Home again, home again ,jiggedy jig.

Back from the fabulous RGBP BE3 Cruise. A delight in every way, with new friends, new ideas, some great rest and relaxation and a bottle each of duty-free tequila and dark rum. Sara - Dark and Stormies coming up!

I'll blog a bit more later and share some pictures...right now there's laundry to do and a husband to hang out with.

Preparation of the Soil

I'm headed out tomorrow morning to go on the RevGals Big Event, a cruise from Miami to the Bahamas, with lectures by the wonderful Rev Nanette Sawyer of Wicker Park Grace. I'm looking forward to meeting so many great RevGals whom I've gotten to know on the Web over the past five years or so. It's also a good unhitching from Alexandria just prior to our move.

A little enforced replanting for a few days reminds me that I can thrive in new soil.

That said, there are things I'll miss about this place:

• The doe that lives in the thin strip of greensward between Van Dorn Avenue and Rt 395, an urban and heavily trafficked environ. Nature overcomes human predation somehow. The doe wanders back and forth amid the trees, seemingly placid in spite of it all.
• The cluster of parents in the neighborhood seeing their children on to the bus. Two women in niqab, three in saris, one in shalwar kalmeez, two guys in loose basketball shorts and Redskins t-shirts, a woman in extraordinarily tight jeans and a Be-Dazzled t-shirt that says "I'm a sexy bitch." All smiling, all waving at their children on the bus as it pulls away.
• The Smithsonian Folk Festival each July. Nothing since has equaled the Silk Road year (Tuvan throat-singers! Yo-yo Ma!), but there is always something interesting to see (who knew that fishing for eels is a big industry in Ireland?) and the people-watching is almost as wonderful as the exhibits and music.
• Finding out that your neighbor can't tell you what he does in his job. If he told you, he'd have to kill you. But he'll never tell you. Seriously.
• Meeting people who think big, about all sorts of things. Even if I don't agree with what they think, they stretch my brain in new ways.

But there are also things that I will gladly leave behind :

• Traffic. The Beltway is the deepest circle of Hell. Rt 95 and 395 are tests of Christian forbearance...I fail miserably on a regular basis.
• Excessive focus on what you do for a living as a measure of status. I can remember one dinner party where I was pretty much ignored by the hostess (wife of a person with whom I had a business relationship) until she learned what my pay grade was (how things are measured in Your Nation's Capital), then decided I was worthy of her attention. SES (Senior Executive Service) is more prestigious, it seems, than the GS grades. Not that I really wanted much of her attention, but that really is the way of things more often than it should be.
• High, high cost of living. Not quite San Francisco, not quite NYC, but pretty damned high, particularly housing. For those who do the manual labor in this town, this means they live out a ways and endure long commutes on public transportation, which is not always as reliable as it should be. For those of us who don't make megabucks, you have to make some very strategic choices to live as you think you should.
• Hard place to raise kids. Mine are mostly grown now, but I cannot tell you the number of times that I've heard about cliques, "mean girls," overwhelming pressure for kids to get into the best colleges, a lot of pressure re sex and drugs in schools both poor and rich. On this side of the Potomac, a large number of kids get a fancy car when they get their license. Across the river, kids struggle to avoid getting drawn into gang/drug/gun trouble. Many don't succeed. Something is very wrong here.

In all, my time in the DC area (fifteen years this go-round) has been rich and wonderful. I got here a mess, in the final stages of a painful divorce and difficult custody struggle. I met PH, remarried, changed from a career to a vocation, was ordained, and began to serve God's church. Now I go to another place, very different from the last one, and begin again.

I pray I find the humus beneath my feet, grow new roots, and thrive. And I am grateful for this week of respite and rejoicing. Necessary preparation of the soil, I'd say.

Pack Your Bags Friday Five

A great Friday Five from Songbird:

"I'm preparing to pack my bags for the Big Event Three, and as I gather what I need I'm thinking about just that: what do I *need* to take with me? As a person who likes to pack light, I worry that in the end I may underpack and wish I had other things with me. I own the gigantor version of the bag to the right, but my morbid fear of having it go astray and not get to the ship means I'm more likely to try to pack it all in a carry-on bag instead, especially since I have a very tight connection on the way to the cruise. But won't I be sorry if I don't bring _______________?"

With that in mind, here are five questions about packing to go on a trip.

1) Some fold, some roll and some simply fling into the bag. What's your technique for packing clothes?

Roll and stuff. I can fit bunches of things into very tight spaces. Part of it comes from having a mom who was in the military in WWII and who learned efficient packing in a duffle bag, part of it was having been a road warrior in my prior life, and traveling a lot all over the place. I also am good at finding clothing that is space-efficient and non-wrinkling. That sure helps.

2) The tight regulations about carrying liquids on planes makes packing complicated. What might we find in your quart-size bag? Ever lose a liquid that was too big?

Never lost a liquid that was too big. In my quart-sized bag are basic toiletries including the contact lens stuff and moisturizer and such. I've also got, I'm sad to say, another quart-sized bag with meds. Such is middle age. Glad I don't have to fit that stuff into the first bag or else I'd be un-deodorized, un-moisturized, un-toothbrushed - yuck.


3) What's something you can't imagine leaving at home?

The iPod and a couple of books, and maybe some knitting.

4) Do you have a bag with wheels?

Mais certainement! Life is too short to have a sore shoulder or back.

5) What's your favorite reading material for a non-driving trip (plane, train, bus, ship)?

Mystery novel or design magazines, usually.

I'm happy to say I'm going on BigEvent3 - my first with these women - and i cannot wait!

How about you?

Farewells

Last night was another in our list of good-bye events. Folks from my sponsoring parish, the place where PH and I met and were married, gathered for a lovely party.

On Friday night, we were feted at the adios party thrown by Saint Middle School for us. One of my farewell gifts was Deacon Gabrielle, pictured at right. They decided I could use an extra pair of hands at my new call at Church by the Lakeside. Gabrielle has a whole backstory (daughter of parents who served as missionaries in Indonesia, experience at several churches in Ohio and Maryland...) too adorable! Gifted Parishioner, who makes all the vestments and altar paraments for Saint Middle School, crafted Gabrielle's vestments, inspired by the fabulously vested Rev. Barbie of St. Barbara's by the Sea in Malibu. Other lovely gifts, too, for which I am so grateful, but mostly I'm grateful for the time I've spent in both these communities. They were part of what molded me into the person I am today. There will be two more such events, one at PH's church and another party with PH's work colleagues.

