The Sheep of Iona

I hadn’t been to the early service for at least a month what with all of the Holy Week activities and then the annual Parish meeting last week. So I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. last night, plenty of time to compensate for any bad rolling over type behavior. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed the absence of Patricia’s red station wagon, with the bumper sticker that says “Separate Church & Hate.” In a space nearby, I saw a blue sedan—and remembered that Patricia was in San Francisco at her 30-year Peace Corp reunion.

I headed for the door, just in time to unlock it for Tim, whose arms were loaded down with projector-computer-type Sunday School teacher stuff. “You preaching, too?” I asked. He was not, just teaching.

Inside the door Maggie greeted me. “You preaching?” I asked for the second time in as many minutes. I think she nodded her head. In fact, I’m not sure what she said, if it was “good morning” or “yes I prepared a sermon” or what. But Maggie’s smile – indeed her whole mood -- was immediately infectious. I found myself smiling as I made a pot of coffee, for no good reason. It was like one of those song lyrics that you hear and then you can’t get out of your head.

In her sermon she talked about a long-ago pilgrimage that she made to the Isle of Iona, one of the oldest landmarks of Christianity. She recounted how a monastery had been founded there in 563 by Saint Columba and how the tiny island became the burial place for Scottish kings. How the island and Abbey became a holy place of pilgrimage.

Maggie also described the green rolling pasture land that surrounded the ancient edifice, and said one evening she and her companions sat outside watching the sheep that dot the landscape. As the day drew to a close, the mother sheep began calling their babies. A pair of twins, she’d been watching, heard their mother’s call amidst the general commotion of bleeting and bahhing of the other mothers. She watched as the twins immediately went to and found their mother and noted that all of the other babies were paired correctly with their mothers as they all settled down for the night.

The story helped to reshape and deepen the Gospel reading, John 10:22-30. Temple officials are trying to get Jesus to say he’s the Messiah but he has no plans to. “My sheep hear my voice,” he says. “I know them and they follow me.”

There are voices in our heads that we hear, all kinds of voices. Sometimes it’s the voice of denial and sometimes it’s the voice of God, Maggie said.

So I’ve been pondering the voices in my head quite a bit today. Sometimes, I find, I have more than one voice coming at me on the same subject. Neither is completely wrong but neither is completely right either. I’ll have to keep working on that one.

As far as the voice of God, I’m not really sure he comes to me that way, or that I think of her in that way. Although, of course, that makes perfect sense. But I can feel God, I think, in others. Just as it’s hard to see pain and grief in a friend without getting a knot in your stomach, there is also that pure unconscious joy that spreads from one person to another, spreads from the outside in,turned out again, almost light enough to be carried away by the wind. The gifts of God for the people of God.

Breakfast with Jesus on the Beach

I was sitting in my regular pew with Nancy Dillion in the row in front of me and Joe Monti in the row behind me. Nancy was just back from vacationing with her family in Hawaii and of course, anyone who’s ever sat in front of Joe knows they can sort of hide their own off-key singing in the shadow of his booming baritone voice.

Tim Black, who I’ve come to think of as St. Dunstan’s own personal seminarian over the last three years, read the Gospel. It was John 21:1-19, about Jesus showing himself to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias. They were Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, the sons of Zebedee and two unnamed disciples, maybe women—who knows?

Anyway, they were all going fishing. They didn’t catch a thing and then around daybreak, they saw Jesus standing on the beach. After a little back and forth, Jesus, now sitting by a charcoal fire says, “Come and have breakfast.”

Now I know “Come and have breakfast” is certainly not the point of that Gospel reading. But this morning, to me, it was. What rang so clearly was that as the sun was rising, the disciples were starting their day in a pretty good way—having breakfast with Jesus on a beach.

That was not at all how my morning started. I woke up too early and rather than get up and do something useful, I laid in bed and let my mind wonder aimlessly to worrisome topics.

I complained to myself about how I’d actually gotten the house clean and the dog had stained the bed spread I just got for Wolfie for the summer, something quilted but light and made of cotton. How do you get stains out of cotton that isn’t white? Bleach works on white cotton obviously, but the new bed spread is sort of a lighter Master’s green.

