The Word Made Flesh

There is something about winter that makes me tired. Barren branches, frozen dirt, a yard full of misplaced balls, benches and flower pots now exposed with no tall grass or leaves to frame them. I should go pick all of that stuff up and hide it beneath the porch but my body says "No." Even my mind lazily childes "To what end?" Winter has brought me a fine chest cold.

And this is after all the holiday season, time to relax and work puzzles. But I don't feel like it. I lie in bed with two good books, Barbara Brown Taylor's "An Altar in the World" and PD James' "The Private Patient." But as much as I believe I should use this time to enjoy some leisure reading, I keep dozing off.

For the third day in a row, my family has remarked that I do not know how to rest--not even if I wanted to. Given that I spend most of my waking hours in an office, I feel compelled to make practical use of my four-day weekend at home. I start with the immediate: groceries, laundry, cleaning the kitchen and changing the sheets on the beds.

I make phone calls to family members spread across the country, calls I've put off far too long, shoved on the backburner in favor of deadline and deadlines and more deadlines. Indeed for the past couple of days I've had this recurring dream--I have three hours to write a story and I haven't read any of the background material or completed any of the interviews and I can't find my car in the parking lot. (Never mind this dream deadline is a quadruple homicide and I actually spend most of my days writing financial stuff).

Day three: I've not done most of the things that I've put off. I've been to the post office and correctly addressed, stamped and shipped a little plastic box of jumping beans to my 5-year-old nephew in Savannah. They've been in my desk drawer for a month, though periodically I've taken them out and put them under the light to make them jump and to make sure they're still alive. I've sent off books I promised my little sister in July at which point the biography of Bonnie and Clyde was the newest thing on the market. (It may no longer be the final word on their ill-fated lives).

So now I am sitting on the back porch, trying to distract myself with Barbara Brown Taylor's book so that I do not notice the green algae hue of the ropes in the still hammock, or the wheel barrow left in the ivy, standing with a bag of wet cement from I project I don't remember now.

Here on page 46, Taylor is writing about her prayer habits and how she likens them to doing laundry:

"The socks go all in a row at the end like exclamation points. All day long, as watch the breeze toss these clothes in the wind, I imagine my prayers spinning away over the tops of the trees. This is good work, this prayer. This is good prayer, this work."

Taylor is big on the Word made flesh. In fact, I guess you could call it a theme of hers--and it's lovely.

Only sometimes the flesh isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Sometimes it isn't spritely arms and busy hands plucking clean sheets from a wicker basket, the smell of fresh-turned earth from the garden pungent in prayerful nostrils.

Sometimes the Word made flesh means that those nostrils can't smell a thing. They need a cup of hot tea, some Vick's vapor rub and some unwanted time under the covers.

St. Dunstan's Children Reenact the Story of the Exodus

Please enjoy this wonderful photo essay of the Exodus. Photos courtesy of Vicki Ledet.

"During the story of finding Baby Moses in a basket, which we acted out, my daughter Molly was Pharaoh's daughter," said Ellen Gallow. "The bible story tells us that when Pharaoh's daughter found Moses, he was crying. As Molly reached into the basket and took out our Moses (a doll), I coaxed her, 'What do you do with a crying baby?' She looked perplexed and said 'I have no idea!'"

Ellen also added that when the actors were up at the top of the nature trail (Mt. Sinai), Joe Monti was talking to the kids about the 10 commandments. When he mentioned "Honor your mother and father", Sean Robertson said "I have no idea what that means!"

At one point, Ellen says Joe rephrased the "Don't Murder" commandment to "Life should always be . . ." But before he could finish (perhaps with the word "respected") Connor Mark jumped in with the word "Fair!"

Children hear the story about the plagues and Passover. Pharaoh (Monti Kimball) reacts to locuts, etc. Kids take turns as Moses leading the Israelites with the staff.

Moses leads the Israelites through the Red Sea.

The basket has mannah for us all to share (bite-sixe whole wheat pita bread).

Pharaoh and his army get swallowed in the Red Sea.

The Exodus begins.

Moses and Joshua on Mount Sinai; the 10 commandments. The kids were given oversized playing cards numbers 1-10 and asked which commandment the card they held represented. Puzzled expressions as they tried to remember which commandment was which, and then what the commandment meant. Some very eagerly admitted that they had indeed broken that particular commandment.

(Guess which current world leader Joe Monti resembles!

They have reached the Promised Land! Joshua leads them through the river.

Someone (Ethan Stansbury) gets caught in the deep end.

Tired Israelites reach the land of milk and honey!

The kids perform "Go Down Moses" at the beginning of the 10:45 service.

Charlie, the Evangelist

By Sarah Hancock

Many of you who were at church on Sunday the 15th got to meet the adorable lost dog who was captured by Michelle in our parking lot. We have several dogs and cats so I am not in need of any more pets, but I thought it would be fun to take "Dunstan," the lost dog, home on Sunday. Some signs were made and left in prominent places, I thought I would find his owners before I even got home. Well, the rest of the day passed and no phone calls.

Monday morning I received a cryptic phone message stating that "I had a found dog sign at the Mount Paran store and that there was a lost chihuahua sign at the same store." I called and got the people at the country store to give me the number from the lost dog sign. I called and Dunstan/Charlie was found.

I offered to meet the Christy, the owner, at Galloway because I was picking up Emma. She said that her son was at the Schenck school and they had recommended Galloway for him next year. That opened up a lengthy conversation because Emma had been to Schenck for four years and is doing beautifully at Galloway and I was able to tell her all about our successful transition. Of course I invited them to come to St D's. She is Baptist and her husband is Catholic. Perfect. Hope to see them in church one day.

A note about Charlie: Christy and her family had only had him for 4 days before he ran away. She lives on Monte Carlo just up the street, but owns a house in Virginia Highland. Last week she was working on her house and saw a woman walking Charlie.

She commented on what a cute dog he was, the woman told her that she could have him. He was her Dad's dog and her Dad had died last week. She tried to take the dog to the Humane Society but they were full, so she was going to take him to the pound. Without another thought Christy took him. A few minutes later there was a knock on her door and all the dog's bed, food, leash, etc., was left on the porch. Not too sentimental. A happy ending and little Charlie, the evangelist, is finally home.

Sarah Hancock

Who’s Got A Hold On You?

Having been fortunate enough to hear Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori speak and give a sermon last week at the Diocesan Council meeting, I bought her book “A Wing and a Prayer: A Message of Faith and Hope” just in time for a four-hour flight to Phoenix, where I was traveling to the GreenBuild convention. 

I had to delay my original flight on Tuesday due to hurricane weather wafting up from the Gulf to Atlanta. So by the time my actual flight left on Wednesday morning, I had already read some 50 pages, divided into small chapters, which are really sermons that Bishop Katharine calls essays.

In her introduction, she ends by saying “The essays look at my dream for the Church and the reckless, abundant love of the God we serve. That’s the dream that I bring to the Episcopal Church as I serve as presiding bishop. Breathe deeply, know the wind of God is always beneath your wings, receive the Holy Spirit, and change the world.”

Reading the presiding bishop’s words is a lot like hearing them in person—they are calming and inspiring. Looking at life and the Kingdom of God through her lens, you start to see small ways that perhaps you can make a difference in the world. The essay that stuck with me from my waiting on Tuesday was entitled “Who’s got a hold on you?”

The old gospel language was used to describe what happens at baptism when we are “claimed” for God’s mission. “It’s about vocation, and it’s about hearing with compassion.” As I read over several examples of lonely or poverty stricken or mentally ill people who had briefly entered and exited Bishop Katharine’s life, thereby laying a claim to her heart, I started to see just how many people had a “hold on me.”

