2014.09.21 The Old Nantucketeer

In this morning moment, I try to memorize summer as it fades before my eyes. I shall miss it so, as the coldness creeps, then settles, into my bones. But for now, I memorize its every sweetness and prepare to give up berries for apples, bare shoulders for hunched, shivering ones, bare feet for double socks, clear lungs for congested ones, and soft Nantucket sands for my thick comforter. I do, however, adore the beauty of naked trees in winter—also, the glitter of new snow and the gleeful shouts of sledding kids in the nearby park. Still, my island home is kinda mystical to me—a little scary, a little awesome, like the holy.

 As an ode to summer's end, I jotted this proem:

The Old Nantucketeer

We met an old Nantucketeer
on line at the ferry dock—
there to meet a ferry pick-up,
there to pick up guests.
On the rear window of his sizable SUV—
portly as was he—
there was a familiar identifier: a white shield
with a red cross emblazoned, its
upper left corner blue with little white stars
forming an X, five from upper left
to lower right and five from upper right to lower left.
Tic tac doe, or is it toe?
Above the cross arrangement is written
The Episcopal Church.
The church calls its pretty little shield, “soft evangelism.”
For me it was recognition.
My emergent aging extroversion kicked in, “Hi...........
I saw your decal." I stuck my head part way into his window,
interrupting his snooze.
He was buckled into his seat in a reverie of ease.
He awakened and chuckled: “I’ve been coming here
since I was a child; my parental home was in Monomoy
so I know it must have been a mansion,
characteristic of Monomoy and of our Episcopal church.
With some exceptions, I thought.
“Natives fuss about tourists and the summer influx,” he continued.
“I’ve been coming here for over 50 years, summers
and sometimes in winter, “ I interrupted, noticing initials
primly embroidered on the cuffs of his white shirt.
Fancy. Sweet. I’d met a Brahmin.
"People like me, he added, "are called visitors, but we visitors
shed tears when we leave the island." (I know.)
"My brother is fatter than I am," he said. Bragging?
"I can hardly get about anymore."
The ferry horn blasted, signaling
more noxious tourist-types arriving—beloved immigrants—
and some leaving.
My new friend opened his car door and, with labor,
heaved his bulk forward and landed his feet on the pavement.
“You know what they say about Nantucket?” he said.
I waited.
“Nantucket is a chronic infectious disease
 not covered by Medicare.”
He shook in silent mirth; I laughed out loud.
True.
Then I spotted my son and his family bounding
down the ferry gangplank. Hi. Hi. Hi.
I was here when this son was conceived, or was it
when I was pregnant with his sister?

Time gets lost.

My Episcopal friend waved down his friends, turned to
me and said, “I’m devoted to St. Paul’s Episcopal here,
but I worship now at the Congregational Church.”
My irritation rose, fell, and vanished.

I thought, but didn’t say: Next year in Jerusalem.
It sounded like a psalm, more stately than what I actually said:
"Next year in Nantucket."

2014.09.14 Holy Cross Consecration

Today, in the Christian church, it is Holy Cross Day, a day we remember the holiness of the cross of Christ. (I think it is good to have another day, so that we do not pile all our dolorous grief into one day, Good Friday.)  But a holy execution? Weird, huh? Yes, it is, but it is historic. Jesus Christ is our hero and he dedicated his life, and lost it, condemned for treason to crucifixion. Why holy?

Because:  (1) Jesus taught that God was Love unbounded and died in that faith. (2) Divine grace, he preached, meant forgiveness, erasure, different from pardon, of all sins—a clean slate for those who sincerely desired it. And (3) He had converts who believed his words, loved and followed him, and thought he was “king”—too rivalrous for the Emperor of the day to ignore. He didn't recant from his message and suffered torture for it. There is is holiness in such brave love. It deserves reverence—not to laud suffering, but to honor courage, conviction, and trust in God.

I try to remember that there is no one who has never suffered. There, of course, are degrees, but what you have suffered and do suffer is yours and to be honored equally in the economy of grace.

