Today our interfaith group did the hard work of sharing our theological stories. We were challenged with the question of “suffering,” in our traditions of Christianity and Islam.
We quickly found some questions that caused us both to struggle within our own traditions. Is suffering inevitable or necessary? Is sin inherent or inevitable? And is sin and suffering related? It was obvious that our group of Christians did not stand in a theological unification – and neither did our sisters and brothers of Islam.
We found some ideas of commonality. God has created us and God will forgive us. From God have we come, to God will we return. We have all experience both sides of life, both good and bad. We are responsible as Christians and Muslims to reach out our sisters and brothers who are suffering the bad of life.
And, of course, there are some differences in our theologies – the theology of suffering and the suffering of God caused quite a long and passionate conversation – and the Christian idea of Trinity is not coherent with the monotheism of Islam.
What came out of this very long day of conversation, dialogue and discussion was a better understanding our of sisters and brothers, Christian and Muslim.
God moved among us as we gathered to pray together at the end of the day. We heard stories of personal suffering, lifetimes of pain, and stories of prejudice. We laughed, we cried, and most importantly, we listened.
We gather again tomorrow to envision the possibility of creating safe and sacred spaces for our communities to gather locally to hear the stories of our sisters and brothers of the Abrahamic traditions.
Oh, by the way – Jesus did drink Guinness (or maybe a highly alcoholic beer). One of our participants has done excavation of holy sites in Jerusalem. Their work had uncovered Philistine beer mugs. The Philistine’s produced a wheat beer (IPA maybe). So maybe, at those weddings Jesus was turning water into wine, he might have also been sharing a pint with his mates. Slainte and blessed Saint Patrick’s Day.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A Peaceful Response to 9.11 session one
There are 49 of us at Virginia Theological Seminary developing plans for a peaceful response to the tenth anniversary of September 11. There are teams from Louisville, Bethesda, Washington, DC, Alexandria, Tempe, Pasadena, Webster Groves, MO, Harrisburg, PA, Dearborn, MI and from the seminary as well South Africa, Tanzania, Sri Lanka, New Zealand, Malawi and Peru. There are seven Bishops and the Deans of two seminaries here. Included in the group of some of the most prominent leaders in national and international interfaith dialogue. One of the presenters described this group as a Nobel Prize collection. If any group could come up with some ideas, it has to be this collection of intelligent human beings.
Today, we started with the basics of “listening;” working on our skills of truly hearing one another. We learned to listen with our mind, our hearts and our hands. We focused on listening for the facts, the emotions and the actions. And we experienced being listened to at the deepest level. Honestly, it is hard for a room full of clergy and educators to listen to each other – we are very equipped to tell, but listening pushes at some of our edges.
The most profound moment came at the end of the day when we asked questions that have gone unanswered since September 11, 2001. Why have American Christians responded, or not, as they have? How are Muslims dealing with the pain inflicted on them by a few radicals of their own religion? Do all Muslims have the same interpretations of the Koran? Do all Christians have the same beliefs about the Bible? These were hard questions to answer and explain in groups of three. These triads worked hard and then reported to the plenary. The expressions were intense.
Tomorrow we move closer to planning. The Rev. Dorothy Saucedo, the Imam Ahmad Sheqeirat, and Dr. Catherine Stafford are here with me. It has been a long day – and tomorrow will be longer still. Pray for us that we can be creative as we develop strategies for our communities.
Today, we started with the basics of “listening;” working on our skills of truly hearing one another. We learned to listen with our mind, our hearts and our hands. We focused on listening for the facts, the emotions and the actions. And we experienced being listened to at the deepest level. Honestly, it is hard for a room full of clergy and educators to listen to each other – we are very equipped to tell, but listening pushes at some of our edges.
The most profound moment came at the end of the day when we asked questions that have gone unanswered since September 11, 2001. Why have American Christians responded, or not, as they have? How are Muslims dealing with the pain inflicted on them by a few radicals of their own religion? Do all Muslims have the same interpretations of the Koran? Do all Christians have the same beliefs about the Bible? These were hard questions to answer and explain in groups of three. These triads worked hard and then reported to the plenary. The expressions were intense.
Tomorrow we move closer to planning. The Rev. Dorothy Saucedo, the Imam Ahmad Sheqeirat, and Dr. Catherine Stafford are here with me. It has been a long day – and tomorrow will be longer still. Pray for us that we can be creative as we develop strategies for our communities.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Border water
It was a sweater weather morning underneath a shear blue sky. We drove west of Naco on the Mexican side of the border. The road was rougher than a washboard – at one point we got a little air under Seth’s truck. We journeyed between a multi-million dollar US wall on our right and an old Mexican farm barbed-wire fence on our left. My guess is that the fence on the Mexican side did its job better than the US wall was doing its work.
The Border Guard drove on the north side of the US/Mexican Border wall taking careful notice of us. Paradoxically, there were a few random horses scattered across the rolling high desert south of the ancient barbed-wire fence that also took notice of our travel with curiosity.
After four anxious miles we spied the lone blue flag that was flapping just above the desert brush. Under the blue flag we knew we would find a twenty-gallon drum of water intended for those who were intent on climbing the US wall just yards across the way.
Coming out of the Mexican desert were dozens of fresh footprints. We stood among the evidence of migrants gathered around the water tank. Our voices were as silent as theirs. Our minds reflected on those who had journeyed before us and on those who would follow.
Our small group gathered stones from the dry wash in order to build an Ebenezer. Together, we blessed the stones, placing them where migrants would walk across them. It was our contemplative intent to bless them because we all are making a very similar spiritual pilgrimage – one of desert, fear, uncertainty and hopes for a better life.
The Border Guard drove on the north side of the US/Mexican Border wall taking careful notice of us. Paradoxically, there were a few random horses scattered across the rolling high desert south of the ancient barbed-wire fence that also took notice of our travel with curiosity.
After four anxious miles we spied the lone blue flag that was flapping just above the desert brush. Under the blue flag we knew we would find a twenty-gallon drum of water intended for those who were intent on climbing the US wall just yards across the way.
Coming out of the Mexican desert were dozens of fresh footprints. We stood among the evidence of migrants gathered around the water tank. Our voices were as silent as theirs. Our minds reflected on those who had journeyed before us and on those who would follow.
Our small group gathered stones from the dry wash in order to build an Ebenezer. Together, we blessed the stones, placing them where migrants would walk across them. It was our contemplative intent to bless them because we all are making a very similar spiritual pilgrimage – one of desert, fear, uncertainty and hopes for a better life.
Monday, January 10, 2011
A Prayerful Response to Tragedy
A Prayerful Response to Tragedy
Saturday, St. Brigid's Community was gathered at Chapel Rock Retreat Center in Prescott, Arizona for our annual Young Adult and Young Family Retreat, when we heard the Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and several others had been shot. We gathered around cell phones, computers and televisions to read and to listen to reports as they unfolded.
Like most people that I know, we were in disbelief, confused, frightened, uncertain and clearly without words to express our overwhelmed spiritual and emotional selves. We, in other words, were in shock.
Being the leader of our group it took a bit to process this on a personal level and then to gather myself, and our group, for a community response. We did the only thing we knew to do, and what millions of people did, we prayed. And we are still praying.
On Sunday our community gathered in worship at Chapel Rock. Sunday was the Feast of the Baptism of our Lord Jesus Christ. It is our practice on this particular day to renew our Baptismal Covenant. The Baptismal Covenant begins with a question and affirmative response to the Apostles Creed. The Creed is followed with these questions.
Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers?
Will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?
Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?
Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?
Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
We are asked to respond to each question – “I will, with God’s help.”
In response to tragedy, in response to that which steals our words and freezes our emotions, we are called to pray. But, then, what do we do when our words return? Do we fall prey to the temptation to make a response with our words that is as violent as a gunshot? I am praying that our community will not do such a thing. I am praying our community will continue to pray and to respond to our Baptismal Covenant with the words, “ I will, with God’s help.”
For the remainder of January and maybe for some time beyond, I am asking the St. Brigid’s Community and the St. Augustine’s Episcopal Parish to renew our Baptismal Covenant each time we gather to worship as our response to violence. These may be the only words we can say with any confidence and any promise of hope for something good to come from something so dark.
Saturday, St. Brigid's Community was gathered at Chapel Rock Retreat Center in Prescott, Arizona for our annual Young Adult and Young Family Retreat, when we heard the Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and several others had been shot. We gathered around cell phones, computers and televisions to read and to listen to reports as they unfolded.
Like most people that I know, we were in disbelief, confused, frightened, uncertain and clearly without words to express our overwhelmed spiritual and emotional selves. We, in other words, were in shock.
Being the leader of our group it took a bit to process this on a personal level and then to gather myself, and our group, for a community response. We did the only thing we knew to do, and what millions of people did, we prayed. And we are still praying.
On Sunday our community gathered in worship at Chapel Rock. Sunday was the Feast of the Baptism of our Lord Jesus Christ. It is our practice on this particular day to renew our Baptismal Covenant. The Baptismal Covenant begins with a question and affirmative response to the Apostles Creed. The Creed is followed with these questions.
Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers?
Will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?
Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?
Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?
Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
We are asked to respond to each question – “I will, with God’s help.”
In response to tragedy, in response to that which steals our words and freezes our emotions, we are called to pray. But, then, what do we do when our words return? Do we fall prey to the temptation to make a response with our words that is as violent as a gunshot? I am praying that our community will not do such a thing. I am praying our community will continue to pray and to respond to our Baptismal Covenant with the words, “ I will, with God’s help.”
For the remainder of January and maybe for some time beyond, I am asking the St. Brigid’s Community and the St. Augustine’s Episcopal Parish to renew our Baptismal Covenant each time we gather to worship as our response to violence. These may be the only words we can say with any confidence and any promise of hope for something good to come from something so dark.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Tears at True Grit?
True Grit, brought tears to my eyes.
Reading that there was a re-make of the John Wayne movie, I was skeptical and decided I didn’t want to see the 2011 version.
Hearing that Jeff Bridges was staring as Rooster Cogburn made me hedge – realizing the Coen brothers were producing the film, pushed me over the edge. I saw it on the eve of New Year’s Day.
Bridges, was, well, Bridges – that’s why I went to see the original, to see John Wayne be John Wayne – and Bridges did not disappoint, he played himself, extremely well.
Matt Damon gave a great new interpretation to his role as Texas Ranger Laboeuf. Good thing, Glen Campbell almost ruined the original. Fortunately for the moviegoers, Campbell never did another movie. And Damon did nothing to diminish his excellent career.
Haliee Steinfeld as Mattie Ross gave a stellar début performance – she may have actually up-staged her more experienced co-stars. The chemistry between the three actors produced timely “western” humor and as artists, they created a believable story that was well worth the time and money.
The Coen brothers kept to the story and did nothing but enhance the “old western feel.” The movie had that “Unforgiven,” Clint Eastwood, touch going – nice. Using hymns as the soundtrack had its desired effect. However, the scene with Cogburn carrying Mattie on Little Blacky was hooky; sorry guys, you blew that one. Sometimes, you have to “fill your hands you Son-of-a-bitch,” and just shoot the scene without telling a story.
I would see the film again – I own the original, I’ll probably own a copy of the Coen brother’s version.
Admittedly, I was probably the only person in the theater with tears in their eyes at the end, or any other time for that matter. And, truthfully, it probably had nothing to do with the movie itself.
John Wayne was my grandfather’s “guy.” And True Grit was his movie. We watched it together dozens of times. He died twenty years ago this month. Watching Mattie Ross stand at the foot of Rooster’s grave with “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” playing over the scene, well – it was the end of the year and a time for reflection. The tears were filled with good memories. Thank you Coens.
Reading that there was a re-make of the John Wayne movie, I was skeptical and decided I didn’t want to see the 2011 version.
Hearing that Jeff Bridges was staring as Rooster Cogburn made me hedge – realizing the Coen brothers were producing the film, pushed me over the edge. I saw it on the eve of New Year’s Day.
Bridges, was, well, Bridges – that’s why I went to see the original, to see John Wayne be John Wayne – and Bridges did not disappoint, he played himself, extremely well.
Matt Damon gave a great new interpretation to his role as Texas Ranger Laboeuf. Good thing, Glen Campbell almost ruined the original. Fortunately for the moviegoers, Campbell never did another movie. And Damon did nothing to diminish his excellent career.
Haliee Steinfeld as Mattie Ross gave a stellar début performance – she may have actually up-staged her more experienced co-stars. The chemistry between the three actors produced timely “western” humor and as artists, they created a believable story that was well worth the time and money.
The Coen brothers kept to the story and did nothing but enhance the “old western feel.” The movie had that “Unforgiven,” Clint Eastwood, touch going – nice. Using hymns as the soundtrack had its desired effect. However, the scene with Cogburn carrying Mattie on Little Blacky was hooky; sorry guys, you blew that one. Sometimes, you have to “fill your hands you Son-of-a-bitch,” and just shoot the scene without telling a story.
I would see the film again – I own the original, I’ll probably own a copy of the Coen brother’s version.
Admittedly, I was probably the only person in the theater with tears in their eyes at the end, or any other time for that matter. And, truthfully, it probably had nothing to do with the movie itself.
John Wayne was my grandfather’s “guy.” And True Grit was his movie. We watched it together dozens of times. He died twenty years ago this month. Watching Mattie Ross stand at the foot of Rooster’s grave with “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” playing over the scene, well – it was the end of the year and a time for reflection. The tears were filled with good memories. Thank you Coens.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Smoking, theologically speaking?
Marcus Borg, in Putting Away Childish Things: A Tale of Modern Faith, tells a marvelous smoker's tale. "Do you know what Karl Barth said about smoking and theologians? Well, he said that you can tell what kind of theologian somebody is by what they smoke. If they smoke cigarettes they're liberal; if they smoke cigars, they're orthodox; and if they smoke a pipe, they're neo-orthodox. Then somebody asked Barth, 'What if they don't smoke?' And he said, 'then, they are no theologian at all.'"
Rodney Clapp, in the September 21, 2010 Christian Century, writes that “Few things better slow down a busy day and bring it in for a relaxed landing than a burning stogie and an iced bourbon.” Clapp gives away that he must be neo-orthodox. Of course that’s not bad company.
This week’s article by Clapp is entitled “The Nicotine Journal.” His opening paragraphs are reflections on Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison, (the newest edition from Fortress is now available, which I highly recommend). Specifically, Clapp recounts Bonhoeffer’s continued reference to the pleasures of smoking. Clapp goes on to cite the smoking habits of other renowned theologians in order to build his case for the power of smoking in, what I might call, the community building derived from joining friends and colleagues in theological conversations, while enjoying the relaxing benefits of tobacco. His points are convincing as tells us, “it’s never too late to start.”
Of course, Clapp provides the politically and health appropriate disclaimers in order to keep the letters to the editor at a minimum. I’m anxious to get the next copy to see who takes exception, or commends.
I’ll be back later. I need to go outside for a few minutes.