There was the elderly African-American cleaning lady in the airport smoker’s lounge across from the waiting area at my gate. As the travelers sat puffing hurriedly before their flights, talking incessantly on their cell phones, she might have been invisible. I watched as she made her way around the room, cleaning in a cloud of smoke, swishing her broom under feet and emptying dirty ash trays, each of which she cleaned out with a wet rag held by her bare hands.

I saw not a single person acknowledge this woman, not one visible sign that she existed, let alone the fact that her hair was nearly all gray and her body was thin and frail. For a brief moment, I wondered how much they pay in the airport for such nasty work, figured probably not much, and then tried to imagine what kind of a home this old woman lived in, if she had trouble buying Christmas presents for her grandchildren.

I thought: “That’s just the kind of person I would help if I could.” And in that statement of course is the idea that I am not in the position to help or pray or maybe even care. And it’s probably a little self-righteous in implying that there are others who would actually be able to change that little woman’s life—if only they had my good intentions. I’ll add, my distant, theoretical good intentions.

I was considering what I might actually do when I read over the sermon again. In the examples, there wasn’t necessarily a material cause and effect. The bishop often just prayed for these people in pain, acknowledged their existence by not turning away.

By the time I had to reschedule my flight, gather up my things and head for the ticket counter, I looked around for the little cleaning lady. It was as if she had disappeared. I do not know why that wasn’t enough for me. I actually took off down the long, wide, busy corridor that is terminal B, looking for her and her dust pan, behind fast moving foot traffic and at least eight gates, trying to recognize the gray hair and the maroon apron top. Not that I knew what I would do if I found her. 

Just as I was about to give up, I saw the elderly lady resting by a column with her cleaning station, gray rubber garbage can that came up to her chest, the broom and stand-up dustpan now safely secured. I was so happy that I still had a chance to speak to her, to not leave her unnoticed, I walked up to her joyfully, holding back a hug. “There you are!” I said looking her in the eyes, noticing the perfect row of false teeth as she returned my greeting with a smile. I pressed a five dollar bill into her hand because I think actually even small tips are nice to get once in a while. And besides it gave me an excuse to speak to her and not look too insane. “I never got a chance to thank you for cleaning up. That’s a nasty job. Thank you so much for doing that,” I said.

She brightened up and thanked me back. Now she’s got a hold on me. I wonder if I’ve got a hold on her?   

Learning the Primary Task

Perhaps 25 years ago when I was answering mail for my grandmother, a former Atlanta Journal-Constitution columnist and reporter, I opened a letter that said, “Jesus loves you Celestine Sibley.” I read it aloud thinking she might appreciate the no-doubt well-intentioned note and was a little taken aback at her response.

“Imagine that,” she seethed, “someone thinking they can speak for Jesus!” And until her death 10 years ago, it was just such practical pronouncements that helped to shape my own opinions. She was my main guide, the person who taught me how to notice the world.

So when I heard my grandmother’s voice coming out of the mouth of my priest Patricia Templeton just minutes before the 103rd Annual Council of the Diocese of Atlanta was about to begin, I smiled. The background is this: For a few years now I have really wanted a special cross that I could wear all the time on a necklace. Something modest with a longish chain, that could be tucked discretely under my shirt but that I could finger as a reminder to behave better, something tactile to center a prayer. The style that I’ve been coveting in the Monastery Greetings mail catalog I get is the Jerusalem cross, which looks something like a waffle or a grill.

In my shopping fervor at council, I left the St. Philip’s cathedral bookstore with a Jerusalem cross, not quite the size of a silver dollar. And I put it on right away, the bookstore ladies assuring me that it went fine with my pearls against the black backdrop of my shirt. I bought a couple of books, too. At the St. Dunstan’s/Grace Calvary table in the meeting room, I showed Patricia my purchases.

She made no real comment but as we were winding our way back to the hall through the tightly packed sea of round table tops and chairs, she turned to me, indicating the cross, and said one word: “Shiny.”

“Very,” I agreed, still well-pleased with my purchase.

She then said that wearing it on the outside could make me an evangelist. Not the knocking-on-doors, Jesus-loves-you, thumping-the-Bible-on-a-street-corner kind of evangelism, she quickly said when she saw my expression. But that was exactly what my grandmother’s voice would say.

That my priest is so similar in thinking to my grandmother is not particularly surprising. My grandmother had known and loved Patricia from the time Patricia was on her high school paper, through her career as a journalist, as a Peace Corps volunteer, and finally a priest. I think she even took a little pride in Patricia’s accomplishments.

Patricia’s remarks about the shiny cross reminded me of the first lunch we had before I started coming to church again a few years ago. Being a smart-mouthed, know-it-all liberal, I felt compelled to share with Patricia my uncertainty about the literal possibility of some of the miracles pertaining to Jesus.

“Doesn’t matter,” she responded with complete certainty. “It’s the example of his life that counts.”

So when the Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori was answering questions from the delegates, lay people, missionaries and priests, I didn’t give it a second thought when she said she thought it was more unusual that she was a scientist who became the head of the Episcopal Church rather than the fact that she was a woman. In my world, women do great things. My doctor is a woman. My priest is a woman.

In her deep, resonant voice, Bishop Katharine spoke to us about the need for inclusion, the need to follow the example of Christ, about not fueling issues with angry rhetoric. She said she strived to be a “non-anxious presence” as the head of the church, but she also quite firmly stated, “I’m called to do what I’m called to do and your reaction is your problem.”

As the day wore on, we delegates from St. Dunstan’s were both uplifted and overwhelmed by the speakers who spoke of great need and great works being done in the church to address HIV orphans, sex trafficking, hunger, poverty, mental illness, disenfranchisement, ignorance. Our group included Maggie Harney, the priest who runs Martha and Mary’s Place at St. Dunstan’s; Renee Kastanakis, a vestry member and lawyer who heads up our sustainability efforts; and Laura Withers, an 19-year-old member of St. Dunstan’s who has the most beautiful voice you’ve ever heard and who is also a freshman at Emory.

By the time we found our seats for the evening Eucharist with Bishop Katharine, we were tired, short on caffeine but full of expectation. Others from St. Dunstan’s had arrived to share in the feast—Nancy Dillon, Beverly Hall, Laura’s mother and sister, Vicki Ledet and Meg Withers. Peachy Horne, who rules the gardens surrounding our church, smiled at us and waved like the queen from across the nave, which was packed with hundreds of bodies.

Finally, the service started, with solemn pageantry and awe. We listened to Bishop Katharine’s voice filling the hall and sounding something like I imagine to be the voice of God. She preached to us: “The church’s primary task is to help us care for, heal, and reconcile the world. We do that by becoming like the one we worship, into whose family we are baptized, and whose members we become as we share in his body at this table. We become what we eat here, we become the living water with which we are washed, we become what we worship, we become whom we emulate.”

“John speaks of how this begins: ‘no one has ever seen God; it is Jesus, God in the flesh, who has made God known.’ As we become part of the body of Christ, we share in that mystery and that ministry.”

When communion came, quite by accident, several of us women from St. Dunstan’s found ourselves kneeling at the altar taking bread and blessings from Bishop Katharine. By the time we were back in the pew, tears were streaming down my face. The example was so profound and so easy to see in our Presiding Bishop that for a moment I saw the example all around me, in every face, every bowed head, filing up to the altar to share in the feast.

And I felt my grandmother’s presence in Patricia’s warm hand that covered mine, accepting the strange mystery as I silently wept until each person in the cathedral had received the Eucharist.

The next morning before council started, I exchanged my big Jerusalem cross for a dainty one, smaller than a silver dime that I could wear discreetly under my blouse. I was sitting in the hall fooling with the chain when Patricia arrived. I showed her my purchase and she approved. “I’m all for evangelism,” I said. “But I don’t want it to be the door-knocking kind.”

