St. Dunstan's Episcopal Church, Atlanta

St. Paul’s Choir Visits St. D’s

2012-01-30T17:56:00.008-05:00

If you want to be extra holy, Patricia said during the announcement in the early service, you can stay and hear St. Paul’s Choir, which will be singing at the regular service. Having missed last year when they visited us and gave us their wondrous gift of song, so I didn’t have a point of reference for the festivities that were cooking in the Parish Hall.

But I hung around after Sunday School and by the time the regular service was starting, I was still standing by the doors listening with Pricilla (she was also at the early service). Before long, we were sharing her bulletin reading the Collect of the Day for the second time. The music, led by Trey Clegg, St. Paul’s director, had our ears perked up and our feet unwilling to move, at least not until “one more song.”

Pricilla eventually gave in and found a seat in the Sanctuary while I sat outside and then wandered in the garden by the church listening to the sound of voices singing “Blessed assurance, Jesus is Mine”, which I imagine went winding through the woods in a mist of grace.

And here’s Patricia: “Blessed be God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

Here’s Sue and Renee and Elizabeth in the kitchen. A big thank you to Sue!! Note the cake in the background with the powder sugar on top and the thick-cut ham and biscuits.

Here’s another sample shot of preparations for coffee time.

GOD: ASSEMBLY REQUIRED?

2012-01-23T13:29:00.002-05:00

There is a company called MakerBot-its product is a Thing-O-Matic, which is a 3D printer that makes whatever design you've created on your computer into a six-inch plastic model. The cost is about $1,300, and it takes 12 hours to put it together. I think there's an obvious religious connection here-at least in a commercial sort of way.

God created the world and everything in it B.P. (before plastic). MakerBot can't answer your prayers but it can answer your wildest dreams in the form of stuff. (Actually the product that makes stuff is the Thing-O-Matic, I just like the idea of a MakerBot so I'm going to call it that.)

We were talking about the difference between the existence and the presence of God in Sunday School this morning. The arguments are endless. Existence versus presence, for some reason, makes me think of time. Live each day with the awareness that it's sacred, because it is, and there's no better proof of God's presence or existence to me than that.

So if time is one of the most obvious gifts-we could also call it life--do we fill every moment that we're alive with productive labor, to afford things that we can write our names on-the deed to a beach house, the title to a boat, a good address, two or four cars, a motorcycle, some mountain bikes. A piano. An expensive stereo system. Shirts that cost $800. And then there's lots of ways to spend money on new technology, in fact, there's always a way to spend money on new technology. Like the $1,300 Thing-O-Matic.

If you prayed for those things, would the real God cave in and get them for you? Probably not. Whenever I get a chance to ask God for something, ultimately I never really ask God to make anyone else do anything or for any material thing beyond what I need for survival and I always have that (thank you God). So I usually ask for peace for others, for myself. For emotional wounds to heal. Or to be a better person. Or forgiveness. Courage. Or, when I'm really convinced I have no idea what to want, I just ask for God's presence, for God to be with me. No plastic. No assembly required.

GET RIGHT WITH YOUR SOCIAL SUPPORT NETWORK

2012-01-18T11:34:00.003-05:00

I read an interesting thing in the Harvard Business Review. And that is this: happiness can be learned. It’s not innate or environmental or luck. And I figure finding God is probably a lot like practicing for happiness.

Here’s the background on happiness: training your brain to be happy is like training your muscles. The exercises are simple—jot down 3 things you’re grateful for, write a positive message to someone in your “social support network” (I think that means friends and family), exercise for 10 minutes, take two minutes to write in a journal your most meaningful experience of the past 24 hours.

I can vouch for all of those things—most of us can. Those of us without naturally sunny dispositions have to work on it sometimes.

And I’m guessing the same is true for God. Having more God in your life could be a lot like having more happiness in your life. Practice. Go to Sunday School, church. Get nourished, eat bread, drink wine, let go, be thankful, open yourself to grace, be reminded. You are not alone.

Anyway, not that I follow my own advice. But listen, the story I was reading also had another fact worthy of pointing out: Of the 5 activities listed above, the most effective “may be engaging positively with people in your social support network.” Now I’m guessing those people at Harvard are talking about fellow parishioners and your priest.

Sunday School 2012: The God Question

2012-01-08T19:24:00.001-05:00

A new topic and a new series for the first Sunday School class of 2012. Is there a God? Is there objective proof? One of the atheists' arguments against God that was mentioned was that “religion is an opiate for the masses.” Humankind needs to be kept in line and we’ll believe anything an authority figure tells us. Religion is crowd control.

There were others and it was a fascinating discussion (come to Sunday School next week and see for yourself). Science. Freud. The God Particle. The experience of God. One truth versus many. Tepid Christians. Violence born of religion.

I’m particularly sensitive to the “opiate for the masses” remark, though, because both of my husbands were fond of saying it. Why church? Why God? Fear of death. Fear of the afterlife. And though both were atheists, I never could quite express to them how I felt about God—I believed that they both experienced God whether or not they were aware of that fact (they’re both with God now, or reincarnated as squirrels).

Here’s an example, in my book, of God. Last week when I was driving home from church, at the off ramp from the interstate, I saw this very old toothless man with a beagle dog and a sign, begging for food. I don’t know why—because I really wasn’t in a very good mood—but the sight of the two of them together suddenly filled me with an unaccountable joy and I smiled.

And the old man saw me smiling and making motions for him to come over quick so I could give him some money before the light changed. He hobbled over like a crab on skinny uneven legs, and we both laughed with each other as I put a bill in his hand. “Smiles are worth a lot more than money, aren’t they?” he said.

I agreed.

Joseph Henry's Solo!

2011-12-13T07:00:00.002-05:00

St. Dunstan’s chorister Joseph Henry Monti had the honor of singing a solo on the first verse of “Once in Royal David’s City” to open the Holy Innocents’ service of Lessons and Carols. The service, held at the Cathedral, included choruses from the elementary, middle, and high schools, as well as the church adult choir. More than 1,000 people attended.

What the video on YouTube! Click below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhlDjJvrX3A

CHRISTMAS TAG TREE

2011-12-05T07:10:00.001-05:00

This year, St. Dunstan’s is buying Christmas gifts for 10 families served by Emmaus House. On that tree (above, modeled by our children) are tags with the name of the person and each gift to buy written on the tag. They are 10 families with mothers and children and fathers and grandmothers, not always in the same grouping. Bits of what we know: The brother of a high school football player fatally caught in the cross fire of a gang turf war. A four-year-old still innocent enough to like things that go “vroom” and his mother who could use a few more pots and pans and cups for the kitchen. A disabled single father. A girlie girl who likes Hannah Montana and Justin Bieber. A baby doll. A pair of Nike’s. A book.

I have done this exercise before. In North Carolina, several years ago, I was shopping with my oldest son for two little boys we were buying Santa Claus for through St. Andrew’s, our old church in Columbia. We would go out and shop, unpack our bags and look at the piles. Which was bigger, more exciting. We shopped so much in fact that when I ran out of money that I could spend, Vincent dug into his own savings, hoping to make the Christmas morning of these two unknown little boys a good one. As we shopped, it was as if Vincent, an 18-year-old freshman in college, could see through their eyes, as if he feel through their hearts excitement or disappointment. I think that is the best you can hope for.

Anyway, I’ve taken two tags off the tree but haven’t done my shopping yet (gifts due wrapped or unwrapped next Sunday). If you’ve done this before, it would be great if you’d share your stories with all of us! Please respond to this post.

Remembering Jocelyn Bowman

2011-11-27T15:28:00.004-05:00

I was scanning back over my posts on the St. Dunstan’s blog, looking for mentions of Jocelyn. I tend to write what I see, and for one extended period, Nancy Dillon kept landing in the blog by virtue of being at the center of whatever church activity I happened to be writing about (standing around the King cake, chatting in a circle in the church library about house blessings and so on).

And that’s how I’ve written about Jocelyn. She was such a part of St. Dunstan’s. I couldn’t help but smile whenever I saw her, often enough late for the early service. She was generally in time to pass peace and take communion. Our thing was that we hung back after the service, huddled together in a pew and began spilling all about our lives--we have both had our share of rough patches these past couple of years. I don’t think she ever judged—cause she was always so ready with heartfelt sympathy and a hug. She gave you the impression her prayer list was a good one to be on. It was a good one.

