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

Communion -- Open or Closed?

Episcopal Cafe, a good blog with lots of Episcopal news, has a report on a study about the communion of the unbaptized. Some would not be at all happy with St. Dunstan's practice of "open" communion, which is not in compliance with the official canons of the church. What do you think? Should only baptized Christians receive communion? Or should all people be fed at the altar? You can find the report at www.episcopalcafe.com/lead/theology/report_on_communing_the_unbapt.html

if only I knew how to blog....

Sibley,
This was is today's Writer's Almanac, I loved it and would like to share, if only I knew how to blog....
Nancy Dillon


The VCCA Fellows Visit the Holiness Baptist Church, Amherst, Virginia
by Barbara Crooker

We are the only light faces in a sea of mahogany,tobacco, almond, and this is not the only way we are different. We've come in late, the choir already singing, swaying to the music, moving in the spirit. When I was down, Lord, when I was down, Jesus lifted me. And, for a few minutes,we are raised up, out of our own skepticism and doubts, rising on the swell of their voices.The singers sit, and we pass the peace, wrappedin thick arms, ample bosoms, and I start to think maybe God is a woman of color, and that She loves us, in spite of our pale selves, so far away from who we should really be. Parishioners give testimonials, a deacon speaks of his sister, who's "gone home," and I realize he doesn't mean back to Georgia, but that she's passed over. I float on this sweet certainty, of a return not to the bland confection of wispy clouds and angels in nightshirts, but to childhood's kitchen, a dew-drenched June morning, roses tumbling by the back porch.The preacher mounts the lectern, tells us he's been up since four working at his other job, the one that pays the bills, and he delivers a sermon that lightens the heart, unencumbered by dogma and theology. For the benediction, we all join hands, visitors and strangers enfolded in the whole, like raisins in sweet batter. We step through the door into the stunning sunshine, and our hearts lift out of our chests, tiny birds flying off to lightin the redbuds, to sing and sing and sing.

Call for Morning Prayers & Meditations (and Thoughts)

My husband Ron was cleaning behind bookshelves a couple of months ago when a small book enveloped in dust and cobwebs appeared on the tip of the broom. The title of the book was “Always We Begin Again: The Benedictine Way of Living.”

The small volume, paperback $10, was written by an Episcopal lawyer, John McQuiston. In the intro, he writes that he really didn’t have a spiritual routine until middle age when, upon the death of his father, he lamented to a friend that while he himself regularly attended church, it didn’t hold the same meaning for him as it had for his father. The friend recommended that he read “Living with Contradictions: Reflections on the Rule of St. Benedict.” The next summer McQuiston and his wife had the opportunity to stay in the dormitory at the Canterbury Cathedral, which is apparently Benedictine-centric, as it were.

Anyway, when the author returned home to Memphis, a priest recommended that he start his day with the Morning Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer. Soon, reading the Rule of St. Benedict became part of that morning routine. Over time, McQuiston translated the Rule from the more traditional language of St. Benedict and “institutional images of the church” to something more modern and easier for him to get at what he calls the “core insights.” While there is wording in some prayers like “grace to us and peace”, which is recognizable, it is pretty much written in a way that a non-church going person could get the meaning.

For all I know, half of the Episcopalians in the world have a copy of this book sitting on top of the Book of Common Prayer (or fallen behind their bookshelves). The title track prayer in my copy, which ends with “and every day we begin again” is gone because I actually cut it out to send to my son Wolfie his first year in Germany. It’s one of the best in the book.

Despite the missing page, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the book again lately. And I share with McQuiston’s interpretation of the first rule:

Live this life
And do whatever is done,
In a spirit of Thanksgiving.

Abandon attempts to achieve security,
They are futile,

Give up the search for wealth,
It is demeaning,
Quit the search for Salvation
It is selfish,

And come to comfortable rest
In the certainty that those who
Participate in this life
With an attitude of Thanksgiving
Will receive its full promise.

Morning prayer and meditation, for me, has been an off-again, on-again sort of lifetime pursuit. When I am in the habit, I find that it’s a good way to begin the day, good for mental health, spiritual health and overall well-being. (Sort of like coming to church regularly--which was really good this morning, by the way, Peter Bauer gave a guest sermon.)

I ask fellow Dunstanites, would you mind sharing your favorite morning meditation or prayer, or perhaps offer any insight you may have about your morning spiritual routine?