“There are better ways,” she agreed. What she did not say, what did not need to be said, was that the best way is by example.

P.S.After the service this morning at the back of the church, Patricia reached in her pocket and pulled out a dime-sized, silver Jerusalem cross—the one I had been looking for all along.

Grace in the Hotel Bar, Grace at the Party

By LTC Peter E. Bauer MS USAR

The Westin Peachtree Hotel in Atlanta is a beautiful space. I recently spent three days there attending this year’s conference for the International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies (ISTSS). The hotel feels safe like a bunker or a fortress accented by lovely fauna and floral displays and striking wall hangings.

The conference was a real treat. I heard spectacular presentations by many world renowned researchers and clinicians regarding the treatment of trauma, including combat trauma. I got a chance to get see some old friends and meet and get acquainted with some new friends.

Thursday afternoon I went down to the hotel bar to meet a new friend for dinner. I must admit the space for this hotel bar was soothing, lots of beautiful paintings, and art work, indirect lighting, and a great jazz ensemble were playing in the background. As I walked into the space, I saw a woman walking towards me looking distressed. She saw me in the Army ACU uniform, walked up to me, hugged me and proceeded to burst into tears.

I looked at her and said, “What’s wrong?” She responded, “Have you heard about what happened at Fort Hood today?” I replied no.

She proceeded to tell me about the shooting of the soldiers and civilians. “I feel so helpless,” she said. “I wish I could be there to help them.”

This almost felt like when Mary says to Jesus, “If you had been here, my brother Lazarus would not have died.” When we are suffering and experiencing pain and loss, we want immediate answers to realities that sometimes can become intangible.

I felt numb. We talked for a few minutes. I called my friend George, an Army Chaplain and Episcopal priest, to see if he was OK. I then called his wife Lynn and guided her regarding a Critical Incident Stress Debrief that she was to facilitate that evening at St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church in Kileen, Texas. I called my boss to see if we would send anyone from our program, the Army Reserve Warrior and Family Assistance Center, to help out.

I must admit it felt surreal. I was on the phone for over two hours. No time for a drink, not even for a Starbucks coffee. I then sat down in a nice chair talking to a friend and looking at a nice batik painting, and I thought, “If you are dealing with human misery, it’s nice to be in beautiful surroundings.” I don’t know if Jesus experienced a lot of beautiful surroundings when he was in the midst of providing intense ministry, maybe the Sea of Galilee, maybe the Garden of Gethsemane. All I know was that I was feeling exhausted with all of my energy being focused on helping the folks at Fort Hood and I felt grateful to be in a beautiful space with friends.

Later that evening I received two e-mails from Tricia. One described her shock and concern regarding the tragedy at Fort Hood, “When I heard about this, I thought about you right away.” Within a minute, I received another message and this one read, “Sometimes clergy need a priest. I am here and available for you. Call me if you want to talk.”

I burst into tears. This was the first moment that I had an opportunity to consider how I was doing. I felt a lot of gratitude and felt truly blessed by Tricia’s message of love and concern. I will always remember it.

The last night of the conference featured a nice buffet of salads, pasta and other dishes. There was a jazz band playing. I stood in line to get some pasta and struck up a conversation with a film maker who was doing a piece regarding trauma. She must have sensed that I was feeling upset, because she abruptly massaged my shoulders. Her touch felt very comforting and compassionate. I realized once again that when we least expect it God comes to meet us in our confusion, in our loneliness, in our pain and even in our despair.

Here we were waiting in line for gourmet pasta and bread, what an image for the heavenly Eschatological banquet. For me, it is in these experiences of love and support, of great food and comfort and companionship that God’s grace becomes so powerfully real. Jesus seeks us out when we least expect it, in a hotel bar and in a hotel banquet room. Jesus comes to bless us with a hug and tears and with the loving touch of a shoulder massage.

May we be open to the grace that is around us, that we see in lives of other people and most important, may we see the grace of God extended to us in our lives this day and always in Jesus’ Name.
Blessings

Choosing Thailand Over France

By Bob Longino      

I don't know how you were raised. But at my family home, there was always a belief that those who performed well and acted well, were elevated from the crowd.

     They became the chosen ones.

     Picked first for games. Singled out at school for good grades. Celebrated. Honored. Selected. Plucked from the masses. Ushered to the front of the room for fame and glory.

     So today I have been chosen from among all of you for the privilege of delivering the most thankless, unwanted, dreaded job in churchdom ... That of uttering the words dripping with guilt that no one on Earth ever wants to hear.

     Stewardship. Giving. Pledge. Bank account withdrawal.

     This is an honor? What it is is the revelation of my shame.

     Trust me on that shame part. True story.

     It was a pleasant Thursday just a few weeks ago. At Habitat, where I work, we get paid every other Thursday. And I am old-fashioned guy. I dutifully separate my income in a ledger with pen and paper. There's a column on the far left for savings, another for my condo mortgage, for insurance, yadda yadda. At the top of the column on the far right is the single word CHURCH. That's where my pledge goes.

     I don't know the reason, but on this Thursday I looked at that column under Church. I saw the accumulation of money. I pay quarterly and I thought about the total for the year. And I had a fleeting thought. What ... if next year ... I just kept this money.

      Oh, what I could do with it. I don't think I've been to France in three years. If I worked it right, I could get a seat at the World Series of Poker Championships in Las Vegas. If you know me, you'd understand how important that would be to me.

     It was a fleeting thought. It was here and then gone. Vanished.

     That very Sunday, I came to church. Everything was great as usual. I saw Craig Withers coming towards me. We shook hands. We always do. We each wondered how the other one was doing. And then Craig began a new sentence ... "The stewardship committee ..."

     That's all I heard. It was all I needed to hear. In an instant I realized I was getting a gotcha from God.

     In a way I thought it was funny. And now this is my penance.

     I also figured this was how I would begin my talk. With the story you just heard. And like any goofus, I needed to try out my material.

     So recently I was having lunch with Patricia and a Habitat colleague of mine. When we were done and on the way to our cars, I began my little story. You know. to see how it might play to a crowd.

     I should have known what would happen.

     I have known this woman for more than 30 years. I helped bury Patricia's cat. I helped her by editing story after story she wrote when we worked at the newspaper in Nashville. And all this time, she's never cut me any slack. None.

     So I gave my little spiel. Without missing a beat, she said ... and I should mention right here the fact that I paid for lunch ... but she said, and I quote, "You know this means that now you have to increase your pledge."

     Why me?

     OK. So I have to start thinking about why I need to pledge. Why I need to give. Why I need to do it with a whole heart.

      That's really what I would like. So I tried to think of a situation where I could honestly say I've never had a fleeting thought like that. And it came in an instant.

      Those of you who are parents, I'm not going to tell you anything you don't already know. I have two grown sons. They mean everything to me. 

     I think most everyone knows I am divorced. And it was not a pleasant experience. It was the darkest, most soul-shattering event in my life. And to top it off, my ex-wife and I both worked at the AJC at the time. Our desks were roughly 10 feet apart. If I looked up and to the right and if she looked up and to her right, we were eye to eye. For one solid year. Imagine going through a divorce like that.

     I am so much happier now. And people have asked me, knowing what you know now, would you go through it again and marry Miriam.

     It's such an easy answer. Absolutely. Of course. Without Miriam and me, there would be no John. There would be no Daniel.

     I would go again through every wonderful, horrible, miraculous, disastrous moment just to have John and Daniel.

     I know that's how I want to feel about my pledge. I want there to be no question, no alternative.

     So I've thought recently about what my church means to me. Can it mean as much to me as my sons?