So petty worries. Like potato chips, just one on top of the other. Then where was I going to find the right size trays for Vincent’s wedding reception? And as the unsung mother of the groom, why should I be worried about trays anyway?

So rather than get up and face my grumpy self, I rolled over instead. I didn’t have to leave until at least 8:30 because today was the annual Parish meeting, meaning I’d go to the regular service and stay afterwards for potluck. Then I overslept. Didn’t have time to pick up something for the potluck from the grocery store. Grabbed a salad from last night out of the frig, an extra avocado, tomato and some ranch dressing and ran out the door. I did this quickly knowing that I was going to be about 30 minutes late for Sunday School, which was Craig Withers talking about his work in world public health with the Carter Center, something I’ve really been looking forward to. I caught the tail end.

But as I’m sitting there in my pew, that breakfast with Jesus thing continued to resonate, even as Patricia gave this great sermon about the reading that pointed out that the most unlikely people can be good disciples and leaders. The most unlikely people can heed Jesus’ directive to Simon Peter to “Feed my sheep.”

Instead of absorbing the true message, I’m thinking about that old saying that the beginning of the day is a pretty good indication of how the rest of the day is going to play out. It’s supposed to apply to relationships, so if you start out in a rocky relationship, for instance, there’s not a lot of reason to think that it’s going to be any different with time.

So I’m sitting there thinking if I had had a better start to the day, like the disciples did a couple a thousand years ago, having breakfast on the beach with Jesus, I might actually be able to pay attention to the sermon. I bet after they started their day like that, the rest of the day was incredible. I bet they were all glowing. I bet the air smelled fresher and the sand was cool under their feet and the sky looked a little bluer.

After church, we had our potluck. I wasn’t feeling very chatty. I ate three different kinds of chocolate dessert as I listened to the foodies at my table trade cooking and dining tips. Peachy said she liked to eat just about anything that didn’t move, to which Nancy Dillion replied, “What do you think a fork is for?”

We all laughed. But my mind still wandered in a very self-indulgent way. While Patricia gave the report, she brought up the fact that Tim will be leaving us soon because he has just one more week of seminary, then he’ll be getting a job and being a priest full time somewhere. It conjured up images of the times Tim invited and re-invited me to Sunday School, how he’d dug up the liturgy for my mother’s house blessing last Easter.

Someone asked if we’d be getting another seminarian (see I’m not the only one who takes ownership). In my less-than-good spirits, my knee-jerk mental reaction, “Nope, that was a one time deal.”

To my surprise, Patricia told us actually there were two candidates that the school had asked her to consider. Even as Tim is leaving, there’s a great likelihood that another student will come. It is possible that we’ll take pride in a few years as this now unnamed seminarian is ordained at the Cathedral as a Deacon. We might smile seeing a fresh white collar, feeling somehow that we were part of the process that brought our seminarian to this point.

And from there, despite the fact that my day did not start out with Jesus on the beach, my mood began to improve, or rather that fever of general irritation broke. Patricia asked us to look for examples of renewal this year. And since she said that, I’ve had a hard time on that front, not looking, but finding. Would another seminarian count as renewal?

Now I’m in better spirits. It’s almost 5 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. And I know that every day we have a chance to make a better day, to begin again.

But I’m now firmly against that saying about how your day starts so goes your life. And that applies to days, and habits, and forgiveness and getting along with other people. Because most of us don’t get to start our days having breakfast with Jesus on the beach, we just have to begin where we are and have faith that things will get better.

Look for Renewal

The Easter Vigil began outside in the Beech Grove behind the church. Patricia told us this was her favorite service of the year and one of the oldest services in Christianity. Beginning the night before Easter at sundown, we all lit our candles from the Paschal candle. Armed with tiny silver bells, our flickering candles and programs, we followed chants into a darkened sanctuary.



There the altar was shrouded in black cloth.