Comparisons about suffering are about as odious as any other comparisons, though they sometimes help us feel a little bit less narcissistic in our own plights—which is not a bad thing. When I look at the Crucifix with Jesus hanging there, I shudder, and I thank God for thinking ahead. Suffering is not the last word.

Today I am praying for and with my sister who is in pain. I pray courage and good medicine her way. She is feisty and will walk........if not on her legs, then on her butt in a motorized chair.

Yesterday, I, and thousands of other faithful Episcopalians, clergy and lay, attended the consecration of Alan M. Gates, as the 16th bishop of Massachusetts. When the Church gathered does a big new thing, we all come, and we all cheer, and we all sing our lungs out, and hope our hearts out. It is a new day.

We will mourn our former bishop, who is in the process of his dying, and we will cheer our new bishop who will provide new and different leadership. It’s hard to do both at once, yet tears belong in equal force to goodbye and hello. When I saw the former bishop hand over the crozier of guidance to his successor and then walk off the platform and leave, I cried. Later I cried again as I watched all the old, mostly male, bishops slowly come down from the platform to process out. I thought: “I am watching the old boys’ patriarchal church proudly march out—and I am an old girl."  They have served with grit and faith. So have I. It is a new day. I don’t know what the new church will look like, but I know the Spirit will stick around to set fire to it.

 

Photo: Former Bishop M. Thomas Shaw (left) says goodbye and newly consecrated bishop Alan M. Gates (right) says hello. The Rt. Rev. Mark Hollingsworth (seated) bishop of Ohio and preacher of the day looks on. This day we applauded everything!

The consecration Eucharist was joy on steroids—diverse and amazing soul-music, a panoply of festive red vestiture, and prayers of gratitude and blessing, and a hockey rink dressed up to be  Church-for-a-day!  It was a red-letter day. Red is the color of the Holy Spirit. She is all aflame, spreading her fiery grace on us all—no one consumed. All fired up, as they say.

Bishop Gates, in his own printed message, recalled a French proverb, attributed to Jean Massieu: “Gratitude is the memory of the heart.” He elaborated some of his own memories, looked forward to making new ones, and closed with these words:“If gratitude is the memory of the heart, then my heart is overflowing with thankfulness. I thank you. I thank God for you.”

Whereas, if the heart be moved,
Although the verse be somewhat scant,
God doth supply the want;
As when the heart says, sighing to be approved,
‘O could I love!’ and stops, God writeth, “Loved.”
        George Herbert (1593-1633) Anglican priest/poet A True Hymn

2014.09.07 Who/What Is God/Godde or god?

A wondrous tweenager I'll call Tweenie  got in a ‘tween-fight with other girls at school. What in the world would girls fight about but boys, or maybe fashion?  These girls were fighting about religion. Excuse me?

One of their number was from an Assembly of God tradition and had very clear ideas about religion. To her, God was Jesus, and you had to be “saved” to get right with God, not to mention the community. My Tweenie, having been less “carefully taught” in the Episcopal tradition, thought that her friend's brand of religion was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard of. The girls got heated in their dispute about salvation and ended up in the Principal’s office. (I bet it was the first time this principal had to arbitrate this kind of an all-girl dispute. Rather refreshing, don’t you think?) 

The Principal managed to extract what had happened and to arbitrate some mild reconciliation—with a bonus. Tweenie had said some very nasty things to the “religious freak.” There were witnesses. She was seized with remorse, so much so that she agreed to go to church with her freaky religious friend, at which point her mother called me—worried that her daughter would become a Jesus freak, or some kind of a politically incorrect fundamentalist.

I told Mom not to worry. Worse things than Jesus can happen. She wanted me to talk to her daughter.  I told tweenheart just to go to church and observe. Be curious. I explained about altar calls and told her that God had given her a good mind and heart and trusted her to make her own decision in matters of faith—something like, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, though you might feel pressured. I may have said Jesus wasn’t all that bad, but I don’t remember.

 So Tweenie went to church, and of course she came home with an "annunciation": “I am saved!”  Turning to her older sister, she added: “You really should be saved. It would help you a lot.”