     In the past year, I've gone through a tremendous life change. I thought long and hard about leaving a profession that I firmly believed in my youth would define my entire life. I found new work, inspiration and fulfillment in Habitat for Humanity.

     You just don't know what you ... all of you ... did to help make it happen. The sermons, so wonderfully written, the Sunday school discussions (on very rare occasions when I am there), the choir, the vestry, the comforting ritual, the communion of people ... Foyer, the monthly bridge sessions. And let me tell you, you haven't really played bridge until you've played against the the ultimate ringer, Helen Bealer, who when she's sitting on your right and you are stumped and sure you won't make your game and you happen to utter, "I'm not going to make this," she responds, without missing a beat, "I know. You won't." ... all of this has helped me.

     It all gives me strength, it helps me perservere.

     I could not manuever through Habitat, where every single person believes he or she runs the place without having had the wonderful experience of St. Dunstan's, where every single person does run the place. 

     I find comfort that sometimes during the work week, driving back and forth between Atlanta and Americus, I find myself singing. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

     This church has been healthy during troubled economic times. But it has done so mainly by cutting Outreach. There is no honor in that. And I cannot believe I am the one that is about to say this, but the diocese should be supported at 100 percent.

     Trust and believe and God provides. I'm not going to France this year. I am going to Thailand. On Tuesday. For Habitat. On money provided entirely by donations from people who expect me to help others.

     That's what I've wanted. That's now what I'm being blessed with.

     I promise you, I am now closer to the point of my church meaning the same to me as my sons.

     What I ask of you is just this: Love your neighbor, love your self, love your family, love your children, and love your church.

     Make your pledge with faith and love.

Emanuel Biggs Gets Ramen, Not $5

Buddhist teachers will tell you that if you have trouble giving, practice by taking a thing or money and pass it back and forth between your left hand and you right hand. With enough practice, the premise is you’ll eventually be able to release said object to another person (presumably who needs it more than you do).

And while I think that’s a wonderful idea for those who cling to material possessions and wealth, that’s not a problem for me. I’m one of those people who finds that they never really have enough to give, which is one reason why I daydream about winning the lottery. In my mind, I buy a house and good car for one of my little brothers and pay for my nephews to go to the best schools all the way through college. My mother gets an apartment in Atlanta by Piedmont Park. I call Patricia and set up a lunch where we hash over plans for a St. Dunstan’s mountain spiritual retreat center for church members and poor children to experience nature.

As we’re having this mental lunch at which Patricia expresses thrill and approval of my retreat center idea and of course the orphanage south of town and the a soup kitchen, I find my present self suddenly awash in guilt. “Gifts should be anonymous,” I remind me. “I’ll have to sneak my $10 million into the offering plate.”

And then, I’m pulling into my driveway and the daydream dissolves of its own accord because, after all, it’s hard to win the Georgia Lottery when you never buy lottery tickets.

But in reality, for the little I do have to give, it’s really in knowing how to give and when to give and who to give to that usually trips me up. Patricia’s sermon last Sunday was about Jesus asking a blind beggar named Bartimaeus what he could do for him. She went on to share an example in her own life about when she was in the Peace Corp. and taught school in Thailand. One of her favorite students needed glasses and seeing the problem, Patricia went about taking the girl to the eye doctor, getting her fitted for glasses, and in the end giving the child the gift of sight. At first the little girl wore the glasses every day. Soon, she wore them only in Patricia’s English class, and then eventually not at all.

“None of the other children wore glasses and it made the child different from everyone else around her. And suddenly I realized that I had never asked the child if she wanted glasses. I had assumed that I could fix this child’s problem by giving her the gift of sight. After all, it was obvious that’s what she needed,” Patricia preached.

Now Jesus, the good teacher, does not assume anything about what the blind beggar needs, he asks what Bartimaeus wants.

For me, the sermon was a needed reminder because I have a long history of misguided giving. For instance, as a young mother, a man knocked on my door, asking for work for food. His name was Emanuel Biggs and the specific amount he needed was five dollars. Feeling sorry for him, I took him around the house to the backyard, which was covered in kudzu. That was work that he could start right away, I said. Emanuel scratched his head and mumbled something about being hungry, the gist of which was that the work would take a long time but he really needed the money right away.

Misreading the request, I insisted that Emanuel come inside and I would make him something to eat. I “cooked” him a bowl of ramen noodles, about the extent of my food repertory at the time, and he suffered through that scant meal, finally leaving without the money.

A couple of weeks later, I was having lunch with a police sergeant. When I told him the tale, he was incredulous. “Emanuel Biggs is a known glue sniffer!” said the sergeant. “Haven’t you heard about the Alday family murders?!”

And I could go on about giving unwanted clothing, furniture, an extra umbrella to someone on the street one day when it was raining. About giving with the expectation of approval, about giving with the expectation of being paid back, about giving with regret.

As ill-equipped as I am to continue this practice, I’m not giving up on giving really. Lately, I’ve been thinking how it’s good to sometimes depend on the experts to make the best use of small resources. Fortunately, at St. Dunstan’s, I have options. For one, we’re kicking off this the Parishioner Relief Fund, via Patricia’s discretionary fund. It’s to help with real needs of parishioners during this terrible recession and the money is given with complete discretion and wisdom—Patricia’s. And then we’re also heading into stewardship season, the time of pledge making for the next year.

The truth is, I’ll never be able to give as much as I want to, though I really should start playing the lottery. But with 2010 pledges and the relief fund, I'm pretty confident that I can't go wrong and can feel good in the knowledge that I've given in the right way.

Wish You Were There

I have been a member of St. Dunstan’s for about three years now. But until recently, my husband Ron has only been a few times, for Christmas Eves and a funeral. He’s one of those spouses who takes pleasure in saying things like, “My wife does the worshiping for me.” As a science person and “thinker” he’s the first to point out the ills of organized religion—the Inquisition, James Town, Jim and Tammy Faye Baker. Ron grew up Methodist in a small town in rural Alabama, where church attendance and outings were about as natural and expected as summer naps on the sandy banks of the Warrior River.

While my husband has never tried to sever my connection to organized religion, I really haven’t extended much of an invitation to church services or functions (other than Christmas Eve and yes, I am one of those mothers whose children will sometimes tell you they came to church ‘because my mother made me.’)

Anyway last vestry meeting Patricia pretty much commanded that we vestry members to be present at two church functions: the Flying Pig Bar-B-Q last Saturday and the Evensong service last Sunday for which the choir sang a piece commissioned especially for them by Dorothy Yates in memory of her husband Charlie. The third gathering—not mandatory—was an invitation for a fun night out, to hear country music provided by an old journalism buddy of Patricia’s from Nashville, Keith Miles.

I don’t know what made me ask Ron if he would accompany me to the church BBQ after three years of respecting his wishes to remain aloof of organized religion, but I did and somewhat to my surprise, he didn’t hesitate in accepting. A day later, I asked if he would come with me to the Evensong, again, sure thing. (I admit I knew that coming out to hear the St. Dunstan’s choir really wasn’t a hard sell, Ron has heard them on Christmas Eve and it’s a pretty damn good invitation.)

The deal with the Keith Miles concert last night was that everyone bring their own drinks and hor’ derves to share. Ron and I agreed the concert would make a good date night, something that is not a weekly or even regular occurrence (we’ve been married 13 years). When we arrived about 30 minutes before the music began, Ron headed straight for the kitchen, where he made himself at home with others who were putting the final touches on their dishes and waiting for the oven to reach 450 degrees. I left him there and went to reserve one of the intimate round tables, which were set up with flowers, an ambiance best described as what you might get if you crossed a French café with a night club and a church fellowship hall.