And then when Lent was over, Patricia and Maggie and Tim stripped the altar of its widows' weeds, revealing light and life and Patricia shouting joyfully "Alleluia! Christ has Risen!" to which we responded "Alleluia! The Lord is Risen Indeed!" And as she repeated these words three times, the sound of little silver bells rang throughout the sanctuary, gaining in volume with the sound of her voice. Alleluia!!

Then, celebrating that new life, we renewed our baptismal vows. Patricia blessed the water, then walked around the sanctuary blessing us all with water, drops shook from a fragrant branch of rosemary.

With Lenten disciplines behind us, Patricia gave us a new task on Easter morning: "I suggest this year we take up an Easter discipline--that we look each day with examples of new life and resurrection in our own lives or in the world and people around us."

Here's the choir the next morning following the Easter service. Despite a late night celebrating the end of Lent after the Easter Vigil service in the Parish Hall (with bubbly apple cider, champagne and cake), there were a few yawns, mostly in the front row.

Here's the St. Dunstan's flute quartet.

There was an Easter egg hunt in the Beech Grove for the little children and another along the nature trail.

Here's a happy Easter girl . . .

And another wearing shades . . .

And three young ladies gathered in their lovely Easter dresses.

There’s Always One…..

For many years now, I have made it a point to get off work and attend the Good Friday services. Since I sing in the choir, it helps to add another voice to the musical offerings. The Good Friday liturgy lasts for an hour and the Stations of the Cross that follow add another two. So why would someone want to sit on a hard bench for three hours? Because the reward is so great.

The readings for the Stations of the Cross are some of the most poignant in our liturgy. The long silent pauses only serve to accentuate their power. Some of the most beautiful music has been written for the Good Friday service. I had a creative streak many years ago and wrote a few songs myself. I am certainly the least of all composers, but the best song I ever wrote is based on Good Friday readings. I have done it a time or two at our services.

Every year, there’s always one musical offering that will bring tears to my eyes. Sometimes it has been “The Reproaches”:
“Oh My people, what have I done to thee, and wherein have I wearied thee?....”
Other times it has been Helen’s heart-felt rendering of “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” She always says she should quit doing it, but the rest of us in the choir always encourage her to do it one more time. She sings it with such confidence and ease (and never needs any music to do it!). Other years, including this one, it has been the “Stabat Mater”, Hymn 159, which gets to me:
“At the cross her vigil keeping, stood the mournful mother weeping,
where he hung, the dying Lord. There she waited in her anguish,
seeing Christ in torment languish, in her heart the piercing sword….”
I have been fortunate never having to keep a vigil with someone who is dying, but I am reminded of the time I kept a vigil at my younger son’s bedside when he was very sick with pneumonia and was on the cusp between life and death. It is a painful place to be. I can only imagine Mary’s anguish.

So, is the service on Good Friday long? Yes, it is. It is worth the time spent? Absolutely.

Bruce Lafitte
April 2010

What I Learned in Sunday School

Okay, it’s my last night on earth and for some reason you know it — do you accept my invitation to supper? After all, it’s not actually a conveniently timed supper and traffic is really bad, it’s backed up both ways on I-285, in fact all of the major interstates are jammed and the back roads are just as frustrating. You have this supper invitation and it’s my last night on earth, but it’s also during the week, a Thursday. You’ve been working all day and the weather is beautiful. You like me, sure, and you’ll probably miss me a little bit when I’m gone. Not to mention, you’re already going to have to take time out to dress up and show up for my funeral.

But this sit-down supper thing is a hassle, especially when you could just sit on your back porch with a glass of wine and think a few good thoughts for me. Maybe you reason that your kid will be damaged for life if you miss that Thursday night soccer practice. I don’t know it’s my last night on earth, but you do. I get a feeling it’s soon, but you are absolutely certain that I’m going to die the next day. What do you do?

Okay, so never mind me. What if the supper invitation came from someone like, say, Jesus? Would he be worth a little inconvenience? Braving a little traffic on a Thursday night? I think most of us wouldn’t give that invitation a second thought. I refer, of course, to the Maundy Thursday service.

When the disciples showed up for this last-night-on-earth supper, they had no idea, or most of them had no idea, what the next day held. Jesus may have had a pretty good idea that he couldn’t keep defying authority and get away with it. He couldn’t keep standing up against the political and religious powers in the defense of the poor and downtrodden.

