Weekend recap

Saturday morning was spent in some housekeeping chores-- a bit of cleaning, and a lot of laundry (the job that never ends).

After lunch, Bruce and I went to see The Terminal. Tom Hanks plays an eastern block tourist, stranded for months in a New York airport by immigration bureaucracy. I don't know what I was expecting-- the plot premise could have led the film to be very lame; but I really enjoyed it, far more than I thought I would. It's a fun flick, and worth seeing.

Then Todd, Joelene and Cece joined us for dinner that evening, which was great. I was glad those good folks could take the time out of their packing frenzy to come down. I'm used to the drive from Evanston to Dyer, but it is a bit of a trek; takes a bit better than an hour, and that's if Chicago traffic is behaving. So I'm tickled on those occasions when someone's willing to make the pilgrimage. Joelene and I also spent some time in my sewing corner in the basement, turning old slacks into new shorts for Cece. I don't often have anybody down there-- it's kind of a place that the intorverted side of my soul hides, sometimes, and I value that. Joelene's so easy to work with, though, that it was fun to have the company.

Sundays start early for me, because morning worship at St. Mary's is at 8:00 am. I need to get there early enough to lay out bulletins, program the Synthia (the portable keyboard) with the hymns for the day, set up the lectionary book, etc. I also like to be in the space alone for a while, for some prayer and quiet prep time, especially before I preach. So that means I'm out of the house and on the road before 6.

Then yesterday, instead of going home, I headed up to Seabury to help with some Montana-bound packing. Cece was at a friend's house all day, so we made some serious inroads in her room-- much easier on the whole family, if she didn't have to watch things being sorted and boxed up. It wasn't entirely work-- we took time out to go to a baby shower for another Seabury student and his wife. I also got to see the snapshots from Todd's ordination, and hear a few family stories, which was fun. A good way to spend some time with folks dear to me, before they ship out to the hinterlands. The hard part was saying goodbye; but Todd noted as I left that, with blogging and email and such, it'll be like they never left. I hung on to that, if only because it's easier to drive with clear eyes. And it worked. Sort of. Well, partly, anyway.

In the evening I trotted down to Rogers Park, to worship with a group I'm part of, in the process of starting a new church in that area. It's the beginning of a unique adventure, newly christened: the Church of Jesus Christ, Reconciler. It really deserves it's own post, and I will do that, later; but the short explanation is the church will be intentionally ecumenical-- not nondenominational, but multi-denominational, made up of and maintaining connections with 3 Christian traditions: Episcopal, American Baptist, and Evangelical Covenant. It is an intentional effort to live into the call to "one faith" that we all proclaim, without setting aside the traditions that have formed and shaped us as disciples, committed to Jesus Christ and to one another. As David says, we are "attempting to put 'willing flesh' behind the willing spirit of ecumenism."

Okay, enough for now. Off to take the boy to the dentist, and then to meet with my bishop. The fun never ends!

Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 9:51-63

One of the first classes I took at seminary was called “Christian Life and Thought I.” It was a course in early church history, covering the period from the birth of the church, after Jesus’ resurrection and the inspiration of the disciples at Pentecost, to about AD 600 or so. It was taught by one of my favorite instructors. A.K.M. Adam is a tall, spare man, with bright eyes and a kind smile, and one of the most expressive faces I have ever seen. He’s in almost constant motion when he’s lecturing, his rumbling bass voice rising and falling as he talks, his words chosen with meticulous care. He’s passionate about his subject, and takes his work very seriously.

I don’t want to give you the impression that he is too serious, however. AKMA has a marvelous, quirky sense of humor, and a wry way of expressing himself; we had a lot of fun in his class. One of the things that he did for us, that was both amusing and helpful, was to give us our very own set of Church History Trading Cards. Isn't that cool? Each card deals with a famous figure of the time period, or a popular topic, or a significant movement in the church.

The very first card we got was entitled “Judaism.” It talks about the various streams of thought-- rather like denominations, if you will-- that were part of the Jewish tradition at the time Jesus lived, and in the early church. We hear about most of them in our new Testament scriptures. Sadducees, for example, are described as a “Temple-centered group, emphasizing the Torah (that’s the first five books of the Old Testament) as written.” Pharisees, on the other hand, are “a lay movement emphasizing purity and adherence to the Oral Torah.” That would include the words of the prophets and the writings-- the rest of our Old Testament, and sometimes other teachings as well. All the tradition of the faith-- oral and written-- was to be scrupulously followed.

Another of the sects mentioned on the card is that of the Samaritans. Yes, though you might not guess it from the way the Gospels talk about them, they were Jewish, too. My trading card notes that Samaritans “practiced an ancient form of Judaism, had their own temple, and were hostile to Judea and Galilee.”

That hostility was mutual. Samaritan religious practices were indeed Jewish, but they were different-- their temple on Mt. Gerazim, rather than Jerusalem, was but one difference-- and therefore, they were suspect. Then, too, they were a racially mixed people-- their ancestors had intermarried with the pagan tribes in the North, during the exile. So the Jews in Judea and Galilee thought of “those people,” quite bluntly, as half-breed heretics. They wanted nothing to do with them. They referred to them disparagingly, if at all, and would go miles out of their way, when traveling, to avoid having to pass through Samaritan towns.