Last night, a friend reminded me of an "alto lunch" - at that point I was still singing in the alto section in the choir - when I had started dating PH, where the assembled group grilled me through the entire lunch about PH. They wanted to see if he was good enough for me. Of course at the same time, PH's cousins in the area were grilling him as to whether or not I was good enough for him! A delight to remember those times and those stories.

That, I think, is one of the gifts of these farewell gatherings. They bring to the forefront of our memories the stories that we most need to cherish of time and relationship and love. Bittersweet, these parting get-togethers, but worth it for these moments and this love.

And the Midori martinis weren't too bad, either!

RevGals Friday Five: On the Road Again

A fun Friday Five from Sophia today:

"My family is heading out to my husband's parents for the weekend later today. They would have preferred that we come at Easter, but I preferred that my choir director not bring my life to an early end! (Five liturgies to sing between Thursday and Sunday, two with major solos). So Low Sunday it is.

Some Gals and Pals may have been able to travel to join family or visit a vacation spot last week; some who had to stay put then may be traveling this weekend; and, if I recall correctly, some lucky ones are heading out to the Big Event next weekend. Hence: a road trip Friday Five."

1. When was your last, or will be your next, out of town travel?

Depends on what counts as out of town. I've been running back and forth to Richmond, where I will begin a new call on May 1st, to meet with church folk and get ready to buy a house there. I was there on Wednesday. Next trip will be on the 19th, when I join the RevGals on BE3. Whoopee!

2. Long car trips: love or loathe?

I adore long car trips with my husband. PH is the best traveling companion - mellow, curious, funny, able to be quiet some of the time and conversational other times. Long car trips with my kids, even now that they are adults - not so much. Their dad and I used to drive from Little Rhody to Stowe VT every weekend during the snowboarding season when they were younger. It did not help our already faltering marriage. Just sayin'

3. Do you prefer to be driver or passenger?

Depends who is driving. If PH is driving, I am very happy to be the passenger. If one of the kids is driving, I wish I were behind the wheel. They are not bad drivers, per se, it's just that they don't pay attention in the same way a more experienced driver does.

4. If passenger, would you rather pass the time with handwork, conversing, reading, listening to music, or ???

Sleeping is always my favorite. Can't read or do much craft stuff because I get carsick. I like to converse some of the time, listen to music or books on tape some of the time, just watch the world go by the rest of the time...or not: "Oooh, look at the cute little shop. Let's stop and take a look."

5. Are you going, or have you ever gone, on a RevGals BE? Happiest memories of the former, and/or most anticipated pleasures of the latter?

Going on BE3 and I can't wait to meet so many folks I know from their blogs IRL!

6. Bonus: a favorite piece of road trip music.
Paul Simon: "Graceland". Also his "The Rhythm of the Saints." Perfect road music. Strong also-ran: anything by the sublime Eva Cassidy.

Midweek eek

The endless list of things to do continues. Not a bad thing, just, well, endless.

I had a great meeting this morning with the new interim vicar at St Middle School. They will like her and I believe she will like them. Bright, engaged Christians who are not afraid to ask hard questions, they also put their time and money where their mouth is.

Last night was the fourth premarital prep session for S&J - one more and they will be done with this part of their preparation. Sweet couple. I'm privileged to work with them. I do love doing this work!

When I came home, PH had loaded all my boxes of assorted office stuff (books, resource materials, etc, etc) into little Red (his Volvo S40 wagon). I am heading out momentarily to drive south for three purposes: to measure all the various dimensions of the new house so as to plan where furniture will go, to meet with the current interim at my new church and the senior and junior warden to discuss all sorts of stuff, and to unload said boxes. It will be easier to organize the rest of the stuff that needs to be packed and moved in the house if my church stuff is out of the way. At least that's what I'm telling myself. In any case, it's easier to move it once (from my house in Alexandria to the church in Richmond) than it is to move it from my house in Alexandria to my new house in Richmond to the church in Richmond. That's my belief, at least.

The acolyte corps in the Church by the Lakeside has invited me to tea the day before our first Eucharist together. Should be interesting. Given that the acolyte corps is something of a well-defended highly formalized institution at this place, we shall see what this means. For now, I'm presuming it's a warm gesture of welcome.

I'm hoping the drive south will be uneventful, that the unusually warm weather we are experiencing will not bring out the NASCAR attitudes of the drivers on the road, and that the sexton will be around to help move the boxes into the office. If not, I'll be on ibuprofen for the rest of the week.

BBL.

Monday Morning List

Easter Monday, and I am now officially in-between jobs.

That doesn't mean I get much rest, although I did get to sleep in until (hold on to your hats) 7 am this morning!

Yesterday was wonderful, with a great outdoor service at 7:30 am on Saint Middle School's land, followed by a big festal service at our usual venue at 10, complete with a trumpeter and all sorts of great music. The services went well and we had a great egg hunt and potluck afterwards. PH and I came back home to decompress for a little bit, then we went over to K&P's house for a delicious dinner and great conversation. To bed by ten p.m. feeling like it was a good day's work and play.

But Monday is another day. The list of things to do is quite long, mostly revolving around cleaning and organizing for the move.

I'm headed out to the cleaners to get the alb cleaned. Then it's time to tackle closets - I'm not psychologically ready to handle the basement yet. Since it's in the 70's today, I really have to put away the winter clothes and hang up the light weight things.

On to the rest of my life...

Sermon for Easter Sunday Luke 21:1-12 "Seeing What is Within"

We human beings think we know how things work. We make assumptions.

We think we know what to expect when we examine something more closely, based upon our prior experience with similar things. We think there are predictable behaviors in the natural world, and we think there are predictable behaviors in people, too. We make judgments about how people are based upon what we first see – those infamous “first impressions – and we think we know who they are in all their complexity just from those first senses we get about them.

What a surprise, then, when we discover that our beliefs, our assumptions, are wrong!

Think of it like a geode.

Geodes are geological formations. Geodes usually appear in sedimentary or volcanic rock. They look for all the world like big old rocks. Brown. Unprepossessing.

Pretty boring, actually. But when you break them open, look what you find…gorgeous quartz crystal formations, in glorious colors. Amethyst, rose, yellow. Amazing, and even more surprising given how mundane the exterior looks.