The calling post message about her death was sent the day before Thanksgiving. Not much information. She’d been in a car accident on Monday and died in the hospital on Wednesday, down around Columbus, Ga.

I miss her and I know everyone else does. If you have a memory or a prayer you’d like to share about Jocelyn, please respond to this post.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-20T08:07:00.002-05:00

I’ve read we are the heirs of divine guidance. I think that means the potential of everything is right there for us, even the mind of God. It is there for the taking or there for the struggle or winding journey to reach it. Or maybe just a fleeting moment.

I know why fear is so often personified by demons—it’s like a living breathing thing that is also very elusive. You can’t catch a squirmy little red demon on your shoulder—the only way you can get rid of it is through trust that everything will be ok, prayer that everyone you love will be ok.

I’ve also been told to have faith means not to have fear. Maybe, in part, that’s why we ask God to take that away. And we replace it with confidence that comes from participating fully in life, without seeking reward for ourselves. And that we should do this with grace.

In this season, we take stock of our family and of our friends as we can count the place settings for the great feast where we will give thanks: what we’re doing right, the good that we know intimately, the people we love and those we miss.

I think, though it’s not written into the Thanksgiving holiday, working on your ability to forgive and to accept forgiveness would be very good thing to practice, to pray for. And to be as much a part of your own life as you can every single day. And to do it in a spirit of thanksgiving.

Join Us at the “Hugging Service”

2011-11-19T15:18:00.001-05:00

Ever wake up on Sunday morning, and just feel like you need a hug? Then we have the answer for you!

If you have ever attended the 8:30 service at St. Dunstan’s, you may know that this is a usually small and intimate service. We all come to the altar rail, or sometimes even stand immediately around the altar, for all of the communion service. When we pass the peace, we make sure that we each greet every other parishioner who is there that morning. And, as we passed the peace this morning, we realized that we are a group of “hugging” folks – and that when you come to the 8:30 service, you are very likely to receive a hug from every other member of St. Dunstan’s who is worshipping with you.

So, if you wake up early next Sunday or any other Sunday, and feel the need for a quiet, more intimate morning with God and your fellow parishioners, or if you just feel like you need some hugs, please join us at the 8:30 service. I guarantee you will leave feeling loved – both by God and by your fellow St. Dunstanites!

Renee' Kastanakis

Renee's Report on Diocesan Council to St. Dunstan's, Nov. 6

2011-11-19T15:04:00.001-05:00

Tricia, Maggie, Bruce Lafitte and I just returned from the105^th Annual council of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta which tookplace in Rome, GA Friday and Saturday.

This was Bishop Alexander’s last council as bishop as heleaves to become a teacher at Emory. So, instead of adjourning on Sat. as enormally would, we went into recess until we reconvene on June 2, 2012 to electthe next bishop of our diocese.

We heard from the Nominating Committee that they have nowreceived a number of excellent applications for the new bishop. We also heardfrom Tricia as to the many activities her Transition Committee will be involvedwith in helping the diocese in working towards the election of the new bishopnext year.

Bishop Alexander gave his annual address with some goo dnews items and not so good news. As the Episcopal Church in the US lost 55,000members from 2009 to 2010, the size of our diocese stayed about the same. Andalthough the commitments of the parishes of the diocese were up very slightlythis year, the overall income of the diocese had decreased. Because of this,the diocese budget that was approved by council included an outreach budgetwith no increases; no increases in salaries for the diocesan staff for the 4^thyear in a row; and an actual cut in a few social justice programs of thediocese.

On the way home from Council, Bruce and I discussed what wewould most like to report about Council. First, there was the story of one ofthose social justice programs that had just been cut – the Church of the CommonGround. The Church of the Common Ground, which was started around 2006, is aspiritual community for the homeless people of Atlanta, which holds churchservices for the homeless in Woodruff Park downtown every Sunday, in additionto providing other services to the homeless throughout the week. Obviously, the“congregants” of Church of the Common Ground do not create any income, so thechurch is completely supported by the diocese. Shortly after Bishop Neilstopped talking, a representative from the Cathedral went to the microphone andannounced that representatives from the 4 or 5 largest churches in the diocesehad gathered and had committed the resources to help develop a strategic planfor the Church of the Common Good so that it could become a sustainableorganization. In addition, until that plan could be completed, they had eachcommitted to donate enough to raise $50,000 for the Church of the Common Ground’s2012 budget – and they challenged the other congregations to donate to completethe total. Immediately representatives of churches all over the diocese rose tothe microphones – creating long lines throughout the hall – with most churchescommitting at least $1000 – or more if they could go back and get theirVestry’s approval. The “best” of the diocese shone through. Missions likeEmmaus House and Holy Comforter came forward with commitments to find ways toraise some funds. The young people from the campus ministries challenged eachother and came up with pledges of several thousand dollars. It was an incredibly moving experience – I’mnot sure there was a dry eye in the hall as we actually raised even more than wasneeded. St. Dunstan’s committed $1500, and I hope we will find a Sunday when wecan all join the Church of the Common Ground at one of their 1 pm services inWoodruff Park, and feed lunch to the congregants.

The other message Bruce and I took from the work of this Councilwas perhaps best characterized by some of the resolutions we adopted. Oneresolution supported the work that is being headed by our own Maggie Harney –and she is now the head of a brand new Commission created at this council – theCommission on Human Trafficking. In support of this resolution, Maggiepresented a very moving and powerful slideshow on the “slavery” of humantrafficking, and how prevalent this horror is within the area of the Diocese ofAtlanta. This Commission allows Maggie and others to have additional supportfrom the diocese in finding ways to prevent human trafficking in our state andbeyond.

We adopted a three part resolution on the death penalty inGeorgia. This resolution called for the diocese to seek a moratorium on the useof the death penalty in Georgia; called on parishes to study, consider and prayabout this issue; and further requires the diocese to ask our Governor andlegislators to introduce legislation that would abolish the death penalty inGeorgia.

Another resolution addressed the impact the diocese isseeing and feeling from HB87 – the Georgia immigration reform act. Thisresolution also asked congregations to study and pray about this issue, andrequires the diocese to issue letters letting the Georgia Governor andlegislators know the ways in which this Act is adversely affecting many membersof the Diocese of Atlanta, and also many of the groups helped by the work ofthe diocese.

The message from thisCouncil to me was as follows: Even in the face of financial and otherlimitations and barriers – because of and through our faith, the Diocese ofAtlanta will continue to care for those who need our help – especially thosewho we identify as “the least of them”; the Diocese will stand up and fight forthose who cannot stand up for themselves; and the Diocese will offer itssupport to those causes which reflect our beliefs as Christians.

Renee' Kastanakis

Nov. 6, 2011

Mind Reading

2011-11-05T17:48:00.002-04:00

I was reading a story in the Economist last night that said scientifically speaking, we can already read people’s minds through new technology and discoveries. Think of seeing a movie of what's in someone else’s head, the potential of that both terrible and beautiful.

Up until now, the only One who’s been considered capable of mind reading is God. And if that’s true, I’m not sure it’s a skill She’d want to use that often. It’d hardly be fair to wish on her every single last thing we’re thinking. A lot of it would be a huge waste of Her time to suffer through. Did I pay the phone bill? Should I clean the top half of the window or just pull the blinds down and do the bottom? Why would God ever want to spend Her time that way? Why do we?

Yes, human beings are basically good, we want good things for ourselves and our families, but we can also be incredibly petty and small and jealous and lazy and content in our misery. (I say “us” but I’m talking about “me.”) Everything—literally everything under the sun or that we could ever imagine--is in our nature to do. But which traits do we choose to cultivate? And if God did have to sit in once and a while and listen to us thinking, what would we want Her to hear?

Making Ends Meet

2011-10-16T21:27:00.003-04:00

This morning in Sunday School, we tried to balance a budget for a family of six living in New Jersey after watching a video (now 9 years old) showing them sitting at the kitchen table with a calculator and a stack of bills, trying to figure out how to rob Peter to pay Paul. There was not enough money for even the most basic necessities, let alone books or piano lessons for the children.