Click on the comment section below this blog post. I think it wants an email address and password but just follow the links. If you have any trouble, email me: sibleyfleming@comcast.net.

If you would like to just post your writing as a separate blog, rather than make a comment on an existing blog, just send it to me at the same email address and I’ll make sure it gets posted. Grace to all and peace!

The Sacrament of Pink Shoes

By Helen Branch

One of our founding members, Helen Branch, offers this story of what she imagines someone's first visit to St. Dunstan's (and an Episcopal Church) might be like.

     An older friend of mine had died and I wanted to go to her funeral. It was to be in an Episcopal church but I had never been to an Episcopal church before. I had heard that it is sort of formal and you need to know how to do some things. But I really wanted to go so I figured that I could just watch what other people did and maybe get it right. I was very anxious but I decided that I could make it o.k.  

     As I was getting dressed to go, I didn't know what to wear -- dressy clothes or my best jeans. I figured that if I wore what I wear to work it couldn't be too bad. I found the church, a small building in a wooded area.It didn't have stained glass windows and I thought all Episcopal churches had stained glass windows. When I got inside, it looked great to me. They didn't need stained glass because the windows looked out on a beautiful variety of pretty plants. Somehow they knew they didn't need stained glass.  Nature provided the beauty.  

     I went to sit down and worried that I might sit in the wrong place -- maybe where some regular person always sat. People who were sitting near me smiled, so I guessed I was o.k. I saw a pipe organ and I worried that I wouldn't know when to sing and when to listen. I would just do what the people in my row did. The church was not full so I feared that I would be conspicuous. I would be careful to do just like the others.  

     I looked at the bulletin that I received as I was entering, and read that there will be Holy Communion. Oh Lord. What do I do now? My little country church didn't often have Holy Communion so I really wouldn't know what to do here. I prayed hard that I wouldn't do anything terrible.  

     After a while the organ began playing. What a beautiful sound. Then I saw a procession of what I guessed was the choir, being led by a big cross held by a young person in a white robe.  Most of the people bowed their head as the cross passed so I did, too. That seemed nice, showing honor to the cross. At the end of the line was the minister in a white robe. I guessed that it was the minister.

     At some place in the service bulletin it said something about the Peace. I surely didn't know about that. I was really surprised to see people all over the church shaking hands with someone. Fortunately, the people on my row quickly took my hand and said "God's peace be with you," so I made it through that unknown.

     When it came time for the Holy Communion, I was beginning to feel that this place is all right. But I still had one unknown to dread. I was afraid when, during the Holy Communion, everyone went from their seat to the rail up front. All of that was beginning to giving me a peaceful feeling of God's presence. I know why my friend was so fond of it and always went to church on Sunday.  When my row went, I went along, too.

    I held my hands just like they did. When the minister put the piece of bread in my hand, she had a very gentle look on her face and I felt less anvious.  

    But when I looked down toward the floor, I really felt wonderful. The priest wore PINK shoes. Surely, I didn't have anything to worry about anymore! Anyone who would wear pink shoes and the beautiful white robes would not think badly about my not knowing what to do in that service.  

    I think that I will go to that church next Sunday and get to know the people there.  

Back from a Three-Day Country Funeral

Until this morning at 8:15 a.m., I had been away from St. Dunstan’s for three whole weeks. The first week I was working, the second, I couldn’t get out of bed and the third week I was I Blount County, Alabama for a country funeral that lasted three days.

So who died? Well, that’s in some ways a modern, city question. Where my husband grew up in the green rolling terminus of the Appalacians in rural northern Alabama, it wasn’t really a question at all. In fact, when I packed up my suitcase to leave Thursday night, I had no idea that I should be packing my bathing suit. I did have the feeling that I could be sleeping on a blowup mattress snuggled next to four of his relatives at some aunt’s house I’d never met. But honestly, I didn’t think he would subject me to that. We’ve been married nearly 13 years and I’ve been a fairly decent wife.

In the car through the night as we burned up the highway, the smell of smoked pork butt rising from the back seat, I dropped hints about how a hotel would be better than imposing on grieving relatives. But he seemed not to hear. He was happily going through complicated family connections. The newly passed away relative was named Sibby (an awkward coincidence given that my name is Sibley). She was one of his mother’s seven sisters’ son’s x-wife, a Polish Catholic woman from Massachusetts.

