A Visit from the Bishop

A seminarian. A priest. And a bishop. Our seminarian, Lee Curtis; our priest, Patricia; and our bishop, Neil Alexander, making has last visit as bishop to St. Dunstan’s before he returns to teaching in October.

Of course, it’s been a topic of some conversation, anticipation of this special Sunday halfway through the Easter season. We were invited to renew our baptismal vows and to receive a special blessing from the bishop.

I arrived at the same time as Patricia and followed her into the darkened sanctuary. Patricia busied herself around, turning on lights; her purse, an old black box, a can of diet coke, and car keys sat in a pile at the foot of the altar. I already knew what was in the box, she’d told me in the parking lot, so I was hanging around to see. It was an ornate chalice and paten, a gift from Joe’s grandmother upon his ordination as a priest in the Catholic Church.  A special occasion chalice decorated with reliefs of Jesus and his disciples all the way around. (Joe was ordained in Alabama on Patricia's 13th birthday.)

Just then Sue Martz walked in, making a beeline to the flower arrangement on the altar, largely blue irises and yellow chrysanthemums that were dropping their petals in a circle on the floor. As we knelt down to sweep up the mess, Sue apologized away her beautiful handiwork, the arrangement, she said, would not meet Gilda’s high standards. She had just followed her favorite palette—yellow for the sun, and blue for the sky. Cheerful.

At that point, I should have been about an hour early for Sunday School, but I made the mistake of stopping into the library and picking up a book, and that made me about 10 minutes late. The bishop was already talking about convention this summer, giving us his insider view from the top about what to expect. Same-sex blessings, he said, would get a lot of attention and were likely to pass in some form. But to most Episcopalians, he noted, the topic doesn’t elicit much surprise—of course, we had the first openly gay bishop, ordained nine years ago and retiring this fall.

We listened to stories about “Rowan,” the Archbishop of Canterbury and casual conversations with the Presiding Bishop of Scotland. Neil reminded us of our incredible heritage as a church, breaking off from England shortly after 1776 (1789 technically speaking), about our heritage as a diocese.

The choir had started filing out and maybe four different conversations bubbled up across the room during the shuffling, an unofficial yet organic ending to class, as we moved together as if one body to the sanctuary. We rise randomly or sort of disband at will, I said to the bishop, by way of explanation. We were walking through the narrow hall that cuts over to the kitchen. I need not have said a word—he clearly approved, a man who has spent most of his life standing on quite a bit of ceremony.

I smiled at the way Neil does the Eucharist—“take this bread,” he follows quite literally holding, not just the silver tray, but the whole wheat loaf in his large hands.

Funny, I shouldn’t say this, but sometimes I might not be hearing 100% of what the bishop says, just because he is the bishop. Today, as he preached what will be his last sermon at St. Dunstan’s as the bishop, he reminded us that we should be “faithful in the doing of it” rather than always “wallowing in the mystery” of it all.

That always worries me when I get to that part of my Christianity, the conscience living a religious life, a life of faith. Being in it and figuring out what that means. Neil says it’s about the living of it—the practice to not only despise injustice but to do something about it. To feed the hungry, heal the sick, comfort the friendless, to love one another, in the passionate spirit of thanksgiving.

Sunday Before Pentecost

Wolfie and I worked in the garden yesterday, digging up the earth, working it through our fingers tossing out roots and rock, breaking dense clods of red clay. The earth in this so-called “garden” is a small plot of hard-packed dirt on either side of a concrete walkway in front of our house. A pick ax and many heavy bags of Nature’s Helper were needed to give it back some of its air and dark sponginess.

Our first buy was a packet of moonflower seeds, the bread-and-butter annual with the saucer-size white discs that only bloom at night. We erected a trellis, stakes at the bottom, a web of twine at the top, anchoring it to the house. We put nasturtium seeds big clay pots, dislodged from a pile of other discarded pots of different shapes and sizes in the backyard. We planted string beans in pots with tall stakes in the middle to make even more of a wall between us and passersby, not 12 feet away. In front of the moonflowers, sunflower seeds and at the foot of those, Wolfie and I planted pickle bushes and cucumber vines.

Sometime this summer, Vincent will have built my six-foot porch swing and I’ll sit out there in the late afternoons and peer through the leaves and vines at the foot traffic. I’ll lie down maybe and relax, begin to let the day go as the swing glides slowly, lulling away the many noises and ideas and activities that makeup any given day.

I thought about all of this seed sowing this morning before the early service, and I mentioned to Patricia that I hadn’t gardened or planted seeds in such a long time. It must say something about where I am in my life that I would even think to plants seeds.

Not because there’s so much work on the front end—but because if you plant a seed, at the very minimum, you know you’re going to have to water it. So committing to watering something means you’re committed to be around to water it. It means you’re anticipating a good outcome. Faith, hope for this future that you (me) yourself have created in picking the colors, preparing the earth, basically getting your house in order.