If we thought the inside of a geode was just like the outside, we’d never want to crack them open. We’d never see the glory inside.

We’d have made an assumption – a false one, it turns out – about how this rock was constructed and what it looked like on the inside. And we’d miss something amazing.

It works that way with people, too.

There was a professor I met when I first went to seminary. She had a reputation for being fiercely intelligent. Frankly, she scared me. So I avoided her, and didn’t sign up for any of her classes, because I thought she was scary and would judge me a poor student. I avoided her successfully in my first year, but much to my dismay, she was assigned to be my advisor in my middler year. We met, and my impressions of her as an intelligent and rather brusque person seemed to be confirmed. I had been doing well enough in seminary that I didn’t think she would write a bad middler evaluation of me – one of the critical things that would move me forward to ordination or block me – but she certainly wouldn’t meet anyone’s description of “warm and fuzzy and encouraging.” I was sure I knew who she was.

Then something happened.

In the midst of that middler year, the most exhausting one in the seminary curriculum, I got sick. Very sick.

I was in the ICU. I didn’t think I was going to die, although other people, including my husband, worried that I might. Who comes rolling through the door of my room one afternoon, wearing the gown and the gloves and the mask that everyone who came through the door had to don? You guessed it. My professor. She brought me communion, she talked about how she had informed the rest of my professors what was going on, so I shouldn’t worry, and sat and held my hand for a while as I talked about my fears that this illness would derail my ordination process.

No, she wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but she was supportive, and listened to my fears without dismissing them as silly, and helped me in the ways that she could. Not what I expected from her, based on my assumptions, my impressions.

In my senior year, she was my thesis advisor. She was tough. She expected a level of academic performance several notches higher than any other professor in the seminary. One week, when I brought her some writing that was, frankly, mediocre, she told me in no uncertain terms that this was not the level of work she expected, and I’d better get it together. This was all consistent with my original understanding of who she was – the tough, scary person. But she also encouraged me when I did good work, suggested ways of working with the scholar who was serving as an external evaluator of my work – he was a bit difficult, and celebrated with me when the thesis was done.

Yes, she was like my first impression, somewhat, but she was much more. Had I not had the surprise of who she could be under different circumstances, I would have dismissed her as someone with whom I didn’t want to engage.

You crack the geode open, that geode that looks like a plain and hard rock, and you find crystalline glory inside. Surprises abound, when you least expect them.

So it was for the women in today’s gospel. Mary Magdelene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, the other women. They went to Jesus’ tomb with certain expectations. They knew how things went when someone was dead. They were laid in a tomb, and the body needed to be properly prepared, with spices like myrrh, like the spikenard with which Mary bathed Jesus’ feet. It was a sad task, an end to a terrible time when they had watched Jesus brutally killed on the cross, caught in the political crossfire between the religious leadership and the Roman governor. They probably carried the small pouches and bottles of spices in baskets made of reeds. Their arms ached with the weight of the baskets even as their hearts ached with their loss of the beloved one who taught them a new way of knowing God. And their walk was probably a silent one.

Each had their own thoughts, their own anticipation of seeing the cold, white body in the tomb, with the horrific wounds from the nails, from the spear. They knew what to expect.

But the rock was cleaved. The stone that covered the tomb was rolled away. And two strangers, “two men in dazzling clothes,” were standing there, telling them that Jesus was not there, that he was alive, as he had told them would happen.

The rocky cave, broken open. Something much different than they had expected within. Something so beautiful that the only thing they could do was to run back to the others in shock and amazement, to tell them what they had seen and heard.

Unless you actually see the inside of the geode, how could you ever guess the beauty that lies within?

So when the women told the disciples, the men’s reaction was predictable. “No, you women couldn’t have seen that. You couldn’t have heard that. That’s not the way the world works. Somebody dies, they’re dead. Their body remains in a tomb. Maybe Jesus had started to decompose and your mind was affected by the odor and your own stupid, womanish emotions.”

The women insisted, though, so Peter went to see for himself. And what he saw was the rock, cleaved. The crystalline glory within. Not the body of their teacher, cold and dead. Just the winding cloths in which he had been interred, folded, on the stone. Jesus gone, risen from the dead.

Easter reminds us once again that Jesus’ death and resurrection is not what we would expect. It breaks all the natural rules. It turns our expectations of what will happen upside down.

The rock is broken open and what remains within is not a broken human body. What remains is the glorious surprise of what God can do. A resurrection. A triumph over death.

It is unexpected, but the ultimate unexpected act is the one that is also a part of this story. Jesus not only rises, no longer dead but eternally alive – he also frees us from our own death, our own sinfulness.

This is the joy of the resurrection. This is the brilliant crystal within the dull brown rock: we are saved. In one utterly incomprehensible moment, Jesus himself is no longer dead, and neither are we.
Because of what he has done, we are alive, in him. Our sins are forgiven. Our brokenness is healed.

The geode is cleaved and we see what is within. What do we see? Ourselves, beloved, saved, filled with love and gratitude for the gift of Jesus in our lives. Ourselves, full of possibilities and potential. We have the opportunity to look deeper than the expected assumptions of who we are, and what Jesus means to us.

We can break open the rock and see something that defies what we expect, what we assume. Because that’s the thing – we look at something and then make assumptions based upon past experience, because of what we have seen or read or felt. With God it is different. God looks at something and doesn’t think backwards…God thinks forward. God sees the possibilities and the surprises that are within something. That is why Jesus’ death is not an ending, but a beginning. That is why our possibilities, in God’s eyes, are infinitely more important than how we have failed in the past.

Alleluia! The Lord is risen, and we, too rise, with him and through him. Alleluia, indeed!

Amen.

Homily for Maundy Thursday, April 1, 2010: John 13:1-17, 31b-35 “Get Down on Your Knees”

It is an uncomfortable thing to get down on your knees and wash somebody’s feet.

First of all, there’s the posture. You’re down on your hands and knees. You’re lower than the person whose feet you are washing. Your knees may creak a bit, and it may be hard on your back.

Then there’s the whole “feet” thing…touching other peoples’ feet feels too intimate. My daughter won’t get a pedicure because she feels shy about someone else handling her feet. Some folks are afraid to touch someone else’s feet because they are afraid the person may have some sort of foot fungus that they will catch, or that they will face someone with particularly unattractive feet.

