Transitions are holy fodder.
Think big, like the French revolution, poverty and squalor being fodder for new life en masse. Without this fodder they would never have stormed the Bastille (an event remembered today, July 14) demanding political change, liberation and food.
It was a revolution and a resurrection distinguished by violence, desperation and marked by cries for liberté, fraternité and egalité—spiritual basics of communal health.
Think small, like not being able to locate your favorite hanging hoop earrings buried in the chaos of cartons it’s too hot to unpack. Can I live like this for some time and find my soul without my order, my structures? Chaos has been fodder for finding deeper harmony, letting go of my usual need to get it all organized so I won’t feel stressed.
Can there be roses with a trellis? For a while they rise up indeed!
Fodder at its root is from the German word for food, but fodder can mean anything that primes your pump, gets your juices going, provokes explosions like cannon fodder, or helps you look elsewhere for manageability, finding it in surprising places like laughter, your husband’s voice, a squirrel dancing from limb to limb.
Transition is a low key word for all this but when you’re in one, which can be almost daily for some people, it can be fodder for defeatism or for choosing life in the midst—and everything in between.
Transition times are between times, times when you are so disoriented that you make space for Godde to enter your fret and chaos in spite of yourself.
Transitions are times for soul work, because things come up from the depths. Ideas you aren’t even thinking about just arise from spirit, the depth dimension of your psyche. I call this the voice of Godde within because it is not my own voice; it always provides wisdom I have never thought of; it leads me to choose to see things or live things in a new way; and finally it gives me hope.
And, as St. Paul says, hope never disappoints.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Images of Spiritual Empowerment: A Walk in the Park
When we moved from our neighborhood in Gloucester I knew I would miss the children, their squealy squawky voices at play or at war in the driveway sand pile across the street. Or the older children with the same voices playing street hockey or hide and seek in the bushes below our window.
I worried that in the city we would be too adultified.
No need to worry. We live in N. Cambridge near many parks where children and elders and middlers walk, run, play, rest, sit under trees and read, nurse babies on a bench and occasionally pass by and entertain briefly with one-sided invective on cell phones.
(Have you noticed the versatility of the F word? It can be a noun, verb, adjective or adverb. It can also be used to punctuate—period, comma the occasional semicolon to pause and emphasize the non-dangling participle gerundish F...ing rest of the run-on sentence.)
This morning I took a walk in our park, Danehy Park. I walked on a stained glass sidewalk, which is better than bleeding my head on a stained glass ceiling trying to establish gender justice in the Church.
On this sidewalk bits of colored glass are embedded into the pavement shining up at me as I walked. The path circles an athletic field with a track for running in a more intense way than my amble.
This sidewalk I thought is perfect image! For a woman like me and many others who have and still are getting stitches in their head from bumping up against invisible ceilings.
This stained glass sidewalk lifted me up, supported me. It didn’t resist my steps but gave me solid undergirding. To walk this path you need sneakers or wheels not stilts or wings. This is an image than ceilings designed to exclude the powerless and protect the powerful.
I walked on the stained glass path with hope for a just future as it extended out before me glittering, inviting, beckoning. It's an image of grounded power an image of outstretch not stopcold.
As I strode along I saw a little girl maybe four on a mini big wheel. She was happiness in the flesh, in the lead followed by her father. She pedaled with verve and squealed with joy as she took her little vehicle racing down the hill and into the water geysers for a bath. I suddenly got the spirituality of transport, the transcendent joy of pedaling, riding horseback, driving, piloting, traveling a track or just plain flying along in your Nikes.
I remembered my own children’s Big Wheel glory days. I understood the early fascination and awe a car of one’s own evokes in most young ones. My ten year old granddaughter has already picked hers out.
It’s like the power of the Holy: a tremendous, irresistible force—a power fraught with both danger and mystery. A power that enhances your own power and also lifts you beyond yourself to greater heights. Not for the faint of heart.
Finally, I settled by the majestic Willow trees, giants that suck water from deep earthen wells, draw it up into the heights and them weep it out returning it to the earth from whence it came. Take and give back
Another power image. This image is of a power that is shared, taken and given over and over for mutual nourishment. It represents the power of loving connection, the power of relationship.
When I returned home to kneel before my home altar I thanked God for divinity:children, cars, trees, feet and stained glass sidewalks.
I worried that in the city we would be too adultified.
No need to worry. We live in N. Cambridge near many parks where children and elders and middlers walk, run, play, rest, sit under trees and read, nurse babies on a bench and occasionally pass by and entertain briefly with one-sided invective on cell phones.
(Have you noticed the versatility of the F word? It can be a noun, verb, adjective or adverb. It can also be used to punctuate—period, comma the occasional semicolon to pause and emphasize the non-dangling participle gerundish F...ing rest of the run-on sentence.)
This morning I took a walk in our park, Danehy Park. I walked on a stained glass sidewalk, which is better than bleeding my head on a stained glass ceiling trying to establish gender justice in the Church.
On this sidewalk bits of colored glass are embedded into the pavement shining up at me as I walked. The path circles an athletic field with a track for running in a more intense way than my amble.
This sidewalk I thought is perfect image! For a woman like me and many others who have and still are getting stitches in their head from bumping up against invisible ceilings.
This stained glass sidewalk lifted me up, supported me. It didn’t resist my steps but gave me solid undergirding. To walk this path you need sneakers or wheels not stilts or wings. This is an image than ceilings designed to exclude the powerless and protect the powerful.