The combined annual income of both parents working full-time was a little more than $22,000, not considered below the poverty line. The family’s rent in a rundown, dangerous apartment complex in was $950 each month, half of their take home pay for a place where they were afraid to let their children go outside. The exercise was frustrating, looking at their bills, the past due notices. The need for new sneakers. For childcare for the youngest. The budget did not balance. No amount of beans and rice or deprivation would ever make it cover the most basic necessities.

Yet, these people got up every day, got on public transportation and worked as hard as they could, keeping the hope for a better future alive.

The irrefutable message of Christianity, to feed the poor and take care of widows and orphans was preached in the sermon. There were tidbits about higher taxes for the wealthy or even perhaps just the well off to fight a war on poverty. Patricia referenced a quote from Walter Brueggemann, the great modern day theologian about how money has become a narcotic in our society.

So all day today, I’ve been mulling the issue over. I have no answers. But I do know that this family does not live next door to me. They are other people in another part of town. I have to worry about eating enough fresh vegetables—they have to worry about eating at all.

Not 20 minutes ago, Wolfie, my 21-year-old, walked in the house, back from the Chevron around the corner. It took him probably 30 minutes, much longer than it should have, and he told me he was distracted by one of his friends—Menio, a 58-year-old homeless guy who needed a ride somewhere.

I have told Wolfie it is not his mission in life to give rides to people down on their luck. I have told him it’s incredibly dangerous. In fact, I thought he’d given up the practice. Then tonight, he began to tell me about Menio, an Italian New Yorker (he doesn’t speak Italian), who went to college and studied philosophy (which Wolfie has also studied). My son told me he and Menio talk philosophy, that this gentleman, who apparently lives in the alley behind the Fire Station down the road, is quite smart and in particular, knows his ancient philosophy.

Neither he nor any of the other homeless men who work the parking lot at the Chevron ever ask Wolfie for anything, he says. They don’t want to hustle him, they say, because he’s cool. He treats them with respect, as if the fact that they work in a gas station parking lot panhandling does not make them inhuman in his eyes. (Peak business hours are 4-6pm, when non-homeless driving people get off work. Menio and his friends ask for money as they go in the store, then usually get a little money when they come out—people never give on the way in, my son has learned, it’s always when they’re leaving. Maybe while they’re in the store getting their chips and sodas they realize how very little a dollar is to give away. Maybe they feel sorry. Or guilty. Or afraid.)

I learned a few other things, too, from this fairly open conversation with my youngest son. There is a small tent city in a strip of woods behind the Chevron. Many of the people there seem to drink a lot. Most are felons of some kind. Oddly, they are fairly clean (one washes his clothes in a nearby creek, others get water from outside water spigots when people are away from home).

I will continue to strongly discourage Wolfie from giving rides. It worries me terribly. But one thing I am quite proud of is that somehow, he sees beyond the trappings of poverty to know that there’s a human being there who has value and intelligence and who deserves kindness and respect. But what is better than the words that I’ve formed to describe the situation is the fact that he doesn’t even consider the idea that he might treat them as anything less than a fellow human being.

Why People Don’t Go To Church

2011-09-27T19:12:00.003-04:00

I've been pondering a question lately: why don’t people go to church? I’ve thought of long-term answers (a bad experience with religion) and short-term answers (the family is in town for the weekend) but no one thing will ever satisfy that question. There is no one sweeping answer like a key that unlocks a door.

I can let that question go. I'm not the first to ask it. In fact, I'm sure priests and pastors ask it all the time.

In the end, it probably just doesn't matter that much. Rather than ask why other people don't go to church, I might ask why I do? The answer to that question is not nearly so complicated-I go to be a part of something bigger than myself.

At church, St. Dunstan's, I am not required to manage people or answer questions or pay bills or put the dog out. It's not even remotely about me and what I do. It's about being with my fellow parishioners, about being inspired by a thought-provoking sermon or Sunday School class.

It's about prayer and communion, ingesting the body of Christ and making a fresh pact with God to go out and make the world a better place. It is about resolving petty differences I've conjured up during the week and letting them go, forgiving.

It's about listening to our amazing choir, and the baroque trio that greets me for no special occasion on Sunday morning. It's about watching the children lined up in their little chairs in front of the door with the giant construction paper fish-covered door (Jonah and the whale).

It's about passing peace and not passing judgment.

It's about community. It's about the fact that I'm not sure there's a better place or way I'd choose to spend my Sunday mornings. And if some people, even most people, don't go to church anymore, I know they've got their reasons. But I'm guessing also they're just

unaware of all the reasons to go.

Enjoying Great Coffee and Feeling Good About It

2011-09-24T21:20:00.000-04:00

"Hmm, time to pick up some more coffee," I thought to myself as I was fixing a pot Sunday morning before I left for choir practice. No problem, I'll just pick some up after church and maybe get something to fix for lunch while I'm at it.

But wait, after choir practice, there's coffee outside the Founders' Room. Alright! It was brought by Hilary King, who spoke to the Adult Formation Class for the second session on Food and Faith.

Hilary gave a very informative presentation on Fair Trade coffee and had a lot of interesting tidbits on the background and history of coffee.

I know we are all called to be a Christian witness to the world and a lot of times it's tough, like trying to find a Farmers Market that's nearby, (plus the fact that I don't really like grocery shopping). Or, I could react to global catastrophes by writing a check to Episcopal Relief & Development.

But how about this? I can do something about my quality of life, namely drinking good coffee. And while I am doing this, I can have a positive impact on (an admittedly small) part of world. This would be relatively easy, just look for Fair Trade, Organic, Shade-grown, etc., coffee. Or buy coffee from a company like Liga Masiva, Hilary's company, which sells Direct Trade coffee. Liga Masiva works directly with smallholder organic farmers in the Dominican Republic, cutting out the middlemen.

So I learned about the business of coffee and how it's grown, and I learned how I can help improve the quality of life of some organic farmers while I'm enjoying a great cup of coffee. Win-Win!

Reflections on 9/11

2011-09-11T20:10:00.002-04:00

Every year since Sept. 11, 2001, I have worked on a special publication to commemorate the day—part of my job at newspapers, magazine and now online business news. I have to say, this year, despite it being the 10th anniversary, I wasn’t sure exactly what else to say, let alone compiling multiple stories into a special edition. So I was pleasantly surprised when others took up the thinking for me. The memorial edition opened with a picture (taken hours earlier on Friday) of empty chairs in Manhattan’s Bryant Park, one for each of the 2,753 people who died in the attacks. And then much of the rest of the focus was on the rebuilding that has been done in the past decade.

As a journalist and as an American, I think memorializing this day is important. As a Christian, I think the lesson of 9/11 requires a more personal journey, one that I’m not completely comfortable taking because I think that it means exploring violent death: first, what it means for the victims and their families, and second, how we respond.

In Patricia’s sermon this morning, the biggest response was stated: as Christians, we are required to forgive. I have nothing to add to that—it’s as plain to me as my duty to respect life, even when my heart isn’t right about a particular circumstance.

To add to the conversation, I think the violent deaths of nearly 3,000 on 9/11 should serve as a flashing neon sign for every violent death that occurs every day. Single deaths in dark alleys and seedy hotel rooms. Deaths in wars—near and far. The cutting short of life, the theft of life of those who possessed it and those who loved them. It leaves an imprint that is so deep and permanent I think it might as well be a brand seared into the flesh of survivors.

Violent death is different from what happens when someone is taken by accident or untimely cause like a terminal disease. Early is still sudden death, with no chance to say good-bye, not one last “I love you” or one last, “you know I didn’t mean that.” Early death is still terrible and there never seems to be a reason why. But with violent death, there is a very clear reason why: Hatred.

And fighting against violent death, I think, should also be very clear:
Where we have suffered loss, we can use that experience to practice deep compassion for others who have suffered loss—around the corner and around the world. If we know what it means to lose someone we love to violence and hatred, we cannot ignore the fact that we know what that means to every other single person on the planet. Every mother, child, husband, wife, brother, sister or friend who has lost someone to violent death.