In the ancient world, feet WERE thought of as a particularly intimate and private part of the body. “Uncovering his feet” was a euphemism for uncovering someone’s private parts. Even today, in the Middle East, showing someone the sole of your foot is a terrible insult. When that Iraqi journalist threw his shoes at former President Bush, it was a multi-leveled insult. Feet are not something to be shared with others.

So when Jesus prepared to wash the feet of his disciples at the Last Supper, it was a crazy thing for Jesus to do. Peter was shocked; the teacher does not do this…it is the work of a slave. But Jesus was teaching once again in a way that turned the world upside down. The first will be last, the little ones are the ones with proper faith, the rich should divest themselves of all and become poor. And the teacher gets down on his knees and washes the feet of those whom he teaches.

It was an unsettling message then, and it is an unsettling one today. We’re perfectly happy to write a check…well, not always perfectly happy, but generally willing, at least in principle…and we’re perfectly happy to make a sandwich or bring a box of cereal to go over to the Interfaith Food Bank, but the whole footwashing thing feels a bit too much.

And yet…

If we are gathering together as a loving community, about to celebrate a meal that reminds us of the One who celebrated the first meal of this kind, serving each other in some way seems right. If the ceremony we were about to do consisted of washing each others’ hands in a bowl of warm water, we probably wouldn’t shrink at it.

But feet. Feet feels like Jesus is asking too much of us. It’s that posture. It’s the sore back we’ll have tomorrow. It’s crouching on the ground. And yes, it’s feet. Tired, slightly smelly, beat-up looking feet.

And that’s really the point, isn’t it? Jesus doesn’t do the easy thing, directing his disciples to do this footwashing, or deciding that washing their hands is enough of a symbol. No, he wraps a towel around his middle, gets down on his knees, and he washes those dusty feet that walked with him on the road to Jerusalem, to this place and this meal. He shows a kind of extreme humility that is second only to what is to come.

Washing feet, you see, is nothing compared to the radical subservience he will demonstrate on Friday, when he gives up not just his dignity, but his human life, to save us all. Getting down on his knees to wash the disciples’ feet will be followed by getting down on his knees to pray that the cup pass away, and it will be followed by getting down on his knees as he is flogged, and it will be followed by his body being tortured and hung up to die on the cross…for no other purpose than to save us. He makes himself a servant. He gets down on his knees and washes their feet. Then he gets up on the cross and dies for their sins, and our sins, too.

So in a few minutes, when we wash each others’ feet, I hope you do feel the ache in your knees and back. I hope you feel the little bit of unease at washing the feet of another St Gabrielite. I hope when you do, you also feel a little bit of the love that Jesus felt toward his disciples, and toward us, that he would assume this position and do this thing. I hope you direct that same feeling of love toward the person whose feet you are washing. If you do, you will start to understand the magnitude of what he does, wrapping a towel around his middle or accepting the judgment that he must die. That is the love we remember this night. That is the love we share with each other in this simple act of washing each others’ feet. And that is the love that Jesus hoped we would learn from his life and death.


Amen.

One Foot in Front of the Other

Yes, it is the holiest week of the church year. It is also the busiest.

I've talked about the challenge of all the bulletins before, so I won't bore you with that. Most of you who are part of the churched world know that there are a number of services this week, so I won't bore you with how busy I am with that either.

It's all the other stuff that continues in the midst of this that makes the week feel like a sausage stuffed to the edge of bursting. A dear parishioner with metastatic breast cancer who was hospitalized two days ago with pulmonary embolisms. Trying to schedule a few last meetings with folks prior to my departure from St Middle School. Trying to get the moving logistics worked out, as well as lining up the contractors to do the necessary work when we take possession of the new house. Conversations with key people in the new church about some things that need relatively quick attention, and conversations about holding off on a few things because they (and I) are not ready to tackle them yet. Discovering that my three weeks between leaving the old job and starting the new one have become very full with all sorts of necessary stuff.

The good news is that most of these things have been are or being attended to. The better news is that Jesus loves me whether they all get done or not. It ain't about me.

And the Maundy Thursday homily is done, so now I can turn my attention to Easter Sunday's sermon(s).

(zzzzzzzzz)

We had a great Palm Sunday service at Saint Middle School today. New altar frontal and lectern parament in oxblood with palms attached. Lots of palms decorating the church. Good music, both outdoors in the chill for the Liturgy of the Palms and the processional, and indoors for the rest of the service. The dramatic reading of the Passion, with many voices participating, went quite well, and the sermon didn't smell too badly. A small but tasty potluck afterwards. Our attendance was off, since this is school vacation week (grrrr).

Then PH and I got in the car and drove across the Potomac to the fancy-schmancy new National Harbor where there was a show - Metropolitan Food, Libations and Luxury Home Show. It was an multiple-personality-disorder mishmash of artists and artisans, home remodeling people, and wine and beer distributors. Most of the crafts and art were not to our taste, although a friend of PH's had some stunning pieces in wood. The wine that they were offering tastings of was plonk. and the only useful thing amongst the home remodeling folks was the super low-flow toilets and the slightly scary bidet-style toilet seats. I found a little Chinese drawing of a rooster for my new kitchen, and PH found a chocolate covered pretzel (the same folks were offering chocolate covered Peeps - oh my!). Not much else to be excited about, but I think my sense of ennui about the thing was related to my lack of the usual Sunday afternoon clerical nap.

The week ahead will be busy, as it is for most of us in the church. Tuesday morning Litigator, my 26 y.o. son, will be coming for a few days. Tuesday night is the Tenebrae service, Thursday morning is the renewal of ordination vows, Thursday night is the Maundy Thursday service with foot-washing, Friday morning is singing at a Good Friday service at Big Old Seminary, Friday night is the Good Friday Stations of the Cross, and Sunday is a sunrise service outdoors and then a 10 am service with all the attendant big-service stuff, trumpeter included. Potluck brunch followed by Easter Egg Hunt.

It goes without saying that I will be taking a nap after that one...but wait - we're supposed to go to K&P's for Easter dinner. I'll sleep the following Monday, I think.