I walked on the stained glass path with hope for a just future as it extended out before me glittering, inviting, beckoning. It's an image of grounded power an image of outstretch not stopcold.
As I strode along I saw a little girl maybe four on a mini big wheel. She was happiness in the flesh, in the lead followed by her father. She pedaled with verve and squealed with joy as she took her little vehicle racing down the hill and into the water geysers for a bath. I suddenly got the spirituality of transport, the transcendent joy of pedaling, riding horseback, driving, piloting, traveling a track or just plain flying along in your Nikes.
I remembered my own children’s Big Wheel glory days. I understood the early fascination and awe a car of one’s own evokes in most young ones. My ten year old granddaughter has already picked hers out.
It’s like the power of the Holy: a tremendous, irresistible force—a power fraught with both danger and mystery. A power that enhances your own power and also lifts you beyond yourself to greater heights. Not for the faint of heart.
Finally, I settled by the majestic Willow trees, giants that suck water from deep earthen wells, draw it up into the heights and them weep it out returning it to the earth from whence it came. Take and give back
Another power image. This image is of a power that is shared, taken and given over and over for mutual nourishment. It represents the power of loving connection, the power of relationship.
When I returned home to kneel before my home altar I thanked God for divinity:children, cars, trees, feet and stained glass sidewalks.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Spiritual Coping
You think I’m going to say pray, pray and then pray some more. I am—sort of.
First agree to stop talking about the fact that you’re moving and you’ve now moved. You’re in. All your stuff is in with you but you can’t find any of it so you find one thing that make chaos seem orderly and focus on it. (Keep talking to yourself. Safer than talking to your spouse who will always listen, support and understand, then lovingly try to tell you things you already know, things only prayer, patience and the Godde within can remedy.))
I found two things.
The first was the eggs. They were where they were supposed to be, nestled in their cardboard carton on their very own designated shelf in the brand new still clean fridge.
Two of them fried would be delicious but where is their pan? Never mind. These aren’t just any old eggs.
They are laid by “the girls,” chickens parented by a beautiful lesbian couple who gave us the special eggs as a retirement gift. Each egg has a message on it neatly written in black indelible pen. Here are some of the messages: Enjoy retirement. We will miss you.Try me.Thanks for all you’ve given. Fry me. Feel ALL the feelings :) :( You will be forever in our hearts.
Now that’s prayer! You don’t need a pan now. You can’t eat these prayers just yet.
The second thing my traveling eye fell upon was a book we picked up in the best bookstore in the world
Porter Square Books. And it’s in our new ‘hood.
The book is called The Complete Psalms: The Book of Prayer Songs in a New Translation It’s by Pamela Greenberg with a Foreword by Susannah Heschel.
In her introduction Greenberg writes that this translation was an "impulse of shiru l’Adonai shir chadash, the imperative to sing to God a new song." Just what I needed. I’m singing a new song every day now and the Psalter contains every song the human heart can sing—all of it soul-true and all of it offered to Godde.
So I sing a prayer one a day whether it meets my mood or not. That’s no matter because it is not for me but for Godde.
Heschel in her Foreword speaks of her father Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, great Jewish scholar and man of prayer who said: “The beginning of prayer is praise. The power of worship is song. to worship is to join the cosmos in praising God."
The wise Rabbi also said: “To live without prayer is to live without God, to live without a soul . . . To pray is to take notice of the wonder, to regain a sense of mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living.”
Today the eye of my soul caught this phrase from Psalm 66: “Go and look at the works of the Creator.”
So I do. Then I look back at the chaotic surround of post moving and see that Lo! the coffee pot is perking away and the pot is full of the healthfully decaffeinated brew of coping—best with honey consumed in the sun’s morning light.
First agree to stop talking about the fact that you’re moving and you’ve now moved. You’re in. All your stuff is in with you but you can’t find any of it so you find one thing that make chaos seem orderly and focus on it. (Keep talking to yourself. Safer than talking to your spouse who will always listen, support and understand, then lovingly try to tell you things you already know, things only prayer, patience and the Godde within can remedy.))
I found two things.
The first was the eggs. They were where they were supposed to be, nestled in their cardboard carton on their very own designated shelf in the brand new still clean fridge.
Two of them fried would be delicious but where is their pan? Never mind. These aren’t just any old eggs.
They are laid by “the girls,” chickens parented by a beautiful lesbian couple who gave us the special eggs as a retirement gift. Each egg has a message on it neatly written in black indelible pen. Here are some of the messages: Enjoy retirement. We will miss you.Try me.Thanks for all you’ve given. Fry me. Feel ALL the feelings :) :( You will be forever in our hearts.
Now that’s prayer! You don’t need a pan now. You can’t eat these prayers just yet.
The second thing my traveling eye fell upon was a book we picked up in the best bookstore in the world
Porter Square Books. And it’s in our new ‘hood.
The book is called The Complete Psalms: The Book of Prayer Songs in a New Translation It’s by Pamela Greenberg with a Foreword by Susannah Heschel.
In her introduction Greenberg writes that this translation was an "impulse of shiru l’Adonai shir chadash, the imperative to sing to God a new song." Just what I needed. I’m singing a new song every day now and the Psalter contains every song the human heart can sing—all of it soul-true and all of it offered to Godde.
So I sing a prayer one a day whether it meets my mood or not. That’s no matter because it is not for me but for Godde.
Heschel in her Foreword speaks of her father Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, great Jewish scholar and man of prayer who said: “The beginning of prayer is praise. The power of worship is song. to worship is to join the cosmos in praising God."