Like we all prayed this morning: “O God, the Lord of all, whose Son commanded us to love our enemies: Lead them and us from prejudice to truth; deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge; and in your good time enable us all to stand reconciled before you; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Promoting Dignity and Hope

2011-07-14T06:55:00.003-04:00

By Bob Longino

The 3-year-old barefoot ball of fire named Christina Kausiwa appeared out of nowhere. All 29 inches of her. She hugged my leg and, with a tiny forefinger, started poking my bare left arm.

“Azungu!” she sang out. Her face blossomed into a magnificent smile. Then she ran off laughing while chanting at the top of her lungs, “Azungu! Azungu!”

So far, I understood. In Chichewa, the national language of Malawi in southern Africa, “azungu” means white man. But Christina was far from done. From a distance she called out rapid phrases punctuated by giggles of unending glee.

Shorai Nyambalo, the Habitat for Humanity Malawi staffer accompanying me and Habitat photographer Steffan Hacker on our trip to document Habitat home partners in an impoverished rural community in Malawi’s Melanje District, translated.

It seems Christina wanted me and Steffan to have a sleepover at her new Habitat house.

Soon dozens of children had scampered down the dirt roadways to see the two azungu. I took photos of the mass of kids and each time turned the camera around so they could see the results. They shouted with delight.

All the while, Christina, the smallest of the bunch, would elbow her way to the front, the wave of kids tossing her about like a rowboat in the Atlantic. She’d fall to the ground, crying. But instantly was back on her feet, fighting her way forward to see the latest picture and laugh.

She wore a dress caked in dirt. She was hardly a year old when she and her two older siblings lost both their parents to AIDS.

Their 25-year-old aunt, Rhoda Kameta, adopted them. When Habitat Malawi found the family, they lived in a rundown, windowless, two-room structure made of un-burnt bricks with a mud floor and leaky thatch roof.

Now they have a well-built Habitat house with a metal roof, windows and a blue mosquito net to sleep under to help prevent malaria.

What is striking about Christina, her aunt and the other Habitat home partners Steffan and I met, interviewed and photographed in Malawi to promote Habitat's Orphans and Vulnerable Groups program is how happy they seem. Most have next to nothing. Many days they have little to eat.

But joy they have in abundance. It flows like rapids.

Last month in Durban, South Africa, joy was also rampant when dozens of Habitat home partners, some dating back to the 2002 Jimmy Carter Work Project, at long last received title papers, making them official home owners.

As each name was called to receive title, cheers erupted in the audience. Recipients who came forward often danced and sang.

The joyful display was emotionally overwhelming and a testament to the impact of Habitat’s work.

I believe that to more fully experience pure joy, one needs to have endured intense suffering and deep emotional pain.

In many respects, these displays of joy from those who have suffered underline Jesus’s teachings in Matthew and Luke. “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the Earth … Blessed are you the poor for yours is the kingdom of God.”

At Habitat, a key part of our refreshed mission principles clearly states that as an organization we should not only build houses but "promote dignity and hope" for all people.

That seems pertinent as well for Episcopalians. Our Anglican baptismal convenant asks us key questions, such as "Will you seek and serve Christ in all people, loving your neighbor as yourself?" and "Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being?"

We answer, "I will with God's help."

Only by acting on what we say we will do can we know that Christina will have the best chance to become the determined, powerful, joyful woman God intends her to be.

Christina Kausiwa, 3, sports a wide grin as she stands outside her new Habitat home in an impoverished community in southern Malawi’s Melanje District. Christina’s family, which includes two siblings and the aunt who adopted them after their parents died of AIDS, is one of 52 recipients of Habitat homes so far in Habitat for Humanity Malawi’s Orphans and Vulnerable Groups program. ©Steffan Hacker/Habitat for Humanity International.

Being There

2011-07-10T22:21:00.002-04:00

“You’re on your way to church, right?” my brother Bird asked from where he sat on the deck of his sail boat where he was sipping coffee and watching morning break over Lake Lanier.

It was how he said it, as if I weren’t on my way to church something would be amiss in his world. I told him Wolfie (his nephew, my son) was always anxious when I missed church, too. I asked what all this was about—am I so obviously racked with sin that I need ritual cleansing at the church? “No,” Bird told me, “we feel like when you go, you represent the whole family.”

At church walking through the Parish Hall, I was stopped by Dick Harris, who apologized for a snarky email he sent about the possibility of me returning to church one of these days (I actually missed it or it didn’t make an impression) but the point was well-taken. When I am not there—when any of us are not there 1) we are missed by our fellow parishioners and 2) our extended families won’t get into heaven.

Not only are we missed by our spiritual community but I realized this morning being there is like being present as a parent watching your child grow. Most Sundays aren’t a big Christmas pageant or candle light Evensong—they’re plain ole’ services where Patricia preaches on Bible folks like Esau and Jacob. The plain ole’ Sundays where you’re sitting there with your hands in your lap and you hear the voice of a child from the Vienna Boy’s Choir—only it’s Joseph Henry, rough and tumble little guy who has given just given a performance worthy of a very large cathedral. (I can still picturing him on one of his first acolyting days helping his mother, yawning and then placing his chin on the altar as Patricia did communion.)

If I’d missed today, I would have missed that moment forever. I would have missed the singing completely this morning, where it felt like I heard every single voice in the congregation but we blended so well together (even me) that it felt like we were practicing a chant.

I would have missed hearing that Gilda and Lee have got their second grandbaby, a little girl! And the update on Jocelyn’s boyfriend from Sierra Leone being detained for a traffic violation as a result of the new, tougher immigration laws in Georgia (it’s been two months now, the outcome is unclear). And I would have missed Josh pulling off a serious coup de grace with all the leftovers in the freezer. In fact, we served up everything but the madelines from Lent, a block of frozen (I think) peaches, and a Christmas tree-shaped container of something from that season—that we still didn’t throw out. (I once offended Bill Hancock when he pulled a carton of Half and Half out of the frig, thinking we had some and I told him, no, it had gone bad. What?? I smelled it and put it back in the frig. Though he wasn’t there to see it, I felt helping Josh carry out this leftover coffee time scheme exonerated me a little.)

I don’t know what all I missed on the many Sundays lately when I’ve been traveling for work, but I know it’s a lot and there are moments I’ll never get back in the life of my church. It’s sort of like being part of a big family and leaving an empty chair at the dinner table. Absence is felt. But more than being missed, you just never know what you’re missing!

Independence Day

2011-07-03T17:55:00.001-04:00

It was hot outside on this July 3 Sunday morning, 80 degrees at 10 am, with temperatures pushing up to the mid-90s. The flowers exploded on the altar--blood red roses, blue hyacinths and white carnations in celebration of our nation’s independence. As I sang the processional hymn—America the Beautiful—I smiled at my fellow parishioners doing the same. “I love this country,” I thought, quite proud, and not a little grateful, to be an American. I was thinking, here we are at little St. Dunstan’s out in the woods, the all of us, the few of us, and we are what America is all about, our little community, taking advantage of the right to worship as we please, every single one of us, in the pursuit of life, liberty, freedom and peace.

But I admit it didn’t take long before my pride in being an American took an unexpected turn. Listening to the sermon this morning, I found myself quite proud to be a Christian, too. As a citizen of a nation, I love my country. (I imagine citizens of oppressive lands feel the same even though they may not particularly like their government).

But unlike my natural love for homeland, I am proud to be a Christian because as such I am reminded what is really is best about that homeland. “Time and time again in scripture we are told that God measures the greatness of a nation not by its military might, not by the wealth of its richest citizens, not by its technological or scientific accomplishments,” Patricia said. “God’s judgment of a nation is based on very different indicators—how a nation treats the poorest of the poor, the ones Jesus calls ‘the least of these.’”

In the Book of Common Prayer our Independence Day prayers remind us to be thankful for our nation and to repent where we have fallen short as its citizens, said Patricia. And I think her sermon served to remind us of that it is our duty as Christians (let alone Christians in the wealthiest nation on earth), it is our job to protect and care for our widows and orphans, especially in this time of national economic emergency when 25% of our children live in poverty, when our measure of poverty for a family of four is $22,000 a year income, and when families who have lost their homes live in cars so that they won’t be separated because homeless shelters don’t take men and women together.