Rodney Clapp, in the September 21, 2010 Christian Century, writes that “Few things better slow down a busy day and bring it in for a relaxed landing than a burning stogie and an iced bourbon.” Clapp gives away that he must be neo-orthodox. Of course that’s not bad company.
This week’s article by Clapp is entitled “The Nicotine Journal.” His opening paragraphs are reflections on Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison, (the newest edition from Fortress is now available, which I highly recommend). Specifically, Clapp recounts Bonhoeffer’s continued reference to the pleasures of smoking. Clapp goes on to cite the smoking habits of other renowned theologians in order to build his case for the power of smoking in, what I might call, the community building derived from joining friends and colleagues in theological conversations, while enjoying the relaxing benefits of tobacco. His points are convincing as tells us, “it’s never too late to start.”
Of course, Clapp provides the politically and health appropriate disclaimers in order to keep the letters to the editor at a minimum. I’m anxious to get the next copy to see who takes exception, or commends.
I’ll be back later. I need to go outside for a few minutes.
Friday, September 03, 2010
Hate my mom?
Hate my mother?
Luke 14:25-33
Luke 14:26 is one of those verses that appears so incongruous with Jesus’ other teaching that I wonder if it was a misprint or if someone hard of hearing is the one who “remembered” it to the rest of the community.
“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” Hate my mother? What happened to love your neighbor? Aren’t my children at least my neighbors?
What tears at my heart in this text (Luke 12:25-33 Sunday Pentecost 15 lectionary) is that my entire theology, my understanding of my calling as a priest, is built out of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s relational theology. I see ministry through the eyes of my relationship with God and everyone around me. God, in Bonhoeffer’s theology, is a vulnerable and suffering God and I am to lead and to relate to the world around me through Jesus model of the crucified Christ. So how does hating my family fit into this paradigm?
As did Bonhoeffer, we have to look between the lines of the scriptural words to find the possible essence of meaning, while realizing we will never know the exact meaning of Jesus’ words.
First, and nothing should be lost on this, verse twenty-five tells us that a large crowd was “traveling” with Jesus. We are on a pilgrimage (traveling) from where we exist to where God is fetching us. We have yet to arrive. In fact, we may never arrive at our destination. We are pilgrims, aliens in a foreign land. And as foreigners, we don’t speak the local language.
So, what is this language of “hate” that Jesus is speaking?
My Clinical Pastoral Education mentor taught me that to be present to the hospital patient, the dying parishioner, the suffering soul, I must first detach myself, separate myself, get up on the balcony in order to see their picture of life as it really is without my own personal baggage obscuring my view.
The same is the case in my relationship with the person I love the most. I must, in order to love them, set down my own set of agendas and lower the barrier of my ego. To love them the most, I must stop loving them. To see them, I must stop seeing them, as my ego wants to see them.
In order to be present, to get into the skin of the suffering of the other person, I must first lay down my own baggage, I must detach myself, I must, in order to love, remove myself (totally disregard the relationship). Can I hear them? Can I take into account the critique of someone who loves me? Can they hear me? Not if too much of my own sentimentalism (which is usually confused as love) clouds the window.
How do I find the strength or means to detach? Jesus tells us to be like him. In verse twenty-seven in this text, we hear Jesus say, whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
I know about Jesus’ cross of the crucifixion. Is this what I have to do? What is my cross? The word for “cross” here is “signatio,” the sign. It’s as if I am being asked to wear the ashes of Ash Wednesday on my forehead 24/7. Jesus is asking me if I can become like him to the point of wearing his mark on my forehead. Can my Christianity be clearly evident and prominent for all to see? Can I wear the tattoo of Christ? I am not called to be Jesus – but to be his follower.
Wearing the sign of the Cross is the key to detachment, separating myself so that others see Jesus, not me – as Saint Paul describes Jesus, “he emptied himself.” By setting my ego, and my “self” aside, like Jesus did, I can relate to the other and begin to feel their pain and be fully present to them. As Saint John said, “Jesus must increase and I must decrease.” And Jesus could have said that I must fade away in order for the one I love to be fully present.
In order to love my neighbor as myself, I must, in essence hate (detach from) my family and even myself. In typical Jesus fashion it’s a subversive reversal – an ultimate paradox. In order to live, I must die. In order to love, I must hate (detach).
Too hard? Almost. Painfully difficult? Most likely. Typically Jesus? Absolutely. My mom may not like this. Then again.
Luke 14:25-33
Luke 14:26 is one of those verses that appears so incongruous with Jesus’ other teaching that I wonder if it was a misprint or if someone hard of hearing is the one who “remembered” it to the rest of the community.
“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” Hate my mother? What happened to love your neighbor? Aren’t my children at least my neighbors?
What tears at my heart in this text (Luke 12:25-33 Sunday Pentecost 15 lectionary) is that my entire theology, my understanding of my calling as a priest, is built out of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s relational theology. I see ministry through the eyes of my relationship with God and everyone around me. God, in Bonhoeffer’s theology, is a vulnerable and suffering God and I am to lead and to relate to the world around me through Jesus model of the crucified Christ. So how does hating my family fit into this paradigm?
As did Bonhoeffer, we have to look between the lines of the scriptural words to find the possible essence of meaning, while realizing we will never know the exact meaning of Jesus’ words.
First, and nothing should be lost on this, verse twenty-five tells us that a large crowd was “traveling” with Jesus. We are on a pilgrimage (traveling) from where we exist to where God is fetching us. We have yet to arrive. In fact, we may never arrive at our destination. We are pilgrims, aliens in a foreign land. And as foreigners, we don’t speak the local language.
So, what is this language of “hate” that Jesus is speaking?
My Clinical Pastoral Education mentor taught me that to be present to the hospital patient, the dying parishioner, the suffering soul, I must first detach myself, separate myself, get up on the balcony in order to see their picture of life as it really is without my own personal baggage obscuring my view.
The same is the case in my relationship with the person I love the most. I must, in order to love them, set down my own set of agendas and lower the barrier of my ego. To love them the most, I must stop loving them. To see them, I must stop seeing them, as my ego wants to see them.
In order to be present, to get into the skin of the suffering of the other person, I must first lay down my own baggage, I must detach myself, I must, in order to love, remove myself (totally disregard the relationship). Can I hear them? Can I take into account the critique of someone who loves me? Can they hear me? Not if too much of my own sentimentalism (which is usually confused as love) clouds the window.
How do I find the strength or means to detach? Jesus tells us to be like him. In verse twenty-seven in this text, we hear Jesus say, whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
I know about Jesus’ cross of the crucifixion. Is this what I have to do? What is my cross? The word for “cross” here is “signatio,” the sign. It’s as if I am being asked to wear the ashes of Ash Wednesday on my forehead 24/7. Jesus is asking me if I can become like him to the point of wearing his mark on my forehead. Can my Christianity be clearly evident and prominent for all to see? Can I wear the tattoo of Christ? I am not called to be Jesus – but to be his follower.
Wearing the sign of the Cross is the key to detachment, separating myself so that others see Jesus, not me – as Saint Paul describes Jesus, “he emptied himself.” By setting my ego, and my “self” aside, like Jesus did, I can relate to the other and begin to feel their pain and be fully present to them. As Saint John said, “Jesus must increase and I must decrease.” And Jesus could have said that I must fade away in order for the one I love to be fully present.
In order to love my neighbor as myself, I must, in essence hate (detach from) my family and even myself. In typical Jesus fashion it’s a subversive reversal – an ultimate paradox. In order to live, I must die. In order to love, I must hate (detach).
Too hard? Almost. Painfully difficult? Most likely. Typically Jesus? Absolutely. My mom may not like this. Then again.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Inception
So, why write something about a movie that is walking away at the box office? It’s one of the few films I would pay to see again, that’s why. Not because “I like it.” Who cares? For a film to get double time from me it has to be subtle and nuanced.
From my perspective, Inception is post-modern Jungian tale that dares toy with the subjects of synchronicity, individuation, redemption and resurrection. The film rattles the cage of philosophical encounter with questions of substance. Will I accept the responsibility for my own decisions or transfer that self-accountability to others or the circumstances I find myself in. Can I listen so deeply to the other’s story that I might find my place within their narrative? How deep I am willing to go into my darkness to discover the redemptive moment? Is resurrection a personal or communal experience?
Of course the obvious questions of reality or literal, linear existentialism are there to amuse us. One trapped in the experience of absolutism is annoyed by the inconclusiveness of the spinning totem. But, what does it matter? Is reality, or what is confused as truth, the necessity of existence? Not necessarily, given the possibility for love, given and received. But isn’t the demand for reality a projection of an inner demand for the personal perfection of egotism? As Cobb tells Mal, “you are too perfect, too flawed, too complex,” all of course, his own projections.
I will admit my own temptation to make the religious analogy, but, for fear of the precarious position of the totem, I resist, for now.
To the mundane; though no critic, I personally found Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance of the tortured, seeking soul is what kept me intrigued during this lengthy film. And while I have enjoyed Ellen Page’s acting in her two previous movies, I found this beyond my willingness to accept her as the best person for the character she was asked to become. However, Marion Cotillard as Mal was captivating, her expressions alone near plumbed the depths of despair. But I admit, the more troubled and complex the character, the more empathetic my soul.
One final comment, a labyrinth is not a maze – that was distracting – but, flaws tumble the top, no?
From my perspective, Inception is post-modern Jungian tale that dares toy with the subjects of synchronicity, individuation, redemption and resurrection. The film rattles the cage of philosophical encounter with questions of substance. Will I accept the responsibility for my own decisions or transfer that self-accountability to others or the circumstances I find myself in. Can I listen so deeply to the other’s story that I might find my place within their narrative? How deep I am willing to go into my darkness to discover the redemptive moment? Is resurrection a personal or communal experience?
Of course the obvious questions of reality or literal, linear existentialism are there to amuse us. One trapped in the experience of absolutism is annoyed by the inconclusiveness of the spinning totem. But, what does it matter? Is reality, or what is confused as truth, the necessity of existence? Not necessarily, given the possibility for love, given and received. But isn’t the demand for reality a projection of an inner demand for the personal perfection of egotism? As Cobb tells Mal, “you are too perfect, too flawed, too complex,” all of course, his own projections.
I will admit my own temptation to make the religious analogy, but, for fear of the precarious position of the totem, I resist, for now.
To the mundane; though no critic, I personally found Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance of the tortured, seeking soul is what kept me intrigued during this lengthy film. And while I have enjoyed Ellen Page’s acting in her two previous movies, I found this beyond my willingness to accept her as the best person for the character she was asked to become. However, Marion Cotillard as Mal was captivating, her expressions alone near plumbed the depths of despair. But I admit, the more troubled and complex the character, the more empathetic my soul.
One final comment, a labyrinth is not a maze – that was distracting – but, flaws tumble the top, no?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Tribute to a colleague
Tribute to a colleague, The Rev. Gordon McBride
The Reverend Gordon McBride, retired rector of Grace St. Paul’s, Tucson, has gone to rest in the soul of God, joining the communion of saints. He has set down his earthly pilgrim’s bag and taken up the journey of eternal formation. We commend our brother Gordon to the Presence of God the Trinity.
Meanwhile, here in this dimension of time, I will miss Gordon. He was a wise sage, skilled facilitator of the Commission on Ministry, a voice for a more progressive Christian theology, and an inspiration to those of us who dare to consider ourselves writers. His encouragement was that he made time during his life as a university parish priest to be the author he dreamed. And then he created the joyful space to travel and promote his works.
Gordon’s writing inspired me to be transparent and vulnerable about the inner life that I feared priests could not. For that, I am deeply appreciative. While he was committed to his craft, he didn’t take himself so seriously that he was unapproachable about the nuts and bolts of writing. He was always willing to share his knowledge with me. For that I am grateful and will miss. But, most of all, I will miss his presence, his provocation, his willingness to gently confront.
In the last few months we, and I, have lost two brothers of the priesthood, Gordon and the Rev. Richard George. Both were leaders, mentors and spiritual guides. Because they would expect as much, we will pray for them, their families and ourselves. And we will dare walk in their path, carrying our own pilgrim’s bag until it is our time to join them on the next journey, in the life on the otherside.
The Reverend Gordon McBride, retired rector of Grace St. Paul’s, Tucson, has gone to rest in the soul of God, joining the communion of saints. He has set down his earthly pilgrim’s bag and taken up the journey of eternal formation. We commend our brother Gordon to the Presence of God the Trinity.
Meanwhile, here in this dimension of time, I will miss Gordon. He was a wise sage, skilled facilitator of the Commission on Ministry, a voice for a more progressive Christian theology, and an inspiration to those of us who dare to consider ourselves writers. His encouragement was that he made time during his life as a university parish priest to be the author he dreamed. And then he created the joyful space to travel and promote his works.
Gordon’s writing inspired me to be transparent and vulnerable about the inner life that I feared priests could not. For that, I am deeply appreciative. While he was committed to his craft, he didn’t take himself so seriously that he was unapproachable about the nuts and bolts of writing. He was always willing to share his knowledge with me. For that I am grateful and will miss. But, most of all, I will miss his presence, his provocation, his willingness to gently confront.
In the last few months we, and I, have lost two brothers of the priesthood, Gordon and the Rev. Richard George. Both were leaders, mentors and spiritual guides. Because they would expect as much, we will pray for them, their families and ourselves. And we will dare walk in their path, carrying our own pilgrim’s bag until it is our time to join them on the next journey, in the life on the otherside.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Herding Snails
Herding Snails
This morning we are in Camarillo, California on our way to Santa Barbara to spend a few days at Mount Calvary. As is our custom, we went on a long walk. The ocean-side mountains are hid from our view by the cool, misty fog. It made for a gentle contrast to the harsh desert heat we fled.
Somewhere in our wondering, we came upon a stretch of about eight feet of sidewalk to discover nearly a dozen snails crossing the four-foot path. The snails were at varying degrees of their journey. Some were near the goal of the lush vegetation lining the opposite side of the walk. Others were just beginning, what I imagine, was a long journey.
We stopped to admire their pace. Being on the first day of our holiday, it was a good reminder.
It was also a moment of musing. We often remark about the impossibility of herding cats, especially for the leaders of our large institutions of independent thinkers, like universities, public schools and the Church.
But, maybe in our archaic and behemoth structures, leaders are more likely faced with herding snails instead of the quicker feline. What institutional participant moves with the grace and agility of the cat when change is at hand?
My own experience and that of my walking partner’s, both of whom have many years of leadership in gigantic and ancient crumbling pillars of America, is that directing change is like the herd of the snails we encountered.
Our approach as leaders, if focused on the process and not the outcome, might find our “herd” less startled, frightened, and scattering for cover, but instead, if leaders are patient, will find our charges willing to move at their own pace towards a new feeding ground, where the fruits will yield a result far outstripping our strategic planning.
This morning we are in Camarillo, California on our way to Santa Barbara to spend a few days at Mount Calvary. As is our custom, we went on a long walk. The ocean-side mountains are hid from our view by the cool, misty fog. It made for a gentle contrast to the harsh desert heat we fled.