The wise Rabbi also said: “To live without prayer is to live without God, to live without a soul . . . To pray is to take notice of the wonder, to regain a sense of mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living.”
Today the eye of my soul caught this phrase from Psalm 66: “Go and look at the works of the Creator.”
So I do. Then I look back at the chaotic surround of post moving and see that Lo! the coffee pot is perking away and the pot is full of the healthfully decaffeinated brew of coping—best with honey consumed in the sun’s morning light.
Friday, June 18, 2010
MoviPrep
We’re down to the countdown, the last few days before moving and retirement and enjoying some elegant last suppers with non-parishioners. One especially elegant one with our favorite musician, Mark Nelson and his marriage partner, sousaphoninst baritone and marine, David Oliver. Mark is as versatile and creative with food as he is with notes!
The day before the moving van comes and we are truly deprived with only our bed, clothes for the morrow, dop kits and Ms. Wise our cuddly, guardian mini-owl who will travel with us to our new home piloting from her seat on the dashboard, we will have to be ready—or not.
Yesterday I murmured to accomplice in marriage, Dick, “I want to go back to Egypt!” (Remember the biblical story of people of Israel who in faith followed Moses out of their servitude in Egypt and ended up in the wilderness for forty years whining to go back to Egypt where at least they had meat to eat and daily bread? Luckily God sent quail and manna.)
Food as bodily sustenance and spiritual assurance.
Manna is a weird substance but it contains all the minimum daily requirements of fruits and veggies and it’s not hoarfrost! God in the biblical story “rained bread from heaven” in the form of a fine flaky substance like coriander seed or cotton balls. It tastes like wafers in honey, very sweet—as fine as cotton candy that disappears in your mouth.
Manna is a special blessing which of course moderns have packaged, marketed and sold to pious foodies. Some refer to it as American popcorn, because manna is just as mysterious though less noisy in the making.
But to the ancients manna was a gift from God—unexpected but perfect like a childless over-aged person who suddenly becomes pregnant. Manna was not quite bread; however, quail was definitely meat!
Even the bitchiest prayers can be acknowledged, satisfied and become blessings.
So I email my friends and tell them to SEND MANNA...or at least some Kentucky Fried ersatz quail. A former parish warden dropped off some chicken wings at the door to pass for quail but the neighborhood predators, cats and squirrels, got to them first.
And another friend sent a hilarious column Colonscopy Journal by Dave Barry. He tells all and tells it with graphic humor. The best, as we all know who have had this treat(ment), is the preparation potion you drink for colonic purgation called MoviPrep, aka GoLightly. The names are like sheep’s clothing for wolves that explode inside you as they ravage, eliminating any and all refuse.
MoviPrep has become my new name for preparing to move. The process of culling your stuff doesn’t go lightly; nor does it prepare you for anything but pain.
Your stuff is precious even if you can’t remember what a lot of it was or is. Pitching and doling resembles amputation. And you know how you can feel a missing limb for days, months, years. The car and the beloved eight-foot sofa that just won’t fit were the worst! Cried like a baby in heat.
Humor helps because tears of laughter blend well with tears of sorrow. In fact today this little ditty popped into my brainless mind: Love and sorrow. Love and sorrow. Go together like there’s no tomorrow. Dear sisters and dear brothers, You can’t have one without the other. Pathetic, no? But truisms usually are and we need to keep this one because nowadays love and marriage aren’t as inseparable as we once thought.
So we are in MoviPrep, the wilderness in between—the place where we have set all these prescribed/appropriate (hate that word!) boundaries about no contact with parishioners (the need for them to detach you know) and basically having no friends or feeling as if you have no friends.
So every morning we wander and wonder.
This morning I poured orange juice over my cereal. It tasted lousy but it took me several mouthfuls of the noxious blend to realize it wasn’t milk and Cheerios.
Then later I went to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy two shower curtains for our new abode in Cambridge since cleanliness is next to youknowwho-ness, and came home $224 poorer—a few little items.
On the continuing subject of Last Last Suppers, we’re moving-prepping right along, We should be losing weight with all this stress and strain but instead we’re gaining from all the sumptuous caloric last suppers.
But honestly we don’t mind because we’re crying it all out in grief or losing it in sweat from heavy lifting.
Is there good news? Mmmhmmm. We love our new digs and our new landscape and the one neighbor we’ve met who hooted at us from her top floor window. And I suppose after it’s all done we will feel lighter and cleaner as you do after the colonic purgation of MoviPrep—ready for a post-colonscopy pigout.
Emptying and fasting is good in spiritual traditions. But so is lavish "delighting in fatness" as the Bible puts it— and abundance of life , God's desire for all Creation.
So, though I swear this won’t be us, immediate accumulation of more stuff!
The day before the moving van comes and we are truly deprived with only our bed, clothes for the morrow, dop kits and Ms. Wise our cuddly, guardian mini-owl who will travel with us to our new home piloting from her seat on the dashboard, we will have to be ready—or not.
Yesterday I murmured to accomplice in marriage, Dick, “I want to go back to Egypt!” (Remember the biblical story of people of Israel who in faith followed Moses out of their servitude in Egypt and ended up in the wilderness for forty years whining to go back to Egypt where at least they had meat to eat and daily bread? Luckily God sent quail and manna.)
Food as bodily sustenance and spiritual assurance.