As Christians, it is our job to not turn our backs on the “least of these.” Our nation too often falls short on that. Patricia cited an example down the highway in Lawrenceville where city councilman Tony
Powell noticed the school bus picking up an estimated 200 children from several extended stays motels. His solution to this problem of families with no place to live except cheap motels? Kick them out.
More than a decade ago as county attorney he got an ordinance passed that limited motel stays to 45 days, but it has never been enforced. Now he intends to make sure it is.

Powell's actions are clearly wrong and even more than wrong, it’s just plain mean what that man attempted to do. As Christians, I think our values and beliefs have the potential to make us even better Americans who love and protect our country even more deeply than we do by birthright. And I think that means, in part, doing our civic duty to prevent bullies like the city councilman from hurting helpless families on the brink of complete disaster.

I am also proud to be a Christian because our ministers and pastors and priests, our bishops and nuns write letters to our Congress to speak on behalf of our widows and orphans, to remind our lawmakers what the “most moral measure” of a budget debate should be—“how the most poor and vulnerable people fare.” And I am proud to be an American beyond natural instinct, I am proud to be an American because we have and often exercise our ability to do truly great things, acts of kindness and compassion with which God is most certainly well pleased.

I’ll leave you with the Matthew reading from this morning—it’s one that everyone knows but I never tire of hearing it or pondering its meaning or how I can better put it into effect in my life (I’ll note,
I do fall very short on this one all the time but it’s definitely the goal):

Jesus said, “You have heard that if was said, ‘You shall love your neighborhood and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

Other Churches, Cathedrals

2011-06-12T20:52:00.005-04:00

I knew when I came to DC two weeks ago that I wanted to visit the Washington National Cathedral and maybe one other Episcopal church, much like my walk down the Mall, past the White House and to the theater where Lincoln was shot (it was closed). My company’s headquarters are here, so while I’ve gone out to some nice dinners and shopped at the famous Politics and Prose bookstore on Connecticut Avenue, most of the time I’ve been as usual strapped to my computer.

It was not until yesterday afternoon, in fact, that I finally made it to the National Cathedral. (Last Sunday, I had tried to go to St. Margaret’s, a small 1894 church on Connecticut Avenue that I passed on the way to my office every day. But there was no parking, none.) Anyway, I was at the National Cathedral several years ago for a wedding. It is imposing, the second largest church in the United States, the seat of our Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori. Construction started in 1907 and ended in 1990. It is massive. It is impressive. It is overwhelming. And not particularly intimate, given that basic nature. The center west entrance sculpture, I thought was oddly a depiction of hell, not a big theme in the Episcopal Church. I was wrong. It is actually eight men and women struggling “out of nothingness”, the title of the work, which is meant to show God’s creation of humankind.

I’m no critic. But this isn’t a place where the saints are depicted as jolly loving carriers of God’s Word. They are serious, mournful even.

So when I found the (relatively) small building behind the cathedral, which turned out to be the College of Preachers, stone, slate roof. I followed a winding path, my shoulder brushing against very old boxwood bushes, healthy lavender, fig trees, flowers like tiny blue porcelain buttons with rubies set in the center, yellow flowers hydrangeas of every type—beyond the white oak leaf variety or the balls of blue. Dinosaur ferns. There were azaleas and I don’t know what else. Of course, I thought of our Peachy and our gardens and woods. I wondered who the Cathedral’s “Peachy” was and imagined our Peachy in deep garden conversation with that unknown person. And that was my trip.

Then this morning, I decided to make another attempt at St. Margaret’s. On the website I read one thing I already knew—parking is almost impossible. But I learned another thing that I did not know—you can park at the Washington Hilton across the street and walk over. And as I was walking through the cement mausoleum that is the muggy parking garage of that hotel, I felt a little bitter. It seemed to me an awful lot of trouble to visit a church. Seems like (despite being built in 1894) they should have a parking lot where your feet don’t have blisters by the time you get to the red door.

I will say, I enjoyed the service. It was casual though the church was old, traditional, with beautiful stained glass windows, a loving Christ in the one over the altar. I easily fell into the service but sat in my pew quietly before communion as a pre-communion healing service was conducted. I watched as each person asking for healing spoke to the priest, telling the issue and then hands were laid and prayers and blessings said. Being Pentecost Sunday, the color was red but I saw most people simply wearing light colors, loose cotton clothing to combat the terrible heat. I listened about the people in the Bible who spoke all the different languages but they were speaking in tongues through the Holy Ghost. The barriers were taken down. They saw they were alike. They understood one another.

During Peace, the woman in front of me, I think from some African nation, turned around and without hesitation hugged me. Peace. An older lesbian couple two pews back, reached way over to take my hand. Peace. And a quite elderly white couple with snowy white hair, the husband and wife each smiled and passed peace my way. There were children in shorts and a baby crying in back. And I thought, this was certainly a lot of trouble to get here. And worth every bit.

That said, I can’t wait to be home. And I’m hoping that the visitors to St. Dunstan’s this summer find that after they’ve gotten lost a Sunday or two but persisted to find us and joined us for worship, we leave them feeling exactly the same—part of one body.

Farm Mobile at St. Dunstan's This Wednesday

2011-06-12T07:32:00.002-04:00

On Wed., June 15, Farm Mobile will be making its first visit to St. Dunstan’s, 4393 Garmon Road, from 12 noon until 2 pm. Let’s turn out to support this, and hopefully this will become a regular visit.

Farm Mobile is a mobile farmers market on wheels operated by Riverview Farms (www.grassfedcow.com). Inside, shoppers choose from shelves stocked with organic locally grown produce, free-range eggs, breads from H&F Bread Co., our own grits, polenta, and cornmeal, and sustainably raised meats. Other regular items on board include cheese from local food artisans like Sequatchie Cove Farm, and jams from Emily G's. Farm Mobile has everything you need for an all-local dinner!

Farm Mobile sells unprepared foods; meats are frozen inside of the chest freezer on board. Farm Mobile's freezer includes grassfed beef and Berkshire pork, all from Riverview Farms. Riverview is renown in Atlanta for their delicious meats, on the menu in many of the best restaurants in the city.

Their schedule changes every week. Subscribe to their emails, follow them on Twitter, or "like" their Facebook page for updates on their schedule and to find out what's on board. Check out their website to see how popular they are at the other sites they visit: http://www.grassfedcow.com/farmmobile.html

“Bayete, bayete ‘nkosi / Bayete, bayete ‘nkosi / Bayete, king of kings”

2011-06-09T13:48:00.004-04:00

by Bob Longino

It’s not often that I’ve sung in Zulu in church. Frankly, never until now. Since arriving in South Africa just a couple of short weeks ago for a four-month work stint for Habitat for Humanity International, I’ve sung in church in Zulu and Afrikaans, recited from the Lord’s Prayer in the King’s English and already have found myself, especially when speaking in unison with the Pretoria congregation, altering the American hard “a” pronunciation of words like “death” and “breath” to sound a lot more like “beneath.”

The Zulu words “bayete ‘nkosi” translate, in effect, to “exalted king.” And the English lyrics sung later in the song include “You are crowned king of Africa / You are crowned Lord of all / You are crowned king of Africa / Who can deny you are crowned Lord of all.”

Pretty simple, straightforward, orderly stuff. But just about everything about St. Wilfrid’s Anglican Church, part of the liberal Anglican Church of Southern Africa and the church I have visited twice since arriving in Pretoria, is simple, straightforward and orderly.

Like at St. Dunstan’s in Atlanta, there’s not much muss and certainly very little fuss.

St. Wilfrid’s, built in 1925, is a tall, but small church, tucked among apartment and office buildings in an area swallowed by the University of Pretoria campus. The sanctuary is far from ornate. There’s only about a half dozen of small, stained glass windows and the altar is situated under a high dome comprised of rising walls of stark white that offset the brown tones of the altar, the credence table and a large mounted cross.

While there are many similarities between St. Dunstan’s and St. Wilfrid’s, there are marked differences. Two of the most notable involve the rectors’ approaches to their sermons and the treatment of the two churches’ main Sunday service.

At St. Dunstan’s, our rector Patricia Templeton, a superb, insightful writer, often employs in her sermons literary references, observations from historians and her own acute sense of her life experiences in evaluating both modern events and ancient scripture.