Somewhere in our wondering, we came upon a stretch of about eight feet of sidewalk to discover nearly a dozen snails crossing the four-foot path. The snails were at varying degrees of their journey. Some were near the goal of the lush vegetation lining the opposite side of the walk. Others were just beginning, what I imagine, was a long journey.
We stopped to admire their pace. Being on the first day of our holiday, it was a good reminder.
It was also a moment of musing. We often remark about the impossibility of herding cats, especially for the leaders of our large institutions of independent thinkers, like universities, public schools and the Church.
But, maybe in our archaic and behemoth structures, leaders are more likely faced with herding snails instead of the quicker feline. What institutional participant moves with the grace and agility of the cat when change is at hand?
My own experience and that of my walking partner’s, both of whom have many years of leadership in gigantic and ancient crumbling pillars of America, is that directing change is like the herd of the snails we encountered.
Our approach as leaders, if focused on the process and not the outcome, might find our “herd” less startled, frightened, and scattering for cover, but instead, if leaders are patient, will find our charges willing to move at their own pace towards a new feeding ground, where the fruits will yield a result far outstripping our strategic planning.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Esmay named head baseball coach at ASU
The right man for the job
Congratulations to Tim Esmay, named the head baseball coach at Arizona State University. AD Lisa Love made the obvious right choice. The number one ranked Sun Devils have gone 47-8 under Ez’s leadership this year. They are headed into the NCAA Regional tournament this weekend seeded number one.
Grand Canyon University players and fans know Tim from his years as a player at ASU during several storied and heated battles that included some pretty good games, too. Others will remember Coach Esmay during time as an outstanding assistant at Canyon. And still others will recognize Tim as the former head coach at the University of Utah during our WAC days.
Tim is leader of young men. He is a fierce competitor, gentlemen, family man, and devoted Sun Devil. He’s the kind of man that all of us would be pleased and proud for our sons to play baseball under his guidance.
Usually in the world of sports, I find myself asking, why? In this unique case, I am applauding the best choice possible. I want to wish the best of luck to Coach Ez and the Sun Devils in the tournament and for years to come.
Congratulations to Tim Esmay, named the head baseball coach at Arizona State University. AD Lisa Love made the obvious right choice. The number one ranked Sun Devils have gone 47-8 under Ez’s leadership this year. They are headed into the NCAA Regional tournament this weekend seeded number one.
Grand Canyon University players and fans know Tim from his years as a player at ASU during several storied and heated battles that included some pretty good games, too. Others will remember Coach Esmay during time as an outstanding assistant at Canyon. And still others will recognize Tim as the former head coach at the University of Utah during our WAC days.
Tim is leader of young men. He is a fierce competitor, gentlemen, family man, and devoted Sun Devil. He’s the kind of man that all of us would be pleased and proud for our sons to play baseball under his guidance.
Usually in the world of sports, I find myself asking, why? In this unique case, I am applauding the best choice possible. I want to wish the best of luck to Coach Ez and the Sun Devils in the tournament and for years to come.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
What does the Spirit smell like?
“Man it smells good in here. What’d you cook tonight? I can’t distinguish all the aromas,” Chad said as he walked into the back door of the parish hall.
“What does your nose tell you?” I asked.
“For sure, I smell falafels, the spices and the olive oil, that much I know.”
I held up a plate of the chickpea patties covered with aluminum foil. Chad smiled. “Okay what else?” I asked.
“Hmm, there’s something else in the air but I can’t quite make it out. The falafels are making my mouth water. But, there’s something else you baked, ah, that’s it, you baked bread.”
“Yep, I baked a batch of whole wheat and honey communion bread, its fresh out of the oven.” I held up another plate, stacked with six of the round loaves.
“Whoa, that combination of smells is almost intoxicating,” Chad said as carried his guitar into the parish hall to set up for another evening of Saint Brigid’s Community and Peregrini.
The reading for our worship the evening was from John 14. “The Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you.”
I asked the group, “When you close your eyes and let your memory drift, what are the best smells that come to you?”
“My grandmother and I were so close,” Ruth responded in tears. “After she died, my mom asked me to help sort out my grandmother’s things. When I opened the closest, my grandmother’s clothes were still hanging there. I put my face into her dress and I could smell my grandmother,” the emotion was too much for Ruth to continue.
“I remember the smell of our new born son,” someone said.
“The smell of my mother’s Thanksgiving dinners,” came from a voice tucked down in a sofa near the back of the room.
“A freshly mowed lawn,” said another.
“When I close my eyes and let myself go into that special place, I can still smell the sweet aroma of my wife the first time we kissed, forty years ago.” That was my offering.
A smell will trigger our most powerful memory. Blessed aromas that evoke sweet memories draw the rest of our being into complete integration,
Later in the evening Ruth spoke about the presence of God in the whole of our being, in the smell of our sensuality, in the completeness of our lives. She suggested to us that the liturgy of our Eucharistic prayers, are indeed sensual texts because they fetch all of our memory and imagination into the present moment.
Alyssa reminded us of last year when she had injured her foot and couldn’t dance. Being forced to sit on the sidelines while her classmates continued rehearsing for recitals was almost too much to bear. Her professor invited her to lie on floor and go through her routine as if she were floating through the air. Her memories carried her without putting pressure on her foot.
Annie’s soft voice drew our attention from the end of the line of tables. She rarely speaks into these gatherings. We all leaned into her voice.
“I’ve been journaling a lot lately. Sometimes I find myself just writing words and wondering, ‘why these words?’ And I realize I’m writing my prayer thoughts. I’ve wondered if I could close my eyes and write my thoughts?” Collectively, we leaned into our own space and closed our eyes. Silence held us together for a bit.
I wonder if we could live our lives with our eyes closed, relying and trusting only on the aroma of the Holy Spirit to lead us?
“What does your nose tell you?” I asked.
“For sure, I smell falafels, the spices and the olive oil, that much I know.”
I held up a plate of the chickpea patties covered with aluminum foil. Chad smiled. “Okay what else?” I asked.
“Hmm, there’s something else in the air but I can’t quite make it out. The falafels are making my mouth water. But, there’s something else you baked, ah, that’s it, you baked bread.”
“Yep, I baked a batch of whole wheat and honey communion bread, its fresh out of the oven.” I held up another plate, stacked with six of the round loaves.
“Whoa, that combination of smells is almost intoxicating,” Chad said as carried his guitar into the parish hall to set up for another evening of Saint Brigid’s Community and Peregrini.
The reading for our worship the evening was from John 14. “The Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you.”
I asked the group, “When you close your eyes and let your memory drift, what are the best smells that come to you?”
“My grandmother and I were so close,” Ruth responded in tears. “After she died, my mom asked me to help sort out my grandmother’s things. When I opened the closest, my grandmother’s clothes were still hanging there. I put my face into her dress and I could smell my grandmother,” the emotion was too much for Ruth to continue.
“I remember the smell of our new born son,” someone said.
“The smell of my mother’s Thanksgiving dinners,” came from a voice tucked down in a sofa near the back of the room.
“A freshly mowed lawn,” said another.
“When I close my eyes and let myself go into that special place, I can still smell the sweet aroma of my wife the first time we kissed, forty years ago.” That was my offering.
A smell will trigger our most powerful memory. Blessed aromas that evoke sweet memories draw the rest of our being into complete integration,
Later in the evening Ruth spoke about the presence of God in the whole of our being, in the smell of our sensuality, in the completeness of our lives. She suggested to us that the liturgy of our Eucharistic prayers, are indeed sensual texts because they fetch all of our memory and imagination into the present moment.
Alyssa reminded us of last year when she had injured her foot and couldn’t dance. Being forced to sit on the sidelines while her classmates continued rehearsing for recitals was almost too much to bear. Her professor invited her to lie on floor and go through her routine as if she were floating through the air. Her memories carried her without putting pressure on her foot.
Annie’s soft voice drew our attention from the end of the line of tables. She rarely speaks into these gatherings. We all leaned into her voice.
“I’ve been journaling a lot lately. Sometimes I find myself just writing words and wondering, ‘why these words?’ And I realize I’m writing my prayer thoughts. I’ve wondered if I could close my eyes and write my thoughts?” Collectively, we leaned into our own space and closed our eyes. Silence held us together for a bit.
I wonder if we could live our lives with our eyes closed, relying and trusting only on the aroma of the Holy Spirit to lead us?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Governor, Please veto SB 1070
Dear Governor Brewer,
Please veto SB1070.
Please listen to those who are praying. Listen to those who stand praying outside your home. Open your ears to those who stand in prayer vigils outside State Offices. Listen to voices that pray for you, pray for the State government and pray for its citizens and visitors.
The voices that are praying are asking you to consider our responsibility to “love our neighbors as ourselves.” The voices that are praying live under the admonition to “feed the hungry, clothe the naked, to give the thirsty something to drink, visit the sick and those in prison and embrace the stranger in our land.” (Matthew 25:35)
In this morning’s Arizona Republic the editors are asking for you to have the courage to do the reasonable and compassionate thing, not the expedient thing, and veto the bill. In the same publication the Rev. Warren Stewart and the Rev. Jim Wallis said this issue is more than a State issue. This is a national issue, they said and they asked you do the humane thing and veto the bill.
Christian Clergy and parishioners across this State, Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, Methodist, Lutherans, Baptists, Non-denomination clergy, clergy who would not worship together because of their theological differences, have come together to plead with you to veto SB 1070. Please listen to those that are praying for you.
Here is my prayer for you, from the Book of Common Prayer.
O God, the fountain of wisdom, whose will is good and gracious, and whose law is truth: We beseech you so to guide and bless our Governor that she may enact such laws as shall please you, to the glory of your Name and the welfare of the people of the State of Arizona. Amen.
In prayer,
The Rev. Dr. Gil Stafford
Vicar and Chaplain
St. Augustine’s Episcopal Parish
Tempe, Arizona
I sent this morning to the Governor at
http://www.azgovernor.gov/contact.asp
Please veto SB1070.
Please listen to those who are praying. Listen to those who stand praying outside your home. Open your ears to those who stand in prayer vigils outside State Offices. Listen to voices that pray for you, pray for the State government and pray for its citizens and visitors.
The voices that are praying are asking you to consider our responsibility to “love our neighbors as ourselves.” The voices that are praying live under the admonition to “feed the hungry, clothe the naked, to give the thirsty something to drink, visit the sick and those in prison and embrace the stranger in our land.” (Matthew 25:35)
In this morning’s Arizona Republic the editors are asking for you to have the courage to do the reasonable and compassionate thing, not the expedient thing, and veto the bill. In the same publication the Rev. Warren Stewart and the Rev. Jim Wallis said this issue is more than a State issue. This is a national issue, they said and they asked you do the humane thing and veto the bill.
Christian Clergy and parishioners across this State, Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, Methodist, Lutherans, Baptists, Non-denomination clergy, clergy who would not worship together because of their theological differences, have come together to plead with you to veto SB 1070. Please listen to those that are praying for you.
Here is my prayer for you, from the Book of Common Prayer.
O God, the fountain of wisdom, whose will is good and gracious, and whose law is truth: We beseech you so to guide and bless our Governor that she may enact such laws as shall please you, to the glory of your Name and the welfare of the people of the State of Arizona. Amen.
In prayer,
The Rev. Dr. Gil Stafford
Vicar and Chaplain
St. Augustine’s Episcopal Parish
Tempe, Arizona
I sent this morning to the Governor at
http://www.azgovernor.gov/contact.asp
Friday, April 16, 2010
Yes on Proposition 100
What can you buy for a penny these days? Not much. Ah, but for the good old days.
As a six-year-old, my parents would send me to the corner store to buy whatever was needed, a morning paper, a carton of milk, some missing ingredient for the cake my mom was baking. Typically, my parents would give me a few pennies of the change. I started saving those pennies because I loved baseball cards. When I had twenty-five cents saved, I would take my pennies to buy five packs of baseball cards, the packs were a nickel apiece, a penny a card.
It was a great joy to open each pack and discover what new cards I added to my collection. And, it wasn’t disappointing to find a duplicate because those cards were good for trading with my friends. Of course, the gum was a bonus. Over the years, with collected pennies, I bought thousands of baseball cards. Now those cards are worth a lot of money, even the no-name players of the 1960’s have gone up in value. Not a bad investment from a few pennies. Ah, for the good old days.
This week many of you will receive your early ballots for Proposition 100, the Temporary One-Cent-Sales Tax. By voting Yes on Proposition 100 you will be supporting children in our schools. Without the temporary sales tax increase, public and charter schools will be laying off hundreds of teachers and staff, increasing classroom size to forty, eliminating art, music and physical education and drastically cutting after school programs including most sports.
School have already had to lay off teachers and staff, eliminate full day kindergarten, slash programs for gifted students, reduce early education intervention programs, and postpone building and maintenance. Arizona ranks at the bottom in terms of educational spending and quality. Without the passage of Proposition 100, our poor educational system will be cemented at the bottom for generations to come.
Yes, pennies add up. I understand that concept. I understood it the age of six. I want to make the same investment in the education of today’s children in Arizona that was given to me and to my own children. I grew up here and my children were educated here, this has been a good State for our family.
Ah, for the good old days. We pay a smaller percentage of overall tax today in Arizona, than we did in the Goldwater era. In 1990, a study was conducted regarding the approaching millennium and the tax structure needed for the future. The report concluded that Arizona’s balance of income, property and sales tax was fairly equitable. Since that time, our legislatures have swung the burden of tax to rely heavily upon sales tax. If the legislature had left the tax structure that the Goldwater era conservatives put in place, today we would have an extra $3 billion dollars in the State coffers, plus a rainy day fund. Ah for the good old days.
I am in favor of investing in children of today for the sake of tomorrow. Please join me in voting Yes on Proposition 100.
As a six-year-old, my parents would send me to the corner store to buy whatever was needed, a morning paper, a carton of milk, some missing ingredient for the cake my mom was baking. Typically, my parents would give me a few pennies of the change. I started saving those pennies because I loved baseball cards. When I had twenty-five cents saved, I would take my pennies to buy five packs of baseball cards, the packs were a nickel apiece, a penny a card.
It was a great joy to open each pack and discover what new cards I added to my collection. And, it wasn’t disappointing to find a duplicate because those cards were good for trading with my friends. Of course, the gum was a bonus. Over the years, with collected pennies, I bought thousands of baseball cards. Now those cards are worth a lot of money, even the no-name players of the 1960’s have gone up in value. Not a bad investment from a few pennies. Ah, for the good old days.
This week many of you will receive your early ballots for Proposition 100, the Temporary One-Cent-Sales Tax. By voting Yes on Proposition 100 you will be supporting children in our schools. Without the temporary sales tax increase, public and charter schools will be laying off hundreds of teachers and staff, increasing classroom size to forty, eliminating art, music and physical education and drastically cutting after school programs including most sports.