Manna is a weird substance but it contains all the minimum daily requirements of fruits and veggies and it’s not hoarfrost! God in the biblical story “rained bread from heaven” in the form of a fine flaky substance like coriander seed or cotton balls. It tastes like wafers in honey, very sweet—as fine as cotton candy that disappears in your mouth.
Manna is a special blessing which of course moderns have packaged, marketed and sold to pious foodies. Some refer to it as American popcorn, because manna is just as mysterious though less noisy in the making.
But to the ancients manna was a gift from God—unexpected but perfect like a childless over-aged person who suddenly becomes pregnant. Manna was not quite bread; however, quail was definitely meat!
Even the bitchiest prayers can be acknowledged, satisfied and become blessings.
So I email my friends and tell them to SEND MANNA...or at least some Kentucky Fried ersatz quail. A former parish warden dropped off some chicken wings at the door to pass for quail but the neighborhood predators, cats and squirrels, got to them first.
And another friend sent a hilarious column Colonscopy Journal by Dave Barry. He tells all and tells it with graphic humor. The best, as we all know who have had this treat(ment), is the preparation potion you drink for colonic purgation called MoviPrep, aka GoLightly. The names are like sheep’s clothing for wolves that explode inside you as they ravage, eliminating any and all refuse.
MoviPrep has become my new name for preparing to move. The process of culling your stuff doesn’t go lightly; nor does it prepare you for anything but pain.
Your stuff is precious even if you can’t remember what a lot of it was or is. Pitching and doling resembles amputation. And you know how you can feel a missing limb for days, months, years. The car and the beloved eight-foot sofa that just won’t fit were the worst! Cried like a baby in heat.
Humor helps because tears of laughter blend well with tears of sorrow. In fact today this little ditty popped into my brainless mind: Love and sorrow. Love and sorrow. Go together like there’s no tomorrow. Dear sisters and dear brothers, You can’t have one without the other. Pathetic, no? But truisms usually are and we need to keep this one because nowadays love and marriage aren’t as inseparable as we once thought.
So we are in MoviPrep, the wilderness in between—the place where we have set all these prescribed/appropriate (hate that word!) boundaries about no contact with parishioners (the need for them to detach you know) and basically having no friends or feeling as if you have no friends.
So every morning we wander and wonder.
This morning I poured orange juice over my cereal. It tasted lousy but it took me several mouthfuls of the noxious blend to realize it wasn’t milk and Cheerios.
Then later I went to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy two shower curtains for our new abode in Cambridge since cleanliness is next to youknowwho-ness, and came home $224 poorer—a few little items.
On the continuing subject of Last Last Suppers, we’re moving-prepping right along, We should be losing weight with all this stress and strain but instead we’re gaining from all the sumptuous caloric last suppers.
But honestly we don’t mind because we’re crying it all out in grief or losing it in sweat from heavy lifting.
Is there good news? Mmmhmmm. We love our new digs and our new landscape and the one neighbor we’ve met who hooted at us from her top floor window. And I suppose after it’s all done we will feel lighter and cleaner as you do after the colonic purgation of MoviPrep—ready for a post-colonscopy pigout.
Emptying and fasting is good in spiritual traditions. But so is lavish "delighting in fatness" as the Bible puts it— and abundance of life , God's desire for all Creation.
So, though I swear this won’t be us, immediate accumulation of more stuff!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Last Last Suppers
Our last two suppers before we retire and move, one on Friday and one on Sunday, were held in the parish church sanctuary. Both were overseen by Christ, Host of the Christian faith; both were holy banquets.
We and all honored guests arrived Friday night to see the entire sanctuary set up as a feast, our penultimate last supper. Space had been made for milling and spilling. Tables and the altar itself were laden with every kind of delicious food and our choir’s baritone soloed as bar tender serving wine and soft drinks. Acolytes in black circled and weaved their way in and out with serving trays and little paper napkin/purificators (the name for the white cloth used to wipe the chalice as it is passes from communicant to communicant at Communion.)
A grand swell of organ music like a shofar summoned the people to be seated for a tasteful, funny and dear program. No one had to say “The Lord is with you.” We knew it. We all sat in prayer with unbowed heads. The parish comic acted as emcee; a parishioner guitarist, his young son at his feet playing air guitar, played his favorite Beatles song; and a poet with eloquence read “Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver. The wardens, a boy one and a girl one, gave brief tributes as Dick and I reached for the Kleenex.
Carol presented a beautiful book stand made by parish woodworkers to serve as perch for a huge Memory Book in which every parish individual or family created a page. Usually one puts a Bible on such a stand but for now this Book will be our bible of remembrance and thanksgiving. It represents a people who know how to be eucharist, how to give thanks for all things, how to remember and honor the best and the worst of times, and above all how to come regularly to dine at God’s holy dining room table for better or worse to receive the grace of God. The Church at its gracious unconditional best.
Rick presented us with a purse. I half expected him to lift up a small purse like the one Queen Elizabeth always has draped over her arm. But instead he held aloft an envelope. Suspense rose as in the academy awards while he slowly opened the envelope and announced in solemn tones, “There’s a check here for $42.50. Oops, move that decimal point over two.” The Magi never had such treasure, such richness of heart.
Dick and I gave our celebrative thanks. I don’t remember what either of us said, only that I asked Jesus to hold onto my tears so I could speak my gratitude without blubbering. But we both choked up.
To be known just as you are and loved just as you are is grace.
It was tribute enough to see that all our teaching and preaching over the years about being a eucharistic community, about bringing God into the middle of our lives on Sunday and every day, of not being afraid to let the sanctuary be holy all the time and filled with Spirit and joy whatever event was going on there. Just like a cathedral!