Rector Raynord Schovell at St. Wilfrid’s, speaks pointedly about the simple messages of heaven as he stands and speaks without a lectern at the front of the nave and without the benefit of written text. His sermons have stressed questions parishioners should be asking themselves – “How much do you love God?” – or have challenged his congregation to recognize that Ascension need not only be paid homage with attendance in church on its celebrated day, but accepted as a sure promise that “God’s plan will come to pass.”

St. Wilfrid’s early 7:30 a.m. service (at least the one I attended) is very traditional with standard Anglican hymns and organ music and complete dedication to the Prayer Book (roughly 30 people attended).

The Family Service, held at 9:30 a.m., is almost completely different (upwards of 90 people attended). Traditional ritual is followed, but it is peppered with modern African church music (On this Sunday we were accompanied by guitar, African drums and electric piano. Sing-along lyrics are projected by computer on the white dome walls above the altar).

Let me underscore the word family. The decidedly mixed-race congregation includes a strong mixture of the elderly, middle-aged, youth and wee ones. The church certainly benefits from its location inside a sprawling college campus. But to attract youth, St. Wilfrid’s seems to have purposefully dedicated its main service music (there is no choir) to elicit a youthful feel (think if James Millikan and his music crew grew their hair out more and were given carte blanche each Sunday).

But the most striking difference between the two churches – at least to me – so far is that after two visits I still must be an enigma. I have been greeted warmly upon arrival, people seem to be genuine in offering me the peace of the Lord and I still think fondly of the elderly man who after service one Sunday shook my hand for the third time that day and said, “Welcome and have a great Sunday.”

It’s not like this church doesn’t need parishioners. Last Sunday during announcements Rev. Schovell informed the congregation that last year’s budget deficit has meant that church staff has been warned that some might discover soon that their positions have become “redundant.”

Still, no one at St. Wilfrid’s has asked me anything about myself, like why am I here? Or where do I come from? Though the rector each Sunday has told me he hopes I’ve gotten something out of the service, he has yet to ask me my name. Or offered up his.

In a way, I guess it is a reflection of Schovell’s sermons.

It’s not up to him. It’s up to me.

Jesus on a Plane

2011-05-22T20:14:00.001-04:00

So I’m writing from a plane to Las Vegas where I’m going for a conference for four days. I’m trying to get some of my daily work done in advance on my laptop because I have 21 meetings over two days (and I’m not even remotely kidding). Given it’s a four-hour plane ride, I sprung for the $20 upgrade, which means I get to sit in a middle seat between two people on the exit row but it’s actually quite spacious. So before the plane even took off, as everyone was going through that cramped and generally unpleasant exercise of finding their seats, and enough space in the overhead bins for their bags, this young guy comes up with the exact same seat assignment as the woman next to me. They have been double-seated.

I listen for a while. “But I'm elite!” she kept saying. Unlike me, she didn’t have to pay the extra $20 to spread out because of her elite status. I listened to the young man, who was very polite. He sat down in the row behind us and I think was trying to appeal to her better nature by saying he’d just started his job three weeks ago and had a very important dinner in Vegas that he couldn’t miss tonight.

She wasn’t about to give up the seat (that turned out to not be hers). She had blonde hair and a Tampa tan, pink (lowcut) shirt and matching running shoes. There was a nasally tone to her voice and she smiled with wild eyes, as she said "I'm not going anywhere." And even when the steward guy figured out that indeed that wasn’t her seat at all—hers was way back in the back, a center seat (like the one I’m sitting in now but no leg room)—she never offered to move or apologize. She simply waited for him to politely say, that was fine, he’d take the other seat, he was just grateful to be on the plane at all.

Somehow you get to know people on planes, especially on longer trips, even if a word never passes between you. Word got back to our row (I’m not sure how word travels so fast on planes, especially since everyone is a stranger to everyone else) but it got back that the young guy has been seated in First Class, which immediately made me smile. He had given up his good seat with the leg room in anticipation of a cramped middle seat—and it doesn’t matter if you’re sandwiched between Twiggy and her twin in that situation—it’s just a bad place to be—for four hours.

When the lady next to me, whose name is actually Sheila, found out she shook her head in disgust. As if he had intentionally bested her by getting moved to First Class. “They should have put an elite in First Class,” she said. “I’m an elite!” she reaffirmed. Then she started complaining over my lap to the gentleman on the other side. “Aren’t you elite, too?”

The two commiserated. What was this world coming to if there was no separation between the elite and poor slobs who were regular economy business class. Well, I didn’t tell her I paid the extra $20 for the leg room and that I was also a lowly economy person posing between two elites so I could get my work done (and of course, anyone who knows me knows that I have very very long legs). I also did not tell her that my company booked this flight on AirTran, which I would never do being from Atlanta—I mean we fly Delta the same way as we drink Coke instead of Pepsi.

Anyhow, after a while the young man passed by us, I don’t know why, walking back from First Class maybe to get something out of his bag, she glared at him and he looked sheepish. I felt a pang of sympathy (and a little twinge of victory) on his behalf. But he wasn’t the one who needed it. And what does Jesus have to do with any of this? Well, I think he would have smiled, too.

Maybe it's about redemption

2011-05-16T17:03:00.003-04:00

If you ever think about shirking your duties—just remember, it’s always much easier to suck it up and do it yourself rather than have others come in to “gently” remind you and then make suggestions about how you should do it. Believe me on this one.

I have a perfectly good explanation on how the blog got so behind -- it started over Lent, then culminated with Holy Week. Without those key events (and honestly, a little personal grieving though that’s such a tacky excuse to lean on) and pictures posted and written up, I wasn’t completely confident about launching into new items of possible interest—like the death of Osama bin Laden, the rightness of retribution, and thoughts about what a Christian response should be. By Christian response, I’m talking in the singular, but I'd have to guess not killing is probably right up there with the main Thou Shalt Nots.

In fact, if I had been doing my job I would have said that the whole conversation about Osama made me think about the death penalty. Even if I personally and emotionally think in my heart, even if he’d been caught alive and then received the death penalty later, it wouldn’t have bothered me one bit, I keep going back to Sunday School and something Joe Monti said once, that we don’t have to be right in our hearts to do the right thing, which I guess we hope is the Christian thing.

Not that long ago, I was reading a couple of books on the death penalty—one, which is very well known, “Dead Man Walking” by Sister Helen Prejean. One striking thing about folks who end up on death row (aside from wrongful convictions) is the heinous nature of some of the crimes. Things so bad and depraved, you wonder first how a person could commit such an act and live with themselves ever again (sociopaths excluded since I’m not sure they have a conscience) but then secondly, you wonder how people like Sister Helen comfort them and bring them Christ’s love.

You wonder how when the conversation naturally turns to the horribleness of the crime and the victims and the victims’ families and all the lives that are destroyed, you wonder how one single nun manages to remember that life is a gift from God. And I think God’s greatest gift. And Christ’s greatest gift to mankind? Love your neighbor perhaps? Or the possibility of forgiveness and redemption.

I do think Christ was on to something. We don’t have to be depraved killers to need a clean slate every now and again, to ask for and receive forgiveness. Nor do I think we have to be amazingly spiritual nun types to comfort those in prison, to befriend the friendless, the lost, the lonely. None of it has to be perfect. Nothing in life is, or so it seems so far.

We can fall short and cease trying. Or we can fall short and every day, or the day after, or the week after that, start all over with God’s love, and begin again.

A Visit to the Greek Orthodox Church

2011-04-05T08:15:00.003-04:00

By Molly Herman Gallow

I was very excited to hear from my mom that the middle school Sunday School class at St. Dunstan’s would be traveling to a Greek Orthodox Church, the same church that my best friend attends . We met up with Meg Withers and her father, Peyton Ruhmkorff and her parents, Will Vesey, Michele Smither, and Elizabeth Wong-Mark, along with my friend Mirina and her mom and sister at the entrance. It was so fascinating to experience what it was like to attend an orthodox church. There were many similarities and differences that really struck me.

The biggest thing was that there were absolutely no women or young girls present by the altar. There were only altar boys carrying crosses and candles, along with two priests. I was shocked to see this-I guess because I’m so used to seeing Tricia and Maggie lead great services at St. Dunstan’s- and assumed that every other church would be the same as ours. Also, what impressed me were all the mosaics on the walls of the church. I was startled to look up and see the face of Jesus looking down at me. In addition, the mosaics told the stories of the Resurrection and Ascension, The Last Supper, The Baptism of Jesus, and plenty more. I loved seeing all of the details within the mosaics. It was truly an incredible sight.