So, here’s the first unusual thing we hear in this morning’s gospel: Jesus sent messengers into a village of Samaritans, and was preparing to come in himself and stay a while. We don’t know how long, of course; but that’s still a far cry from what would have been standard practice-- the ancient equivalent to taking the bypass, and avoiding the “bad” neighborhood. That must have been a hard pill for some of the disciples to swallow-- the mere thought of risking ritual uncleanness, in associating with “those people,” would likely have been a real struggle for observant Jews.

Now, there’s one more thing to keep in mind when you hear this story. There were no Best Westerns back then. No Holiday Inn, no Comfort Suites, not even a Motel 6. And this was not a forgiving climate. So hospitality in that time and place was a matter of survival, and a very serious issue. It still is, in middle eastern culture. If someone, anyone, comes to your door, you are under an obligation to care for them, to feed and shelter them as though they were members of your own family.

But Jesus’ messengers, of course, came back to say that they would not be made welcome. The Samaritans evidently got wind of Jesus’ intended destination-- Jerusalem, and that “other” temple-- and suddenly doors closed, and faces went stony, and backs turned. Sorry, we really can’t. Thanks, but no thanks. No, no room here; not for people like you.

Is it any wonder that James and John were upset? Here they were, steeling themselves to set foot in a Samaritan village-- promising themselves to be civil, and tolerant, no doubt. And then suddenly the tables are turned. They were the ones given the cold shoulder, dismissed as though they were the undesirable characters! Who do those people think they are, anyway?

So then, what do they do, these men Jesus called “the Sons of Thunder?” Well, they showed once again why the nickname was so apt. They were so angry over this denial of hospitality, this rudeness in the face of moral obligation, exhibited by “those people,” that they asked permission to call down fire from heaven to consume the village!

Boy, this story is only a few lines long, but it is full of very human responses, isn’t it? Think, for a moment, of some of the things that were said when this congregation sought permission to open Grace House; the comments from local residents, their fears of what kind of people would be moving into the neighborhood. And then think of the furor around the actions of General Convention last summer, and the reactions that you may have heard, or felt, from that. How often do we dismiss, and disparage, and distance ourselves, from those who are different than we are, by race, or class, or religion, or sexual orientation... those whose beliefs, and choices, and lives we do not understand, or with whom we disagree?

But then, when we are dismissed, or disparaged, or attacked... we want to get even. To strike out, to retaliate-- to hurt as we have been hurt, and worse. Think of James and John... and then, for example, about some of the talk show rhetoric that we heard in this country after September 11: “Nuke ‘em ‘til they radiate-- that’ll teach ‘em!”

But that’s not Jesus’ response, not the way he teaches. He does not suggest any sort of retaliation at all; in fact, Luke says he turns and rebukes James and John for even suggesting it. (“Shame on you!” I imagine him saying. Haven’t I taught you better than that?”) And then they simply move on to another village.

But he doesn’t stop there, doesn’t finish by simply “turning the other cheek.” He goes further. In the very next chapter of Luke, Jesus tells a story of caring, and of radical hospitality, where the hero is, yes, a Samaritan. In fact, that’s what most folks call it: the parable of the Good Samaritan.

In other words, Jesus shows us that the all too human response is not our only choice. He shows us that there is an alternative, a godly choice.

We can remember that the “other” that we mistrust or fear, or simply don’t know, is still a child of God-- as much created in God’s image as we are. Just as beloved, and worthy of respect, and care. Even-- or maybe especially-- when we disagree, or disapprove of them.

And we can refuse to retaliate-- even when “we” are right and “they” are wrong. My grandmother would call this “not stooping to that level.” She would say, ”We’re better than that.”

Okay, so maybe we are not naturally inclined to be better than that. I know I still fight the urge to say or do things out of prejudice, or in anger, that I’ll regret later. And I don’t always win. But God is better than that; and, in following the example of the God that we see and know in Jesus, we can hope to be, too. No, it’s not easy. But we as Christians have witnessed, and can witness, that it is possible; that “with God, all things are possible.”

Powell to visit Sudan, address atrocities

You can read more here (I think you have to register, but it's free).

My reaction? The simple version, edited for a family-friendly blog: it's about time.

Feeling a little squirrelly?

You might be, after watching this. I'm still giggling.

Props to my friend David, and apologies to Judy, who's quotable reaction toward the furry critters will live forever in my memory.

St. Jerome's Chapel

A new church plant? Well, after a fashion. One of my favorite preachers has opened the online doors to the Chapel of St. Jerome, and committed himself to the discipline of weekly sermon construction for it. Be sure to stop by each week; you'll be glad you did.

Too much like work.

As I mentioned in the last post, Monday was Yard Work Day. Bush trimming, and weed pulling, and ivy taming.

Yesterday was my day at St. Mary's. I did have one early morning appointment, to talk about the mission with the pastor at a local church, so I was in Seminary Intern Clothes-- dress slacks and a nice top. When I got done chatting with Pastor Nate, however, I went back to Grace House, and got my jeans and t-shirt out of the trunk.

It was Spring Cleaning Day in Monticello.

We (a couple parishioners, the residents, and yours truly) swept off the back porch and driveway; scrubbed the front porch top to bottom (siding, windows, overhang and all); cleaned, primed and painted the wicker furniture; repaired and painted the screen door... I don't remember the whole list, but we were diligent.

Then we got out some tall ladders, and a few of us clambered up to harvest some of the glorious crop of cherries from the tree on the south side of the house. One of the residents-- a 14-year-old bookworm named Haley-- helped me make a cobbler out of some of them, and we distributed the rest between the laborers.