The second last supper at the parish was the regular Sunday liturgy for the third Sunday after Pentecost. Many of the same people returned for the second banquet, the altar still dressed up for a celebration. We priests wore red vestments, the color of the Holy Spirit— She who would not be called He.
The Sunday Mass/Holy Eucharist was as alive and vibrant with Presence divine and human as it was on Friday night and, for me and my personal Jewish roots as well as the roots of Christianity, connected Friday Shabbat holy meal with our Sunday Eucharist.
The reading from the Old Testament (I Kings) was a long story about King Ahab lusting over the vineyard of Naboth who refused to sell in spite of over the top royal purchase offers. Never mind, said Ahab’s wife Jezebel, I will get you the vineyard. She did by an elaborate ruse that included murder. Naboth dead the vineyard was now Ahab’s. What some women will do for their husbands! BUT of course God intervened with disapproval and Ahab and Jezebel suffered dire consequences for their crimes. There are consequences for everything and I can believe that God’s justice in the human soul sparks human action and conscience.
The lector read the whole drama with particular animation and a bass voice. Half way through the amazing but sadly true to human nature plot he interjected without missing a beat, “I’m not making this up you know.” And the people, already full of amused shock and awe, broke into open laughter. The place was alive, alert and authentic, as down to earth and true in fact as all Old Testament stories.
The gospel reading was from Luke 7, the story of the woman sinner, reputed to be Mary Magdalene, whom Jesus had healed of seven demons. Grateful for her wholeness she anointed him with perfumed oil of blessing as she kissed his feet and wiped them with her hair. A romantic gesture to be sure. Still, I can imagine someone feeling such gratitude and humility after healing by whatever means. But today such an extravagant gesture would be eschewed by doctors, therapists or clergy— bad professional boundaries.
What price boundaries when love is the message? I wonder.
I couldn’t resist a little post-homily (Dick's) addendum: Notice who gets to go down in history over centuries with the bad reputations! I had to keep up my feminist rant. Later I thanked everyone for their amused acceptance of my politics. For some it was to humor me; for some it was genuine appreciation, and for a few I’m sure it was teeth-gritting tolerance. Still I felt loved. Even when I met a former parishioner in the elevator at the hospital who asked me, “Is he gone yet?” I could tell him “not quite” and chuckle, he having no idea who I was as a priest, woman, spouse of the "real" priest.
Later as I presented the children with Bible quotes. I told them these wouldn’t mean much now but to keep them and one day they would dig them up and discover some spiritual wisdom. The Word in the words. I have heard many adults in this work tell me that they had received such a quote at Confirmation or something and years later found it hidden in a dresser drawer and suddenly light shone.
After the Holy Eucharist banquet was over and everyone had been fed Dick and I offered brief closing remarks. I thanked for many things, most importantly for this community having given me over the years an opportunity to blossom and grow into the fullness of myself as a woman priest. With very few exceptions I have never felt like a sidekick or some kind of subsidiary priest at St John’s. It is a gift of unimaginable blessing to me.
My exit line went something like: This parish is full of amazing creativity, musicians, artists, poets, dancers, writers, orators, woodworkers, liturgists and the unsung beauty of just plain good humor and kindness. I firmly believe that the arts will restore the world to its natural beauty and god-given goodness But now........get out there and recruit some corporate types. You need money.”
Then Dick with his own art of oratory made an elegant tribute, presented a flow chart of who will take care of what, said fear not in many ways, announced the end of his rectorship and our priestly ministry here, then said with a brief sob. “We will no longer be your priests and pastors, but we will always be your friends.”
We should have sold little tissue packets for an almighty sum as a last fund raiser as Dick suggested on Friday!
Dick then read a formal proclamation that officially turned full ecclesiastical authority over to the wardens until such time as the 21st rector of St. John’s parish church was elected to begin a new chapter in the life of Christ at St. John’s.
As our gift to the parish we had framed and gave them a blessing we have frequently used. Dick graciously invited honored guest, the Rev. Claude G. Hopper, the only grasshopper with a clerical collar, ordained as an Episcopal priest by the late Blair McElroy, to join us. Claude hopped between us as we said the final blessing together.
Life is short.
We do not have much time to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind.
And the blessing of God Almighty, Creator, Christ and Holy Spirit be upon you and remain with you always. AMEN.
PS Just one more holy banquet, a festive coffee hour with just the right amount of too much food.
We and all honored guests arrived Friday night to see the entire sanctuary set up as a feast, our penultimate last supper. Space had been made for milling and spilling. Tables and the altar itself were laden with every kind of delicious food and our choir’s baritone soloed as bar tender serving wine and soft drinks. Acolytes in black circled and weaved their way in and out with serving trays and little paper napkin/purificators (the name for the white cloth used to wipe the chalice as it is passes from communicant to communicant at Communion.)
A grand swell of organ music like a shofar summoned the people to be seated for a tasteful, funny and dear program. No one had to say “The Lord is with you.” We knew it. We all sat in prayer with unbowed heads. The parish comic acted as emcee; a parishioner guitarist, his young son at his feet playing air guitar, played his favorite Beatles song; and a poet with eloquence read “Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver. The wardens, a boy one and a girl one, gave brief tributes as Dick and I reached for the Kleenex.