Reflection on the Passion: Sunday, March 28, 2010 : “How Glory Goes”

There’s a wonderful song from a rather obscure musical called “How Glory Goes.” It’s a reflection on what heaven will be like, and how little bits of our life on earth give us an insight into what might await us there. The hero, dreaming in rural Kentucky of a more hopeful future than he has in his life on earth, sings,

“Do we hear a trumpet call us an' we're by your side?
Will I want,
Will I wish for all the things I should have done,
Longing to finish what I only just begun?

Or has a shinin' truth been waitin' there
for all the questions ev'ry where?
In a word a' wond'rin' suddenly you know;
An' you will always know...

Will my mama be there waitin' for me,
Smilin' like the way she does,
an' holdin' out her arms, and she calls my name?
She will hold me just the same...

Only heaven knows how glory goes,
what each of us was meant to be.”

We wonder what heaven will be like when our lives seem so limited, so broken. And we try to wrap our minds around a world that would take someone like Jesus and put him to death. And then we try to understand why Jesus would allow this to happen.

Today’s gospel readings certainly raise these questions once again.

I mean, after all, if you knew your work was going to be dismissed and you were going to die, would you still climb on that colt and take what looks like a victory lap going into Jerusalem?

That’s the big question for me as I participate in this Palm Sunday service of Holy Eucharist…we’ve re-enacted Jesus’ procession into Jerusalem with all the people laying palms down on the road and praising him. We hear about the glory, about all the people waving those palms. But no sooner do we get back into our seats here in the auditorium than we start to hear about how short-lived this glory moment really is.

Today, as we hold our palms in our hands, we cannot sense the irony of the triumph unless we are reminded of what is to come. When we feel the stiff sharp-edged palm frond in our hand, we need to be reminded that is not simply an instrument of honor, it is also the reed that will be used to beat Jesus. And we are the ones who will use that reed as a weapon. We take the glory and crush it.

When we deny Jesus, as Peter does on Friday, as the elders do in Jesus’ kangaroo court trial, we are causing him as much pain as if we were beating him with the reed. We get that. If there was any doubt in our minds, it was banished when we cried out “Crucify him, Crucify him!” as we read the Passion just now. Our sins are the reason that Jesus dies, and his death is what redeems us from our sins. He suffers for us, because of us, and he goes through the journey to Jerusalem knowing that this is what waits for him at the end of that journey. But although we take the glory and crush it, glory will not remain crushed.

But why does Jesus go through what seems like a charade, riding on the colt as if he is a king welcomed home into the city? Is it merely a dance that he participates in, knowing that it is all artifice?

No, something different is going on.

It is an ironic moment, to be sure, but it is also a preview of a time beyond time when the glory that seems to accompany this first ride turns into a new reality. Jesus is showing us how glory goes. It is a new, uncrushable glory.

We cannot fully understand the enormity of Jesus’ gift to us. We cannot know what heaven will be like, or how the experience of that glorious second coming will transform us all, but in hearing the story once again of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, and the hard work that he took on to be our salvation. We see a glimpse of the place we hope to go to eventually, after we, too, do the hard work of being worthy of our salvation. That is how glory goes. Not without pain, not without sacrifice, but ultimately triumphant. As we go through the story this week, as we remember the cost, we know that this is the necessary path to how glory goes.

Amen.

---

Because Jesus Is Big Enough to Have a Sense of Humor...

I do believe he would enjoy this.

TOH to the brilliant Eugene Cho, who created this.

All in all,

...not as crazy a day today as it has been on other ways recently.

Momentary rant: two people at St Middle School were quite insistent that I send out copies of the Passion for Palm Sunday with their reading assignments so they could properly prepare. So I sent out the script of the Passion with the reading assignments two weeks ago. Ample time to sort this all out, right? The same two folks just told me they will be away for Palm Sunday. The grumbler in me says that next year I will simply hand out the assignments on Palm Sunday morning to whoever shows up, but that doesn't work terribly well, either.

Part of the problem stems from the fact that the schools are on vacation from this Friday through Easter Monday, so many families go away. The schools swear that they don't schedule their vacation based upon the date of Easter, but it sure looks like that to me and every other clergyperson I know. Would that they just decided that the last week in March would be their vacation week every year, then we could deal with it. But the other part of the problem is the usual one with volunteers who have very busy lives and precious little down time. For all my talk with them about finding Sabbath, often finding Sabbath means not being in church, even on major feast days, and that saddens me. I hope those who are away for Palm Sunday and/or Easter Sunday go to church wherever they may be. They may take vacation, but God doesn't.

Okay, rant over.

That said, things are moving apace for all the various and sundry things that will make the next ten days' services the wonderful celebrations of the story of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ that they should be. I am so grateful for the gifts of TS, our music director, who goes way beyond the basic scope of work every day and every week, and our Parish Administrator, who is bravely fighting the good fight to get the bulletins for all these services done, with the assistance of a parish volunteer who does the first draft of many of these bulletins.

Stuff that needs to be done yet:

• Printing out of the various bulletins for Palm Sunday, Tenebrae, Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.
• Doing the bulletins for the two Easter Services (one a sunrise service outdoors, another a festal celebration at our normal meeting place with trumpet, childrens' choir, adult choir, a zillion guests).
• Making sure we're on track for the Newcomers' brunch this Sunday and the Easter potluck brunch/Easter egg hunt.
• Finishing homily for this Sunday and starting the sermons for Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday.

And in the midst of this, I am busy doing logistical stuff for the purchase of the new house and the move. One major change from the last time we bought a house: emailing docs for signature, then signing them and scanning them and then re-emailing them back. Folks don't seem to use fax machines much anymore. That's fine by me.

One little joyful moment: we decided we would get ourselves a new bed. I think I've mentioned before that we've been using the one that PH got from a parishioner some 30 years ago. It's still a good serviceable bed, but it's time we got a new one, this time a queen size. So I went to a wonderful resale place near here on a whim, and found a beautiful Henkel Harris pencil post in dark cherry, for a fraction of what such a bed costs new. Yay!

Off now to run an errand, then get a haricut, before settling in for a long afternoon of sermonating!

BBL

Monday Morning Lists Beyond Lists

In theory, at least, this is my day off. From a practical standpoint, this is not so.

Have to drop PH off at work since his car is in the shop, have to drop off dry cleaning, have to drop off books I borrowed from Big Old Seminary's library, have to drop off some research materials on a project for which I was RA. Have to list the large glass tank that used to house the late lamented Moses the gecko on Craigslist - I don't want to move that stupid thing. Meeting with my clergy mentor at 1 pm.