So we all enjoyed Keith Miles’ music and when he asked how much longer he should continue to entertain, Patricia rightly said that we, the audience, would stay as long as he wanted to play. We audience people were quite satisfied with our food and wine, our cozy seating arrangements, listening to Keith playing guitar, singing and telling us about his career as a songwriter, making the charts in Nashville, selling a song to Kenny Rogers, getting radio play in Norway.

As the evening drew to a close, there were small groups still lingering here and there in the shadows, chatting. Gilda came up with her camera for a group shot—me, Ron, Steve and Elizabeth Mark, and a friend of theirs who called herself “Momma Nature.” Gilda said she wanted to take a picture to show the parishioners who didn’t make it just what they were missing.

This morning Ron asked me if we had a sort of “recipe corner” on the St. Dunstan’s website, mainly because there were several recipes he wanted to get from last night and he was worried that Claudia’s daughter’s mother-in-law Ginger would not be able to read his recipe for rumaki, which she had jotted down on the back of a multi-colored paper napkin. As we hashed over the evening, he raved about a buffalo chicken casserole and then added, “Tim has a great recipe for bacon chili.”

“Was it good? I didn’t have any,” I said. I don’t cook but of course I married someone who does so I’m pretty much covered for food.

“He didn’t make it last night, he was telling me about it and he’s emailing me the recipe,” Ron explained. “It sounded really good.”

At that point I went ahead and asked if Ron if he would do the cooking next time I’m signed up for coffee time. And guess what? He enthusiastically agreed.

While I’m not quite ready to ask my spouse to get up at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning for the early service, I do think something has taken hold. And maybe unconsciously, he’s getting why showing up matters—sure part of it is to make a crowd and support something that usually somebody else has put a lot of effort into—whether it’s hearing the choir at Evensong or sewing angel wings for the Christmas pageant—but more importantly it’s what you get when you arrive that changes the equation from being asked “Will you come?” to you asking “What time shall I be there?” And I guess you could call that fellowship, a commodity that St. Dunstan’s has in abundance.

White Man’s Chocolate and the Evolution of Racism

When my son Vincent was in grade school at Horizons School on Dekalb Avenue, I gave him a valentine. It was the same valentine I gave my boys every year—a box of chocolate and a teddy bear. Because Vincent and Wolfie were spending the night at their dad’s house on Valentine Day eve, I did not get to see the immediate reaction to the gift, which I had bought with love and expectation of, well, frankly thanks.

However, when I picked the boys up to take them to school the next morning and asked about their gifts, the reception from Vincent was quite cold. “How did you like your valentines?” I asked expectantly.

“It was okay,” Vincent replied.

“What do you mean ‘okay’?” I prodded.

“Mom,” Vincent said with a note of disgust, “that chocolate? That bear?”

“What do you mean ‘that chocolate and that bear’?” I asked.

“Come on, Mom,” my eldest son spat in disbelief. “White Man’s Chocolate? Don’t you think that’s a little racist?”

“Vincent, Whitman’s Chocolate. Whitman’s,” I corrected him.

It was a misunderstanding that I shared in Sunday School last week. The topic was: Justice and Race: White Privilege, Affirmative Action, and the Obligations of Reparation. The reason I shared the anecdote was that I thought it was a good example of how the generations in my family had changed with respect to racism. From my grandmother’s black Aunt Mary, who became a ‘family’ member as a result of losing her arm to a firecracker thrown by my grandmother’s father as a boy. To my mother running away from boarding school to go freedom riding with Dr. King. To my own experience at Spring Street School using the “N” word and spending that same night alone in my room without any supper. And finally to Vincent’s vigilance against racist chocolate.

But these were my stories. Others were told in Sunday School — and others were untold in that venue. These personal experiences spilled out into coffee time after church and into the parking lot. I heard at the vestry meeting last night that the conversation was carried on later Sunday evening at the welcome party for our new choir master Tom Gibbs held at Bruce Lafitte’s house. Indeed, as the vestry waited for everyone to arrive, we continued to share our memories of racism growing up in the South and points beyond. In short, the conversation begun by Joe Monti in Sunday School is far from over. And I invite all St. Dunstan’s parishioners to continue the conversation here on the St. Dunstan’s blog. 

All Creatures Great and Small--Blessing of the Animals

Please take a look at these great pics that Vicki Ledet took! Note also there are more pictures of the visitors from the small dog rescue. Vicki has a great eye for photos AND unlike my photos none of these had to be doctored:) Enjoy.

The smallest creature to attend the Blessing of the Animals service this morning, Sunday, Oct. 4, was a praying mantis, who had the best view in the house on the altar at the top of a tall, white candlestick.




But there were also a wonderful number of visitors . . . from the Small Dog Rescue Organization, which parishioners Lindsey Reece and Fair Sutherline are involved with.

And the band played . . .All Things Bright and Beautiful (all creatures great and small. All things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all!)

Some of the blessed were quite fluffy . . .

Some of the blessed got an extra tummy rub . . .

Patricia even blessed this little animal, not the Velveteen rabbit, but you never know . . .

And there was a little white bunny . . .




And my son Wolfie (I couldn't resist) brought a couple of puppies who are big and goofy and not yet leash trained . . .

And this guy (look close) has a big wet tongue . . .

Below, you can see the patience the animals displayed as they waited in line to see Patricia . . .

All in all, it was a cheerful community gathering of St. Dunstan's parishioners and friends. We lift up our hearts!

Learning the Word and Other Murmurings

I grabbed a program this morning, not when I ran in the door late, but at the last minute, on the way up to the altar for communion. I don’t really need the prayer book because whatever responses I don’t know off the top of my head are usually pretty easy to read on Patricia’s lips. But if I do go by the book, I always have to look up the Eucharist—though it’s pretty much always on page 369. (The Nicene Creed is page 358, Prayers for the People start around page 383.) The prayer after communion, “Eternal God, Heavenly Father, you have graciously accepted us . . .” is committed to memory, as is the Confession of Sins.

Anyway, a couple of Sundays ago, at the altar for communion during the 8:30 service, I was standing beside Lucy Kaltenbach, a regular service person. Things go a little differently in the early service and she hadn’t brought her prayer book to the altar. I actually had brought a book and was thinking of pushing it over so she could read the responses off the page rather than Patricia’s lips, when Renee Kastanakis, standing on Lucy’s left, beat me to the punch.

After the service, I felt compelled to go to this woman, who I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with, and apologize. There’s just something about the Episcopal service, it’s one of the most beautiful yet one of the easiest to find yourself lost. I told Lucy about bringing my little nephew, Candler, to church, how he swung on the altar rail like it was a jungle gym during communion, and how when the congregation recited the regular, pat responses, he joined in with, “murr, murr, murr, murr, murr”, what he was certain we were saying.

Here now this morning, I thought about Candler as I watched little Grant Witczak in his green shirt with the thin, white stripes and little boy tennis shoes with the Velcro straps, wiggling at the altar. Precious. I don’t know his age but I began to wonder if what Grant heard was similar to what Candler had heard when he visited St. Dunstan’s.

Oddly, that seemed to be the question that Joe Monti was asking us in Sunday School this morning. Joe didn’t directly say, “Are you hearing ‘murr-murr-murr’ or are you hearing ‘Language shapes reality. Words have consequences.’ Or ‘One of the signs of being created in God’s image is our ability to speak. Our words, like God’s word, have creative powers. We create worlds of meaning with our words.’”

Are we coming to church for a pleasant morning out, or is what we hear something that changes the way we view and behave in the world on all of the days of the week that are not Sunday? Are we able to take the opportunities that are presented to us to sometimes repair even a small piece of injustice in the world?