Carol presented a beautiful book stand made by parish woodworkers to serve as perch for a huge Memory Book in which every parish individual or family created a page. Usually one puts a Bible on such a stand but for now this Book will be our bible of remembrance and thanksgiving. It represents a people who know how to be eucharist, how to give thanks for all things, how to remember and honor the best and the worst of times, and above all how to come regularly to dine at God’s holy dining room table for better or worse to receive the grace of God. The Church at its gracious unconditional best.
Rick presented us with a purse. I half expected him to lift up a small purse like the one Queen Elizabeth always has draped over her arm. But instead he held aloft an envelope. Suspense rose as in the academy awards while he slowly opened the envelope and announced in solemn tones, “There’s a check here for $42.50. Oops, move that decimal point over two.” The Magi never had such treasure, such richness of heart.
Dick and I gave our celebrative thanks. I don’t remember what either of us said, only that I asked Jesus to hold onto my tears so I could speak my gratitude without blubbering. But we both choked up.
To be known just as you are and loved just as you are is grace.
It was tribute enough to see that all our teaching and preaching over the years about being a eucharistic community, about bringing God into the middle of our lives on Sunday and every day, of not being afraid to let the sanctuary be holy all the time and filled with Spirit and joy whatever event was going on there. Just like a cathedral!
The second last supper at the parish was the regular Sunday liturgy for the third Sunday after Pentecost. Many of the same people returned for the second banquet, the altar still dressed up for a celebration. We priests wore red vestments, the color of the Holy Spirit— She who would not be called He.
The Sunday Mass/Holy Eucharist was as alive and vibrant with Presence divine and human as it was on Friday night and, for me and my personal Jewish roots as well as the roots of Christianity, connected Friday Shabbat holy meal with our Sunday Eucharist.
The reading from the Old Testament (I Kings) was a long story about King Ahab lusting over the vineyard of Naboth who refused to sell in spite of over the top royal purchase offers. Never mind, said Ahab’s wife Jezebel, I will get you the vineyard. She did by an elaborate ruse that included murder. Naboth dead the vineyard was now Ahab’s. What some women will do for their husbands! BUT of course God intervened with disapproval and Ahab and Jezebel suffered dire consequences for their crimes. There are consequences for everything and I can believe that God’s justice in the human soul sparks human action and conscience.
The lector read the whole drama with particular animation and a bass voice. Half way through the amazing but sadly true to human nature plot he interjected without missing a beat, “I’m not making this up you know.” And the people, already full of amused shock and awe, broke into open laughter. The place was alive, alert and authentic, as down to earth and true in fact as all Old Testament stories.
The gospel reading was from Luke 7, the story of the woman sinner, reputed to be Mary Magdalene, whom Jesus had healed of seven demons. Grateful for her wholeness she anointed him with perfumed oil of blessing as she kissed his feet and wiped them with her hair. A romantic gesture to be sure. Still, I can imagine someone feeling such gratitude and humility after healing by whatever means. But today such an extravagant gesture would be eschewed by doctors, therapists or clergy— bad professional boundaries.
What price boundaries when love is the message? I wonder.
I couldn’t resist a little post-homily (Dick's) addendum: Notice who gets to go down in history over centuries with the bad reputations! I had to keep up my feminist rant. Later I thanked everyone for their amused acceptance of my politics. For some it was to humor me; for some it was genuine appreciation, and for a few I’m sure it was teeth-gritting tolerance. Still I felt loved. Even when I met a former parishioner in the elevator at the hospital who asked me, “Is he gone yet?” I could tell him “not quite” and chuckle, he having no idea who I was as a priest, woman, spouse of the "real" priest.
Later as I presented the children with Bible quotes. I told them these wouldn’t mean much now but to keep them and one day they would dig them up and discover some spiritual wisdom. The Word in the words. I have heard many adults in this work tell me that they had received such a quote at Confirmation or something and years later found it hidden in a dresser drawer and suddenly light shone.
After the Holy Eucharist banquet was over and everyone had been fed Dick and I offered brief closing remarks. I thanked for many things, most importantly for this community having given me over the years an opportunity to blossom and grow into the fullness of myself as a woman priest. With very few exceptions I have never felt like a sidekick or some kind of subsidiary priest at St John’s. It is a gift of unimaginable blessing to me.
My exit line went something like: This parish is full of amazing creativity, musicians, artists, poets, dancers, writers, orators, woodworkers, liturgists and the unsung beauty of just plain good humor and kindness. I firmly believe that the arts will restore the world to its natural beauty and god-given goodness But now........get out there and recruit some corporate types. You need money.”
Then Dick with his own art of oratory made an elegant tribute, presented a flow chart of who will take care of what, said fear not in many ways, announced the end of his rectorship and our priestly ministry here, then said with a brief sob. “We will no longer be your priests and pastors, but we will always be your friends.”
We should have sold little tissue packets for an almighty sum as a last fund raiser as Dick suggested on Friday!
Dick then read a formal proclamation that officially turned full ecclesiastical authority over to the wardens until such time as the 21st rector of St. John’s parish church was elected to begin a new chapter in the life of Christ at St. John’s.
As our gift to the parish we had framed and gave them a blessing we have frequently used. Dick graciously invited honored guest, the Rev. Claude G. Hopper, the only grasshopper with a clerical collar, ordained as an Episcopal priest by the late Blair McElroy, to join us. Claude hopped between us as we said the final blessing together.
Life is short.
We do not have much time to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind.
And the blessing of God Almighty, Creator, Christ and Holy Spirit be upon you and remain with you always. AMEN.
