” I said, lest I be accused of religious fervor. “Nor did I have my feet washed,” I told the therapist, who is Italian Catholic. The lights in his office are always soft and dim and the décor runs heavily to Buddhist gods and goddesses, glass and wood bookcases packed with volumes and volumes of psychiatric titles.

“The Christians got the foot-washing from the Jews,” he said neutrally, as he does most things.

Hawks at St. Dunstan's

When I was called as rector of St. Dunstan’s almost six years ago, I received a note from the previous rector Margaret Rose congratulating me and telling me what a great congregation I was going to. And, she added, “You’ll have the best office in Christendom.”

She was right. Looking out my office window I have watched a line of fluffy goslings waddle behind their parents through the Beech Grove. Sitting in the rocking chair on the porch outside my office I was privileged to watch those same parents teach their offspring to take off and land from the pond.

I’ve seen a turtle slowly make its way across the parking lot. I’ve seen pileated woodpeckers, blue jays, blue birds, and cardinals. One morning Maggie and I watched in wonder as an entire flock of cedar waxwings arrived and plucked every berry over what had been a laden bush outside my office window.

There have been foxes and coyotes and even a deer. But nothing has been quite as exciting as the hawks this week.

Several people told me on Sunday that they had seen hawks in front of the church. The next morning I saw them, too. One was perched on a low, slender branch of a little tree by the parking lot. Another was on the ground. (Wikipedia says they sometimes do hunt from the ground.)

My arrival did not concern them in the least, and I stood and watched them for a long time. The next morning when I arrived they were perched on the light pole. Later that morning three of them chased each other from tree to tree, screeching at each other.

The next day I brought my camera and was rewarded. As I pulled into the parking lot I immediately saw a huge red shouldered hawk, breast puffed out in the cold, sitting in a tree. I rolled down the window, reached for the camera and started shooting.
I got out of the car and the hawk flew a few feet to another tree. Then there was a swoosh and another one flew by. I started clicking before I realized what it was I had just captured on film – the hawks were mating.

When they were finished they both sat on the branch for a while, their feathers a little ruffled and rumpled (as you can see in the photos). Then they both flew off.
Native American spirituality says the hawk is an omen of good and a messenger from the spirit world. Hawks see things others miss. Native Americans believe that hawks, with their keen eyesight and perspective from above the earth, call us to open our eyes, pay attention, and gain perspective on what is going on around us.

In the days ahead I’ll be paying attention to the hawks, trying to find their nest, and hoping to see their young in the spring.

I give thanks to God for the beauty of our surroundings at St. Dunstan’s, and for all of God’s creatures who share this bit of earth and sky with us.

The Smallest of Acts

I was in the self checkout at Kroger, scanning milk and bread, chips and yogurt, and a gallon jar of Mt. Olive whole giant dill pickles that I found on sale for about $5. Like me, everyone else within a five-mile radius of this store was stocking up in preparation for today’s snow. Lines of heavy grocery carts spilled out at each register into the aisles. Shoppers with single items, quickly darted about, weaving between the closely packed throng of bodies, queued up to pay and get home.

After a long day at the office, I had to force myself to make this trip to the grocery store. I do not like shopping under the best of circumstances and once lived on a carton of eggs for a whole week to avoid the experience. (This retail phobia doesn’t extend to book stores for some reason).

By the time I got to the checkout, I was feeling anxious. When you do your own scanning, anything can happen. The barcodes don’t work. The computer thing goes down. You have to wait for the store lady to come fix the mess, usually with some key hanging around her neck or a secret code and combination of key strokes that even a safecracker would have a hard time emulating.

Not only was I anxious, but the more items that came out of my basket, the closer the woman behind me kept inching up. Like if she allowed any space between us, she’d loose her spot. Anxious and irritated, I made a mental note to ignore this woman. She reminded me of the drivers in the morning who will break their necks—or yours—just to get a couple of cars ahead but when you get to a stop light, you’re both still in the same position you were in the first place.

It was then the gallon jar of Mt. Olive dill pickles slipped out of my hands and crashed open on the floor, creating a big green mess. I closed my eyes and shook my head, “No. This is the last thing I need.”

The woman behind me immediately offered sympathy. “It’s okay,” she said in a New York accent. “I’ll let them know there’s a cleanup. I’ll watch your things. Just go get another jar of pickles. It’s not a big deal, it happens to everyone.”

It was only then that I actually turned and looked at her face, olive-skinned, sweet smile with blindingly bright perfect teeth. I hesitated just a moment—I broke the jar after all, why should the store replace something as a result of my clumsiness? Then I just walked away, like I was on a death march, to find the shelf with the pickles, the gallon jars, the great sale. Finding them, I grabbed another jar then trudged back to my place in line, feeling sorry for myself.