Today I was home, and oversaw Yard Work Day II: a reprise of Monday, except we moved to the back yard.

You know what? This evening I am one tired puppy, and achy in some unusual places.

Now I understand why they make you get a physical before they send you to seminary.

Power tools are our friends

Today was originally designated Yard Work Day. I had visions of putting a major dent in the weedy, overgrown mess that comprises the planter beds around our house. They have been really neglected, and it shows-- serious evidence that, between work and school, we've been overcommitted around here. I had even warned the kids that their assistance would be expected, and not optional. I was looking forward to several hours spent in weeding, dragging out dead leaves, taking piles to the burn pit, etc.

Then I woke up this morning, to the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on my window. Oh, peachy. There goes the day. I don't mind getting a little damp, but playing with an electric hedge trimmer (and it is play-- I like my hedge trimmer) in the rain is a bit riskier than I care for.

Fortunately, the rain let up. It's been off and on, stop and go all day, but we've had two or three extended dry spells. So I was able, in stages, to get at least some work done. I gave the front evergreens a desperately needed haircut, and trimmed up some rangy, mangy-looking things in between. Hacked back to a shadow of its former self this bush that was nearly blocking the sidewalk to the front door. Cleaned out the dead stuff from the climbing roses on the side of the garage (with the rain, dusting them will have to wait for another day).

I still need to trim up the bushes in the back yard, and to do a lot of digging of weeds, and cutting back and rearranging of various ivys (ivies?) and ground covers. And I discovered that one of the burning bushes on the south side of the house has given up the ghost, and will need to be rooted out-- not a fun task, as the thing was really big. So there's plenty left to do, if the weather permits, later in the week.

But at least this no longer looks like an abandoned house.

You bet I had the kids helping. Carolyn (and her friend Nicki) were even out in a downpour at one point, picking up the bush trimmings to cart out back. I had told her earlier that they could go to the mall when they were done, but then they procrastinated until the rain started (possibly hoping Mom would cave, and let them go without the work being done? Nope. No such luck.)

And so there they were, trotting around in the rain, gathering up the piles of weeds and sticks and trimmings that I had left behind. Now, lest you think they were being abused, Mean Ol' Mom did have towels and hot chocolate waiting for their sodden selves when they came sloshing into the house. And, after they put on dry clothes, they did get to go to the mall.

Wednesday, the back yard. Hope the weather's clear then.

Quiet celebration

Father's Day started out with my family and I headed in different directions. The services at St. Mary's are at 8:00 am, so I have to leave the house by 6 to be down there and set up in time. Rather than rousting out the troops to join me down south, I left them sleeping in until it was time to get up for services at our home parish.

But I stopped on the way home, and picked up some groceries for dinner tonight. Yummy things to grill, and fresh fruit, and ingredients for a banana cream pie for dessert... one of Bruce's favorites, and something we hadn't had in a while.

So, we had a fine meal, and gifted my beloved with a few rememberances far less valuable than he deserves, and generally enjoyed some of the family time that is in far too short supply during the school year.

Thus we honored the hard-working, loving, patient man with whom I am blessed to share my life. Of all the things I have to be thankful for-- and there are many-- my husband is right at the top of the list.

Love you, babe.

Justice...

So, yesterday the daughter got home from our diocesan summer camp. She had a ball as a CIT (counselor's aide), with a cabin full of 3rd and 4th grade girls. Skits, and chants, and worship and play both silly and profound.

There were a few adventures, of course. Like the girl who was a sleepwalker. And then there was the child who needed instructions repeated, over and over. "I had to ask her everything at least twice, Mom!" she complained. "And usually more than that! She never did anything the first time!!"

Oh, really? Sorry to hear that, sweetheart.

Third Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 7C
Luke 9:18-24

Good morning, and Happy Father’s Day! This is the day here in the U. S. that is set aside to honor fathers: those men who (1) help to give us life, and then (2) try to guide us in learning how to live it. Certainly an enormous task, and one well worth recognition.

Now, at the risk of stating the obvious, not everyone is or will be a biological father. As a woman, that of course is the case for me-- and there are also many men who, for many reasons, are not fathers. For us, then, our awareness of the nature of fatherhood comes from what you might call secondary experience, of varying depths. In my case, that means through my own father, and my husband; my brother, and several brothers-in-law; uncles and cousins; dear friends and casual acquaintances.

From this perspective, it seems to me an indisputable truth that the second part of being a father-- the guiding, and the example that one sets-- carries the far greater significance. A man’s virtues, and his faults, are nowhere so obvious, or carry so much influence, as in his relationship with his children.

In light of this, I think today’s Gospel is especially appropriate to the day. This is one of those times where Jesus and his disciples are conversing privately. They are neither in front of a crowd, on public display; nor answering to local religious and political authorities. It’s a quiet, almost intimate moment, a time for a bit of personal conversation, reflection and prayer. You get the feeling that Jesus is letting his guard down a bit, as he asks his followers for some honest feedback.

“Who do people say that I am?” What kind of impression am I leaving, with those whose lives I touch?

“Who do you say that I am?” Is it different with you who know me best, with whom I spend most of my time, and effort, and energy? Is it coming through, the core of who I am, and what I have to share?

These are questions that people often ask themselves-- or maybe should, whether we are parents or not.

