On the Election

Years ago when my children were small, we owned an old falling down house in East Point—it’s amazing how many bedrooms you can get for $60k when you don’t need up to code electricity, a dry roof, or reliable plumbing. It was there one night when my husband was out of town that somebody shot somebody else in a car right front of our house and the victim jumped out and disappeared between us and the big old falling down house next door.

The good news—I heard later the guy was ok. But being alone in the house with little boys, terrified, on the phone with a husband 300 miles away, trying to talk me in to cocking a shotgun (his father’s) that I wasn’t about to touch, being alone in that situation prompted me to take action—I made a bunch of flyers and delivered them on foot with the boys, inviting people to come to a meeting of the neighborhood association. There wasn’t actually an association, but I spoke to the local police and they gave us (me and whoever accepted) a room to meet and a few people showed up. And we talked about being safe and maybe having our first neighborhood cleanup day.

So monthly, I kept doing the same thing. Making flyers, distributing them. I invited someone from Trees Atlanta to come speak to us and we did several tree plantings. And then we had refreshments. And more people came. And we did beautification projects and made lists of the old people or those who were housebound that we needed to keep an eye on. At risk boys were invited to Boy Scouts.

There was no sales pitch on my part—and by default I became the first president. All I said was come to the meetings and the cleanups if you can, or just remember to pick up a piece of trash when you see it and look out for your neighbors. And it just kept growing, so big that one day Vincent came back from the Scout hut (Methodist Church) out of breath saying, “Mom, there was this crazy lady with purple hair and she was yelling at the City Council!” The council was holding a meeting there that must have involved public input.

That crazy lady turned out to be the second president of the Frog Hollow neighborhood association. After it was big enough to have a voice, it became political. It got so organized that it had a newsletter and socials and I was given a bouquet of yellow roses to usher me out of office. Which was fine by me. My goal had been far less ambitious than the new president, and the group eventually became a force to be reckoned with down at City Hall.

It reminds me a little of Acts--in the sense that Christianity started in a very organic way. By the time Christ died, he had a lot of followers who believed his message. And it wasn’t long before the 11 remaining apostles started to get organized. Each of them became a bishop and they threw the Biblical equivalent of dice (bones) for who would replace Judas.

Right now, the comparison between that election of Matthias, the second 12th apostle and I believe the first elected bishop, and our current election process for the new bishop of Atlanta has not gone unnoticed. What is most important? The ability to administrate? Charisma? Knowledge of our diocese, or the ability to build consensus or youth programs and membership? Or maybe a prophetic voice and the courage to stand up against injustice?

Those are the types of questions the clergy and delegates are wrestling with now and will be no doubt until the election on June 2. Grace and peace (and luck) to them all.

Come, See, Get Settled In

Our three-year-old dog, Chubby, is what is called in canine parlance “under socialized.” He has spent very little time around people outside of our family or around other dogs. His world has been a house with a large, fenced backyard. And that’s always been enough.

He’s never been good with new people—and typically growls like we finally completely lost our minds and let Rasputin in the front door. But that’s hasn't been a problem, until recently when he had an “incident” with another dog (its owner was walking it in front of our house, when Chubby escaped) that’s forcing the issue of introducing Chubby to the outside world.

So for the past couple of weeks I’ve been working on the Chubby problem. I’ve taken him to Petsmart a couple of times to practice being around other dogs and people. He’s been to the vet. At 50 pounds, he shouldn’t be afraid of much. But on a walk yesterday in our neighborhood as we approached a strip of sidewalk cafes filled with children, people and dogs, he bolted like a horse, dug in his heels and began shivering. The trainer at the pet store was right, I thought: Chubby’s biggest problem is fear of the unknown.

Anyway, I coaxed him through the Saturday afternoon crowd, found a seat and sat down for a cold drink so he could soak up the atmosphere, the reality that in general other people and other dogs are fairly benign. (Because he’s a dog, I did not point out to Chubby that most people and dogs are usually too concerned with their own issues to even notice yours.)