School have already had to lay off teachers and staff, eliminate full day kindergarten, slash programs for gifted students, reduce early education intervention programs, and postpone building and maintenance. Arizona ranks at the bottom in terms of educational spending and quality. Without the passage of Proposition 100, our poor educational system will be cemented at the bottom for generations to come.
Yes, pennies add up. I understand that concept. I understood it the age of six. I want to make the same investment in the education of today’s children in Arizona that was given to me and to my own children. I grew up here and my children were educated here, this has been a good State for our family.
Ah, for the good old days. We pay a smaller percentage of overall tax today in Arizona, than we did in the Goldwater era. In 1990, a study was conducted regarding the approaching millennium and the tax structure needed for the future. The report concluded that Arizona’s balance of income, property and sales tax was fairly equitable. Since that time, our legislatures have swung the burden of tax to rely heavily upon sales tax. If the legislature had left the tax structure that the Goldwater era conservatives put in place, today we would have an extra $3 billion dollars in the State coffers, plus a rainy day fund. Ah for the good old days.
I am in favor of investing in children of today for the sake of tomorrow. Please join me in voting Yes on Proposition 100.
Monday, March 08, 2010
She wore her wedding dress on the light rail
When my daughter is so happy, she can’t stop smiling because she has married the perfect man and just had the perfect wedding – and when the clouds break and the sunlight streams through the Cathedral’s blue stain glassed window at the moment of the consecration of the Eucharist – time stood still.
On a partly cloudy Saturday afternoon in downtown Phoenix at Trinity Cathedral, I experienced a holy moment. Honestly, it was pretty much an entire holy day. Our daughter’s wedding brought together family and friends to celebrate the experience of love and laughter. The day turned into night and the party continued, right there at the Cathedral.
Imagine that – a hundred people, young adults, young families, a few oldies – experiencing the holy and the sacred and having the best party they had ever experienced (their words not mine) – how does that happen at church? Our party had great dancing, to today’s best tunes, good wine (and other spirits) and a room filled with the hoops and shouts of joy.
I will be so bold to suggest that it is what Jesus intended when he performed his first miracle at a wedding, of course he turned water into wine – one that wedding was celebrated for days (at least we didn’t run out of wine.)
I wonder what would happen if every holy and sacred worship service in the Episcopal Church broke out into a party? Why not? What keeps the church from being a moment of holy celebration? Nothing. Not a thing.
The Episcopal Church sits around and scratches it head, wondering, pondering, and agonizing over how to save the Church from a gradual demise. The Church asks itself, its best minds, even peers over the fence at its neighbors desperately hoping for solutions to the apparent absence of young voices. How do we get young people into our parishes? What is the best form of evangelism?
I don’t have the answers. Honestly, I don’t feel the need – I do know this – Saturday the Church did it what it does best; the holy was experienced in a unique way, a way that the Episcopal Church knows how to do well and because we are a people who know and encourage a good party, it happened right at the Cathedral, right in the church, without apologies, in the presence of clergy and God dancing right along side us (his name was Robert and her name was Veronica.)
Thank you AJ and Phil for inviting us to your God graced party – where time stood still – and you gave us a good strategic plan for church growth (just party! and wear your wedding dress onto the light rail!)
.
On a partly cloudy Saturday afternoon in downtown Phoenix at Trinity Cathedral, I experienced a holy moment. Honestly, it was pretty much an entire holy day. Our daughter’s wedding brought together family and friends to celebrate the experience of love and laughter. The day turned into night and the party continued, right there at the Cathedral.
Imagine that – a hundred people, young adults, young families, a few oldies – experiencing the holy and the sacred and having the best party they had ever experienced (their words not mine) – how does that happen at church? Our party had great dancing, to today’s best tunes, good wine (and other spirits) and a room filled with the hoops and shouts of joy.
I will be so bold to suggest that it is what Jesus intended when he performed his first miracle at a wedding, of course he turned water into wine – one that wedding was celebrated for days (at least we didn’t run out of wine.)
I wonder what would happen if every holy and sacred worship service in the Episcopal Church broke out into a party? Why not? What keeps the church from being a moment of holy celebration? Nothing. Not a thing.
The Episcopal Church sits around and scratches it head, wondering, pondering, and agonizing over how to save the Church from a gradual demise. The Church asks itself, its best minds, even peers over the fence at its neighbors desperately hoping for solutions to the apparent absence of young voices. How do we get young people into our parishes? What is the best form of evangelism?
I don’t have the answers. Honestly, I don’t feel the need – I do know this – Saturday the Church did it what it does best; the holy was experienced in a unique way, a way that the Episcopal Church knows how to do well and because we are a people who know and encourage a good party, it happened right at the Cathedral, right in the church, without apologies, in the presence of clergy and God dancing right along side us (his name was Robert and her name was Veronica.)
Thank you AJ and Phil for inviting us to your God graced party – where time stood still – and you gave us a good strategic plan for church growth (just party! and wear your wedding dress onto the light rail!)
.
Monday, February 01, 2010
mystic Christians
I made a commitment to a life coach in front 60-plus of my colleagues and the Bishop that I would spend more doing what I really love – writing. That means being more faithful to my blog. So, before I give the dog his weekly bath, have lunch with a dear friend, go to Costco to buy things for our daughter’s wedding (I’m in charge of the bar, go figure, no comments about that please), stop at the grocery store and then drop by and see my mom – I want to say Happy Feast Day of St. Brigid’s and happy birthday to Jana and Betsy who are part of St. Brigid's Community, cool day for a birthday.
At our last St. Brigid’s gathering I suggested (through the work of Richard Rohr, The Naked Now) that those of us who are Christians consider the possibility that we live our lives as mystic Christians. Which is different than a Christian mystic like St. Teresa or St. John of the Cross. Emma, who is nine, wanted to know what I meant by being a mystic. I told it was like looking through a different set of glasses. I wish I had told her to go look in the mirror.
Mystic Christians, writes Rohr, are people who see with the “third eye,” derived from the Presence of God. And that Presence, union with God, comes about through prayer, which is intense intimacy with God, intimacy with ourselves, intimacy with others, and intimacy with life.
I’m not sure what that might look like tomorrow, but today I am willing to dive into it and see how deep the Spirit will let me go.
Okay, the dog really needs a bath.
At our last St. Brigid’s gathering I suggested (through the work of Richard Rohr, The Naked Now) that those of us who are Christians consider the possibility that we live our lives as mystic Christians. Which is different than a Christian mystic like St. Teresa or St. John of the Cross. Emma, who is nine, wanted to know what I meant by being a mystic. I told it was like looking through a different set of glasses. I wish I had told her to go look in the mirror.
Mystic Christians, writes Rohr, are people who see with the “third eye,” derived from the Presence of God. And that Presence, union with God, comes about through prayer, which is intense intimacy with God, intimacy with ourselves, intimacy with others, and intimacy with life.
I’m not sure what that might look like tomorrow, but today I am willing to dive into it and see how deep the Spirit will let me go.
Okay, the dog really needs a bath.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tribute to Tim Salmon, GCU Hall of Fame
The late Jim Brock once told me the biggest mistake he ever made in coaching at ASU was to not aggressively recruit Tim Salmon. That’s probably one of two things Coach Brock and I ever agree on.
Tim was drafted out of Greenway High School in 1986 by the Atlanta Braves, and fortunately for Canyon, he took our meager scholarship offer, instead of signing with the Braves.
By the time Tim left Canyon, three years later, he owned Canyon career records for Home Runs (51), Runs Batted In (192) and Runs Scored (225). He was second in all time average (.383) and Hits (229). And he was fifth in Games Played, At Bats and Doubles. In 1987 and 1988 he led Canyon to the NAIA World Series finishing fourth and second. To say the very least, based on his Canyon baseball accomplishments alone, Tim more than deserves this award tonight.
But, obviously, the story on Tim continues. In 1989, Tim was drafted in the third round by the Los Angles Angels of Anaheim. His early minor league career was marred by being hit by a pitch that broke his jaw, an injury that would end most player’s career. But, a broken jaw would not stop Tim.
In 1992, Tim was baseball’s Minor League Player of the Year. In 1993, he was selected as the American League Rookie of the Year, the only Angel to ever win the award. In 2001 he was the American League Comeback Player of the Year. In 2002, he was awarded the Hutch Award for his competitive spirit. And in 2002 he led the Angels to their only World Series Championship.
Tim retired after 14 seasons with the same team, a rarity. Tim is the Angel’s career leader in Home Runs (299), walks, slugging percentage and second in RBI’s. He is considered to be the best hitter ever produced by the Angel’s franchise.
Tim’s Major League career certainly adds to the reasons he is being honored tonight. But there is a whole lot more to Tim’s life than baseball.
Tim and his lovely wife Marci, met here at Canyon. Marci told me that she knew Tim was the guy for her when he picked her up for their first date. He was driving the oldest and most delapitated car she had ever seen. But, every time she got in and out of the car he opened the door for her and that won her over. Tim and Marci have four beautiful children, Callie, Jacob and the twins Ryan and Kaitlin.
Tim and Marci have founded the Tim Salmon Foundation for the benefit of needy children. And they are also deeply involved in Neighborhood Ministries.
Grand Canyon has also been the recepient of Tim and Marci’s generosity. They donated the funds for the Tim Salmon Baseball Clubhouse and for scholarships in the College of Business and the College of Education.
Tim, never one to rest on his laurels, went back to school and graduated from Canyon just this past year.
Tim is a man of deep faith. Saint Francis said, “Preach always and when necessary use words.” I see Tim Salmon when I hear that statement.
I want to close with two very brief short stories.
I was privileged to attend the Angels home games in the 2002 World Series. I had some great seats in right field, where Tim played. I went early to all four games. When I arrived for the first game, there was a young man with his son sitting in front of me. He was a chatty guy and before long we were new best friends. He told me these were his dad’s season ticket seats, which he had bought the Angels first season. Every year his dad would take him to Phoenix to watch the Angels in Spring Training. And every year his dad would predict that this would be the year the Angels would win it all. Teary-eyed the young man told me his dad had died the year before. His dad would have been so proud of the Angels and especially Tim who was his favorite player. This young guy told me that the reason he attended church was because of Tim’s witness and lifestyle.
After the Angels won the seventh game, the Angels owner, Mrs. Gene Autry handed the trophy to Tim and he did a victory lap around the field. When he ran by our seats that young guy turned to me with tears streaming down his face, “That’s for my dad,” he told me.
After Tim won the Rookie of Year Award a scout told me I should be out looking for another Tim Salmon. Scouts never were my favorite people. In one of my better moments I told that scout the obvious. Every coach should be so lucky to have one Tim Salmon during their coaching career – but, there’s only one Tim Salmon – and he’s already played for Canyon.
Congratulations Tim – and this is the best compliment I can give you Tim, you are a Canyon guy.
Tim was drafted out of Greenway High School in 1986 by the Atlanta Braves, and fortunately for Canyon, he took our meager scholarship offer, instead of signing with the Braves.
By the time Tim left Canyon, three years later, he owned Canyon career records for Home Runs (51), Runs Batted In (192) and Runs Scored (225). He was second in all time average (.383) and Hits (229). And he was fifth in Games Played, At Bats and Doubles. In 1987 and 1988 he led Canyon to the NAIA World Series finishing fourth and second. To say the very least, based on his Canyon baseball accomplishments alone, Tim more than deserves this award tonight.
But, obviously, the story on Tim continues. In 1989, Tim was drafted in the third round by the Los Angles Angels of Anaheim. His early minor league career was marred by being hit by a pitch that broke his jaw, an injury that would end most player’s career. But, a broken jaw would not stop Tim.
In 1992, Tim was baseball’s Minor League Player of the Year. In 1993, he was selected as the American League Rookie of the Year, the only Angel to ever win the award. In 2001 he was the American League Comeback Player of the Year. In 2002, he was awarded the Hutch Award for his competitive spirit. And in 2002 he led the Angels to their only World Series Championship.
Tim retired after 14 seasons with the same team, a rarity. Tim is the Angel’s career leader in Home Runs (299), walks, slugging percentage and second in RBI’s. He is considered to be the best hitter ever produced by the Angel’s franchise.
Tim’s Major League career certainly adds to the reasons he is being honored tonight. But there is a whole lot more to Tim’s life than baseball.
Tim and his lovely wife Marci, met here at Canyon. Marci told me that she knew Tim was the guy for her when he picked her up for their first date. He was driving the oldest and most delapitated car she had ever seen. But, every time she got in and out of the car he opened the door for her and that won her over. Tim and Marci have four beautiful children, Callie, Jacob and the twins Ryan and Kaitlin.
Tim and Marci have founded the Tim Salmon Foundation for the benefit of needy children. And they are also deeply involved in Neighborhood Ministries.
Grand Canyon has also been the recepient of Tim and Marci’s generosity. They donated the funds for the Tim Salmon Baseball Clubhouse and for scholarships in the College of Business and the College of Education.
Tim, never one to rest on his laurels, went back to school and graduated from Canyon just this past year.
Tim is a man of deep faith. Saint Francis said, “Preach always and when necessary use words.” I see Tim Salmon when I hear that statement.
I want to close with two very brief short stories.
I was privileged to attend the Angels home games in the 2002 World Series. I had some great seats in right field, where Tim played. I went early to all four games. When I arrived for the first game, there was a young man with his son sitting in front of me. He was a chatty guy and before long we were new best friends. He told me these were his dad’s season ticket seats, which he had bought the Angels first season. Every year his dad would take him to Phoenix to watch the Angels in Spring Training. And every year his dad would predict that this would be the year the Angels would win it all. Teary-eyed the young man told me his dad had died the year before. His dad would have been so proud of the Angels and especially Tim who was his favorite player. This young guy told me that the reason he attended church was because of Tim’s witness and lifestyle.
After the Angels won the seventh game, the Angels owner, Mrs. Gene Autry handed the trophy to Tim and he did a victory lap around the field. When he ran by our seats that young guy turned to me with tears streaming down his face, “That’s for my dad,” he told me.
After Tim won the Rookie of Year Award a scout told me I should be out looking for another Tim Salmon. Scouts never were my favorite people. In one of my better moments I told that scout the obvious. Every coach should be so lucky to have one Tim Salmon during their coaching career – but, there’s only one Tim Salmon – and he’s already played for Canyon.
Congratulations Tim – and this is the best compliment I can give you Tim, you are a Canyon guy.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
U2 in Arizona
Thanks to my children I was privileged to experience the U2 360 Tour. Okay, U2 may be on the cusp of an aging band, but they still can get 60,000 people to sing along for two hours, standing a lot of the time.
One critic asked if U2 had moved from a band with a cause to cause with a band. Bono spoke with courage to an Arizona crowd, encouraging them to be the best part of America and support the poor in Africa and around the world. I pray many listened to more than just the music.
It was, for the most part, an intergenerational crowd, not something you experience at many concerts. The appeal of U2 across generations is the hope for possible change that not only Bono, but many in that crowd, pray to see in their lifetime.