Luke does not record Jesus as responding specifically to any of their answers; he neither confirms nor denies what they say. Instead, he instructs them not to tell anyone what they had said. This sounds odd, at first, doesn’t it? I’ve been joining the Bible study at St. Peter’s on Tuesdays, and we talked about this for quite a while, discussing reasons Jesus might have said this.

One idea we considered, for example, was that this was some sort of reverse psychology thing. This is a tactic of which most parents are well aware, even though it often backfires on us. Telling a child he or she can’t have something, for whatever laudable, legitimate reason-- the unsafe toy, the snack before dinner, the friend who’s a bad influence-- is almost a surefire way to make that thing almost unbearably attractive, and desired above anything else.

This applies to children of all ages, doesn't it? It has ever since the beginning of time. Remember the story of Adam and Eve? God gave them paradise, and forbade them only one thing. And then it hardly took any temptation at all-- one little conversation with a smooth-talking serpent-- and suddenly there they were, having a picnic with the only fruit that their heavenly father had told them to stay away from.

And it’s still true, even with little things. I never wanted a piece of chocolate, or a Dr. Pepper, so badly as when I was told I needed to eliminate caffeine from my diet.

So, was that what Jesus was doing? Playing on the all-too-human trait of wanting most whatever is forbidden? Calling them to witness to the Messiah, by telling them not to?

Somehow, I don’t think so. It seems to me that generally, when Jesus gives a direct instructions, he’s expecting his hearers to follow them. Now, it’s true that his teaching is not always as clear as we’d like; sometimes, as with parables, the multiple meanings that can be found in Jesus’ words can be confusing. But he’s not ever portrayed as sneaky, or as a man who says one thing and means another. So I think we can take his words here at face value.

But why, then, tell the disciples not to talk about their conversation? I think the clue comes from the directions that follow. “If any would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow me.”

If Jesus had been primarily concerned with who he was, and the power of that role, then he would have been teaching us a very different lesson; and we would have a very different image of God, and our Savior. Instead, everything that Jesus says, and does, is focused not on his personal achievements and abilities, but on God, and God’s will-- not only for him, but for all of us. He does not deny who he is; but he is not focused on it.

Jesus does want to be followed. But his focus, his concern, his overriding mission, is bringing people to the fullness of God-- not only to him as Messiah, and the expectations that people would have of him if he proclaimed himself as such, but the God that undergirds all that we see in his life, and death, and resurrection.

He does want us to come after him-- to live a life oriented upon God, and not to the self-centered concerns that the world around us encourages. To know ourselves as loved beyond all imagination... and to then turn and love beyond our limitations because, with the gift of the Spirit, we can be more than what the world may name us.

This, then, is the challenge of fatherhood. In a very concrete, practical way, fathers-- as well as mothers, and children, all of us-- are summoned, and challenged, in Jesus’ word and example, to lives of discipleship.

Deny oneself. Sacrificing personal ease for the care of those we love. To change the diaper, and walk the floor, when you’d rather be sleeping. To help with homework when you’d rather watch the ball game. To strive for patience, and a just response, when you’d rather retaliate in anger.

Take up your cross daily. To keep at it, even when it’s hard. To hold to principles, when it would be easier to go along. To acknowledge imperfection, and error, and sin, and ask forgiveness from those we inevitably wrong. Over, and over, and over again.

Follow me. And finally, to acknowledge in all things that there is authority above you-- above us all. The ultimate authority, and power, and love, of the One that Jesus called “Abba.” Daddy.

Monogamy vaccine?

What do you think of this? I can see it now: before the wedding, head off to the doctor-- blood test for the marriage license, and then an anti-promiscuity shot...

Thanks to Mark for letting me know about this bit of research.

Busy, busy, busy.

Tuesdays are going to be my long days at St. Mary's. The congregation is far enough away from my house (about 80 miles) that I am doing my level best to combine things into a couple days each week on site. On Sundays, of course, we have worship; and I can stay around as long as needed, for one thing and another. On Tuesdays, I leave early, stay all day-- for outreach, for work at the shelter, and for a Bible study or two-- and get home late. Most of the rest of what I do-- sermon prep, service planning and bulletins, phone calls, etc-- can be done from home. It's a half-time position, and that pretty much fills the 24 hours/week in my schedule.

Yesterday I was up at Seabury, tidying up loose ends that were left in the end of term/graduation rush. Dropped off some papers in academic affairs, picked up a couple things at the bookstore for my summer class. I had hoped to catch up with some post-ordination visiting, but the newest deacon on the block was up to his eyeballs in planning and packing and such, so that'll have to wait for another day. Kyle and I (yes, I had a copilot!) did wander with Susie over to get D&D's cheese fries for dinner, which combination of tie with a good friend and tasty junk food almost makes the whole trip worth it.

Today I am in Kokomo, Indiana, having just spent a couple hours chatting with the priest who's loosely overseeing my internship while the vicar is out of the country (you didn't think they'd leave me to my own devices all summer, did you?). The drive is not short-- took 2 1/2 hours to get here-- but it was a good conversation. Fun, too, because while we talked, we were rehanging freshly painted kitchen cabinet doors in "Andrew's Cafe:" a soon to open coffeehouse a couple doors down from the church. It's this parish's newest community outreach effort, and sounds as though it's going to be very cool. Certainly I'm grateful to have had a small hand in helping; and it made our conversation, between two folks who don't know one another all that well, quite easy. There is something really very freeing about having hands busy while you talk.