Out of the mouths of tweenagers.............   Mom was relieved and told Tweenie she'd go to church with her the next week—good Mom. By the time next week rolled around, "salvation" was out and the mall was in. Annunciation # 2 and #3, just as vociferous, followed: “I am an atheist. I'm thinking about majoring in religious symbolism."

It’s easy to laugh at such innocence. It is quirky and wonderful. But I never scorn sincere confusion about God. You don’t have to be a teen to get confused. Many days I wonder myself.  I just wrote to a friend whose dear friend, a young woman of 45, had finally wasted away and died from cancer and its treatments. I’d met this woman, whom I will call BFF-Beloved, and had been praying like mad for remission. My friend has as many queries about God as Tweenie.

I had no good words except those of my Christian faith in the God of Jesus Christ, by no means an easy-answer religion. And I had the memory of a primary experience of this God I’d met under a table as a very young child who listened to my every word, even the nasty ones, and let me know I mattered. On these two poles I balance, most days precariously, like the spinning plates of a juggler, all my faith and all my doubt.

So I wrote: “I want to hold in my mind my memory of your friend's former vibrant self, which, by my faith, is still there and will be resurrected in God. God, you know, is only a name, a vocabulary word really, for the unfathomable mystery of Love. Most of us know how inefficient love can be, yet it is always effective. And most people believe in the power of love, finite and infinite. You loved well. love, Me"

Tweenie has loved well, too. Now 15, she is about to be a godmother. A GODmother?  I wondered what she’d do about the God she didn’t believe in. Still, she is honored to be chosen and proud to take on this role. Annunciation #4:  "I am now an “agnostic theist.”

Could you do better than that?

2014.08.31 A Musical On Steroids

If you stop and think about it, what goes on in someone’s imagination is naturally completely chaotic, full of color, and with enough explosive creative energy to be a reprise of Creation itself.

We just saw Finding Neverland at the A.R.T. (American Repertory Theater) in Cambridge. It’s a romp, a kick, a hoot, a virtual riot of dance and song—sheer fun, but not without the painful shadowing of death, loss and grief.  

It is the story of J.M. Barrie (1860-1937), Scottish dramatist and the the creator of Peter Pan This play is about how Barrie got out of what we might call writers’ block with the help of children and a grieving but fun-loving widow who shared Barrie’s determination not to let the “valley of the shadow of death” overwhelm joy, laughter, and mischief.

Barrie looks like a dour Scot who rarely smiles, no? But what went on inside this man’s imagination was electric, delightfully naughty. He made fun of stiff British manners. The play’s writer, James Graham, wanted to capture Barrie's spirit of playfulness and British cheek: “To be cheeky is to charmingly undermine the status quo—something we’re naturally adept at as kids, but chicken out of as adults.”

Peter Pan, named after Peter Llewelyn Davies, one of the children in the family Barrie befriends, is particularly bent on being sensible, realistic, and keeping his feet firmly on the ground at all times. It’s how he contains his grief. Barrie is bent on flying. He believes in magic, wishes, fairies, and cheek. It’s how he manages his own grief at the loss of a brother and his beloved. These two ways of managing the pain of the human condition carry the tension of the drama. The duets between the adult Barrie, played by Jeremy Jordan, and Peter, played by Aidan Gemme, elegantly articulate the impasse. Out of the tension pops Peter Pan.

Peter Pan is well known to most all of us, and isn’t it true that most of us at some point in our lives would wish for never-ending youth, existence in the never-never land of never never growing old and dying?  I remember that mid-life clarion call, that assumption even, that I might stay young and vital—if I just ate this, did this and that with my body, had a spiritual practice for my soul, followed the best and most up-to-date health rules. I failed of course, and, in addition, the rules for my wish-prescriptions changed every other day. I’m old now, and happy.

My favorite line in the show was delivered, with wry but not sardonic wit, by one of the actors who, when asked if he believed in fairies, said, without a smirk: “Of course I do, darling, I’m in the theater. I meet fairies every day.”