One of my friends was privileged to be on the stage in one of the final numbers. She represents ONE, as a participate and as a leader in the Church, she represents some of our best efforts. Thanks to ONE and U2 for their efforts on behalf of the needy. Something considering supporting.
Great music - most worthwhile cause - profound experience - and the best part was I experienced it with my family.
One critic asked if U2 had moved from a band with a cause to cause with a band. Bono spoke with courage to an Arizona crowd, encouraging them to be the best part of America and support the poor in Africa and around the world. I pray many listened to more than just the music.
It was, for the most part, an intergenerational crowd, not something you experience at many concerts. The appeal of U2 across generations is the hope for possible change that not only Bono, but many in that crowd, pray to see in their lifetime.
One of my friends was privileged to be on the stage in one of the final numbers. She represents ONE, as a participate and as a leader in the Church, she represents some of our best efforts. Thanks to ONE and U2 for their efforts on behalf of the needy. Something considering supporting.
Great music - most worthwhile cause - profound experience - and the best part was I experienced it with my family.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Open letter to DBACKS manager
This is an open letter to the manager of the Arizona Diamondbacks, A.J. Hinch.
Dear Skip (I use that term because that is what the players are supposed to call you, however, I wonder if yours do. Of course some of the young players on the Dodgers call manager Joe Torre, “Mr. Torre.” I’m pretty confident your players don’t call you Mr. Hinch.)
You were quoted in the Arizona Republic on October 5, 2009 that you have two weaknesses you want to work on during the off-season. First, you feel you need to work on manager-player relationships. Second, you recognize you need to improve your in-game decision-making. It is very commendable that you would be so transparent. I would love to be a fly on the wall when your players read those quotes. While your relationships with the players have been well hid from the public, your in-game decision making, well, has been hanging out there for all of us to see.
When you took over the Diamondbacks they were in fourth place and the Rockies were trailing the Dbacks in last. Shortly after the Dbacks turned their team over to you, the Rockies also made a change. Yesterday, at the end of the regular season, I couldn’t help but notice that the Dbacks finished in dead last. The Rockies, on the other hand, who hired a seasoned manager in Jim Tracy (who spent 13 years managing in the minor leagues before taking a major league job), are in the playoffs. That speaks enough of your lack of in-game decision-making. For your information, of course, I realize you have never even managed a Little League game, but in-game decision-making is also known as making managerial moves.
Interestingly enough, Sunday, in the same newspaper, Hall of Fame second baseman Ryan Sandburg was quoted as saying that he has aspirations of managing in the Big Leagues. Of course, he has spent the last three years successfully managing in the Cubs minor league system. My hunch is when he does get the chance to manage, he will be prepared in areas such as manager-player relationships and managerial moves, sorry, in-game decision making.
Here’s a suggestion for you. Instead of making us watch you slog through another season of learning on the job while we pay a lot of money to watch you do what you should have learned at a lower lever, why don’t you volunteer to manage in the Arizona Fall League. A lot of your colleagues honed their skills there first.
I realize you did not hire yourself. But, now that you have the job, and you realize that you have deficiencies, do something about it besides spending the winter playing X-Box baseball with your best friend and general manager buddy.
Dear Skip (I use that term because that is what the players are supposed to call you, however, I wonder if yours do. Of course some of the young players on the Dodgers call manager Joe Torre, “Mr. Torre.” I’m pretty confident your players don’t call you Mr. Hinch.)
You were quoted in the Arizona Republic on October 5, 2009 that you have two weaknesses you want to work on during the off-season. First, you feel you need to work on manager-player relationships. Second, you recognize you need to improve your in-game decision-making. It is very commendable that you would be so transparent. I would love to be a fly on the wall when your players read those quotes. While your relationships with the players have been well hid from the public, your in-game decision making, well, has been hanging out there for all of us to see.
When you took over the Diamondbacks they were in fourth place and the Rockies were trailing the Dbacks in last. Shortly after the Dbacks turned their team over to you, the Rockies also made a change. Yesterday, at the end of the regular season, I couldn’t help but notice that the Dbacks finished in dead last. The Rockies, on the other hand, who hired a seasoned manager in Jim Tracy (who spent 13 years managing in the minor leagues before taking a major league job), are in the playoffs. That speaks enough of your lack of in-game decision-making. For your information, of course, I realize you have never even managed a Little League game, but in-game decision-making is also known as making managerial moves.
Interestingly enough, Sunday, in the same newspaper, Hall of Fame second baseman Ryan Sandburg was quoted as saying that he has aspirations of managing in the Big Leagues. Of course, he has spent the last three years successfully managing in the Cubs minor league system. My hunch is when he does get the chance to manage, he will be prepared in areas such as manager-player relationships and managerial moves, sorry, in-game decision making.
Here’s a suggestion for you. Instead of making us watch you slog through another season of learning on the job while we pay a lot of money to watch you do what you should have learned at a lower lever, why don’t you volunteer to manage in the Arizona Fall League. A lot of your colleagues honed their skills there first.
I realize you did not hire yourself. But, now that you have the job, and you realize that you have deficiencies, do something about it besides spending the winter playing X-Box baseball with your best friend and general manager buddy.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Secular mets sacred
Today, for me, the secular met the sacred. I was called to jury duty and for the first time since being a priest I was called to a jury panel. The judge and the lawyers asked a battery of questions determined to allow anyone who might be prejudice in the case to recuse themselves.
Despite the fact that the defendant was an undocumented immigrant and despite the concerns regarding the use of force, I thought I could rise above all those questions and serve my civic duty.
Then the question was asked if anyone, who for religious reasons, felt they could not be a judge of someones actions - I had to raise my hand. At that point, all of my internal bias' came to the surface and I had to admit that, I indeed, have reason to be prejudice in this case. The judge released me from my duty this day.
I wanted to believe that even given the circumstances and allegations, I could be objective - I had to be honest, because of my own personal convictions, I could not. I wonder what I'll learn about myself tomorrow.
Despite the fact that the defendant was an undocumented immigrant and despite the concerns regarding the use of force, I thought I could rise above all those questions and serve my civic duty.
Then the question was asked if anyone, who for religious reasons, felt they could not be a judge of someones actions - I had to raise my hand. At that point, all of my internal bias' came to the surface and I had to admit that, I indeed, have reason to be prejudice in this case. The judge released me from my duty this day.
I wanted to believe that even given the circumstances and allegations, I could be objective - I had to be honest, because of my own personal convictions, I could not. I wonder what I'll learn about myself tomorrow.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Lutherans
Congratulations to the ELCA for their willingness to allow congregations to choose ministers or lay leaders who may be in "lifelong, monogamous, same-gender relationships." Episcopalians are in communion with the ELCA and now we are in solidarity with their wisdom.
In response to their action, the President of Fuller Theological Seminary, Dr. Richard Mouw, said, "For those of us who have opposed this on biblical grounds, it is bound to reinforce the sense that we are no longer welcome in the mainline."
What? Because the Lutherans and the Episcopalians want to be inclusive that means that in reality they are exclusive? Dr. Mouw, you are the one who is a Calvinist. By the very nature of your theology you are exclusionary and suggest that the non-elect are hopeless and while they are welcome to hang around the door, they are without the hope of ever getting in. Okay, I know you hedge your Calvinism with what you call common grace, but when all is said and done, you are a Calvinist.
I have heard this argument recently from a colleague in the Episcopal Church - he said virtually the same thing - meaning, because the Church, and I, don't agree with him, thereby the Church, and I, are not making room for him. I apologize, but I don't understand. How can inclusive be exclusion?
I wonder?
In response to their action, the President of Fuller Theological Seminary, Dr. Richard Mouw, said, "For those of us who have opposed this on biblical grounds, it is bound to reinforce the sense that we are no longer welcome in the mainline."
What? Because the Lutherans and the Episcopalians want to be inclusive that means that in reality they are exclusive? Dr. Mouw, you are the one who is a Calvinist. By the very nature of your theology you are exclusionary and suggest that the non-elect are hopeless and while they are welcome to hang around the door, they are without the hope of ever getting in. Okay, I know you hedge your Calvinism with what you call common grace, but when all is said and done, you are a Calvinist.
I have heard this argument recently from a colleague in the Episcopal Church - he said virtually the same thing - meaning, because the Church, and I, don't agree with him, thereby the Church, and I, are not making room for him. I apologize, but I don't understand. How can inclusive be exclusion?
I wonder?
Monday, August 17, 2009
Woodstock
This is one of those blog entries I have told myself all morning not to write - I know I am going to regret this - but, I guess that's never stopped from doing things before, now has it?
Last night I watched my copy of Woodstock. Unfortunately, I can't recapture my youth, but hey, at least once in awhile, especially on anniversary events, I can relive it for a few hours.
No, I didn't go to the Woodstock Music Festival. I would have if we lived anywhere near there - but, alas, we lived in Phoenix, I was fifteen in 1969. The documentary was released the next year. I had just gotten my driver's license. Good thing the ticket teller didn't ask me for my ID to get into the "R" rated movie - they did those things back then.
I was transfixed. Three hours, only broken by the interfuckingmission. The music gave shape to my inner life - because my outer life was being pounded into form by church and sports. None of those hammers had matching rhythms. The expected outcomes of each was dramatically out of tune. What to do? Live different lives and don't let anyone see the inner world. Worked for awhile, well sort of, actually not really.
Oddly enough, as I watched the film last night it dawned on me that my incarnational spirituality was being played out before me on the screen. No matter how hard the external pounding, the inner vibrations eventually will ooze out. Mystical experiences need no words - sometimes though, it helps to having something to dance to.
Last night I watched my copy of Woodstock. Unfortunately, I can't recapture my youth, but hey, at least once in awhile, especially on anniversary events, I can relive it for a few hours.
No, I didn't go to the Woodstock Music Festival. I would have if we lived anywhere near there - but, alas, we lived in Phoenix, I was fifteen in 1969. The documentary was released the next year. I had just gotten my driver's license. Good thing the ticket teller didn't ask me for my ID to get into the "R" rated movie - they did those things back then.
I was transfixed. Three hours, only broken by the interfuckingmission. The music gave shape to my inner life - because my outer life was being pounded into form by church and sports. None of those hammers had matching rhythms. The expected outcomes of each was dramatically out of tune. What to do? Live different lives and don't let anyone see the inner world. Worked for awhile, well sort of, actually not really.
Oddly enough, as I watched the film last night it dawned on me that my incarnational spirituality was being played out before me on the screen. No matter how hard the external pounding, the inner vibrations eventually will ooze out. Mystical experiences need no words - sometimes though, it helps to having something to dance to.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Discernment
I’ve had the joy of walking in Ireland from Dublin to Kildare, a pilgrimage of about 120 miles. The second day of our journey we walked almost sixteen miles. Six miles of that was spent walking across White Hill in a blinding rainstorm and a sixty-mile an hour wind. One of our fellow pilgrims suffered from severe blisters and we had to travel at a very slow pace, ensuring that person wouldn’t get left behind.
On the third day we headed to Glendalough, about a seven miles up and down through the Wicklow Mountains. The rain was steady and hard that day, even for the Irish. The day before our map had gotten trashed in the downpour across White Hill. Without a good map, well, at one point we were pretty sure we were lost.
One of the many things I learned on our pilgrimage was, before you think you’re really lost, stop and ask directions. Its one thing to be driving around in a car and be lost and unwilling to ask for directions, it’s quite another to be walking and carrying a forty-pound pack. You don’t want to go a mile out of your way because that means you’ve really gone two miles out of your way because you have to turn around and go back.
While walking lost we came across a couple sitting by the side of the trail having a cup of tea. They both had packs so we figured they were fellow pilgrims. I asked them if they were walking the Wicklow Way.
“Ah,” the man said.
“We are walking the Way as well, but I think we’re lost,” I told him.
“Where are you coming from?” he asked.
“From Roundtree.”
“Well you’re going in the wrong direction,” he said.
“Ok,” I said.
He said, “Where’s your map laddy.”
I pulled out our map. It was a useless wad of soaked paper. The lines bled together in an indistinguishable mess.
“That’s not a map laddy,” he reached in his bag, “this is a map.”
He produced a detailed topographical map sealed in zip lock bag. He proceeded to tell us we were walking in the wrong direction, though somehow we had actually made it the correct turnoff point in the trail. Oh, one small point, we had walked about two miles past the turnoff point. On his map he showed us where we should have turned and what we should look for. We thanked him and started to walk back down the road we had just come.
“Laddies, we’ll walk with you a ways, just to make sure.” He said.
He and his partner walked the next two miles with us explaining in detail how to make our way to Glendalough. I have no idea how far we would have walked out of our way if those two people had not helped us.
At the end of the Gospel of Luke we hear the story of two of Jesus’ disciples walking the seven miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus. Jesus has been crucified and buried. On the third day some of the women disciples went to the tomb and found it empty. These two disciples had left Jerusalem and were on their way to Emmaus.
They were filled with grief. Their beloved rabbi is dead and now his body is gone.
A stranger joins them on their walk. He asks them why they are so sad. Shocked, they ask if he is the only person in Jerusalem who had not heard about the tragic slaying of Jesus.
While waking along side these two disciples the stranger begins to share the scripture of the promised Messiah.
Eventually, the three travelers arrive in Emmaus and the stranger bids them farewell and starts to walk on his way. But the disciples implore to spend the night with them. The stranger relents and joins them for an evening meal.
As the three sit at their table the stranger takes bread, blesses it, breaks the bread and shares it with his friends. The scripture says their opens were opened to see Jesus Christ in the breaking of the bread.
The scripture tells us that immediately they left Emmaus and returned to Jerusalem to witness to their friends what they had heard and seen.
As Episcopalians this is our three-part story. We walk together sharing in the Liturgy of the Word, trying to gain a deeper understanding of the scriptures. We gather around the Liturgy of the Table. We take the bread, bless the bread, break the bread and we share the bread, expecting that Christ will be revealed in the Holy Eucharist. Then we are sent into the world by the Deacon to be witnesses to what we have heard and what we have experienced.
We do not walk this road alone. We cannot hear nor understand the word outside of community. We break the bread in community and communion because that is where Christ is revealed to us. And together we are witnesses to the world of the sacrament of the Word and the Table.
This lifetime pilgrimage of Word, Table and witness is also a lifetime of discernment. Discernment is done in community with the community.
Discernment is the process of hearing the Word as it is revealed in the lives of the community. We listen deeply to our own Emmaus stories. We are vulnerable in sharing these stories because we know that we are safe as we gather around the mystery of the Table. It is in the community of discernment that we can hear what the Spirit is saying.
The process of discernment is the gift we have to offer. We walk along side one another, listening to the word, sharing our stories, praying for the Spirit to point each of us in the right direction. It’s not an easy process. It takes humility, vulnerability and a willingness to listen to what the Spirit is saying.
Discernment communities that are listening to the Spirit will be transformed collectively as well as individually. The community of St. Augustine’s and the Episcopal Campus Ministry at ASU also known as St. Brigid's Community consider one of our gifts to be that of discernment. In less than three years we have had eleven discernment committees. Listening to the Holy Spirit in community forms the community.