Richard had to run off, but let me in his office to use the internet (check email, and then waste a little time blogging), because I have some time to kill before I leave. I'm not going straight home, you see. I'm headed up to Michigan City, for an ordination rehearsal. So I'm making a big triangle across Northern Indiana, today. And then, tomorrow, driving as little as possible.

Partisan Shmartisan

Today was the official unveiling of Bill and Hilary Clinton's official White House portraits. I was listening to the radio this afternoon, while I was sewing, and heard part of the speeches George Bush and Clinton made at the occasion.

I was impressed. Bush was not merely polite, but warm, and gracious. He spoke very highly of Clinton's drive, and energy, and the hard work and commitment he brought to the presidency, and to the causes he felt important. Clinton was similarly pleasant, self-deprecating and kind. No subtle jabs, or statements to be misconstrued, or axes to grind. It was lovely.

After it aired, a listener called the radio station, stating his belief that Bush's statements were simply and cynically designed to make himself look good, this being an election year and all. This guy was totally unwilling, or unable, to believe that the current President might actually have meant the complimentary things he found to say about the former President. That there must be some self-interest involved, and that self-interest was inevitably paramount.

I found that really irritating. Is it so hard to believe that people on opposite sides of the political fence can respect one another? That we can recognize positive qualities, virtues even, in someone with whom we disagree-- beyond the areas that we see as faults? That our political loyalties must be so pervasive that we cannot sincerely own the dignity, and worth, and gifts in those whose views we oppose?

You know, it's that sort of narrow intolerance that gets in the way of too much in this world. And it stands in overt opposition to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, which teaches that all people are our neighbors, created in the image of God, and formed with good gifts in that creation.

We have got to at least try to be better than that.

Sunday sermon

Second Sunday after Pentecost
Proper 6C
Luke 7:36-50

“Do you see this woman?”

That's what he asked. Not in a loud voice, mind you, but it still carried. Everyone heard him-- and then everyone looked at me. And there was nowhere to hide.

I knew I didn’t belong there, knew that I wasn’t welcome. I’m not the kind of person who would be welcome at that kind of dinner. Heck, I’m not the kind of person who’d be welcome serving that kind of dinner. The life I’ve lived... the choices I’ve made... There’s a lot that I’m not proud of, there. Can’t say as I blame them, really.

But this man... this man’s different. I went to hear him earlier, just out of curiosity. He’s caused a bit of a stir around here, you know. It seemed like everybody was talking about that preacher from Nazareth. So I took myself up to where he and his followers were staying, to see what the fuss was about. There was already a crowd when I got there, so I couldn’t hear much. I thought for a moment about trying to push through, to get closer... but no. I’d just get those looks, and hear the muttered comments... and I don’t need any more of that.

But then the crowd shifted, and parted, and they came through. Simon was walking along in the way that powerful men do-- confident and assured, talking and smiling; and Jesus was beside him, listening, nodding his head as they moved along. Then, as they came to where I was standing, he raised his eyes, and he looked at me.

That sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Almost trivial. “He looked at me.” Looking back, I suppose it really was only for a moment; they moved on, and I doubt that anyone even noticed. Certainly Simon didn’t. But that moment changed me. Because in those dark eyes there was... I don’t know how, but I could tell that he saw who I was, and where I’ve been, and what I’ve done... all of it. And yet, in that knowing, there was no condemnation, no disdain. Nothing but the knowing... and love. It may only have been a moment, but I have never in my life been loved like that.

I followed them, then, to Simon’s house. No, wait, that’s not quite right. I stopped along the way, at a small shop, and bought a jar of ointment. I hardly realized what I was doing-- simply put my bag on the counter, all the money I had, and said , “Give me what this will buy.” I didn’t care, didn’t count the cost. I only knew I needed to do this, needed to have something to give, to offer...

Then I walked-- I ran-- to Simon’s house, and made my way inside, and saw him. I couldn’t help myself; I fell to the ground at his place. I was sobbing... the tears poured down my face, and fell on his feet. He turned, then, and looked at me, again. I had no towel, and my hair had come loose as I ran; so I used it to dry him, before I opened the ointment, warmed it in my hands, and placed it on his skin.

I didn’t need to look up to know what people would be thinking. “Shameless,” they’d whisper; and I guess I was. But I didn’t care.

He and Simon talked then. I don’t remember much of what they said-- until he turned, and pointed to me, and said those words.

“Do you see this woman?”

Then, with all those honored guests looking on, he talked about what I had done. He said that what I had offered him was welcome. That it was more than that important man had offered. That it was acceptable... that I was acceptable. That my past was past, and forgiven, and done.

And then, he spoke to me. Gently, and kindly... to me. “Your faith has saved you,” he said; “Go in peace.” Go, to start again. Go, to be different, better than before. To try to look at others, the way he looked at me. To see beyond sin, and failure, and the trappings of power, and the standards of the world.

See this woman... See this man... See-- as He sees.

Lessons learned

Once in a while, a parent gets a sign that lets you know that it's working. Here's one:

The other night, CJ had a meeting. It was specifically for a group of kids going on a short mission trip (suburban teens working in urban relief ministries) in a few weeks.

I dropped her off at the appointed time, and went to run a few errands. When I got back to pick her up, they were still talking. Not unusual; this group often runs over by a few minutes. So I waited as they finished up the last portion of their time together, as they usually do, with a Bible study.

This time they were talking about the story of the Good Samaritan. Their youth leader was trying to impress upon them the contrast that Jesus was using in this parable, looking for a modern equivalent to trigger the disdain and mistrust that the Jewish hearers at the time would have felt at a Samaritan being held up as a better example than the religious leadership who passed the injured man by.