My pickle mess was now covered in Ajax, a mound of blue powder and vinegar. “Thank you for watching for me. I feel terrible about this,” I told the woman, now a friendly presence, only moments ago the target of my grumpiness.

“Breaking a jar of pickles should be your biggest problem, right?” she smiled, that accent, the cadence of whatsamattayou.

“Right,” I said. And the truth is, while I do have bigger problems, her comment helped to put things in perspective. Whatever my problems, they are minor compared to the real problems that so many people face in the world—earthquakes, hunger, war, homelessness, not having a single friend. On the scale, good far outweighs bad in my life. And so oddly, that broken jar of pickles was actually a good reminder of how much I have to be thankful for—and to daily remember to thank God not only for the gift of life, but for putting strangers in my path that show the random goodness in the world through the smallest of acts.

How to Explain the Meaning of Christianity

My oldest son, Vincent, has been visiting for the last week now from Naples, Fla. Last night I mentioned to this six-foot-two, 24-year-old (who often looks the same to me as he did when he was five), how nice it would be if he came with me to church and Sunday school. If he wanted to sleep in, no problem, I said.

 

So when this morning came, I couldn’t have been more pleased to hear water running in the bathroom upstairs a little after 7 a.m. When I poked my head in, there was my big child, face covered in shaving cream, telling me that coffee was already brewing in the kitchen. He was getting ready for church.

 

On the way, in the car, we began to discuss Christianity. Vincent asked me, for instance, in this day and age, what the real meaning of Christianity was. What place should it, can it, does it have in your life? Practically speaking, why give up just about each and every Sunday, when you can sleep in, or go to the beach and sail your boat, or work on your old beat-up VW bus from high school?

 

Vincent was baptized by Austin Ford as a baby but he really falls under the category of the not-churched-so-much. Unlike his little brother, Wolfie, who is five years younger, Vincent was already in college when we found our church home at St. Andrews in Columbia, N.C. When Wolfie “religiously” dawned his red and white acolyte robe every Sunday and swung on the rope to ring the bell that hung in the tower of that clapboard country church.

 

So to answer this important question, I started with the least smart line—because you’re a natural Episcopalian, I said. Those values are the values you grew up with, that’s how we think. What I did not say was: We are liberal. We try to be tolerant. We listen to NPR, we are thinkers. We root for the underdog. We question ourselves, we try to evolve . .. I did not say those things but I think that is what I was on the verge of saying after just one cup of coffee.

 

“Denomination shouldn’t really matter, though, right?” Vincent said.

 

So I got into this weak explanation about being part of a community, about Sunday school, about spirituality and learning and studying. It made no particular impression that I could see. When I read what I said and thought as I write this, it makes no particular impression on me. Muddy, unfocused, indirect.

 

Anyway we arrived at St. Dunstan’s just in time to slip in ahead of Patricia, who was already in her robes, about to enter the sanctuary. Quiet, early service. Not much noise, even in the way of rustling bodies, which add up to about eight at that time of day.

 

Then Vincent and I were following the scripture reading “ . . . If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.” Vincent smiled at me and nodded his head, good stuff. It is, and it's my mother’s favorite—she read it at her house blessing.

 

Paul’s letter ended . . “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

 

Though I could not explain, Why Christianity, I was fortunate in that this morning, that was exactly what Patricia did in her sermon—with Paul’s love letter. The love letter not to a romantic couple, but to a feuding congregation. Not romantic love, but Christian love, she said.

 

Patricia went on in her analysis of Paul:

 

The “more excellent way,” the way of love, acts like this, Paul says. Love refuses to stoop to petty retaliation. It shuns competitiveness and resists keeping a score card of who is right and wrong.

 

Love is kind and patient, even to those – maybe especially to those – who are most aggravating and annoying. Love remains hopeful, even in situations where stress and conflict seems overwhelming.

 

Feelings come and go, but the action of love abides.

 

Because Vincent heard the whole sermon, I will never have need to try again to explain what I think Christianity means. Patricia clarified even further in her sermon, and next time I will remember exactly what I want to say, should have said, knew in my heart but couldn’t pull out when I needed it:

 

And yet Jesus did not say that the ultimate sign of Christianity is the doctrine or creed one espouses, what church one attends, or what political positions one takes.

 

As important as these things might be, the ultimate sign of Christian discipleship and community is the way we treat one another.

 

As Jesus said to his disciples the night before he died, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

 

Paul reminds us today that love is the foundation of all Christian life, and without love no life can be Christian.

 

And since I’ve copied and pasted just about the whole sermon, which is posted on our home page, I’ll go ahead and give you the end:

 

It is a simple message with no high doctrinal content. That is how the world is to know us, how we are to know one another.

Amid all the complexities of our faith and life, love, kindness, and friendship are the first marks of a disciple of Christ.

Amen.