Her kinfolk were arriving from as far away as London and as nearby as Tupelo and B’ham. I listened to stories about how cousin J.P., Sibby’s son, broke into the school with some other boys and stole a bunch of toilet paper to roll a teacher’s house, and how that gave him a police record at age 16. I heard stories about Aunt Ruby who had her daughter-in-law, Sibby, out hoeing rows in her vegetable garden 30 minutes after she met her.  

When we arrived at the farm, Ron’s 1^st cousins Joe and Martha Ann came out to meet us. Martha, like Sibby, had married into the family, so she shared a special bond with Sibby. They were not Blount County girls, but by God, they could show their country in-laws that they indeed knew how to work.

 In the distance, I saw candles burning on the porch, which was mostly dark and filled with the tired murmur of voices. Two goofy yard dogs wagged their way to us as I stretched my legs and took a deep breath of jasmine and summer night. Joe hugged me, sized me up, and kindly steered me toward our accommodations, an air-conditioned camper with a kitchen and sitting area. There were similar campers set up around the yard. Then the wide porch of the house became a gathering place for all of the cousins who had, like us, just arrived, or come from the airport, or driving in from Birmingham or Boulder.

So there were three days of this. Little boys underfoot with water guns, hooting, and back-slapping. As the heat of the afternoon subsided, a caravan of six cars filled up for a trip to the old swimming hole. That was down the road a few miles off at the Black Warrior River’s Locust Fork, down a steep bank, and reflecting in its surface yellow stone footers that once supported a covered bridge built by the ancestor of my husband and his kin.

So I’ll wrap this up. Sibby was Catholic and the funeral was held at St. Henry’s Catholic Church in Warrior, about four miles from Hayden. Her daughter spoke during the memorial service and said that whenever someone walked through Sibby’s door, she would drop whatever she was doing, no matter what it was, and stop her world for them. And that may be why her Southern Methodist kinfolk felt called home to see her off, all at once and together.

That’s why it jolted me to hear the priest say only Catholics were invited to take communion. For one, I hadn’t been to church for two Sundays. For two, well, I mean shouldn’t everyone be invited to share in the Eurcharist? Indeed, about half of the people in the church for Sibby’s funeral had been breaking bread for two days in a community of family. Like Frost wrote, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

Like home, it seems like the Eucharist should be a place where you can’t be turned away.

So this morning, when I pulled up to St. Dunstan’s, there were just two cars in the parking lot. I was so glad to see Patricia getting ready to robe up for the 8:30 service. “I’m back!” I said. “I’ve been away at a three-day country funeral.”

“Who died?” she asked.

“My husband’s first cousin-slash-aunt,” I said. I went on a minute about the Catholic service and not being able to take communion. I’ve been to a Catholic mass on Christmas Eve, honestly, but it was so long ago, I don’t remember their communion practices or being excluded. I told her I ended up being seated next to the priest for the lunch that followed and how I was essentially tongue-tied.

“Did you tell him you have a girl priest?” Patricia smiled.

For anyone who doesn’t read the Sunday bulletin closely at St. Dunstan’s, they might have missed the words “All people are invited to receive Communion”. And of course, that’s how you feel at St. Dunstan’s, accepted and at home.

Now, I qualify for Communion, as it were, and I particularly savored the fresh wheat bread this morning and the feeling of friendship kneeling at the altar next to Joscelyn, who had slipped in beside me just after the service started. With a joyful ‘thanks be to God!’ the service was over, and I went back to my pew, not to retrieve my purse, but to sit down and chat with Joscelyn, who I hadn’t seen in a while given my three-week absence.

When we finally did get up, we went to the kitchen where Peachy was arranging fresh cut blue hydrangeas from the church yard. Joscelyn and I poured a cup of coffee each, chatting as we slowly made our way to the front door, where outside the parking lot had begun to fill for the regular service.

Beekeeper At Vacation Bible School

Vacation Bible School was pretty exciting and Ellen and her helpers all deserve a good rest.

I was able to attend on Friday, when a beekeeper came to make a presentation to the kids. She mentioned she had a blog, so when I got home after lunch, I thought I would check it out. She had already posted her visit on her blog!

Here is her visit to St. Dunstan's. I haven't had chance to fully check her blog out but you can do so yourself at http://beekeeperlinda.blogspot.com/

Summer Reading

(from Tricia's article in the June Bellows)

One night last fall, Joseph Henry chose Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone for bedtime reading. I’m a great Harry Potter fan, so I was delighted that Joseph Henry was ready to enter the magical world of Hogwarts. When we finished reading the first book out loud, he immediately wanted to continue with the next. Seven months and 4,100 pages later we finally finished the seventh and last volume. As I closed the book, Joseph Henry looked at me with concern. “Now what do we do?” he asked.