The bulletin for Palm Sunday (big, big, big) is not yet done. Because we will have the whole Lukan passion in it, we'll go to a large format rather than the little booklet size. Makes for some interesting challenges with Microsoft Office Publisher.

We've got the Tenebrae and Good Friday bulletins prepared. I'd like to get Maundy Thursday done this week as well, so that we can concentrate on the Easter Sunday and Easter II bulletins.

Since Easter Sunday is my last day at St G's, and since doing seasonal transitions in our bulletins are a bit of a bear, I will get the Easter II done as a parting gift to the short-term interim.

I will miss much about my time at this church, but I will not miss this aspect of St G's.

I've got sermons to write for Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday and Easter (2 services, very different in nature. Don't know if I will write two sermons).

In the meantime, I'm glad to say that we finalized the deal for the house in Richmond. we will close on April 26th in the morning, then spend several hours going to Home Depot or Lowes to get a washer and dryer, contracting with the roofer and plumber to fix the various things that need our attention, getting a small table and chairs for the breakfast nook. It should be an interesting time. I've pretty much decided what colors we will paint the bedrooms. TBTG, the main floor is move-in ready without any painting. I'll have some window treatments to sew, and maybe a duvet cover for the new bed, but all in all, it will be an easy move (and God said "HA!")

But before all that is the planning and the organizing for a move. I've done it a zillion times before...well, actually 18 times....so I know what's involved and how to set up for it. But I don't enjoy it.

Oh, well, suck it up, Mibi.

PS: Houseguest this weekend (delightful friend of PH's brother - she works in the same profession as PH, going to the same professional conference he will be attending in Your Nation's Capitol this weekend), followed by eldest son Litigator coming for a brief visit next week. See what I mean about it being a busy couple of weeks ahead?

Today's Sermon: John 12:1-8 “The Wheel Turns”

His sister stood at the window of the pharmacy, nervously tapping her foot. She was waiting, yet again, to hear the number. The cost. How much she would have to pay for her brother’s medication. Something to ease his pain, something to soothe the nerve endings. Something to make him forget the disease that was ravaging him, driving him down to death.

Her cousins thought she was foolish. “He’s dying,” they said, “and he’s dying because of that lifestyle of his. He’s a freak, a pervert, a homosexual…and that disease is a proof of what God thinks of people like him. Why spend your money taking care of him? He brought this on himself.”

And now she was at the pharmacy again, and the man behind the counter was delivering the blow. Another $400 co-pay. That was more than the food money for the month. She’d be eating Mac and Cheese or cans of Campbell’s soup all month, not just the last week of the month like it used to be. She tried to get her brother food that he could eat, but now he couldn’t keep much of anything down, no matter how hard she tried to find the right thing.

She knew he was dying, even though they never said the words out loud. She chuckled bitterly to herself as she thought, “as if not saying those words would make a difference. As if pretending would make the pain go away.”

She sighed, and took out the credit card, hoping that the card wouldn’t be declined. $400. A lot of money. But it was necessary. Her brother was dying. She had to do what she could to soothe him, to ease his way, down the long road to the darkness and the light.

The pharmacist handed her a receipt to sign – thank God the card went through – and then a small white bag. Felt awfully light for something that cost $400. But it was what he needed, and in a way it was what she needed, too. She had to know that she was doing what she could for him, no matter what those nasty cousins said.

What they seemed to forget is what he had done for her.

Twenty years ago, when she was sixteen and he was a gorgeous, outrageous 23. When her mother died, at their father’s hands. When she had no place to go. They hadn’t been close. Growing up, he had lived with his own mother. The only thing they had in common was the damage their father had done to both of them. But when her mother died, and their father was hauled off to jail, and she had no place to go, he said “You come over here and stay with me for a bit. I’ll do a makeover on you, girl. We’ll make you look SASSY!”

He always was out there, no closet for him, loving who he was, loving life. She was a little afraid of him. He was too exuberant, too easy with his love for her and for many others. But she had nowhere else to go, and he was family of a sort. So she stayed with him in his little apartment, decorated with castoffs he found on the street, a thousand wild colors, posters, music playing at all hours. Two more years of high school, then another two years while she was working at the salon during the day and going to beauty school at night. Then she got her own place and a man in her life for a while, until he left her. That was something she had in common with her brother – men came and then men left.

She’d see her brother from time to time over the years. They weren’t all that close after she moved out of his place. He didn’t like the men she was with. She didn’t like the men he was with. But then one day, he came to her door, and he looked different. The old exuberance was gone. The joy, the hope…no more. His beautiful face was lined, and there were dark marks on his skin. She thought “Somebody’s been beating on him,” until she realized this was disease, not bruising. They talked, for a long time.

The wheel was turning. She moved him into her little place. Nowhere near as pretty as his apartment had been, but it was serviceable, and she put him into her own bed, and went and slept on the couch.

He was ill. The disease was killing him. For many years after he was diagnosed, he had been able to fight it, but now there was nothing left to fight with, and he needed her.

The wheel was turning, and now it was her turn to give back to him. She couldn’t make him over, and she couldn’t make him sassy, but she could give him a safe place and a comfortable bed, and she could give him her company and her love.

As he became more ill, it took more meds to keep him comfortable. Now, at the end of the road, the doctors pulled out the big meds. They helped him, easing the ache in his joints and his bones, but damn, they were expensive.

She went to the cousins, asking for just a little help…they had nothing to offer but cruel judgment. No surprise there. They hadn’t offered her a place to stay when her mother was killed, they had just tsk-tsk’d and said what a fool her mother had been to love that man. No, only this dying man, this man they said was such a sinner, only he helped her.

So she stopped asking, and she just took a deep breath and paid the bills. She’d run into the cousins on the street and they’d say “You’re throwing that money away. You want to help somebody? You could be taking care of other folks, worthwhile folks, instead of that bad brother of yours.”

All she knew was that his love for her had been so extraordinary, his care for her so generous, with no expectations in return but her love, that she actually wanted to spend that money to take care of him. Creams for his dry, ashy skin, pain meds to get him through the night, special milkshakes that would slide down past the sores in his mouth and rest easy in his stomach. Nothing was too much.

Never mind what the cousins said. Never mind what the pharmacist thought as he rang up her bill. Never mind anything, except her gratitude for this dear dying man, so misunderstood, so outside the norms. He was still able to make her smile with a sly wink, even now. Of course she would take care of him. How could she not?