And funny, I think that’s where I am in my life now so this is a perfect week because it leads up to Pentecost, which we were discussing in Sunday School this morning. The 10 days after the Ascension, Patricia told us, the disciples prayed and got their house in order (adding another disciple, Mathias, to make 12 again). They knew something big was coming, but they didn’t know what. (It was the Holy Spirit).

Of course, I don’t imagine that we’ll be hit with anything like speaking in tongues next week (the Bishop is coming, in case you hadn’t heard). I do know the Bishop is doing a special blessing for those who wish to renew their baptismal vows and he’s also teaching Sunday School. And I’m pretty sure that after the service and coffee time and cleaning up and turning off the lights, most of us will go home for an afternoon nap. And all will be well.

Days of Holy Week

Since I’ve started going to the Maundy Thursday services these past few years, they’ve become my very favorite day on the whole church calendar, the holiest of Holy days. Every year it seems another layer of the mystery is pulled back. Nothing ever awaits me at that service but a deeper understanding and joy—as distinguished between happiness—as something that occurs in a relationship, with God. Or my relationship to some of my fellow parishioners. To people in general, as a matter of fact.

I will tell you what has always bothered me and left me perplexed—the resurrection. I’ve never felt a deep spiritual connection to it—to tell the truth, I’ve never really quite understood its meaning. It’s the last words to the disciples, the culmination of all of his teachings on Jesus’ last night on earth that gets to me. There he is with his disciples. He decides to do something radical to get their attention and to teach a lesson. He ties a towel around his waist and begins washing their feet. It’s the ultimate act of humility—or at least in his time it was. Love one another as I have loved you. Not the “warm fuzzy” love one another, as Patricia says, but the get down and dirty kind, stand up for each other, fight injustice, lift up the lowly, the weak, the oppressed. I think it’s the most important point of Christianity. That, and the Eucharist—this is my body, this is my blood—be with me, be with God when you eat bread and drink wine in remembrance of me.

I missed the Good Friday service but I did make it to Easter Vigil. Bells. Cake. Champagne. Ancient service. And this year, it was made extra special by the baptism of Mary Grace Brown.

This morning, Easter, I think the choir was a little tired—as they always seem to be by the time Easter rolls around. Nobody works as hard as they do during Holy week, with all of the extra services and special music (most of us can conveniently be “busy” on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday night, but the choir is has to show up).

Of course, this is one of the big mornings of the year where we have lots and lots of visitors, families drawn to church by tradition, because it is how Easter is celebrated, like Christmas. I love seeing all of the children in their Easter finery and eating leftover Vigil cake, and the air of festivity. Basically, I never place high spiritual expectations on Easter morning. In fact, as I drove to church today, I was a little unsettled wondering quietly just why I don’t “get” the resurrection.

So Patricia’s sermon caught me off guard. In the earliest version of the story, she said, Mark ends on a very unresolved note—the women go to the tomb, it’s empty, and they flee the place with “terror and amazement.” No resurrection. No happy ending. No resolution. It is in fact up to us to finish the story, said Patricia. For us to live out the teachings of Christ, down here on earth. She joked that she might be a little perverse in choosing to read Mark’s version of the death of Jesus on Easter morning to John’s later version in which the resurrection happens. But trying to live the teachings of Christ is actually something that makes sense to me. So I think I might be a little perverse, too.

Home for Holy Week

“Happy Palm Sunday,” I said to Maggie after the service this morning on the way out the door. She smiled and raised her brow.

“Happy Palm Sunday,” I repeated to Patricia, taking her hand,madding quickly, “I guess it’s not appropriate to say Happy Palm Sunday.”

“I guess it depends on how you mean it,” she smiled. “Are you home this week?”

“Yes,” I said enthusiastically. I’ve been traveling so much for work this year I’ve missed a lot of holy days. Ash Wednesday I was in Toronto in back-to-back meetings, all held in tall glass office building with massive banks of elevators. I saw plenty of secretaries and a few execs even walking around with the dark smudged cross on their forehead. I asked where they got them, thinking I’d find a beautiful old Episcopal Church and go to the evening service. Instead, I collapsed in my hotel room.

But when Patricia asked, “Are you home this week,” that’s exactly what she meant—the services for this week. Today is the first: the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and all the poor people were with him shouting Hosannah, which means, according to the sermon this morning, “Save us!” It’s the first day of Holy Week, the one where we read the passion and play out the whole week. (This year, I was Bystander Number 1 and Lynn Hood was Bystander Number 2. The hecklers.)

I read one of Patricia’s recent “this and that” emails:” I’ve always thought that coming to church on Easter without attending any of the services leading up to that joyous moment is like watching the last act of a play without knowing anything about the earlier acts. The services of Holy Week area carefully crafted drama leading up to the grand climax of the Resurrection.”

Thursday is the foot-washing service. It’s always a sparsely attended. But it’s about the night that Jesus washed the feet of His disciples. I can only say, try it. You don’t have to wash or be washed—just take my word for it—everyone should go at least once.