My only critique of this amazing performance, is the venue. The pace, volume, and drumbeat dynamism, in music and dance, of this production almost overwhelmed the space, stage and hall, in which it was performed. It almost overwhelmed the audience as well. However, the goings-on in the human unconscious mind, including its raging battles with the villain we all have within (Captain Hook) have no nuance. Therefore, the play, especially Act I, perfectly reflects this phenomenon. It was like being inside Vesuvius.

My favorite moment, of course, was when the audience was invited to clap if they believe in fairies. Their clapping will keep Tinker Bell alive. By then most of us were thoroughly in touch with being a child; we clapped and cheered like mad. (Except for the couple next to us who never moved a muscle throughout, although I saw one smile slightly.) Our exuberance succeeded; the fairy lit up her light and lived on to great cheers.

I whispered to myself, "The light of Christ."

Some days I wish we Anglocatholic Episcopalians could raise up such a rumpus for Jesus. Still, it isn’t our style, and God doesn’t want us to fake our praises. But maybe just once?  Someone will remind me now that God is not a magician. But how do we know?

Leaving the theater, I felt delightfully manic—slain in the Spirit, you could say, and a better high than any drug. We walked to the T station, took a bus, and walked home from our stop. The stars twinkled. We all are made of stars. As one bit of lyric went: “Just take the last star on the right and follow it home.” We walked home—not on the sensible sidewalk but down the middle of our one-way street, holding hands.

I thought I would never be able to sleep. We relived some good moments, did not talk about the Church, and slept like babies.

"Always be a little kinder than necessary." J. M. Barrie. 

Finding Neverland will go next to Broadway in NYC where  a venue up to its stamina will take it on. It is in Cambridge till September 28. Don't miss it. 

2014.08.26 Equalinfaith on Women's National Equality Day

Today is National Women's Equality Day, worthy of an extra post. Women and men of all faiths are invited to mark this day by joining a day-long social media campaign to draw attention to the marginalization of women in our faith communities and highlight the need for gender justice in religion—a non-issue in heaven but not yet on earth.

You can post your support on Facebook or through Twitter, using the hashtag,  #equalinfaith. If social media isn't your thing, just let friends know, as I am, in whatever way you can. Check out the Women's Ordination Conference site for ideas or just offer your own, in image or words.

People think of liberation mostly in political terms and images and that is wonderful, but there is a politics to religion that few of us acknowledge. St. Paul nailed (bad metaphor, sorry) it when, in a moment of exuberance, he said that in Christ, there is no male and female, slave or free, Jew or Gentile. Another man of faith got it, too. (May we let Christ represent all religious teachers, just for today.)

I regret that the voice of religion is so absent from public discourse, or so it seems to me. When I heard journalist, Gail Collins, read from and speak about her fine book, When Everything Changed. The Amazing Journey of American Women from the Sixties to the Present, I asked this question with care and caution: "I don't know if this is a purposeful omission, but I notice that there is nothing in your book about what was happening with women in religion, and there was a lot." Collins, after a pause, answered with graciousness that her research was secular.  "I should have interviewed you for my book," she said. I thought so, too.

There isn't a country in the world where women are treated equally—not one. I'm proud to be a religious professional and a feminist. Why? I found myself included and honored by the Bible (you gotta discern and sift through the texts,) by my Episcopal church, by many contemporary theological writings, especially those of Elizabeth Johnson, CSJ, by Mercy Sisters, by my children, and by my marriage partner and brother priest. I do not find myself well represented in the ongoing exclusively masculine language about the nature of God. But I know that I am honored because I am in I AM.
 

Equal In Faith is an interfaith movement, founded in 2013, by representatives of the Mormon, Roman Catholic and Missouri Synod Lutheran traditions. They believe that religious traditions can be transformed into more inclusive, equitable, and welcoming communities. Such transformation requires conversation. The founders proclaim: "We believe that religion can liberate rather than subjugate women."

I do believe that Jesus Christ, Mohammed, Luther, Sophia, and the current Pope would agree. For Godde's sake, let's talk, let's go, let's move—together-as-one-faith.