One similarity that I caught was the communion. The congregation does take communion, but instead of kneeling like we do, each member takes some bread already dipped in wine from a spoon. Meg and I both thought how awkward and unsanitary it must be to take communion from the same spoon that every other person takes communion from, but then it occurred to me that this was their church and their ways of doing things. Everything isn’t always the same as St. Dunstan’s.

What made this visit very special for me was that Mirina and two other teen members of the congregation read essays that they had written for a competition at their church. The papers were all on peace and what makes a peace maker. Listening to the papers gave me the idea that St. Dunstan’s should let congregation members write papers and present them in church. I loved hearing all of their different ideas about the topic. I thoroughly enjoyed visiting this church so I could get a feel of what other Christians do at their services of worship and how the Orthodox Church differs so much from ours. It was a great experience, and I hope we visit more churches in the future. Thanks to my mom and Mirina and her family for organizing this!

Immigration

2011-03-30T11:32:00.002-04:00

I got to Sunday School late, about halfway through. On the dry erase board, Patricia had already jotted down a quote from the BCP: “God you have made of one blood all the peoples of the earth.” Also on the board were the words: widows, orphans and aliens. While I was there, she added the phrase: legal does not equal moral. The topic: immigration.

The handout was entitled “A Pastoral Letter from the House of Bishops”, written from Phoenix in September last year. The salutation: Dear People of God. The content is basically the church’s position on immigration, as a reflection on the immigration crisis in Arizona, the US and everywhere.

As a class, we know we were charged with contemplating what our duty or response as Christians should be to the issue. What does God say? As the Evangelicals so eloquently put it, WWJD? (What would Jesus do?)

It is a very tough topic though to get your mind around. It has to do with legal issues, economic issues, border issues. It has to do with political issues. Are the illegal workers treated humanely? Are they getting healthcare for free? Should they be rounded up and deported? Or granted amnesty and allowed to become tax-paying citizens? And what about the ranchers on the border in Arizona? What’s our Christian duty to them? What about guest worker programs where we bus them in and get the cheap labor, then bus them back? And why don’t they do something about their own economies?

I guess being from the South, I don’t think about racism in terms of Hispanic people, though I know that is real. But one thing I do know from personal experience is that racism is not just about fear of the unknown, fear of not having enough, fear of that which is different. It’s also about letting those things bubble up into hatred, where all of a sudden it’s ok to do to other people (or allow to be done to others) what would be unthinkable if it were a person’s own sister, daughter, wife, brother, son, husband.

The House of Bishops’ letter made nine points (and I’m abbreviating:
1) People cross borders to escape poverty, hunger, injustice and violence. “We categorically reject efforts to criminalize undocumented migrants and immigrants, and deplore the separation of families and the unnecessary incarceration of undocumented workers.”
2) Deplore inhuman policies like raids, separation of families, denial of health services.
3) Calls on the US government and all governments to create fair and humane immigration policies.
4) Respects that governments have to protect their people, including securing borders.
5) The Episcopal Church is committed to getting rid of racism, and recognizes how it impacts debates on immigration.
6) “We confess our own complicit sinfulness as people who benefit from the labor of undocumented workers without recognizing our responsibility to them.”
7) Don’t discount concerns about the danger of uncontrolled immigration to our safety and economic well-being. But says concerns should be “approached within the broader context of a national commitment and covenant to inclusion and fellowship across all lines for the sake of the common good.”
8) Citizens should remember the good of a nation lies beyond its own self-interest.
9) It offers a resource for further theological study, “The Nation and the Common Good: Reflections on Immigration Reform.”

So that’s what the House of Bishops thinks. Now I wonder WWJD?

1,000 Cranes

2011-03-21T16:50:00.008-04:00

The idea started with Michelle Mundth at Village Supper last week. Why don’t we have the kids make origami cranes in Sunday School as a response to the crisis in Japan? The next day Ellen and Tricia took the idea a few steps further, deciding to hang the cranes in church from the beautiful Asian-looking branches that are our Lenten arrangement. And, they wondered, could some of the kids make cranes at home before Sunday so that we could have enough to distribute to everyone in the congregation as a symbol of our prayers for Japan?

The answer to that question was yes. Molly Herman Gallow, Michelle Mundth, and Joseph Henry Monti went to work and by Sunday morning the three of them had made almost 70 cranes. They then taught the rest of the Sunday School kids how to make the beautiful symbols of healing and peace.

The cranes were a wonderful addition to our already planned service of prayer for Japan yesterday. It was one of those Sundays when the music, the art on the bulletin cover, the special prayers, the sermon, and the cranes all came together as true worship and prayer.

The response to the cranes was so positive that we now have another idea. Wouldn’t it be great if the people of St. Dunstan’s could make 1,000 origami cranes during Lent? Then we could bless them on Easter morning and send them to a church in Sendai.

To pull this off our Sunday School kids will need help from willing adults. We will set up a “crane making station” in the parish hall with paper, instructions, and a prayer for Japan. We’ll also have a “crane nest” in which to put the completed birds. We’ll make cranes on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings – and at home. Please help!

Come and See

2011-03-16T12:06:00.006-04:00

It’s a terrible thing to admit, but our Lenten speaker author and food pantry guru Sara Miles made me feel somehow inadequate in the realm of doing God’s work. Don’t get me wrong—I was a fan before she came, have read both books (Take This Bread and Jesus Freak) and was thrilled when Patricia asked me to write a preview Q&A, which required a phone interview with Sara.

Anybody who has read her books or heard Sara Miles speak can’t help but be in awe of her physical work running a food pantry that feeds 600 people each Friday out of her home church, St. Gregory’s of Nyssa in San Francisco. It is a place where those in need of groceries, without exception, can go and “shop” for mostly whole foods piled up on tables covered in beautiful cloths and situated in the sanctuary around the altar. It is a quite literal example of God’s feast, of God’s Word made flesh.

And it all began—the story she told to the 85 of us who showed up for her Lenten lectures, Friday at St. Dunstan’s and Saturday morning at St. Bede’s—when she in mid-life wandered into a church (St. Gregory’s), took communion for the first time and had what she calls a “radical conversion,” she actually tasted God in her mouth. And she kept coming back because she was hungry for more. She was baptized. She took what she experienced and set out to take God’s word to heart: Feed my people.

St. Gregory’s, of course, may have lent itself to this expression of faith, this calling. It’s located in an urban area, where poor, homeless, disenfranchised folk tend to congregate, a place where there are public services and transportation.

As Sara spoke Friday night at St. Dunstan’s, I imagined our sanctuary filled with nourishing food for the hungry. Our altar was overflowing with carrots and onions and potatoes. I could see Gilda and Pricilla and Elizabeth, and Rick and Steve, everyone, happily manning “battle stations” working alongside the guests, also volunteers who had become a whole second congregation. I even saw Peachy and Helen outside in the sunny spot by the parking lot, directing workers in a lush, bountiful organic vegetable garden.

That’s such a great image. But we have one problem, which Keith Latimore pointed out in the Q&A part of the lecture, we have no bus service. We are politely located in what some might call a “residential” area. But I think the more accurate impression was one I heard the next morning at St. Bede’s from one of the ladies from the Cathedral bookstore: “You’re from St. Dunstan’s? It’s very . . . affluent, isn’t it?”

Well, yes, and no. Our rector’s office was called the most beautiful in Christendom by her predecessor. She looks out to nature, hawks, foxes, trees, ponds, birds. We are affluent in that we care for each other and affluent in our desire to share what we have with others. We’d love all of our neighbors in the big mansions with the rolling lawns and $13 million for sale signs to worship with us and fill our adult and children's Sunday School classes, to clutter up our sign-up sheets to bring food to Holy Comforter, to fill the Beech Grove with children’s laughter, to walk the Stations of the Cross, now set up and ready for the Lenten season, up the long path through the woods. But truth is, a good portion of St. Dunstan’s congregation commutes, from places like Avondale and Decatur and Duluth. Many of us choose to make a 30-minute drive on Sunday mornings to get to St. Dunstan's, even though there are other Episcopal churches much closer to where we live.