He groped for an image that might express Jesus' point to these modern day, middle class teens-- that all people are created in the image of God, that each one of us is neighbor to the other, that we wrong one another when we judge too quickly. The Samaritan, he suggested, might be like a prostitute... or a South Side gang banger...

Then, off to the left, a quiet voice suggested, "...or an Iraqi?" And there was silence, even among the adults, as that reality sunk in.

Yep. My daughter.

A "miscellaneous" sort of day

Yesterday, I spent part of my morning ambling through a north side neighborhood. I generally do not amble well; brisk is more my natural walking speed. However, in good company (which I was), ambling works quite well.

Next I went up to Seabury, stopping long enough to empty my mailbox of returned papers and finals. I got to chat with a few friends, and smiled at the ability to do so without papers and projects hanging over our heads.

(About this point I looked at the clock, and realized that, in Spokane, WA, Todd was officially "diaconated"-- and Joelene was likely making their cathedral carillon sing. Congrats, bro, and all the best as you start down this new path in God's service.

Came home and took a lovely afternoon nap.

Had dinner with my family; spent the evening watching Bruce Almighty, and putting together bulletins for this morning's worship service. I'm flying solo today!

Speaking of which, I need to get moving, or I'll be late. I'll post the sermon later...

Swimsuit angst

I spent the afternoon shopping with my daughter. CJ is leaving for camp on Sunday-- she's a CIT at our diocesan summer camp, and will be gone for a week.

Now, shopping with a teenage girl can be an adventure; but the one for whom I am responsible is not especially difficult. She's neither unduly picky nor label conscious, and she has an eye for a bargain. So we were generally able to cruise around and snag most of the things she needed easily enough-- sunblock, a new beach towel, disposable camera... even a couple summer tops off the sale rack, that are really very cute.

Then, we moved to the swimsuit section. Not a necessity, but they spend enough time at the lake at camp that another would be nice to have.

Suddenly (and this will not surprise a single woman who might be reading this), shopping ceased being easy, and became instead an exercise in frustration.

Even the recent trend toward selling bikini tops and bottoms separately didn't help-- because if she found one piece that she liked, and that fit, the other piece was not available in her size.

Whoever designs these suits, does so with someone far different in mind than my daughter-- or most of the women I know, actually. God knows I dread the thought of my current suit wearing out.

There's got to be a better way.

Suggestions, anyone?

Will stitch for food...

Fortunately, I don't really have to do that; the sewing & alterations business doesn't pay real well, when you do it as sporadically as I have since I started school. But it does feed my soul, in a way. I look forward to retreating to my sanctum sanctorum. It's actually a corner of the basement, next to the washer and dryer, where I've carved out a bit of dedicated space. Not especially scenic, but unqualifiedly mine. Sitting in front of my machine, or swivelling around to reach a tool or iron a seam, is something of a spiritual discipline, meditative as well as useful.

Today the items on my sewing table include a sweater to be mended, several pairs of slacks to be hemmed, a costume to be altered, and a pile of purple cloth and fur destined to become a dance recital accessory-- the Cowardly Lion's cape-- before the day is out. Blessings in fabric and thread.

So, that's one of my avocations; what's yours?

Farm Stand Season!

They're beginning to crop up all over. Nothing formal, usually. Sometimes a person with a truckload of produce for sale, parked on the side of the road. Sometimes a card table in someone's front yard, piled high with extras from an abundant garden, and a can to drop your money in when you stop to buy their fruits and/or veggies.

Today I pulled off on my way back from Monticello. An enormous bucket of really gorgeous strawberries followed me home, and I had the nicest conversation with the woman selling them, to boot.

Never mind a formal entree; we had homemade shortcake for supper tonight.

Golly, I love this time of year.

Grace House

That's the name of the shelter that St. Mary's runs. I went down this morning to meet with the Sr. Warden, and a couple of dedicated volunteers, to learn more about it. It was fascinating. The idea of providing shelter space began even before they had a church home, maybe 3-4 years ago, when a young woman and her child showed up on the doorstep of the house where the church plant was meeting. She had nowhere else to go. They realized then what a need there was in the area. The ramshakle old house they now own was purchased and donated, with this ministry in mind. The first floor has been renovated to serve as a chapel, and the upper two floors house the shelter residents (currently 15 people: 5 adults and 10 children). They had to fight some significant local opposition, in order to be able to open their doors and do this work, but the local residents are beginning to see that their objections were largely unfounded.

We made a list of the most pressing needs-- and there are many-- to be able to discuss them cogently with other area groups (mostly churches), hoping to get more folks involved. The senior warden is going to set up some meetings for us in the next couple weeks, and we'll go to chat with some area pastors. I might be doing presentations for their leadership boards/congregations; we'll see. In addition, Cindy and Ron have volunteered to do some “cold calls.” Gotta love these people.

Additionally, I was able to meet a few of the residents, and talk with them, just a bit. I broached the idea of a Tuesday afternoon Bible study/conversation time with one young woman. She was noncommittal, but I got the feeling that she might come if I showed up. I’ll try to begin next week, after our contact visits are done. Maybe I'll bring munchies... feed the body as well as the soul...