+++

For most of us, gifts become currency. My husband gives me a GPS, I give him a leaf blower. My sister gives me a cookbook, I give her a pretty scarf. My child gives me a handmade card, I give him some milk and cookies. It’s not a game of measuring relative value, but there is a sense that if you give me something, I’ll give you something back.

But what happens when the thing we are given is so beyond measure that we cannot possibly give something of equal value back?

Think of the whole story of the woman in this story. Mary is the sister of Lazarus…yes, the same Lazarus whom Jesus raised from the dead. She’s the same Mary about whom her sister Martha complained: “That Mary doesn’t help me in the kitchen, Jesus – she just sits at your feet and learns what you teach!”

This woman is unusual. She has seen, perhaps more than the other people around her, the gift that Jesus is offering to his followers. That chance to hear the Word, to sense that one is in the presence of God, that’s a gift beyond measure. And something tells her that he is doing more than just teaching, that there is something larger at play here. She doesn’t know what it is, but it frightens her and reminds her how precious he is, and how much she loves him.

No, it’s not romance that she’s feeling, it’s something more like awe. So as her sister Martha prepares the meal for Jesus and the others, Mary slips out to go buy something that feels like the right response to that awe…a pound of rich perfumed ointment, costing as much as the month’s food. And as the meal is served – lamb stew again – Mary comes quietly through the door. She seats herself on the floor by Jesus. Does she know that the gift is not just his teaching, not just his presence, but that fact that he will soon die for them all? Most likely not, but it doesn’t matter. She knows he gives them a gift beyond recompense, and she is strangely sad that she cannot give him anything of equal value. But she bends over, crying now, and massages his tired feet with that ointment. Rich men use that much ointment over the course of several months. But she doesn’t stint. She uses it all, and when she is done massaging it into his feet, she wipes away the excess, not with a fine linen cloth, but with her hair. She has been touched so intimately, to her very soul, by this man – it requires an equal intimacy. Cloth would be too distant and impersonal. It must be her hair.

We are given an extraordinary gift. The wheel turns. Jesus knows us, and invites us to know him, in a deep and intimate way. Our response should be equally intimate. Can we be brave enough to open the most distant corner of our heart to him, to let him in and let him change us into something even more wonderful? How could we say no?

Amen.

Yes, I've been busy...

Sorry I've been a bad blogger lately. Too much to do, not enough time to do it in.

So the bullet-point version of my life right now is as follows:

• Wrapping up my work at St Middle School on Easter Sunday.
• Last Vestry meeting this evening - went well - good folks - I'll miss them.
  
• Trying to get the land transaction for the parish done, or mostly done, before I go. Meeting with the county tax assessor next week regarding this. Don't ask - government isn't supposed to be logical, you silly goose!
  
• Visiting some parishioners in need of attention prior to my departure. Sad to leave some in mid-crisis, but God will be with them and he is ever so much more effective than I am at Pastoral Care.
  
• I'm trying to get slightly ahead of the curve on bulletins, because we do the whole service in the bulletin, not just page numbers and hymn numbers, and it's a chore an interim shouldn't have to do right out of the box.
• We have a contract on a really lovely house. Negotiating an adjusted price now based upon the findings of the house inspection. Old houses are an interesting challenge.
• Thinking about the physical move gives me the fantods. Mover is coming tomorrow to give an estimate.
• Thinking about where to begin with the Church by the Lakeside...I suppose a good way to start is to just get to know the people and get to love them before I start to move the chess pieces around, right?
• Church by the Lakeside is planning an insert in a ValPak mailer - one of those collections of little ads that comes by snail mail - advertising my impending arrival. I feel sort of like the new model year Prius - will she be good and really energy-efficient or will she just race around and the brakes won't work? When they asked for a picture of me that I liked to include on the ad, I about spat up my coffee. No such thing exists.

Thinking about StoneMason, whose 24th birthday is Monday. I wish he were here so I could bake him a cake, but his sibs are all going to the North Country to go snowboarding with him, so he'll have a fun time. He has another competition next weekend, then flies out west to coach at the snowboarding nationals. What a guy!

So very tired. Time for bed. BBL.

House Adventures

Yesterday was a very long day.

A parishioner was having surgery, so I drove 40 miles out to the hospital by Saint Middle School to "pray him in." His sister and brother-in-law were with him, but when they brought him back to prep him, he wanted me with him rather than the relatives. Don't really know what that was about - I'm sure he'll tell me at a later point in time - but I was glad to be helpful.

Then I drove 98 miles south to Richmond for the house inspections. It was raining, which made the back half of the back yard a bit like the Everglades, but we were able to get done what needed to be done.

The case of characters were my real estate agent, me, plus Chimney Guy (very earnest and sweet and full of recommendations), Slate Roof Guy (very British and sweet and full of recommendations), HVAC/Plumbing Guys (seemed, Lord forgive me, like Dumb and Dumber, but correctly said that they weren't the right guys, that we needed an estimator to come in and price the fix that is necessary for the water hearter), Home Inspection Guy (witty, sardonic, full of very useful information, really detail-oriented). A couple of big problems, a whole bunch of little ones. This is the reality of buying an old home: stuff breaks, stuff hasn't been replaced, stuff has been replaced but with shoddy workmanship. We got the 35 page home inspection report via email last night, and are awaiting the HVAC/plumbing estimate as well as the slate roof guy's estimate. Then we add up all the costs for the fixes and start negotiating.

I still love the house, with all its quirks, and it will be wonderful. We've just got a bit of work ahead of us.

And, no, we still don't know if the hot tub on the back patio works. That's a challenge for another day, and besides, it's too cold in Richmond right now to take it for a test drive anyway.

Today’s Sermon: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32 ”Advice”

The Galilee Post, March 14, 33 Style Section, C3, Carolyn benWax Advice Column

Adapted from a recent online discussion:

Dear Carolyn:

My father is such an enabler! The problem is my little brother – let’s call him Prod. He has been a screw-up and troublemaker since he was BORN, practically. And the past couple of years have been the worst. It started when he decided that he didn’t want to stay at home and work the livestock. We were boring, he said. He wanted to go to live a more exciting life in the city. So he went to my father and asked him to give him money – the cash value of what he would inherit when Dad would die – so he could leave this “dusty, nothing-ever-happens, hole of a place” and go live “a real life.”