And sometimes the injustices are maybe the ones we create through intolerance, with me anyway. For instance, there’s a woman I work with who drives me nuts. Because I generally feel that I’m in the right, I sometimes say things that could be said in a less direct way. However, this past week I have been more mindful of the sharp words that seem to leap off my tongue wherever this person is concerned. I’m sure her life was more pleasant as a result, though she’ll never know my improved nature was because I actually listened to Patricia’s sermon on the “Evils of the Tongue”, which came through louder than the murmurings.

How to Go to Sunday School

I have had more than my fair share of kindnesses since I’ve been at St. Dunstan’s these past few years. But one of the best things anybody did for me was to repeatedly invite me to Sunday School. Why should anymore need more than one invitation, right?

Well, the thing is, if you’re a regular service person, then going to Sunday School means you have to get up an hour earlier, brush your teeth an hour earlier, and pull out of your driveway an hour earlier. If you’re an early service person, that means staying a little longer. After all, why go sit around and make your brain work overtime to dissect psalms when you’re already spiritually nourished from one of Patricia’s sermons, and ready to go out into the world and do better anyway?

Tim Black, our seminarian, was the kind person who instinctively knew that I was unaware of what I was missing in Sunday School. So he asked me and invited and reminded me, here a Sunday, there a Sunday, and finally one morning wooed me back to the founders room to the sofa in the back. Before I knew it, I was completely engaged in the topic at hand. The class was interesting and funny and thought provoking, laughter and intensity. Everyone in the class had their hand up, and comments and questions bounced around the room like atoms under an atomic microscope.

What makes this class so special? Patricia, of course, and also Joe Monti, whose intellect and analysis and humor (and patience) make the class like an upper level college course with a visiting lecturer from Sweden or some other far-away place where special people tend to come from. Anyway since I’ve been going to Sunday School, it’s made me read and study and think, and my mind is appreciative for the experience. Nobody watches the clock in Sunday School and half the time it runs over its allotted hour as a result.

Last Sunday in the kitchen, I heard a person (who shall remain nameless) say that they couldn’t wait for Sunday School to start again. This person, in fact, seldom attends the services. Sunday School, for this nameless person, is the prime rib. Personally, I love both and find they complement each other perfectly. But be forewarned--if you make three Sunday School classes in a row, you are very likely to form a habit. And that’s how I go to Sunday School.

Faith that Does Justice

“What does the Lord require of us?” the Old Testament prophet Micah asks. The answer is “Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” First comes justice, an imperative in both the Old Testament and the teachings of Jesus. This fall, our adult Sunday School class will focus on what it means to do justice – as individuals, as a church, and as a nation. The series, which begins at 9:30 a.m. on September 13, will be led by Joe Monti, emeritus professor of Christian Ethics and Moral Theology at the School of Theology at Sewanee. Here is the schedule for the series:

9/13 1. Faith that Does Justice: The View from Here:A Christian Church In Late Modern and Suburban America.
a. Texts and Narratives of Faith and Justice: Ancient and New
b. Justice as Repairing the World: Anne Tyler’s “Saint Maybe”
c. New Forms of “Normalcy:” Justice, Worship, and the Moral Life

9/20 2. The Forms of Justice: The Perspective of “the LeastAdvantaged” and the “Priority of the Poor”
a. The Convergence of Social Theory and the Teachingof Jesus: John Rawls & the Judeo-Christian Scriptures

9/27 3. Justice, Class, and Privilege in American Society:Economics, Politics, and Making Just Policy
a. Justice and the Environment: Who “Owns” the Mountains?
b. A Just Health Care Policy

10/4 Justice and All Creatures Great and Small: The Blessing of the Pets(No Class)

10/11 4. Justice and Race: White Privilege, Affirmative Action,and The Obligations of Reparationa. J. Monti: “Dynamite Hill: Fountain Heights in the 1950’s:White Privilege in Mid-Century Birmingham”b. Katrina Brown: “Traces of the Trade” (Documentary DVD shown duringcoffee hour after the 10:45 Eucharist)

10/18 5. Justice and Gender: Taking Others’ Experience Seriously
a. Women’s Experience: Carol Gilligan’s “In a Different Voice”
b. GLBT Christians: “The Bible Tells Me So” (Documentary DVD shown duringcoffee hour after the 10:45 Eucharist)

10/25 6. Justice, Forgiveness, and the Law: What Would Jesus Do?
a. The “Unbalanced” Example of the Amish and Other Forms ofthe Radical Religion of Jesusb. Protecting the Weak and the innocentc. Making Justice: Worship, and the Moral Life

Getting the Voodoo Out of My Car

By Peter Bauer

I drive a 2000 Jeep Cherokee Sport. It’s black and it has over 283,000 miles on it. It has been a very dependable vehicle until about the last two years. I don’t know, but I think it’s possessed. There are times for no predictable reason the engine light will come on and then there have been several occasions when the odometer will flat line out and read “No bus” and sometimes even when the speedometer and RPM gauge will bounce back and forth. I have taken this car into be “repaired” several times and yet the peculiar problems continue.

The latest incident was this morning. I was leaving my apartment at Fort McPherson, and I had on NPR. Garrison Keillor ( bless his heart, I hope he recovers completely from the minor stroke ) was doing a piece on the 10th anniversary of President Bill Clinton and Monica Lewisnsky. Garrison stated “Bill Clinton did a terrible thing,” but then he added, “Kenneth Starr has spent millions of dollars in investigation costs, and what has resulted resembles a Harold Robbins novel.” I chuckled as I heard this and then I heard Garrison Keillor mention Monica Lewinsky’s friendship with Linda Tripp.

Ah yes, all of those names and all of those scenes from 10 years ago were coming back to me.

At this point, I looked down at my speedometer and it read “ No bus.” Was my car reacting to the retelling of this steamy, torrid story involving a former president and a White House intern ? Was this just too much for this 10-year-old car to hear ?

This morning at church and during the Christian Education hour, I thought a lot about justice. We have become so desensitized as a nation and society to all of the suffering that is around us. It’s pathetic that we now react with “good news” that there are only nine million children dying of starvation in the world.

Yes, justice means that we have to be intentional; we have to repair what has gone wrong. We have to do beyond the dispensation that we are forgiven and we actually have to do something. When Jesus heals Jairius’ daughter and the girl revives, it’s interesting that the first thing he says to her family is to get her something to eat.

We come to church to worship but we also come to church to be fed on the Word of God as well as to experience life in the spirit of God and in Christian community. This becomes the medicine that helps either to inoculate or heal and disintegrate the “voodoo” that affects our lives and our world.

I am still going to try and get my car well. A friend of mine at work recently gave me a Kleenex box cover. He picked it up in New Orleans and the cover has the logo of a Louisiana license plate, with white back ground and red lettering with Louisiana at the top and Sportsman Paradise at the bottom.

But the blue letter on the plate reads “ VOODOO.”

I am fond of saying at work when anything goes awry, “Get the Voodoo out.”

I hope I can get the voodoo out of my car.

The Temple of the Almighty is a big place!

One of my joys in life is going camping a couple of weekends a year. Even though my trips are relegated to Scout camps these days, being in the Great Outdoors charges my batteries. My father once said that those who hunt and those who fish are really doing the same thing - getting out into the quiet of nature. On my camping trips, I usually take a long walk, by myself, to soak in the beauty of the Creation.

On the vacation trip I mentioned in a previous message, we made a trip to Muir Woods, north of San Francisco. It is simply a stunningly beautiful place, filled with California redwoods and other gorgeous sights. It is on the list for us to make a return visit when we can spend the entire day there. Around every bend, there is yet another "Oh, wow!" experience. We stopped for a while at one place where we waited for a forest ranger to come give a talk about the trees and plants. We noticed a woman standing off to one side just facing the woods. She looked Native American. It did not take long before we noticed that she was not just standing; she was doing what looked like a liturgical dance. She was in deep meditation, praying to the forest. It seemed almost intrusive to me for others to be walking by and talking as this prayer was in progress. She stayed there for a long time until a young person, probably her grandson, came to get her. She understood what so many casual visitors to places like Muir Woods miss. The Great Spirit has a Sanctuary that is vast, if we only slow down long enough to enjoy and appreciate it.