Finally, I spent some time fiddling with the "Synthia," which is a computer-aided keyboard that they use to support congregational singing in worship. No one plays an instrument in this congregation, and there's no room for one even if they did, in that tiny chapel. It’ll be while before I can do it smoothly, but I think I have the basic idea of how it works-- at least, enough to program music for Sunday. A handy gadget.

Bible study

Today was my first official internship solo: I went down to Rensselaer to lead a Bible study this evening. No, that's not exactly right; it would be more accurate to say that I was graciously welcomed to join in. This little group has had folks come and go, over time; but the nucleus has been meeting weekly since 1991. Yes, you heard me-- Episcopalians who read scripture! In fact, one woman officially wins the award for the most beat up, well-used Bible I have ever seen (yes, Tripp, it's in even worse shape than yours). They know their stuff, and I learned that I'd best come prepared, if I want to keep up.

Today they made it easy on me. They are currently doing lectionary-based study, looking at the readings for the following Sunday; and this week's Gospel is one of my favorites. So we had a grand time.

But I'm already looking over next week's readings, so I can be ready for them. What fun!

Pilgrimages

Yesterday was a good start to the summer. Worship services went well at St. Mary's, with 16 people in attendance-- a real crowd, for this tiny congregation. We all went out afterwards, and my family and I were treated to an amazing brunch buffet.

Then we piled in the car and headed east to Fort Wayne. The oldest child of some old friends graduated high school last week, and so we drove over to join the celebration. Though we haven't seen a lot of each other in recent years, we've known Glenn and Heidi since we were all newlyweds. I worked with Glenn at Timken (first jobs out of college, for both of us), and we lived in adjacent buildings, back then-- spent a lot of time eating, and talking, and playing together. It was great fun to surprise them, and wonderful to see the beautiful young woman that Colleen has grown to be.

However, it did make for a long day, so it was good to stay home for today.

What did I do on my first Monday home for the summer? I cleaned. Actually, we all cleaned. Not a favorite activity, but boy, did our home need the attention. It's not done, but it is vastly improved, and no longer in danger of condemnation by the health department. This week, interior work; next week, the yard. By the end of the summer, it might actually look like someone lives here.

Summer preachin' begins

Trinity Sunday, Year C
Isaiah 6:1-8

A steel mill is an amazing, fascinating place. If your only acquaintance is the view from the expressway, honestly, you’ve missed out-- and if you ever get a chance to tour an operating mill, take it.

All right, I’ll admit it-- I’m biased. I’m trained in the industry-- my undergraduate degree is in metallurgical engineering-- and I’ve worked at two different plants as a steelmaker. Further, I’m the third generation in my family to have done so, following my father and grandfather into the mills.

The culture is in my bones. I grew up listening to stories of shop floor triumphs and tragedies, crazy melters and stubborn foremen. My dad’s hard hat, his “metatarsals”-- protective leather boots, with a steel plate covering the top of the foot-- and his “greens”-- the heat-resistant jacket and pants that went on over his clothes at work-- were as much a fixture at our back door as my snow pants and boots in the wintertime. The terms of the trade (blast furnaces and casters; ingots and blooms, billets and coils) were part of the background noise of my life from the very beginning. Doesn’t every child know that it takes iron ore, coke and limestone to make steel? I don’t remember not knowing.

Now, you might think that’s the reason for my taking that path; but it takes more than family background to pull someone into a career. My brother and sister grew up in the same environment, and never showed any interest. But I did, and I can tell you very precisely when I was hooked.

I was 12, and in the 7th grade, when the mill where Dad worked offered the opportunity for “Family Tours.” They would tour around the husbands and wives, sons and daughters of employees, letting us see “live” where our loved ones worked, and showing us how the place operated. One of the places we visited when I went was the #2 Open Hearth. Now, an Open Hearth is a very old-fashioned sort of steelmaking; the basic process dates back hundreds of years. It’s not in much use these days. But back then, Inland still had one open hearth furnace operating - #2. And it just so happened that, the day I toured the mill, our tour group got to the shop just as they were about to “tap a heat.” This is the term used to describe emptying the furnace. A “heat” is simply a batch-- the amount made at one time, usually somewhere between 200 and 400 tons. “Tapping” means pouring the molten steel out of the furnace into a ladle, a huge pot hanging from an overhead crane, for distribution into ingot molds that stood waiting nearby on flatbed train cars.

Now, the design of that old furnace was such that in order to tap the heat, someone literally had to blow a hole in the side of it. The same spot is used for this each time: an explosive charge is placed in the hole, and detonated; the steel pours out, and then the hole is bricked up and the manufacturing process starts over again.

So, there I was, standing with the rest of the families, waiting. And as I stood there wide-eyed, hard hat on my head, safety glasses slipping down my nose, there was first this tremendous explosion, that shook the ground beneath my feet. Then, against a backdrop of black and gray, the monochromatic patina of dust and dirt that covered every open surface, there suddenly burst this glowing orange ribbon, streaming and roaring into the ladle. It was loud, and hot, and filthy, and dangerous... and I had never in my life seen anything so absolutely mesmerizing. In that instant, I was hooked. My background may have prepared me, may have made me more receptive to the magic; but it was the sudden reality that grabbed me, and changed me, forever. As a result of the actions and decisions that stem from that day, and even if I never step foot into another mill, part of me will always see the world through the eyes of a steelmaker.