I recognized the feeling. It’s the same anxiety I get if there is not a stack of books waiting to be read on my bedside table. It’s the same concern that made me use more than half of my baggage weight allowance on books when I set off for the Peace Corps in Thailand years ago. For those of us who like to read there are few things more reassuring than the alluring promise of a stack of unread treasures. Here are some of the treasures that I have read in the past year. If you’d like to add to the list post a comment to this blog or send your list to stdunstansatl@earthlink.net and we’ll print them in the next Bellows. In the meantime, happy reading!

Fiction

Evil Intent by Kate Charles. This is the first of a mystery series set in London, whose protagonist is newly-ordained Anglican deacon Callie Anson. Women clergy are still a fairly new phenomenon in the Church of England, and Callie expects to meet resistance from both parishioners and colleagues. But even she is surprised by the vitriol spewed at her at a clergy meeting by hard-line conservative Nigerian priest Father Jonah Adimola. When Adimola is found dead in the sacristy the next morning, strangled by a priest’s stole, Callie finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Before I started this book I was skeptical – a strange title, two authors, and a book written as letters. None of that sounded particularly appealing. But I am glad I put that skepticism aside and read this charming and engaging novel about the German occupation of the British island of Guernsey in World War II, and its aftermath.

Bombingham by Anthony Grooms. Walter Burke is a black American soldier in Vietnam. The bombings and killings he witnesses there lead to flashbacks to his childhood in Birmingham and the violence he witnessed there growing up in the days of Jim Crow laws and the struggle for civil rights. A powerful novel about a bleak part of our history.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan is a bit of a misfit. She graduates from college in 1962 and returns to her parents’ cotton farm in Mississippi. Unlike her friends, she is in no hurry to get married and wants a career as a writer. An editor advises her to write about what interests and disturbs her. She finds her topic literally right in front of her – the way the white women of Jackson, her friends and family, treat the black women who raise their children and clean their homes.

The Brothers K by David James Duncan. Hugh Chance is a baseball fanatic whose dreams of big league glory are ended when he smashes his thumb in an accident. His wife, Laura, is a religious fanatic. The Brothers K tells the story of their four sons, growing up in a household of competing obsessions and coming of age in the tumultuous 1960s. A very fun and poignant novel.

Nonfiction

The Faith Club: A Muslim, A Christian, A Jew – Three Women Search for Understanding by Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner. Shortly after September 11, 2001, three women came together to write a children’s book about their faiths. But they soon realized they first had to come to understandings among themselves. The Faith Club is the story of that coming together, of learning to respect each other’s differences, and the realization that by learning about and respecting another’s faith they deepened their own. A book of hope in a time when religious intolerance rages across so much of the world.

The Temple Bombing by Melissa Fay Greene. In the 1950s, as tension over integration and equal rights grew throughout the South, one of Atlanta’s most vocal defenders of civil rights was Jacob Rothschild, rabbi of the Temple on Peachtree Street. How dangerous a position that was became apparent when the Temple was bombed in 1958 by extremists who had no use for Jews or African Americans. Greene’s telling of that event goes beyond the crime itself to paint a rich portrait of a pivotal time and place in Atlanta history.

Wesley the Owl: The Remarkable Love Story of an Owl and his Girl by Stacey O’Brien. Biologist O’Brien was a student researcher at Cal Tech when she had the opportunity to adopt an injured four-day-old barn owl. For 19 years Wesley the owl was O’Brien’s constant companion. “He was my teacher, my companion, my child, my playmate, my reminder of God,” she writes. This memoir of their life together will captivate anyone who has a fascination with these lovely creatures.

The Last Week by Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan. Borg and Crossan are familiar to those who attend Sunday School and the Lenten Lecture series. In this book the two scholars and friends present a day-by-day guide to the last week of Jesus’ life, based on the Gospel of Mark. The Jesus they depict is a political activist and moral hero who willingly gives up his life to protest power without justice. A very engaging and enlightening book.

An Altar in the World by Barbara Brown Taylor. From simple practices such as walking, working, and getting lost to meditations on topics like prayer and pronouncing blessings, Taylor reveals concrete ways to discover the sacred in the small things we do and see each day. Taylor is an Episcopal priest in this diocese and a professor of religion at Piedmont College.