It’s not an easy pilgrimage. Answers are sometimes “yes,” or “no,” or “not yet” or “we are uncertain.” Yet, the Spirit continues to provide a safe environment to walk along side one another. We continue to share our Emmaus stories, breaking bread together and witnessing to others what Christ has revealed to us.
I encourage you as you continue the life long process of discernment to ask questions we are often afraid to ask. If we don’t ask the tough questions we may find ourselves walking miles out of the way to discover the path. I encourage you to walk along side one another especially those whom you may not know very well. These are the ones who you may help the most. I encourage you to be vulnerable enough to share your rain-drenched maps with one another. Someone else may have the map you are looking for. I encourage you to walk the pilgrimage of discernment because if you don’t take the risk for sure you’ll never find your way.
Finally, I encourage you to walk side by side, listening to the Word, breaking the bread together and to be witnesses to what you have seen and heard in community.
On the third day we headed to Glendalough, about a seven miles up and down through the Wicklow Mountains. The rain was steady and hard that day, even for the Irish. The day before our map had gotten trashed in the downpour across White Hill. Without a good map, well, at one point we were pretty sure we were lost.
One of the many things I learned on our pilgrimage was, before you think you’re really lost, stop and ask directions. Its one thing to be driving around in a car and be lost and unwilling to ask for directions, it’s quite another to be walking and carrying a forty-pound pack. You don’t want to go a mile out of your way because that means you’ve really gone two miles out of your way because you have to turn around and go back.
While walking lost we came across a couple sitting by the side of the trail having a cup of tea. They both had packs so we figured they were fellow pilgrims. I asked them if they were walking the Wicklow Way.
“Ah,” the man said.
“We are walking the Way as well, but I think we’re lost,” I told him.
“Where are you coming from?” he asked.
“From Roundtree.”
“Well you’re going in the wrong direction,” he said.
“Ok,” I said.
He said, “Where’s your map laddy.”
I pulled out our map. It was a useless wad of soaked paper. The lines bled together in an indistinguishable mess.
“That’s not a map laddy,” he reached in his bag, “this is a map.”
He produced a detailed topographical map sealed in zip lock bag. He proceeded to tell us we were walking in the wrong direction, though somehow we had actually made it the correct turnoff point in the trail. Oh, one small point, we had walked about two miles past the turnoff point. On his map he showed us where we should have turned and what we should look for. We thanked him and started to walk back down the road we had just come.
“Laddies, we’ll walk with you a ways, just to make sure.” He said.
He and his partner walked the next two miles with us explaining in detail how to make our way to Glendalough. I have no idea how far we would have walked out of our way if those two people had not helped us.
At the end of the Gospel of Luke we hear the story of two of Jesus’ disciples walking the seven miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus. Jesus has been crucified and buried. On the third day some of the women disciples went to the tomb and found it empty. These two disciples had left Jerusalem and were on their way to Emmaus.
They were filled with grief. Their beloved rabbi is dead and now his body is gone.
A stranger joins them on their walk. He asks them why they are so sad. Shocked, they ask if he is the only person in Jerusalem who had not heard about the tragic slaying of Jesus.
While waking along side these two disciples the stranger begins to share the scripture of the promised Messiah.
Eventually, the three travelers arrive in Emmaus and the stranger bids them farewell and starts to walk on his way. But the disciples implore to spend the night with them. The stranger relents and joins them for an evening meal.
As the three sit at their table the stranger takes bread, blesses it, breaks the bread and shares it with his friends. The scripture says their opens were opened to see Jesus Christ in the breaking of the bread.
The scripture tells us that immediately they left Emmaus and returned to Jerusalem to witness to their friends what they had heard and seen.
As Episcopalians this is our three-part story. We walk together sharing in the Liturgy of the Word, trying to gain a deeper understanding of the scriptures. We gather around the Liturgy of the Table. We take the bread, bless the bread, break the bread and we share the bread, expecting that Christ will be revealed in the Holy Eucharist. Then we are sent into the world by the Deacon to be witnesses to what we have heard and what we have experienced.
We do not walk this road alone. We cannot hear nor understand the word outside of community. We break the bread in community and communion because that is where Christ is revealed to us. And together we are witnesses to the world of the sacrament of the Word and the Table.
This lifetime pilgrimage of Word, Table and witness is also a lifetime of discernment. Discernment is done in community with the community.
Discernment is the process of hearing the Word as it is revealed in the lives of the community. We listen deeply to our own Emmaus stories. We are vulnerable in sharing these stories because we know that we are safe as we gather around the mystery of the Table. It is in the community of discernment that we can hear what the Spirit is saying.
The process of discernment is the gift we have to offer. We walk along side one another, listening to the word, sharing our stories, praying for the Spirit to point each of us in the right direction. It’s not an easy process. It takes humility, vulnerability and a willingness to listen to what the Spirit is saying.
Discernment communities that are listening to the Spirit will be transformed collectively as well as individually. The community of St. Augustine’s and the Episcopal Campus Ministry at ASU also known as St. Brigid's Community consider one of our gifts to be that of discernment. In less than three years we have had eleven discernment committees. Listening to the Holy Spirit in community forms the community.
It’s not an easy pilgrimage. Answers are sometimes “yes,” or “no,” or “not yet” or “we are uncertain.” Yet, the Spirit continues to provide a safe environment to walk along side one another. We continue to share our Emmaus stories, breaking bread together and witnessing to others what Christ has revealed to us.
I encourage you as you continue the life long process of discernment to ask questions we are often afraid to ask. If we don’t ask the tough questions we may find ourselves walking miles out of the way to discover the path. I encourage you to walk along side one another especially those whom you may not know very well. These are the ones who you may help the most. I encourage you to be vulnerable enough to share your rain-drenched maps with one another. Someone else may have the map you are looking for. I encourage you to walk the pilgrimage of discernment because if you don’t take the risk for sure you’ll never find your way.
Finally, I encourage you to walk side by side, listening to the Word, breaking the bread together and to be witnesses to what you have seen and heard in community.
Friday, May 01, 2009
After sermon writing ramblings
Do I really have to tell people to not shake hands at the sharing of the peace? Do you think Jesus used hand sanitizer before feeding the 5000 or before breaking bread at his last meal?
"I have guarded myself more carefully against contented people than against contagious diseases." Victoria Wolff (quoted from The Sun magazine)
I wonder if Jesus would want to be confirmed as an Episcopalian? Or be ordained as a deacon or a priest? What would his discernment committee say? Would his vestry approve his request? Would the parish support him financially at seminary? Would his homiletics professor approve of his preaching style? I guess he did have the gift of gathering, but was he entrepreneurial enough?
After sermon writing ramblings -
"I have guarded myself more carefully against contented people than against contagious diseases." Victoria Wolff (quoted from The Sun magazine)
I wonder if Jesus would want to be confirmed as an Episcopalian? Or be ordained as a deacon or a priest? What would his discernment committee say? Would his vestry approve his request? Would the parish support him financially at seminary? Would his homiletics professor approve of his preaching style? I guess he did have the gift of gathering, but was he entrepreneurial enough?
After sermon writing ramblings -
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Neo-monastic community
In a recent Christian Century issue, Holy Nativity, an Episcopal Church in Los Angeles was featured by writer Amy Frykholm. "Church as Hosting Community" offered some very thoughtful ideas for consideration.
Episcopal priest, Peter Rood has worked at offering as many entry points in their neo-monastic community as possible. "Church is a place where people should be able to pursue religious paths that have meaning for them personally. Doctrinal agreement is not an issue. Rood says that he does not worry who will stay, for how long or for what. Membership he regards as largely an outdated concept."
Rood is using the model of a monastery for the parish. Hospitality is the main function of Holy Nativity. Everyone brings a gift he says and he hopes everyone takes a gift with them.
The parish has a community garden, offers cooking classes, has a jazz mass with young musicians, and teaches classes on meditation. His goal is to "provide a place of hospitality and discernment."
The neo-monastic model is unique to its location, what is possible in Los Angeles is a challenge for Tempe - but what is authentic to Tempe would be dis-ingenuous to anywhere in California. The important thing about the neo-monastic model is to find ways for each community to to make a gift, an offering, to the community in which they live and hope to serve out the calling of the community.
I am encouraged by Peter Rood and Holy Nativity. To hear that the community of God is being nourished and is growing around Benedictine precepts in the confines of parish life is inspiring.
Too often our specific communities have been given a discouraging message, one which offers little hope, in other words, the ship of the Episcopal Church is sinking. Even our own General Convention is spending time looking at Emergent models in hopes of finding a way of survival.
Rood may have the best answer - look at our past as our strength. Episcopal Church stop wringing your hands and instead put them together to pray and work, like the monks in LA.
Episcopal priest, Peter Rood has worked at offering as many entry points in their neo-monastic community as possible. "Church is a place where people should be able to pursue religious paths that have meaning for them personally. Doctrinal agreement is not an issue. Rood says that he does not worry who will stay, for how long or for what. Membership he regards as largely an outdated concept."
Rood is using the model of a monastery for the parish. Hospitality is the main function of Holy Nativity. Everyone brings a gift he says and he hopes everyone takes a gift with them.
The parish has a community garden, offers cooking classes, has a jazz mass with young musicians, and teaches classes on meditation. His goal is to "provide a place of hospitality and discernment."
The neo-monastic model is unique to its location, what is possible in Los Angeles is a challenge for Tempe - but what is authentic to Tempe would be dis-ingenuous to anywhere in California. The important thing about the neo-monastic model is to find ways for each community to to make a gift, an offering, to the community in which they live and hope to serve out the calling of the community.
I am encouraged by Peter Rood and Holy Nativity. To hear that the community of God is being nourished and is growing around Benedictine precepts in the confines of parish life is inspiring.
Too often our specific communities have been given a discouraging message, one which offers little hope, in other words, the ship of the Episcopal Church is sinking. Even our own General Convention is spending time looking at Emergent models in hopes of finding a way of survival.
Rood may have the best answer - look at our past as our strength. Episcopal Church stop wringing your hands and instead put them together to pray and work, like the monks in LA.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Transitions
Transitions are often scary. We are leaving one space, often comfortable if only because we know our way to the places we need to go. While we are going to a place where we might have trouble discovering the things very critical to our survival, like the el bano.
The frightening place though I think is the liminal space, the place of transition, that often holds me back. Those are the places that scare me. Several of my good friends are in those transitional places, the place in between the old and the new. Each has willingly taken the risk to go beyond what was to move into the what could be. These are inspirational people.
My grandfather was a truck driver most of his adult life. While working he traveled the main highways, trying to make good time. Time meant money and he needed it to care for his family.
But when my grandfather was not driving his truck he always took the back roads, the roads that took him through small towns with tiny cafes. He knew the dinner with the best lunch, the one with the blackest coffee and the little six seat pie shop with the sweetest apple pie in the county. It seemed we traveled for the sake of eating. Of course, as I grew older I realized he stopped at those places because of the people who he knew who lived in the area or worked in the cafe. We traveled for the sake of fellowship and community.
We traveled a lot of miles together, always in transition, going from one place to another - the best part though was being in the in between places, that was where my grandfather told me the stories of his life. Without the linimal spaces, I wouldn't know my grandfather or our family history.
To my many friends in transition, my prayers are with you - prayers that you may find your stories somewhere in the in between space.
The frightening place though I think is the liminal space, the place of transition, that often holds me back. Those are the places that scare me. Several of my good friends are in those transitional places, the place in between the old and the new. Each has willingly taken the risk to go beyond what was to move into the what could be. These are inspirational people.
My grandfather was a truck driver most of his adult life. While working he traveled the main highways, trying to make good time. Time meant money and he needed it to care for his family.
But when my grandfather was not driving his truck he always took the back roads, the roads that took him through small towns with tiny cafes. He knew the dinner with the best lunch, the one with the blackest coffee and the little six seat pie shop with the sweetest apple pie in the county. It seemed we traveled for the sake of eating. Of course, as I grew older I realized he stopped at those places because of the people who he knew who lived in the area or worked in the cafe. We traveled for the sake of fellowship and community.
We traveled a lot of miles together, always in transition, going from one place to another - the best part though was being in the in between places, that was where my grandfather told me the stories of his life. Without the linimal spaces, I wouldn't know my grandfather or our family history.
To my many friends in transition, my prayers are with you - prayers that you may find your stories somewhere in the in between space.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Being present
A few of us from our campus ministry group had a border emersion experience this past week. On Tuesday we drove to Douglas and participated in the weekly prayer vigil, remembering the over 300 people that have died in Cochise County since 2000 trying to cross the border into the US.
As we walk along a mile stretch leading up to the border each person holds up a cross, speaks the name of the deceased and says “presente” or you are present and we remember you. As the line of persons praying walks by you lay your cross on the curb and continue walking to the border repeating the names until all the crosses line the street. At the border Pastor Marc Adams, the Presbyterian border missioner, led the devotion. The hour-long vigil is a moving experience.
That night we had dinner with four migrants at the Catholic Church in Aqua Prieta. The parishioners from the Church cook a meal every night for whoever shows up. If the people need a place to spend the night the church has beds set up for them.
We listened to these men’s stories. They were simply looking for work. Hoping to find some way of taking care of their family. They had heard that they could pick tomatoes near Aqua Prieta. One man had ridden his bike over 3500 hundred kilometers in 59 days hoping to find work. Their stories were filled with compassion and pain. All they wanted was to be treated with some dignity by being given a chance to work. They weren’t looking for any handouts. They don’t need anyone to take care of them. They just want to work.
On Wednesday we traveled across the border again into Aqua Prieta where we visited two projects that are designed to give people in Mexico a chance to control their own destinies and to stay in Mexico.
“Café Justo” or Just Coffee is an agricultural cooperative of farmers from Chiapas in southern Mexico. Once the coffee beans are harvested they are shipped to Aqua Prieta where Café Justo roasts the coffee, packages it and then ships to customers in the US. The five-year old project is a success because the middleman is eliminated and the farmers are paid a fair price for their coffee. Everyone benefits.
For lunch we visited PermaCulture, the vision of founder Jose Gonzalez. We ate the best chili reinos I’ve ever tasted. The homegrown chilies were stuffed with chiuaua (Chihuahua), Mennonite cheese. The flavor was earthy and rich. The only thing that could have made the meal better was a cold bottle of Dos XX. We had to settle for soda instead.
Jose shared his vision of creating a place where people could grow their own vegetables; do wood working, do marketable sewing, and other creative crafts. His vision is to teach people to be self-sustaining. His vision is to change the culture of poor that live in Aqua Prieta.
Jose spoke through our interpreter. We needed the interpreter not Jose. He understood what we said and knew much more English than the four of us knew Spanish. But I didn’t need the interpreter to be swept up in the charisma of this man vision. Jose was fully present to us as he communicated more than a dream or a hope – he was glowing with vision.