Bruce Lafitte

Never Too Old for Pink Roses

By Sibley Fleming

I was admiring the stand of long-stemmed pink roses on the altar this morning. At my age, I should be ashamed of being so fond of pink roses and I felt this acutely as I drank in the perfect pink buds against the white wall, sitting on the shelf behind and to the right of the lectern. The passion for pink roses is of course understandable in a little girl – even a tomboy will succumb to the enchantment of a tea set – there’s just something about a miniature white china pot and shot glass-size tea cups with dainty pink rose buds melted into the surface.

When I was 12, I learned to embroider on pink roses, which were printed on white linen dresser runners. I stitched like crazy and invented a Pink Rose Tea Club, a ruse that I used in order to be able to make fudge. “Have a club meeting this weekend. I probably need to make some fudge to offer my guests.” Though guests were seldom actually plural. Four years later, I was thrilled to receive a pink rose bush on my 16th birthday, it had small blossoms like baby’s breath and I have no idea what variety it was.

But I ramble. The point is that when you’re 45, you should be graduated to more mature tastes in rose colors, like deep velvet red or King’s Ransom yellow. I’m sorry to say these thoughts kept creeping through my mind as I listened to Patricia talking about the host being substantial, something to eat and chew and digest in a very human way—the sermon. She was making the important point about the connection of the spiritual life to the physical life. Sort of like the physical pink roses being on the altar to see with your eyes, but the absolute pleasure and gratitude that you feel by seeing a thing that fills the senses with joy being maybe something more spiritual.

And of course, the Eucharist was so like that this morning as the eight or so of us gathered at the altar for communion—the bread was thick and dense so that it required we chew hard, chomp down and intensely experience the flesh.

There was a cool nip in the morning air and it seemed we all rose from our pews, sort of just happy to be there, ready for the fall to kick in. As I gathered my things chatting with Nancy Dillon about the newly ended summer, I glanced over to see Dottie Albright walking toward us, a single pink rose stem in each hand. Everyone received the gift of a long-stemmed, beautifully formed pink rose. Now I am home and my rose is sitting here on my desk, in water, in an old clear glass bottle. And I chuckle a bit at a quote I heard a little while ago on NPR—Only God can make a tree because the bark is so hard to put on—perhaps that’s a reference to the physical.

The Clairvoyant In the Casino

By Rev. LTC Peter E. Bauer MS USAR

Recently, my wife Kate and I spent our twenty-fourth wedding anniversary out in Las Vegas, NV. We stayed at the Las Vegas Hilton because my wife wanted to see Barry Manilow.

The Southwest flight from San Antonio, TX was interesting. I got bumped due to over-booking, received a two hundred dollar travel voucher, and took the later flight which arrived first to Phoenix, AZ before proceeding onto Las Vegas. I looked out of the plane window as we were landing in Phoenix. I saw hundreds of people crammed into a big municipal swimming pool, which from ten thousand feet up looked like so many flies scurrying on the surface of the water while the temperature was 108 degrees.

We finally landed in Las Vegas and I took the shuttle to the hotel. We passed the Hard Rock Café and the Joint, passed the Mirage and the Palazzo and Caesar’s Palace, with architecture that mimicked Roman palace facades. When I arrived at our room at the Las Vegas Hilton, I looked out of the window at the rugged craggy brown mountains overlooking the desert valley floor and wondered; what was it like for those pioneers, before there were Hondas and BMWS and Mercedes- Benz with air conditioning?

Walking through the Las Vegas Hilton and Casino on a Tuesday was like a ghost town. Where are all of the people? Is this another sign of the bad economy? At one point I walked into an alcove area with slot machines that had a décor of what I would describe as Star Wars from hell with no one there. I found myself asking Am I in a scene from the Twilight Zone?

I finally got my answer to why there were so few people. Thursday afternoon, my wife and I took a cab over to the Bellagio to see the art exhibit of Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol. The female cab driver observed “I don’t know how people work in Las Vegas Monday through Wednesday; there are no people here then. The people really arrive from Thursday to Sunday.” She was right, as I noticed a definite surge of people in the hotel on Thursday morning.

Meanwhile back at the casino my wife and I played the two penny slots. You put in twenty dollar bill and you play. We started pulling the slots and started to win several rounds. We even started to speak our dog’s names before we would pull the slot. Willard, pull the slot, and then ding, ding, ding, ding. Watson, pull the slot and then ding, ding, ding, and ding. I mentioned to Kate, “You know I really think there is something with evoking the dog muse.” But unfortunately, we couldn’t seem to break the ceiling of the four dollar profit. I kept trudging over to the cashier’s window thinking that the teller is going to be so impressed that I am cashiering a receipt for twenty-four dollars.

I was beginning to think that the Las Vegas economy was so bad that the casinos were definitively limiting how much money they would pay out to being paltry sums. I even noticed that there weren’t even any coffee makers in the hotel rooms. Another interesting economic indicator for Summer 2009.

But the most telling indicator was when we were walking down the hallway to the hotel elevators and we saw the sign announcing the engagement of Lisa Williams, well known clairvoyant featured on Lifetime and on other television networks. I then thought “Well why not, a clairvoyant in the casino might have some real possibilities.” What might the next world think of this world of the casino?

It’s an interesting question. So much of what we experience in life can be unknown. Sometimes events happen with random luck much like hitting all three cherries on the pull of a slot machine. Where is God for us in those moments? How does the love of Christ made manifest in human form come to be known to us?

For the two days we were in Las Vegas, there was the glitz of the Barry Manilow show, there was the art of Roy Lichenstein and Andy Warhol, the flowers of the Bellagio, and the waitress who served us our meals in the Paradise Café. She was a constant, always cheerful, always had a kind serene smile, always very thoughtful and generous in telling us what activities were going on at the hotel and in Las Vegas. For me, she became a compassionate God presence amidst an environment that at times was both unpredictable and comical.

Do we need a clairvoyant in the casino? Do we need a guide to the next world who can help us make sense of this world? I don’t know if we will ever get a clear answer to that question.

I do know that if I ever have a clairvoyant with me in a casino, I hope he or she will help me break the four dollar ceiling for winnings on the slot machine.

A Tribute to Our Patron Saint

By Bruce Lafitte

Last week, Daria and I went on a vacation out West with her sister, three of their cousins, spouses, and various offspring. It was a family reunion of sorts. One of our stops along the way was Sterling Vineyards in the Napa Valley. The grounds and buildings there are just beautiful. I was especially intrigued by their bell tower, located in the St. Dunstan's Room. Here is a description of the bells from their website:

The winery’s towers house eight bells from London’s Church of St. Dunstans-in-the-East, originally founded in the 10th century. The church was destroyed by fire in 1666, rebuilt, then destroyed again during the bombing of WWII. Each time, new bells were recast from the old metal to give them superior tonal quality. The rich tolling of these ancient bells sounds down through the valley on the quarter hour.

We heard the bells ring just as we reached the winery on the hill after riding the cable car. Their beautiful sound made me appreciate our Patron Saint and bell maker, St. Dunstan of Glastonbury.

Visiting an Episcopal Church While on Vacation

I’ve always enjoyed being able to drop into an Episcopal church when I’m traveling. Here’s a fun little story, but first a little background.