What a slap on the face of Dad! Cash me out, Dad, as if you were already dead. And oh by the way, big bro, you’re a loser too if you want to stay here with the parents and the sheep and the goats.

I was shocked – SHOCKED – when Dad just shook his head and say, “Sure, son. I’ll go to the First Bank of Galilee in the morning and cash out my IRA – never mind the early withdrawal penalties – and I’ll give you the money. Then you can do what your heart dreams of.”

I said, “Dad, this is nuts.”

But no, he didn’t listen to me, even though I’ve been the one who has helped out here with the livestock and all for all this time. No thought of what it would be like for me, without a brother to help me out as Dad gets older – not like Prod was much of a help, but it was better than nothing – no thought of how it hurt Dad to be treated as if he was already dead, for heaven’s sake!

So Dad got the cash, Prod hit the road, and we resumed our quiet, herding life out here. It was quiet without Prod around, sort of a relief, since he was always getting into trouble before he left, and we just did our work every day.

Dad seemed a little sad that Prod was gone, but I wasn’t.

But then one day after a couple of years, Prod showed up again. He was a mess. Clothes in rags, scrawny from lack of food. Was any of the money left ? Of course not! He had squandered it all on wild living in the city.

Now any reasonable father would say “Get out of here! You treated me as if I was dead, now I’ll do the same for you.” But my father? No. He told the servants to wash him up and give him some nice clothes, told them to prepare a FEAST. A FEAST, Caroline, for this slacker jerk! This from the father who didn’t even throw me a birthday party last year.

I ask you – is this fair? Do I have to do an intervention on my father, since he’s turned into such an easily manipulated old fool?

Signed, Big Bro

Dear Bro:

Is this about sibling rivalry? Did he beat you at a game of Risk twenty years ago and you’re still aggravated about it? I think you’re overreacting.

Dear Caroline:

Prod here. I am not sure what Big Bro is so steamed about. I’m home. I learned my lesson, and it was a hard one. People aren’t nice to you when the money runs out, and frankly it’s embarrassing to come home with your tail between your legs, thinking you’ll have to beg for just a few scraps from the table, since you’re not really a member of the family anymore. I was stupid. What I did was wrong. I suffered for my stupidity. So it was really great of Dad to welcome me with open arms and forgive me, and treat me like a member of the family again. I swear I’ll never leave home again, and I’ll even help Big Bro, that pompous jerk. So why is he so bent that Dad forgave me? Is he still afraid Dad loves me more than him?

Signed, Peaceful Prod

Prod, I’m wondering if you’re denying Big Bro’s feelings. Doesn’t he have a right to be angry if he thinks you’re getting more generous treatment than he is? Give him a little credit – he DID stay home and help your parents while you were living the wild and crazy hipster life.

Dear Caroline:

As the mother of these two boys, this present unpleasantness is nothing new. I need to tell you that they fought all the time as youngsters. It’s so silly. They have always fought to get their father’s attention. But he already gives them his attention, in so many ways. More attention, I might add, than any of these three give me, their wife and mother! Nobody remembers how sad this makes ME! But I’m just the mom….all I want is some peace in the family, and maybe some grandchildren.

Signed, Silently Suffering Mother

Mom, you really haven’t had a voice in this story, have you? I know that women out in the country where you live generally let the men make the decisions, but I suspect if you had had a chance to make your feelings known, you might not have given Prod the cash unless he promised to come home with a wife and a couple of kids. Am I right about that?

Dear Caroline:

It seems that I have all my decisions questioned by my sons (and perhaps a bit by my wife, though she’ll never say anything out loud). I love them both. Big Bro has worked alongside me since he was a teenager, learning to herd, learning to sell livestock, reading the weather, getting the flocks to water. He is my firstborn, and I love him with all my heart. He will inherit this business when I am gone. He is a dear and faithful son, even if he does get up on his high horse every once in a while. I couldn’t love him more.

Prod – he’s my baby boy. He’s wild and imaginative and funny and yes, he gets into trouble. I can’t stop loving him because he gets into trouble, can I? I love him, too, so very much.

I know he has made mistakes. When he came to me and asked for his inheritance, it was like a knife to my heart. I knew it meant that he would go away and I wouldn’t see him again – I would be dead to him. But then, when he came back, he was changed. He saw that what he had done was wrong. He begged for nothing more than forgiveness. He had grown, learned from his mistakes, he had become a mensch, a true man. So of course I forgave him. I love him! And I threw a little party.

Is that so bad? When an awful situation somehow miraculously turns itself around, you celebrate!

But this really angered Big Bro. Boy, was he angry. He wouldn’t even come into the party. It was like he was eight years old again, and Prod was six, and they were fighting. If Big Bro didn’t come out on top, he’d sulk. And now he’s sulking again.

You know, Big Bro thinks that I only have only one bucket full of love for the two of them, and if I pour some on Prod, that means there’s less for Bro. But that’s not how it works. My love is a bottomless well. There’s so much love that no one ever gets shortchanged. And if I show my love and forgiveness to Prod now, when I am so grateful that he seems to have turned his life around, why can’t Bro understand that someday he may need me to show him the same love and forgiveness for some mistake that he makes?

I love them both, and I love that silent wife of mine as well. All I ask from my family is love. If they do something wrong, turning away from me, and then realize their mistake and turn back to me in love, I want to celebrate. That’s joy. And that’s what I intend to do.

Signed, Dad

Dad, you’ve said it all. This isn’t about sibling rivalry, or fairness. At the heart of it is your great love, bigger than anyone can possibly imagine. That’s why you forgive, even when we think we’ve done something so awful we aren’t worthy of forgiveness. That’s why you celebrate, even when some think it inappropriate. That’s love for you, generous love…thanks for showing us the way.

Amen.

Hump Day

Normally, I go out to Saint Middle School on Wednesdays, but today will be different - I did office hours there yesterday, and will be there later tonight for Rite of Reconciliation of a Penitent. I've got my clergy group after lunch, so this morning I will wander a bit and look at fabrics, hoping for inspiration for the bedrooms in the new place. I find if I start with a piece of fabric that I like, the rest of it falls into place. Just a couple of hours of indulgence, before the real work of the day begins.

And yes, I've already started the sermon for Sunday, and the Adult Forum is done.