It was in this moment that I got of glimpse of my relationship with God. I pray that God hears me and knows what I say. I pray for the confidence to trust that God hears me. But I struggle with hearing and understanding the words of God. However, the vision of God is communicated by the power of God’s presence. For a moment, God was present, communicating a new vision to me.
When I hear the gospel of John this morning I am struck how the work of resurrection seems impossible for the world to understand. The work of resurrection, the rebuilding of the Temple that the world has torn down, is so hard. It has taken the community 46 years and they still haven’t finished with the Temple. Jesus statement that he will rebuild, resurrect, the Temple in three days seems preposterous.
But the vision of God always seems outlandish – totally impossible. The work of resurrection is a vision for rebuilding the lives of the suffering. That’s what Jesus is showing us – resurrection work, a rebuilding of the dignity of human life is always possible – even in the face of disbelief. That’s Jose’s vision as well.
Taking the suffering world off the cross of despair and offering them hope – that is the work of resurrection.
Sometimes when I start thinking about the big issues of the world, like immigration, I get overwhelmed, almost frozen. I ask myself, what can I possibly do to solve this problem? But then I remember the words of Jesus, feed the hungry and clothe the naked.
So, our group took jeans, shoes, jackets, socks, medical supplies and money to the migrant center in Naco. And these items of mercy were being given to men sitting at the center hoping and praying to find their sister. Instead of being deported, she was randomly chosen and arrested, awaiting prosecution. The men hoped against hope that she would be deported. But, they had no idea.
I believe we are called to join Jesus in resurrection work – rebuilding the community – one pair of jeans, one bottle of water, one can of food, and one handshake at a time.
As we walk along a mile stretch leading up to the border each person holds up a cross, speaks the name of the deceased and says “presente” or you are present and we remember you. As the line of persons praying walks by you lay your cross on the curb and continue walking to the border repeating the names until all the crosses line the street. At the border Pastor Marc Adams, the Presbyterian border missioner, led the devotion. The hour-long vigil is a moving experience.
That night we had dinner with four migrants at the Catholic Church in Aqua Prieta. The parishioners from the Church cook a meal every night for whoever shows up. If the people need a place to spend the night the church has beds set up for them.
We listened to these men’s stories. They were simply looking for work. Hoping to find some way of taking care of their family. They had heard that they could pick tomatoes near Aqua Prieta. One man had ridden his bike over 3500 hundred kilometers in 59 days hoping to find work. Their stories were filled with compassion and pain. All they wanted was to be treated with some dignity by being given a chance to work. They weren’t looking for any handouts. They don’t need anyone to take care of them. They just want to work.
On Wednesday we traveled across the border again into Aqua Prieta where we visited two projects that are designed to give people in Mexico a chance to control their own destinies and to stay in Mexico.
“Café Justo” or Just Coffee is an agricultural cooperative of farmers from Chiapas in southern Mexico. Once the coffee beans are harvested they are shipped to Aqua Prieta where Café Justo roasts the coffee, packages it and then ships to customers in the US. The five-year old project is a success because the middleman is eliminated and the farmers are paid a fair price for their coffee. Everyone benefits.
For lunch we visited PermaCulture, the vision of founder Jose Gonzalez. We ate the best chili reinos I’ve ever tasted. The homegrown chilies were stuffed with chiuaua (Chihuahua), Mennonite cheese. The flavor was earthy and rich. The only thing that could have made the meal better was a cold bottle of Dos XX. We had to settle for soda instead.
Jose shared his vision of creating a place where people could grow their own vegetables; do wood working, do marketable sewing, and other creative crafts. His vision is to teach people to be self-sustaining. His vision is to change the culture of poor that live in Aqua Prieta.
Jose spoke through our interpreter. We needed the interpreter not Jose. He understood what we said and knew much more English than the four of us knew Spanish. But I didn’t need the interpreter to be swept up in the charisma of this man vision. Jose was fully present to us as he communicated more than a dream or a hope – he was glowing with vision.
It was in this moment that I got of glimpse of my relationship with God. I pray that God hears me and knows what I say. I pray for the confidence to trust that God hears me. But I struggle with hearing and understanding the words of God. However, the vision of God is communicated by the power of God’s presence. For a moment, God was present, communicating a new vision to me.
When I hear the gospel of John this morning I am struck how the work of resurrection seems impossible for the world to understand. The work of resurrection, the rebuilding of the Temple that the world has torn down, is so hard. It has taken the community 46 years and they still haven’t finished with the Temple. Jesus statement that he will rebuild, resurrect, the Temple in three days seems preposterous.
But the vision of God always seems outlandish – totally impossible. The work of resurrection is a vision for rebuilding the lives of the suffering. That’s what Jesus is showing us – resurrection work, a rebuilding of the dignity of human life is always possible – even in the face of disbelief. That’s Jose’s vision as well.
Taking the suffering world off the cross of despair and offering them hope – that is the work of resurrection.
Sometimes when I start thinking about the big issues of the world, like immigration, I get overwhelmed, almost frozen. I ask myself, what can I possibly do to solve this problem? But then I remember the words of Jesus, feed the hungry and clothe the naked.
So, our group took jeans, shoes, jackets, socks, medical supplies and money to the migrant center in Naco. And these items of mercy were being given to men sitting at the center hoping and praying to find their sister. Instead of being deported, she was randomly chosen and arrested, awaiting prosecution. The men hoped against hope that she would be deported. But, they had no idea.
I believe we are called to join Jesus in resurrection work – rebuilding the community – one pair of jeans, one bottle of water, one can of food, and one handshake at a time.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
The demon of fear
My heart is breaking over the destructive slashes to our universities, public education and services to the poor. Our State legislature is acting out of fear. They are afraid to raise your taxes because they are afraid you want re-elect them and if you don't re-elect them they are afraid someone else will be in control - the biggest fear of all, losing control.
And what has their fear driven them to do - when they gutted education and social services - they have given more money to Sheriff Joe? Why? Because they are afraid - or they think you are afraid - actually they think you will love them because the toughest sheriff still lurking the earth is so popular - more votes.
Stop the cycle of fear! Call your representatives and cast out the demon of fear - or at least those in power. And pray for Sheriff Joe; I don't know what else to do.
And what has their fear driven them to do - when they gutted education and social services - they have given more money to Sheriff Joe? Why? Because they are afraid - or they think you are afraid - actually they think you will love them because the toughest sheriff still lurking the earth is so popular - more votes.
Stop the cycle of fear! Call your representatives and cast out the demon of fear - or at least those in power. And pray for Sheriff Joe; I don't know what else to do.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The special day of inspiration
Thankfully today has been a day that many of us can proclaim that we are proud to be a part of something bigger than ourselves, including our country. President Obama's inauguration speech caused us to pause, reflect, re-commit and dedicate ourselves to the common good.
This is also a day to remember those who have displayed courage in the face of oppression and great opposition - and while I could recall historic moments and defining characters, all that has meaning to me is those who have personally touch my life.
Clyde Cunningham's family was the first African-Americans to live on the block. Clyde was straight forward, kind, gentle, at times unsure, and always a friend.
Dick Davis, from Compton "crime capital of the world" he always said, taught me that different backgrounds, families and cultures meant nothing when as teenage
professional baseball players we talked about the fear of failure and the expectations to excel.
John Shumate, former Notre Dame and Phoenix Sun star, came to Grand Canyon University as its first African-American coach and in spite of outright racism thrust his way, he stayed true to himself and his players. He taught us all that courage means being honest.
Leighten McCray, the next African-American basketball coach at GCU, taught me that taking risk on your players entrusted them to their own obligations.
Dr. Barbara Dickerson continues to hold education as the most meaningful way to teach us to love one another in a common goal.
Janet Beason and John Saunders have taught me that the Church is the place where we gather to worship the God who loves us as one.
Judith Conley has taught me it takes continued courage in the twenty-first century because, sadly, racism still exists in our world, country, state and town. She and her husband are truly strong and inspiring people.
Mr. President you have my daily prayers, support and admiration. May God be Present to you in a way that you know God's power throughout each day. Thank you for your courage and inspiration.
This is also a day to remember those who have displayed courage in the face of oppression and great opposition - and while I could recall historic moments and defining characters, all that has meaning to me is those who have personally touch my life.
Clyde Cunningham's family was the first African-Americans to live on the block. Clyde was straight forward, kind, gentle, at times unsure, and always a friend.
Dick Davis, from Compton "crime capital of the world" he always said, taught me that different backgrounds, families and cultures meant nothing when as teenage
professional baseball players we talked about the fear of failure and the expectations to excel.
John Shumate, former Notre Dame and Phoenix Sun star, came to Grand Canyon University as its first African-American coach and in spite of outright racism thrust his way, he stayed true to himself and his players. He taught us all that courage means being honest.
Leighten McCray, the next African-American basketball coach at GCU, taught me that taking risk on your players entrusted them to their own obligations.
Dr. Barbara Dickerson continues to hold education as the most meaningful way to teach us to love one another in a common goal.
Janet Beason and John Saunders have taught me that the Church is the place where we gather to worship the God who loves us as one.
Judith Conley has taught me it takes continued courage in the twenty-first century because, sadly, racism still exists in our world, country, state and town. She and her husband are truly strong and inspiring people.
Mr. President you have my daily prayers, support and admiration. May God be Present to you in a way that you know God's power throughout each day. Thank you for your courage and inspiration.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Community supports those in need
Thanks to all who supported St. Brigid's Community in the collecting of food and clothing for the homeless today, the celebration of Martin Luther King's life. St. Brigid's Community collected over 1000 pounds of food and nearly 500 pounds of clothes. That's a hell of lot of clothes and food that will go to care for those in need. The majority of the items will go either IHELP, the Tempe Interfaith group to which we belong that feeds and houses the homeless or to St. Matthew's Crossing that provides food for those in need. Some food also will be distributed by St. Augustine's for those who come to our door daily seeking assistance.
Blessings to all who volunteered and all who donated. Truly we have come together to form community and to serve the community.
Blessings to all who volunteered and all who donated. Truly we have come together to form community and to serve the community.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sticking it out
Congratulations to the Arizona Cardinals for winning the NFC and heading to the Super Bowl! Wow, just plain awesome. The best part is to watch the tears of the players who have suffered through the really bad years and now can enjoy along with young and new players the bliss of hard fought victory against many odds.
And to the fans, especially Chris and Eddie, you guys have been there with the Cardinals from the beginning. You have suffered with your team and you have never given up on them. You deserve to be honored along with the team. To the Bidwells you have endured. And to the City of Glendale, you deserve congratulations for your risk and sacrifice - thanks for bringing something so awesome to the great West Valley.
And to the fans, especially Chris and Eddie, you guys have been there with the Cardinals from the beginning. You have suffered with your team and you have never given up on them. You deserve to be honored along with the team. To the Bidwells you have endured. And to the City of Glendale, you deserve congratulations for your risk and sacrifice - thanks for bringing something so awesome to the great West Valley.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Why? Ok I know the answer I guess
Rick Warren has formed "solidarity" with dissident Episcopal parishes
http://www.episcopalchurch.org/79901_104218_ENG_HTM.htm
Why? OK, I guess I know the answer, it's apparent that he's homophobic and must be a Biblical literalist - of course he is a Southern Baptist, something he doesn't publicize, but that's the world he lives in - too bad President-elect Obama didn't invite Bishop Gene Robinson and Rick Warren to pray on the same podium. Curious question, I wonder if Warren would have been willing to pray on the same platform with the Bishop? I doubt it.
Well, I stand in solidarity with our sisters and brothers who are denied access to the Lord's Table in Rick Warren's church and that of the parishes who have chosen to walk apart from the Episcopal Church who include and provide open access to the Church to all who will walk the Way and even those who know nothing of the Way. Rick Warren is welcomed to the Lord Table's in our community - would our brothers and sisters be in his?
http://www.episcopalchurch.org/79901_104218_ENG_HTM.htm
Why? OK, I guess I know the answer, it's apparent that he's homophobic and must be a Biblical literalist - of course he is a Southern Baptist, something he doesn't publicize, but that's the world he lives in - too bad President-elect Obama didn't invite Bishop Gene Robinson and Rick Warren to pray on the same podium. Curious question, I wonder if Warren would have been willing to pray on the same platform with the Bishop? I doubt it.
Well, I stand in solidarity with our sisters and brothers who are denied access to the Lord's Table in Rick Warren's church and that of the parishes who have chosen to walk apart from the Episcopal Church who include and provide open access to the Church to all who will walk the Way and even those who know nothing of the Way. Rick Warren is welcomed to the Lord Table's in our community - would our brothers and sisters be in his?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Clouds
Spent the last few days in Seattle with our daughter and her fiance. It's been a wonderful experience. The laughter, food, and friendship has been heartening.
The weather has been normal for Seattle, cloudy, rainy and windy - pretty normal stuff; except that being from the Valley of Sun where you can't get away from the sun - this is awesome. Most people talk about how depressing it is to live without seeing the sun and I'm sure that's the case. But try living where the sun hunts you down everyday, all day, never a relief from the heat and bright light, like living in Alaska in the summer of the midnight sun - life without darkness, yes, life without clouds can alter the mood of the soul in an equally troubling way as a life without the shining sun. Why? Not sure. Variety, I would guess is needed on every pilgrimage.
And of course, the weather here reminds me of Ireland, the 40 shades of green. I took a long walk yesterday and was transported to my walk across Ireland, gotta do that again soon. I find that soulful sacred places, for me anyway, are often those that include cloud, rain and good pubs (found some in Seattle).
Traveling soul-scape blessed nurture found resting in this body's need for cool relief.
The weather has been normal for Seattle, cloudy, rainy and windy - pretty normal stuff; except that being from the Valley of Sun where you can't get away from the sun - this is awesome. Most people talk about how depressing it is to live without seeing the sun and I'm sure that's the case. But try living where the sun hunts you down everyday, all day, never a relief from the heat and bright light, like living in Alaska in the summer of the midnight sun - life without darkness, yes, life without clouds can alter the mood of the soul in an equally troubling way as a life without the shining sun. Why? Not sure. Variety, I would guess is needed on every pilgrimage.
And of course, the weather here reminds me of Ireland, the 40 shades of green. I took a long walk yesterday and was transported to my walk across Ireland, gotta do that again soon. I find that soulful sacred places, for me anyway, are often those that include cloud, rain and good pubs (found some in Seattle).
Traveling soul-scape blessed nurture found resting in this body's need for cool relief.
Monday, December 08, 2008
The Religious Case for Gay Marriage
Since we're on the subject, have you read the cover story for Newsweek December 15? "The Religious Case for Gay Marriage: Our Mutual Joy" by Lisa Miller is an excellent and well written essay by someone who has obviously done quiet a bit of research. She writes from a liberated biblical perspective that is refreshing. Without condemning those who disagree with her, she makes a case for gay marriage, one that is informative, respectful and worthy of study.