Fr. Frank Chun is a good friend of my parents (they met him at St. Elizabeth’s Episcopal Church in Hawaii while he was preparing for the ministry). I first met him when he was a chaplain at a church summer camp in Hawaii (our family had gone to Hawaii for an extended visit that summer). He was also somewhat on his honeymoon, having just gotten married a few weeks earlier.

Frank has had a long full career, including serving as chaplain for St. Andrew’s Priory School for Girls, and most recently, being rector at Epiphany Episcopal Church in Kaimuki, a neighborhood in the outskirts of Honolulu.

Our family was in town for an 88th birthday celebration for my Aunt Dorothy. While there, we thought we would stop in to attend service and surprise Frank and his family. Frank had been rector at Epiphany for several years and had planned to retire from there.

We showed up a few minutes early and were greeted by several church members. We saw a few folks vested but did not see Frank. Hmmm, maybe he was still preparing for the service. Katherine Wong introduced herself to us and welcomed us as visitors. We informed her that we had attended Epiphany a couple of years ago, knew Frank, and wanted to visit again. Katherine told us that Frank had, in fact, retired last fall and they had a new rector. Oh well!

Fr. David Jackson, the new rector, is a dynamic speaker. You know you’re in an Episcopal church when it’s cool to include Harry Potter in the sermon in a positive light. One of his analogies to Christianity was how much the power of love played a part in Harry Potter’s life. (Harry was actually saved from an evil wizard because of the love of his parents. If you have any questions, check with Tricia or Joseph Henry {BG} ).

As part of the announcements after communion, members are asked to introduce visitors. Being the summer season, several members had relatives in town. As it turned out, we had sat next to Frank’s daughter, Carrie-Anne. She informed the congregation that we were the Marks visiting from the mainland. We had planned to attend service to surprise her parents, but the surprise was on us! We were still warmly welcomed, though.

As has been my experience at many Episcopal churches, the members are very warm and welcoming. Epiphany was no different. While chatting with Marilyn and Steven Wong, it turned out that she was familiar with my Aunt Dorothy (whose birthday we would be celebrating) and her late husband, Uncle Ken. Also, apparently Aunt Dorothy’s daughter, my cousin, Colleen, lives right around the corner from Marilyn’s mother’s place – it’s a small world!

So, even though we were on vacation, I’m glad we were able to take some time to attend service Sunday morning. Although I’m six time-zones away (nine hours by plane), I still feel like I’m home when I step inside an Episcopal church!

Steve Mark

Would Patricia Bless a Thermos?

“Mom, I don’t think you want to ask Patricia to bless a thermos,” Wolfie said shaking his head.

Although I do not think that Patricia would shy away from blessing a thermos, especially if it were filled with water to be used in a house blessing, I poured out the green metal thermos and started over. The first thing that caught my eye was actually perfect, a cobalt blue bottle in the dining room window, usually brilliant with afternoon sun. The bottle had a ‘sort of’ matching lid, a glass stopper with no rubber to keep liquid in. Ten minutes after I should have left for the early service, Ron and Wolfie were still wrapping band aide tape around and round the stopper so that it would hold water.

But that was good because when I walked in late, somewhere around the second psalm, my blue bottle wasn’t leaking.

The need for a house blessing all started a few months ago when my mother began her retirement migration to my great-grandmother’s house in Alford, Fla., population 464. Mom was a little unsettled about moving down to the Alabama-Florida state line to a house filled with years of family memories . . . and ghosts.

Given that I am generally accepted as the family spiritual seeker naturally Mom came to me to find out about exorcisms. I know a few things, none of which are about exorcism. So one morning at church before Sunday school, I mentioned my problem to Tim Black, our seminarian, that my mother’s new old house needed a little extra cleaning. And he pulled out the Anglican house blessing liturgy and made a copy for me.

As we were talking, Nancy Dillon walked by and gave her approval to the idea. She had had her house blessed and I got the impression that it had worked nicely.

“You can be the celebrant,” Tim told me enthusiastically. That was good because while I’d probably ask Patricia to bless a thermos, I would not ask her to drive six hours to bless a house unless it was the Taj Mahal. Anyway, the reason the project dragged on for so long is that Mom was secretly worried about my qualifications to be celebrant and she went back and forth a little on planning because of that. Maybe a house blessing didn’t work without an ordained priest, for instance.

Now I didn’t have to snag Patricia after the early service because she was naturally drawn to my blue bottle. “I need a couple of blessings,” I said. I told her I needed the water blessed to make it holy and that I needed a blessing, her blessing, as a celebrant to do the whole thing right.

Patricia simply beamed and proceeded to bless me and my family and the water and the house. And now, copies of the liturgy have been dispersed and read by all who will participate in the ceremony, which will take place at the end of my vacation a couple of Sundays from now. We shall see!

Ode to our Fox

For the last several months a frequent visitor to St. Dunstan's has been a red fox. He has shown up for Sunday School, watching the kids from the courtyard. One memorable morning he appeared for the 8:30 service, watching the congregation during the sermon (and they were all watching him, making me wonder why no one was looking at me while I preached!). Periodically during the week we would see him trotting across the yard, or sunning himself in the grass. I think all who have seen him have felt an attraction to this beautiful creature with his alert ears, bright eyes, luxurious red coat and long fabulously bushy tail.
Last night (Tuesday) about 8:30 we were about to go out the front door after a vestry meeting when we suddenly stopped. There, on the sidewalk right in front of the door, was the fox. Something didn't seem right. Several people were very close to him, yet he did not move. His breathing seemed labored. We opened the door and he finally painfully moved to the grass. It was obvious he was sick or hurt, badly. There was nothing we could do. We called wildlife control and left a message. They never returned the call. After waiting around a while, watching him we finally went home. When I arrived at church this morning he was gone.
I think all who have seen this fox in the last months have felt blessed by his companionship. It felt like he had chosen us and this place. And last night he came here, to the door of the church, for sanctuary, for healing, maybe for a peaceful place to die. I wish I could have anointed him. I wish I could have given him last rites. I wish I could have stroked his head and told him everything would be okay. Maybe he was not as sick or hurt as we thought he was. Maybe he is okay now. I hope so. But wherever he is, I hope he is restored to wholeness and health and peace. And I thank God for sharing this wonderful creature with us.
Tricia Templeton

Prayer During Morning Commute

Bruce Lafitte posted this comment below to my request for thoughts about morning prayer routine. I posted again here to make sure people see it! Sibley

Back in 1981, I went to my Cursillo weekend. That could be a whole topic unto itself, but during the weekend I was invited to begin a spiritual discipline or "rule of life" as it is sometimes called. After the weekend, I began the discipline of spending my morning commute to work as my prayer time. I leave the radio off and still spend that time in prayer, to this day. I don't always "say" all of my prayers, but I remind myself that prayer is a conversation. If you are not quiet at times, you can not hear what God is saying to you. One thing I always pray is that I will be a Christian witness in all that I do and say that day. Years ago, I heard someone say that "witness is not something you do; it is something you are". I always try to remember that in how I conduct my life.

St. Dunstan's Fun Day

Today I am starting to write about the parish fun day that will be held on Saturday, August 22, 2009, at Callaway Gardens.  Tricia and I have been having discussions on holding a parish retreat and we decided that having fun is what we all need to do!  Of course, fun can be had at a retreat, but that is a topic for another discussion.  Claudia Gimson and I are planning the Fun Day and are in frequent contact with each other.  Peachy Horne will scout out the logistics of playing some golf and Tricia will conduct a Eucharist at the end of the day to send us on our way back home.  I have also asked Bruce LaFitte to play his guitar at the Eucharist.  I will keep everyone updated on this blog site and also on our web site, www.stdunstan.net.

For now,

Jeanne Taylor