PS Just one more holy banquet, a festive coffee hour with just the right amount of too much food.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Last Suppers
In the closing weeks, now days, of our time here in Gloucester and at St. John’s Church before we move into retirement, we are being treated to many last suppers, breakfasts, lunches, teas and coffees. The bounty is varied and all of it bittersweet.
I can understand the impact and value of the Christian tradition’s focus on Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples and friends. I know why they picked this moment as the scene that would be re-enacted over and over weekly in most Christian churches to remember the love of God communicated by Jesus Christ— a love so broad, so rich, so free as to include us all as guests without invitation, RSVP or conditions.
I can understand the sacred Friday Shabbat supper with ritual candles and remembrance of God’s faithfulness in the covenant.
I can understand why a prisoner facing execution is given a last meal, whatever he or she want without condition, to say goodbye to earthly life. Grace in a meal.
I can understand why as a child I was offered my favorite meal on my birthday and sometimes while recovering from a bout of some childhood illness. Mine would always be tuna fish casserole sans the peas but with potato chips crumbled on top, chocolate milk and vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. Now it’s meat loaf of any variety with peas, potatoes smashed, then red wine and dark chocolate.
And I understand why the Last Supper became the Holy Communion/Eucharist sacrament of remembrance, justice, thanksgiving and forgiving, compassion and hope— the food of grace.
Don’t we all know this same experience around a family dining table when the food is sumptuous, the conversation heartening, and love connects? And don’t we all also know the truth that this ideal is rarely unbroken by more difficult feelings like anger, fear, guilt or sorrow?
But we come to the table anyway—again and again and again—with outstretched hands.
Our “last suppers” have all been holy too— lots of love sprinkled with the sorrow of goodbye and the hope of new life and the fear of loss.
For us the theme of “last supper” had many variations: from tea or coffee with dunking biscotti, to caesar salad with chicken times 5-6, to elegant dinners with wine and quail or some bird or other, to the most precious of all, a dinner out at Friendlys complete with my old favorite vanilla with hot fudge sauce no cherry.
I can understand the impact and value of the Christian tradition’s focus on Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples and friends. I know why they picked this moment as the scene that would be re-enacted over and over weekly in most Christian churches to remember the love of God communicated by Jesus Christ— a love so broad, so rich, so free as to include us all as guests without invitation, RSVP or conditions.
I can understand the sacred Friday Shabbat supper with ritual candles and remembrance of God’s faithfulness in the covenant.
I can understand why a prisoner facing execution is given a last meal, whatever he or she want without condition, to say goodbye to earthly life. Grace in a meal.
I can understand why as a child I was offered my favorite meal on my birthday and sometimes while recovering from a bout of some childhood illness. Mine would always be tuna fish casserole sans the peas but with potato chips crumbled on top, chocolate milk and vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. Now it’s meat loaf of any variety with peas, potatoes smashed, then red wine and dark chocolate.
And I understand why the Last Supper became the Holy Communion/Eucharist sacrament of remembrance, justice, thanksgiving and forgiving, compassion and hope— the food of grace.
Don’t we all know this same experience around a family dining table when the food is sumptuous, the conversation heartening, and love connects? And don’t we all also know the truth that this ideal is rarely unbroken by more difficult feelings like anger, fear, guilt or sorrow?
But we come to the table anyway—again and again and again—with outstretched hands.
Our “last suppers” have all been holy too— lots of love sprinkled with the sorrow of goodbye and the hope of new life and the fear of loss.
For us the theme of “last supper” had many variations: from tea or coffee with dunking biscotti, to caesar salad with chicken times 5-6, to elegant dinners with wine and quail or some bird or other, to the most precious of all, a dinner out at Friendlys complete with my old favorite vanilla with hot fudge sauce no cherry.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Prophetic Lying for Truth
In a lie often dwells a deeper spiritual truth—prophetic and something not to ignore.
When I was in college I nearly had an achievement breakdown. When I joined the world for real at about six I was already working on my strategy of choice to gain my father’s unconditional approval/attention—love by achieving in small matters like learning my letters and then bragging.
It didn’t work because, as I later came to know, my somewhat recessive, depressed, boozy (his own strategy) father loved me all along and it wasn’t for my achievements.
When I hit school in earnest I upped the ante on myself and achieved excellence in most things even Latin. It helped that I did and do love school and learning, but I was fast letting the world remake me in its own image and forgetting the God I’d met under the dining room table at three, the same one who, when I chattered on about all my thoughts, feeling, doings, neither applauded nor scorned but simply listened, made no corrections and, I felt sure, smiled.
Sadly I forgot about my early spiritual experience and took on American culture and its drive to success often at great cost. Even back in the forties we were a can-do culture and I became the most can-do-energizer-bunny I could be—compulsively so.
Phi Beta Kappa,When I called my parents to tell them I had been elected to Phi Beta Kappa, my father said “There must be some mistake.” Then quickly he laughed and added, “Just kidding, darling, that’s great.” I think that was the moment when, as inured as I was to my father’s style, I began to remember my God, began to glean truth fragments about myself, my dad and the American addiction to success, a profound cultural deception: if you don’t succeed (top grades, top credentials, top honors) you may not survive (get elected, get a good job, be a winner, survive.)
I remembered my own experience as I read about the recent exposure of painful lies, fabrications devised in worship of a false god. Religion calls this idolatry. It always stems from a ground zero spirituality of fear—not being loved and so engaging in efforts to prove oneself when there is in fact nothing you have to prove.