For example, a group of us St. D’s folks were sitting around a table in St. Bede’s parish hall Saturday morning before Sara's talk, eating the beautiful breakfast they put together, partaking of their generous hospitality (fresh fruit, egg casseroles, bagels, thick bread, butter, cream cheese) when I noted to Patricia, it actually only took only seven or eight minutes for me to drive from my home in Avondale to St. Bede’s. “No, it doesn’t,” she said definitively. “You just went the wrong way.”

I wouldn’t dare think of going any place else. I am nourished. I am comforted by our intimate community of faith. It’s unlikely because of our location (no bus line, buried deep in an expensive residential neighborhood) that we’ll ever be home to a food pantry teeming with hundreds upon hundreds of people, strangers that we can welcome en masse as our honored guests.

But I know that we do look for ways to welcome the stranger and we do have affluence to offer (not in our treasury unfortunately) but in that we are in a unique location where we can see the absolute beauty of God’s hand in the world. Now, I think part of Sara’s speaking serves to shake people up, to question themselves: Am I living as God would have me live? Am I following in the footsteps of Christ? Am I loving my neighbor unconditionally?

But like Sara, who’s calling was so obvious, so in the moment, such a clear need, I think we can’t try to find our great love. Lovers show themselves, they are seldom sought out. And I don’t know what that one thing is for us. We had a vestry meeting last night and Patricia mentioned she was attending a meeting next Monday in which a bunch of area churches are looking at providing shelters for homeless families and the organization actually has a van. Could that be our calling? Our way to live out God’s plan for us? I don’t know.

Meanwhile, I think there’s another Sara line that could benefit us greatly as we go about our daily work during the week, as we meet people and talk to friends and family—to put out the invitation to come and see.

Lent Begins

2011-03-14T19:19:00.001-04:00

I step forward as the greatest offender of missed deadlines, one who has said too many “thank yous” to others for picking up my slack in preparation for Lent. I was the wayward “chair” of a Lenten committee, started last year in May, the idea of which was to make plans that would lead to mass attendance during this most holy season of the year. We had planned a calendar (with all of the relevant dates and explanations of special services), daily prayers, Stations of the Cross (as in keeping them after our seminarian who started them had graduated on to ordination and a job), and other big ideas. While I was remiss in my duties, many others like Vicki Ledet, have not been.

I’d like to share here just a few pictures that Vicki took, with many more to come as the holy season unfolds.

Here’s a close up of the pancakes served at our Shrove Tuesday supper.

This year, Steve and Connor Mark and Joseph Henry Monti did the honors, flipping the mouthwatering pancakes and decorating the parish hall with Mardi Gras beads.

Note the colors—gold, purple and green. (Purple represents justice; Green represents faith; Gold represents power.)

The Ash Wednesday service was solemn and intimate.

From the BCP, I’ll just write out this short bit here (part of the liturgy), “Almighty God, you have created us out of the dust of the earth: Grant that these ashes may be to us a sign of our mortality and penitence, that we may remember that it is only by your gracious gift that we are given everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.”

Then we received the blessing from Patricia, the mark of the cross in ashes on our forehead: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

The choir sang a haunting piece, “View me, Lord, a work of thine” with music by Charles Wood and words by Thomas Campion.

On Friday night, we had a crowd of 85 for a simple dinner of soup (made by Pricilla, I had the leek and potato) and salad, with cheese and capers and little red cherry tomatoes. Hearty whole grain bread with slabs of butter. Madelines, coffee, and fruit for dessert. Many others helped in the kitchen Friday evening, including Pat Berman, Nancy Jean Young, Claudia Gimson, and Nancy Dillon. We all came to hear Sara Miles, our special Lenten lecturer. She spoke at St. D’s Friday night and St. Bede’s Saturday morning. We’ll have more on the lectures here, in both images and words. Stay tuned.

Grace and peace to you all!

Not Necessarily Holy

2011-02-13T21:27:00.004-05:00

I can honestly say I didn’t feel like going to church this morning. I didn’t feel like not going per se, I just didn’t feel the usual driving urge to get there. I didn’t sleep well last night -- again. There have been too many moving parts in my life lately, none of which I’ve had a moment to stop and consider – all seem to wash over me, as if I were floating in the surf, holding my breath, waiting for the next chance to inhale. Exhale.

So truth? The only reason I got to church was out of habit. The only reason I was a half hour early for the early service was some latent desire for punctuality (I’m often enough late). I got there first, beating Patricia into the empty parking lot and the dark building by a nose. I turned on lights in the parish hall and around, cranked up the coffee and unlocked the back door. I had just sat down with a cup, looking out over the little garden with the St. Francis and the copper water buckets that catch the rain from the roof when Patricia walked in.

“Why so early?” she said.

“Accident. I got here early so I wouldn’t be late,” I told her, and then as an afterthought, “I sure hope I’m not VOD today.” Of course, Susan, our church secretary always sends us reminders during the week when we’re the vestry on duty (VOD isn’t an incurable disease). “I would of heard,” I said.

“Not necessarily. Susan was sick all last week,” Patricia informed me. I followed her to the sanctuary and sure enough, printed on the back of a two-week old bulletin, there was my name. I would have seen the bulletin last week of course, if I hadn’t been out of town on a work trip. Being VOD, means opening and closing the church. It means making sure the scheduled acolytes and layreaders are acolyting and layreading. It means reminding folks it’s their turn to do coffee.

So I settled into the early service, resolved in my duty. But other than the reading about if your eye offends you, gouge it out (which never fails to irritate me) and the Eucharist (which never fails to remind me of some tangible connection to God), I have to say, I sat there, going through the motions, hearing the sermon but not being engaged with it, saying the confession of sins (given my long list, this is usually one of my best opportunities of the week to get it all out—at least mentally, during the “Most merciful father, we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed . . .”) but not feeling all that sorry or contrite. Even the prayer after communion, one of my very favorites, “Eternal God, heavenly father, we thank you for feeding us with the spiritual food in the sacrament of the most precious body and blood of your son, our savior Jesus Christ . . .” didn’t move me any more than a Hallmark card. It was all lost on me, all wasted.

I sat through Sunday School, the series on Saving Jesus. Today was the meaning of the parables like the leavened bread and the mustard seed. We always stray from the original topic anyway. Someone said the problem with the church was Paul, who didn’t quote a single Jesus parable. The church as an institution, we all agreed, as we always do, has its issues—like the gouge out your eye thing or like the Catholic church where you can’t take communion if you’re divorced unless the marriage is annulled (a few of us were standing around the kitchen before Sunday School actually contemplating that one)—and you can annul a marriage even if you have children, a strange practice for a house of God, I have to say.

Now normally, I would probably enjoy spending a little time hashing over the wherefores and whys of all that imperfection that comes with the institution we call our church. But I didn’t.

After the regular service, when all the choir robes were hung, I’d counted the collection and watched Betty Whittier crumble up the leftover communion bread and put it out the back door for the birds, after everyone had gone but Rick and Christine Beard (who did have coffee duty marked on their calendar), I headed to the kitchen to help with the remaining coffee cups.

The Beards make me smile. Rick told an off-color joke about Easter, which made Patricia grimace while I laughed out loud (ask Rick, when Patricia’s not around). Christine put forth a very fun question: Who all at St. Dunstan’s is “naturally holy”? Well none of us nominated ourselves or each other for that matter, and in the end agreed that even sinners like us had a chance to be holy once in a while.

But for me, this morning wasn’t my morning to be holy. I wasn’t particularly moved to be at church. It’s just that’s where my economy-sized car is trained to go Sunday morning—it really just didn’t occur to me not to go. What did come into my mind though, was the fact that I am so grateful for our imperfect institution, our church, our parish, the habit that brought me to our modest but close-knit community, to spend those unwanted—too tired and too confused hours—among people I love and whom I think love me back.

And maybe that’s all that Jesus would have cared about—that we get together in the first place and find the Kingdom of God is not a small self-contained space in front of our computer screen and it isn’t always earth-shaking revelations or earnest attempts to become better than we are. Sometimes maybe the Kingdom of God is just about showing up. Or, as Patricia said in the sermon, about choosing life. Maybe I did hear something after all.