And then Good Friday, when He’s crucified, followed by Easter Vigil Saturday evening. (Patricia’s description, also borrowed from “this and that”: “The Easter Vigil is the most ancient of the church’s liturgies. We begin in the Beech Grove with the lighting of the new fire, from which we light the Paschal (Easter) candle. We process by candlelight into a darkened church and hear the stories of God’s work of salvation. Halfway through the service the mood changes as we declare that Lent is over and Christ has risen. We also will be baptizing Mary Grace Brown. The service is followed by a cake and champagne reception in the parish hall. Child care will be available for this service.”

Done right, Lent is a whole season of study and preparation for the time that Christ is risen. It’s the week to be reminded to stand up against injustice, atone and cleanse. Gain deep insight, understanding, compassion, humility. Seek God’s grace. And it culminates in Holy week, during which, if we are lucky, we are home, back at St. Dunstan’s.

Look Who’s Coming to Church

Three-month-old Mary Grace, daughter of Christie and Colin Brown, made her St. Dunstan’s debut this morning at the early service. Her mother held her in the vestibule before the service, the result of which was that as each of us caught sight of her, we each melted into smiles and baby words and welcomes. “So you are Mary Grace.” Blue eyes, brown hair, perfectly formed little being. After the service, several us of stood in line for a chance to hold the new baby—we passed her around carefully (the only one she almost cried for was James, but he explained that that’s often what happens when he holds good looking women). Other things took place this morning, I’m sure they must have, but none as special as getting to welcome Mary Grace.

What it means to be a Christian

“Be grateful for what you have” somehow got twisted to also mean, “Hush up,” in my childhood. It might have been one of the first phrases I learned. It was said to calm a child’s insatiable wants.

Which start small when you’re a toddler, with things like bright red lollipops. Later it becomes big red balls, red dress, red lips, and maybe eventually even red sports cars. They are the tangible manifestation of our discoveries—all kinds of things to experience--sweet, fun, pretty, alluring, dangerous.

It’s easy to be happy when you get what you want. It’s easy to be generous when you have plenty. Easier to diet when there’s no food in the house. The challenge: to always remember that there are so many beautiful things in life some of them are bound to touch you once in a while.

"It's always been my policy to be positive about what lies ahead," a 79-year-old lady from Otsuchi, Japan, said on CNN recently. She is not happy that the tsunami wiped away her home and she lost everything. But she seems to have trained her mind to immediately assume a positive vision of the future.

The story went on to say, “She lives alone, her belongings neatly arranged in little cubicles around her.”

Fact is, there are tsunamis and wars and financial collapses and all kinds of things that will happen and are not the slightest bit within our control. Divorce and death. And aging. And tax audits. Injustice. You may find yourself one day living alone, with all of your worldly possessions neatly arranged in little cubicles around you.

What does it mean to be a Christian in daily life? That’s what we’re talking about in Sunday School during Lent. Well, I think this woman is a great example of thanksgiving.

The Truth About Angels

Don’t bother trying to tell me there’s no such thing as angels, ‘cause I know the truth. I don’t know her name but I can describe her: She was about 65, blond hair from Detroit but has lived in an Atlanta suburb for the past 30 years and very rarely ever meets anyone from Atlanta. Her neighbors are all from places like New York and Wisconsin.

She was sitting next to me on a two-hour flight last night out of Chicago on the way back to Atlanta. We’d both been in overcast places this last week (Seattle and Toronto) and it was snowing outside, there was one of those crane-looking machines de-icing the wings in the dark. I got to know a lot about her: she has two sisters, two daughters, and one son—ages 40, 38, and 30. Two grandchildren, a boy, 15, and a bossy little girl, 12 going on 25. We talked about children and family. Hopes and realizations. She described to me what putting your own projections on your children looks like in hindsight. We talked husbands—ours, our sisters, the ones belonging to our mothers and our friends.

We talked about values and about what it means when you let others know they’re appreciated. About praise for children, too little, too much. About planning families and surprise families. About remembering our foremothers, and their china cabinets. Our love for those things and how grateful we both were for having meaningful work.

We talked about marriage. She had a sister with three husbands, the third apparently turned out to be the right one. She described to me a friend’s mother who had been married for 50 years, celebrated that anniversary in a big way, and then shortly after, the woman’s husband told her he wanted a divorce—he’d met someone in Sunday School who was 20 years younger. The kicker in the story is that this woman spoke multiple languages and was educated and could have done anything but her husband was old-fashioned and he wanted his wife in the home, taking care of him and raising a family. My fellow passenger told me, you never know what’s going to happen so you should always make sure that you take care of your own happiness. Life is finite.

We talked about our mothers and ourselves as mothers and tried to figure where we had all fallen short.

The last thing she did for me when we landed at midnight was to loan me her phone so I could call my son and tell him I had arrived. Mine had gone dead. We walked off the plane to baggage claim—carousel 1. We wished each other luck and went home.