I imagine that though this was his last night on earth, he had a few things penciled in on his calendar. Maybe he was going to take a much needed rest after Passover, a few days by the sea. Maybe he wasn’t tired at all and he was making plans for other protests, even bigger things that would turn the whole rotten order of things upside down. I have to think he had something planned, even if it was just a breakfast date at the Waffle House—or some equivalent.

Whatever was on his calendar, whatever he hoped to accomplish in the future, he had a pretty good idea that his days were numbered. And because he knew his time was limited, he gathered his closest and trusted friends for a meal. There were 12.

Forgive me for saying so, but there’s a fuzziness about the resurrection. We bat it back and forth in Sunday School all the time. Was it a physical body floating heaven bound? At what point did the death take on such meaning in Christianity? Who saw what? How do we know? How should we interpret it? What does it mean for us as Christians, and beyond that, how do we apply what it means in our daily lives?

But the last supper? No ambiguity whatsoever. Here’s an excerpt from Patricia’s sermon, picking up where they’re all gathered for the meal and Jesus is worried like a parent about how his children will get along once he’s no longer there to guide them:

He looks around at them with love and affection and grief, with a little frustration thrown in, too. He has tried to teach them so many things. Sometimes they seem to get it; sometimes he wonders if they have understood anything he has said or done at all.

This may be his last chance, his last lesson. How can he get their attention? How can he make them understand the core message of his life?

Suddenly he has an inspiration. He gets up from the table, ties a towel around his waist, pours water into a bowl, kneels on the floor, and begins to wash his friends’ tired and dirty feet.

Predictably, they don’t understand. Peter sputters an objection – “I’m not letting you touch my feet! You can’t do that. That’s a servant’s job.”

“Ah, that’s the point,” Jesus replies. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. We are here to be servants; we show our love for God by loving and serving God’s people.

“I’ll be leaving you soon,” he tells them. “But my work must continue and live on in you. Follow my example. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

I couldn’t count how many years I missed the Maundy Thursday service in my life. In fact, I asked my brother about it, why we’d never gone as children. “It was too radical,” he said simply. Our grandparents were put off by this unsavory idea of having their feet touched and then, of course, the intimacy of putting your hands on the feet of others.

If I hadn’t said last year that I was planning on doing the whole Holy Week thing, making every service, I might never had showed up for Maundy Thursday. As it happened, though I washed not nor was washed last year, it was the most meaningful and holy service I had ever attended. As I watched the sacred symbolic act repeated with love and humility, everything I ever learned sitting in a pew or reading or in Sunday School all came together in concentrate form, like orange juice or vanilla extract. It was this: Love one another. Serve one another.

All year, I admit, I looked forward to the Maundy Thursday service. I took off work early and got a pedicure so I could wash-and-be-washed as it were. The earthen ware pitchers and bowls were set by two chairs on either side in front of the altar. The little white towels that we used to dry each other’s feet were embroidered with small red crosses. The sermon was wonderful. We had communion. And then there was a reverent silence as the altar was stripped bare. The candles were snuffed out. The choir moved to the back of the sanctuary, soft music, beautiful “Go to dark Gethsemane” was sung.

Like last year, I came away feeling closer to God, no other way to say it. But I was surprised that more people show up for the church barbeque than for this service—I believe there were just three of us attending who were not choir, clergy, altar guild or lectors. And while I’m getting ready to practice my flute for the Easter Sunday service tomorrow, and I’m washing something to wear for Easter Vigil tonight—another beautiful service followed by cake and champagne, I’m a little disappointed.

Easter is great, no doubt. Christmas is pretty wonderful. But if I put it all into a blender, everything I learned in Sunday School, it’s that Christianity is about loving and taking care of each other.

It was Jesus' last and most important commandment before he became the Christ. Here’s the definition:

[From Middle English maunde, ceremony of washing the feet of the poor on this day, from Old French mande, from Latin (novum) mand tum, (new) commandment (from Jesus's words to the Apostles after washing their feet, John 13:34); see mandate.]