Richard Blumenthal, a Democrat got caught serving this lie in an effort to prove his worth. Blumenthal, attorney general of Connecticut, is running for Senate in Connecticut. It looked good until it was discovered that he had falsely claimed to have served in Vietnam. Why? Would this make him a hero? He already is a hero, or at least he has served his office well and was very electable—until his lie was discovered.
Most ordinary people, voters want/expect integrity. The biblical God in Genesis chose Noah to build a salvation ark because of his integrity (in Hebrew tam), not for his wood-working skills.
But I wonder if Blumenthal is a prophet in disguise. I wonder if there is a deeper truth under his unwise lying. I wonder if his action exposes the underbelly of the sin of this culture, the lie that drove him to lie in the first place now playing a role in revealing, not his personal sins but the sins of the system that enables, no encourages such behavior, even makes it almost normative.
The drive to succeed exceeds a normal desire for excellence when it causes one to lie to achieve something in easy reach. But before we condemn Blumenthal wholesale let’s look at the larger cultural context.
The paradox I discern is this: whether Blumenthal meant it or not his deceptive action exposes a truth we need to examine. Falsification could be seen as a symptom, a prophetic act of defiance against a system gone awry with rank ordering. The more inauthentic we get the more the deception is revealed and hopefully will lead to a change of ways, to ceasing and desisting from all these categories of who is acceptable and who is not. It is simply not the way of Spirit, not the way of God—and just plain not good for you at any level of being.
Could it be an honor not to have served in war or not to have straight A’s at Harvard?
All the great religious prophets exposed truth by doing something so counter-cultural, so deserving of dishonor that it got them ostracized if not killed. It happened to Jesus a lot and in the end cost him his life. Because he dined with society’s dregs and refused any honors himself he dishonored himself. He also called attention to the need for less competition and more compassion.
And from his dishonor itself we are still learning what true honor is, just as I learned and keep learning over and over not to sell my soul for the next accolade, no matter how sweet.
When I was in college I nearly had an achievement breakdown. When I joined the world for real at about six I was already working on my strategy of choice to gain my father’s unconditional approval/attention—love by achieving in small matters like learning my letters and then bragging.
It didn’t work because, as I later came to know, my somewhat recessive, depressed, boozy (his own strategy) father loved me all along and it wasn’t for my achievements.
When I hit school in earnest I upped the ante on myself and achieved excellence in most things even Latin. It helped that I did and do love school and learning, but I was fast letting the world remake me in its own image and forgetting the God I’d met under the dining room table at three, the same one who, when I chattered on about all my thoughts, feeling, doings, neither applauded nor scorned but simply listened, made no corrections and, I felt sure, smiled.
Sadly I forgot about my early spiritual experience and took on American culture and its drive to success often at great cost. Even back in the forties we were a can-do culture and I became the most can-do-energizer-bunny I could be—compulsively so.
Phi Beta Kappa,When I called my parents to tell them I had been elected to Phi Beta Kappa, my father said “There must be some mistake.” Then quickly he laughed and added, “Just kidding, darling, that’s great.” I think that was the moment when, as inured as I was to my father’s style, I began to remember my God, began to glean truth fragments about myself, my dad and the American addiction to success, a profound cultural deception: if you don’t succeed (top grades, top credentials, top honors) you may not survive (get elected, get a good job, be a winner, survive.)
I remembered my own experience as I read about the recent exposure of painful lies, fabrications devised in worship of a false god. Religion calls this idolatry. It always stems from a ground zero spirituality of fear—not being loved and so engaging in efforts to prove oneself when there is in fact nothing you have to prove.
Richard Blumenthal, a Democrat got caught serving this lie in an effort to prove his worth. Blumenthal, attorney general of Connecticut, is running for Senate in Connecticut. It looked good until it was discovered that he had falsely claimed to have served in Vietnam. Why? Would this make him a hero? He already is a hero, or at least he has served his office well and was very electable—until his lie was discovered.
Most ordinary people, voters want/expect integrity. The biblical God in Genesis chose Noah to build a salvation ark because of his integrity (in Hebrew tam), not for his wood-working skills.
But I wonder if Blumenthal is a prophet in disguise. I wonder if there is a deeper truth under his unwise lying. I wonder if his action exposes the underbelly of the sin of this culture, the lie that drove him to lie in the first place now playing a role in revealing, not his personal sins but the sins of the system that enables, no encourages such behavior, even makes it almost normative.
The drive to succeed exceeds a normal desire for excellence when it causes one to lie to achieve something in easy reach. But before we condemn Blumenthal wholesale let’s look at the larger cultural context.
The paradox I discern is this: whether Blumenthal meant it or not his deceptive action exposes a truth we need to examine. Falsification could be seen as a symptom, a prophetic act of defiance against a system gone awry with rank ordering. The more inauthentic we get the more the deception is revealed and hopefully will lead to a change of ways, to ceasing and desisting from all these categories of who is acceptable and who is not. It is simply not the way of Spirit, not the way of God—and just plain not good for you at any level of being.
Could it be an honor not to have served in war or not to have straight A’s at Harvard?
All the great religious prophets exposed truth by doing something so counter-cultural, so deserving of dishonor that it got them ostracized if not killed. It happened to Jesus a lot and in the end cost him his life. Because he dined with society’s dregs and refused any honors himself he dishonored himself. He also called attention to the need for less competition and more compassion.
And from his dishonor itself we are still learning what true honor is, just as I learned and keep learning over and over not to sell my soul for the next accolade, no matter how sweet.
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