By the time we got back to the house, Chubby’s ears had perked up and he seemed a more confident and happy dog for the experience.

Now I know people are not dogs—at least most of them aren’t—but it occurred to me this morning as I was watching movies made by the children of St. Dunstan's (posted elsewhere on this site) that in a church context, people who grow up in church from the beginning are at a distinct advantage in terms of well-being and security in what it
means to be a part of a spiritual community. There is never a question of what all these strange words are, what the greater spiritual meaning might be, the sacraments, the many personalities—it’s as natural as a first language. For cradle Episcopalians (and other denominations and religions) there’s nothing to be afraid of, no fear of a misstep or misunderstandings or of not being accepted.

While that’s the perfect situation (believe me I would do this over with my own children and I’m already pushing for a church home for any future grandchildren I might have) I think there’s a lot to be said for the “under churched” just coming in and hanging around, soaking up the atmosphere, whether they understand any of it or not.

I’ve heard many times people look down their noses at Easter Lilies or surly teenagers who come to church because “my mother made me.” But I never have any problem with that. I think the author Sara Miles got it right when she said, “come and see.” I would add to that, come and see again next week. Then come for movie night this summer. Then come because it’s someone’s birthday or mother’s day or simply because you
have nothing better to do. Or because you’ve been asked to dig holes for Stations of the Cross. Or because there’s a lecture. Come, see, and get settled in. Everything else will take care of itself.

St. Stephen

It has been said I listen with half an ear. Nowhere is this short-coming more easily picked out than in Sunday School. We’re in Acts right now, what the apostles did after the crucifixion, before there was such a thing as Christianity. It was a time when evangelism—spreading the Word—bubbled up, creating a new religion as opposed to a sect of Judaism.

Anyway, Patricia was talking about how at one point, after Pentecost everyone was preaching and praying but nobody was feeding the widows. So the early followers of Christ decided to create deacons to go out and take care of the poor, and one of the seven chosen to do this was named Stephen.

I should have listened more closely because I’m not sure if Patricia told us if he took care of the widows or not. But he did go out preaching in a way that sounded incredibly critical and unnecessarily nasty.

This is where I missed something from the lectern, the point where I must have lapsed into some kind of supernatural Sunday morning daydream. The next thing I heard was the crowd became infuriated and took him outside of the city gates and stoned him to death, while Saul, later Paul, stood by watching everyone’s stuff, with wholehearted approval.

And so Stephen became Christianity’s first martyr, Patricia told us.

I was at a loss--how could someone become a martyr, I asked, when he was preaching with words like, “You stiffnecked and uncircumcised in heart and ears!” Isn’t that sort of asking for it?

That’s all I heard. So it’ s a good thing I took Patricia’s advice to actually read Acts when I got home from church--at least up until the point where Stephen (aka St. Stephen) was martyred.

Not only do I listen with half an ear, I find it difficult sometimes to put myself in the mindset of when the various pieces of the Bible were written and I tend to want to judge by modern standards. In context, it makes perfect sense—Jesus had been crucified and there was bitterness and chaos and real fear about what would happen next. The world was in upheaval, political battles for hearts and minds. There may have been a feeling that God could come down at any moment and exact a vengeful (probably bloody) justice on people who didn’t do right.

Anyway, for the record, this is the rest of what St. Stephen said: You stiffnecked and uncircumcised in heart and ears! You always resist the Holy Spirit; as your fathers did, so do you. Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute? And they killed those who foretold the coming of the Just One, of whom you now have become the betrayers and murders, who have received the law by the direction of angels and have not kept it.

A few verses later: And they stoned Stephen as he was calling on God and saying, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” Then he knelt down and cried out with a loud voice, “Lord, do not charge them with this sin.” And when he had said this, he fell asleep.

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.