In fact, this is the lens through which I understand Isaiah’s story this morning. In a single visionary moment, Isaiah sees something overwhelming. Something profound. He is touched by a glowing ember, and his life changes, forever. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t know where it will take him; all he knows is that he has been invited beyond the limitations of his sinful, inadequate world, to follow a single, defined, luminous path. He does not know the destination, but still he eagerly volunteers for the journey. It’s wondrous; he can’t do anything else.

It’s not as though there’s a promise of a pleasant journey. We don’t ever hear it in the Sunday lectionary readings, but the message that God calls Isaiah to bring to the people is a hard one, of judgment and desolation.

No sweetness and light promises, here.

That’s the first lesson of the day: nowhere in the Christian handbook does it say that discipleship is easy.

Standing with the marginalized, when the world would rather ignore problems of poverty and homelessness, even when they are nestled at our doorsteps...

Pointing out and refusing to participate in bigotry, in all the evil “isms” that are pervasive in our culture, our community, and yes, even our church...

These are not works and actions designed to win popularity contests. And yet, that’s our call, as Christians. That’s the coal burning in our mouths. That’s the molten orange fire pouring into us, ready to be poured out again.

No, God does not promise to make our journey easy. But the good news is that we are promised something else, as well. In today’s Gospel, Jesus terms it “the Advocate,” or “the spirit of truth.” Usually we simply call it the Holy Spirit, the third person of the Trinity that we celebrate today. God who is present with us at every moment, in every breath; strengthening us, like Isaiah, to walk the rocky road “into all truth.”

That’s the second part of the lesson, today: yes, the work is hard. Sometimes incredibly hard. It can be loud, and hot, and filthy, and dangerous... and absolutely mesmerizing. And best of all, it is not ours alone. We are never, ever alone.

So, set the charge, brothers and sisters, and let the steel pour forth.

Thanks be to God.

Seminarian-in-Charge!?

Yep-- tomorrow morning I start my summer gig! For the next ten weeks, I will be working part-time for the smallest congregation in our diocese: St. Mary's Fellowship, in Monticello, IN. Their vicar will be spending the summer in Great Britain, courtesy of the good folks in charge of doling out Eli Lilly grants. In a weak moment, she and my bishop decided I would be just the person to "mind the store" while she's gone. So, I will be officiating at Morning Prayer on Sundays (of course this includes preaching!), leading weekday Bible study, and working to strengthen community connections with Grace House, the shelter that takes up the 2nd and 3rd floor of the parish house (the first floor has been renovated to serve as a chapel). Incredible outreach for a congregation that normally doesn't number in double digits on a Sunday morning.

This is going to be an adventure. Start praying now.

I've added a couple new links to my blogroll, to which I'd like to direct your attention.

The first is the Schizophrenic Seminarian. This is a new blog whose care and feeding is provided by classmate Michael Fincher-- Seabury's middler sacristan, and all around good guy.

The other link is to my home parish. Yes, St. Paul's now has a website! It's looking quite spiffy, really; and the comments I've heard from parishioners are thus far uniformly positive. Any time you can get a group of Episcopalians to agree on something, you know someone has scored a major accomplishment.

Adventures in parish ministry

What do you get when you bring together:

- visonary Sunday school teachers,
- 30 yards of fabric (in Pentecost red)
- a cordless drill for setting eyebolts into oak crossbeams
- a 26-foot extension ladder... and a seminarian willing to climb it, tools in hand?

You get banners suspended from the ceiling, crossing over the altar, and flowing down toward the pulpit and lectern like tongues of fire.

What a cool morning.

Another day, another year

Graduation Day dawned clear and bright-- and a bit chilly, which was a blessing for all the folks running around in extra layers.

Swarms of liturgical ministers, ushers and sacristans everywhere. Episcopalians are very fond of ceremony-- we can make a liturgy of any occasion-- and when there's a special reason for it, we tend to go all out. Susie and I were "Hood Sacs:" responsible for seeing that each academic hood got around the neck of the right graduate (our academic dean did the actual draping, of course). And they did, every one of them.

The service was splendid (well, it wasn't the best sermon I've heard; but I suppose you can't have everything), thanks to all the planning and preparation. And a marvelous crop of newly-minted Seabury alumni walked out into the sunlight, happy tears amid joyful laughter.

I am going to sorely miss having these folks around; but it's marvelous to see them starting out, moving into the ministry for which all this has been preparation. And besides, it's giving me wonderful ideas for travel destinations. Montana... or a Mississippi trip or three...

Yes, the adventure continues.

And next year, it's our turn!

All done, now!

That checklist in the previous post? Done. Papers turned in, sermon delivered (you'll get that in a week or two, when its Propers roll around), final taken, project presented.

Insert doxology here!

Only a few last items remain, here "on the block" in Evanston. Our final Evensong is tonight, and that will be a joy. Tripp's presiding, Micah's the lector, Susie and I are cantors. I'm grateful to be a part of this worshipful bit of farewell to the year.

Tomorrow is packing up, and rehearsal-- and a bit of breadbaking, and breadbreaking, with some other friends.

And then, Commencement. Beginning again, and letting go.

I can't wait... and at the same time (and never more than in the last day or two) I don't want it to come.

Oh, my, that's going to be a day.

Countdown

This is it-- the last week of the term. And, unlike some folks around here, I still have plenty to do in the next few days: a sermon for preaching class this morning, a Greek final this afternoon, and a group project for my theology class due tomorrow.

I'm finding it hard to focus; there's too much other interesting stuff going on, too many people to chat with before the term is over.

Must... concentrate...

Nope. Diagnosis: "senioritis," a year early.