She covers the issues of Hebrew context, polygamy, Levitical law, David and Jonathan, Jesus' near silence on marriage and divorce and his being single as well as Paul's single status. She give fair treatment of Paul's mis-interpreted statement on homosexuality.
Miller quotes biblical scholars, both Jew and Christian, all well known. Some are delightfully surprising. Including Walter Brueggemann, who I pray is trying to convince Stanley Hauerwas to reconsider his strange stance on gay marriage.
My prayer is that the Diocese of Arizona of which I am affiliated will make its work intentional towards the blessing of same sex unions and though we live in a State that has a double indictment against gay marriage we will as clergy offer a deep and abiding support for our gay and lesbians couples who desire God's blessing in the Church.
She covers the issues of Hebrew context, polygamy, Levitical law, David and Jonathan, Jesus' near silence on marriage and divorce and his being single as well as Paul's single status. She give fair treatment of Paul's mis-interpreted statement on homosexuality.
Miller quotes biblical scholars, both Jew and Christian, all well known. Some are delightfully surprising. Including Walter Brueggemann, who I pray is trying to convince Stanley Hauerwas to reconsider his strange stance on gay marriage.
My prayer is that the Diocese of Arizona of which I am affiliated will make its work intentional towards the blessing of same sex unions and though we live in a State that has a double indictment against gay marriage we will as clergy offer a deep and abiding support for our gay and lesbians couples who desire God's blessing in the Church.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Final authority, unchangeable standard
I cringed when I read that the conservative Anglican leaders calling themselves the Common Cause Partnership included in their new organization's constitution the line about the Bible being the "final authority and unchangeable standard."
It seems very apparent that this new group seeking recognition from the World Wide Anglican Communion is going to make a lot of changes in their life style. Or maybe they haven't read Deuteronomy and Leviticus as closely as they would have us believe? And maybe they have intentions of declaring their embracing of slavery, of course that would make sense being they intend to enslave women and the gay community, or at least stop them from going passed the the altar rail, which, in my humble opinion is the same as enslavement. Or possibly some of them wish to resign their own positions of leadership being they have been married to more than one wife, or are they going to ignore Jesus' words about divorce? Of course then the Bible wouldn't really be the final authority or the unchangeable standard, would it?
I wonder, is the Bible the final authority and unchangeable standard, or is God? Who or what is being worshiped, God or the Bible? And where is the Holy Spirit, the Living God? Hmm?
It seems very apparent that this new group seeking recognition from the World Wide Anglican Communion is going to make a lot of changes in their life style. Or maybe they haven't read Deuteronomy and Leviticus as closely as they would have us believe? And maybe they have intentions of declaring their embracing of slavery, of course that would make sense being they intend to enslave women and the gay community, or at least stop them from going passed the the altar rail, which, in my humble opinion is the same as enslavement. Or possibly some of them wish to resign their own positions of leadership being they have been married to more than one wife, or are they going to ignore Jesus' words about divorce? Of course then the Bible wouldn't really be the final authority or the unchangeable standard, would it?
I wonder, is the Bible the final authority and unchangeable standard, or is God? Who or what is being worshiped, God or the Bible? And where is the Holy Spirit, the Living God? Hmm?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Great Grace
It was ninety miles from the chapel to the cemetery. The ride was a reflection on the memories and stories of Gracie Lee Kellett Moss. Her ninety-six year life was a fulfillment of her name. She extended grace to everyone she met.
She was momma to two daughters, and either auntie or granny to the rest of the world. She adopted family, friend and stranger alike. Gracie was the consummate host. All who claim to be hospitable have to measure to her standard. She knew no stranger and never turned anyone away from her door.
Gracie was the epitome of the Good Shepherd she modeled her life after. She didn’t try to lead anyone instead she walked along behind the flock, ensuring that all the sheep had the opportunity to be safe. When someone from the flock strayed she would go after them, usually with a visit or a phone call. She never scolded or told them what they should do. Gracie listened and prayed.
Her sister died much too young from cancer leaving a single father with three teenage girls and a young son. Gracie didn’t try to replace her sister as their mother instead she was present for them offering her love, support and care. She couldn’t be their mother but she could be the compassionate and present aunt. Gracie knew how to be the living embodiment of grace to others.
At the service of the celebration of her life songs were sung about her and stories were told of her life. Every song written about her and every story told repeated her life of unconditional love.
Her namesake eight year old great-great-grand daughter Gracie, stood at the end of memorial service and told the large gathering through her tears, “I loved my granny and I will miss her very much.”
We all loved you very much, Aunt Gracie, and we all miss you very much
She was momma to two daughters, and either auntie or granny to the rest of the world. She adopted family, friend and stranger alike. Gracie was the consummate host. All who claim to be hospitable have to measure to her standard. She knew no stranger and never turned anyone away from her door.
Gracie was the epitome of the Good Shepherd she modeled her life after. She didn’t try to lead anyone instead she walked along behind the flock, ensuring that all the sheep had the opportunity to be safe. When someone from the flock strayed she would go after them, usually with a visit or a phone call. She never scolded or told them what they should do. Gracie listened and prayed.
Her sister died much too young from cancer leaving a single father with three teenage girls and a young son. Gracie didn’t try to replace her sister as their mother instead she was present for them offering her love, support and care. She couldn’t be their mother but she could be the compassionate and present aunt. Gracie knew how to be the living embodiment of grace to others.
At the service of the celebration of her life songs were sung about her and stories were told of her life. Every song written about her and every story told repeated her life of unconditional love.
Her namesake eight year old great-great-grand daughter Gracie, stood at the end of memorial service and told the large gathering through her tears, “I loved my granny and I will miss her very much.”
We all loved you very much, Aunt Gracie, and we all miss you very much
Friday, November 14, 2008
Please pray for the Brothers at Mount Calvary
Peregrini friends, please pray for the Brothers of the Order of the Holy Cross at Mount Calvary Monastery and Retreat House. The monastery was destroyed in the Monteceto fire last night. All the Brothers were evacuated to safety. They need our prayers as they deal with the immediate situation and as the days go forward. Some of you have been to this beautiful house of prayer and know that I am an Associate of the Order.
Attached in an article written by the Rev. Nicholas Knisley of our Cathedral here in Phoenix.
http://www.episcopalcafe.com/lead/news_reports/holy_cross_retreat_center_dest.html
Attached in an article written by the Rev. Nicholas Knisley of our Cathedral here in Phoenix.
http://www.episcopalcafe.com/lead/news_reports/holy_cross_retreat_center_dest.html
Monday, November 10, 2008
In the presence of holy friends
This weekend I had the experience of being in the presence of holy friends. It's a sacred trust to gather in community. We shared in the frightening discussion of "What does this one life mean?" The group was vulnerable with one another, willing to share fears, doubts, and the uncertainty of not knowing what's next.
The container for the gathering was prayer. We prayed the Daily Office, the four cycle prayers of the Church, morning, noon, evening and compline. Prayer bathed our tired bodies, eased the tension of meeting new people, comforted those in pain, and reminded us that, if we give ourselves over to the idea, we are a part of something much bigger than our own private world.
We were privileged to be guided by the wise among us - each other. Four voices took the yoke of offering a possibility for conversation, and we responded with our questions and life experiences. A diverse group in some means, too much alike in others. Yet from our own milepost of life we were able to shine some light on the path for our fellow pilgrims.
Peregrini - the pilgrims way, it is a lifestyle, done best in community. Thank you friends for sharing a resting space with me. May our paths find us gathered again soon.
The container for the gathering was prayer. We prayed the Daily Office, the four cycle prayers of the Church, morning, noon, evening and compline. Prayer bathed our tired bodies, eased the tension of meeting new people, comforted those in pain, and reminded us that, if we give ourselves over to the idea, we are a part of something much bigger than our own private world.
We were privileged to be guided by the wise among us - each other. Four voices took the yoke of offering a possibility for conversation, and we responded with our questions and life experiences. A diverse group in some means, too much alike in others. Yet from our own milepost of life we were able to shine some light on the path for our fellow pilgrims.
Peregrini - the pilgrims way, it is a lifestyle, done best in community. Thank you friends for sharing a resting space with me. May our paths find us gathered again soon.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Number 44
Henry Aaron wore number 44 with pride and integrity - breaking Babe Ruth's homerun record despite threats against his life - and on this historic night, the 44th President of the United States is an African American - I am proud to be alive to witness a change in the very fiber of the life of this country. It was a privilege of mine to be on the same team as Henry Aaron in spring training with the Milwaukee Brewers and I am in tears to witness this particular moment in history and to feel some connection in supporting Barack Obama as President of the United States of America.
Working the Polls for Education
I'm heading out to distribute materials at a polling place on behalf of the local school district. The district needs an override election to pass in order to provide much needed support services for the children. I noticed there are override elections in almost every school district. These overrides rarely raise taxes and when they do its typically so small is goes unnoticed by most homeowners and businesses.
Public education is one of the wonderful opportunities this country offers its citizens. Most of us are products of public education. My parents were public school teachers, my wife is an administrator for a public school district, I taught public school, my son and daughter in law work in public schools, both our children were educated in public schools and many of our friends work in public schools; Laura, Jillian, Erin, Rebecca, Alicia, actually the list is countless.
If you can, support your local public schools and consider voting to pass their override elections.
Public education is one of the wonderful opportunities this country offers its citizens. Most of us are products of public education. My parents were public school teachers, my wife is an administrator for a public school district, I taught public school, my son and daughter in law work in public schools, both our children were educated in public schools and many of our friends work in public schools; Laura, Jillian, Erin, Rebecca, Alicia, actually the list is countless.
If you can, support your local public schools and consider voting to pass their override elections.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
I learned everything I know about God from my retarded sister
I walked half way across Ireland looking for God. Through driving rain, down forgotten trails, across centuries old pilgrim’s paths, I searched to fill an ache in my heart to discover something, anything about God.
At a pilgrims rest I encountered a dubiously curious holy man. “What are you doing here?” His poetic voice and pointed question pushed back my tired soul causing my eyes to come up for air.
“Uh, I’m on a pilgrimage.” When I said the words in his presence it sounded more like I was trying to steal a holy relic instead of discovering something about the mystical unseen.
“Humph,” he softly snorted. His crackling blue eyes pierced into my soul, “You wouldn’t be insultin’ God by lookin’, now would ya?”
Admittedly, I have spent the best part of my life searching for an intellectual encounter with the holy. At holy wells I prayed to see the water stir. Listening to great teachers, I yearned for “the” word that offered proof. Practicing spiritual disciplines in hopes for a revelation, a word, a punctuation mark, all have left me feeling unfulfilled.
Yet, in all my travels and personal efforts the only experience of a revealing encounter with the holy has been in the presence of my little sister. My sister is wise. She’s also strangely weird, a little nuts, often somewhat silly, and frankly, retarded. In PC-ese she’s special, challenged, mentally and physically handicapped. Technically she has Prader-Willi Syndrome (PWS).
My baby sister dances with God. For some reason unbeknown to me, I get to watch. Her name is Dinah. It reminds me she was named after a biblical character. Well, that’s not true. My mom named her after Dinah Shore. But it would have been really cool if she were named after the Dinah in the Bible. Maybe Dinah Shore was named after the biblical character?
Though my sister has this public relationship with God I doubt seriously if she thinks that much about God. But, when she does, when she communicates that encounter, it’s like a waltz. Her moments with God have nothing to do with her being Prader-Willi, it’s just the way she “lives, moves and has her being” through the world. In a sense her intimacy with God is as visible as her daily encounter with the rest of us.
Dinah has these little koans, cloudy windows into her hidden world. She’s like a druid priestess reciting rituals from another world. She often says, “I not not know.” When I ask her what she thinks about God she says, “I not not know.” I mean really, I could say the same thing. What do I know about God? Nothing. I could say, well the Bible says, or this guy I heard said, or my mom said, but what do I know? Nothing. What do I really honestly know, intellectually know about God? Nothing, nothing, as in “I not not know.” Of course she says that about a lot of other things too, but that’s her being genuinely honest. I wish I were that forthright. Especially when someone asks me questions assuming I know the magical answer. I think I’ll start telling them, “I not not know?”
As in, “Gil, why do shitty things happen?” Well, I not not know. That sounds better than some dreamt up theological bullshit. Doesn’t it?
PWS is attributed to the deformity of chromosome-15. It’s random. No one knows why it happens. It was identified in 1956, the year after my sister was born, by Andrea Prader and Heinrich Willi. Characteristically, Prader-Willi’s are hyperphagia among other things. Hyperphagia? Technically that means they eat too much. On the PWS website they sell refrigerate locks, that ought to tell you something. They sneak food. Steal food. Dig it out of trashcans. And then they hide it like an alcoholic stuffing bottles in little secret drawers everywhere in the house.
When we were preteens my sister would eat two or three loaves of bread in the middle of the night. At first my parents thought I was eating all that bread. I was a growing boy so I must have been downing the midnight snacks. One night my dad stumbled into the bathroom only to find my sister stuffing herself with an entire pie. As a result of their eating disorder, PWS people become obese as children. Many of them die in their twenty’s from related obesity issues. The average PWS dies at the age of 32. The oldest survivor was 64. Today my sister is 53.
PWS also have anger outbursts. Their outbursts are a rage that is wildly unrestrained. It’s like road rage on steroids. Typically the anger is directed at themselves. On occasion Dinah has ripped off her clothes and marched down the street screaming. Dinah has broken and destroyed more of her own beloved possessions than I can remember. Obviously, the outbursts add to the stress of the individual and their families. Dinah has taken several forms of psychotropic drugs, which help in some cases. She calls them her “weird pills.”
Her relationship with God isn’t a result of the drugs she takes. She’s always lived in that thin place with God between this world and the next. Dinah’s interchange with God apparently is real and fully functional.
We were on a walk in a mountainous area of Arizona. It was a summer day when the clouds were rolling in and rain was threatening. A dark clouded thunderstorm signaled a downpour was a few minutes off. The sound of thunder was crackling through the trees causing us to jump with every demonstrative bone rattling snap. In fear we were walking as fast as we could to get back to our cabin.
Out of breath and still a ways from the cabin, Dinah stopped. She glared up at the sky. “God,” she hollered out. “Dat enough.” She waited as if God would say, “Oops, I’m sorry about that,” and stop the storm. Instead another rattle of thunder roared through the trees. Dinah shrugged her shoulders and smirked as if to say, “Well, I said my peace that’s all I can do.”
Ok, I get it, or think I do. I can say whatever I want to God, just realizing God’s not Santa Claus and everything’s not going to work out just like I want it to. In fact God may not be in control of the thunder and lightening. Still, I can say my peace. That’s good enough. Then I can go on and keep walking. At least that’s what Dinah does.
Adding to Dinah’s genetic complications she had a temperature of 108 degrees during the first week of her life. Yes, you are right, my sister should have died a long, long time ago. The speech area of Dinah’s brain was affected most by the life threatening temperature. Consequently, she has about 25 words the average person can understand. She also has about another 25 or so words and signs that she uses to communicate with her family and closest friends.
When she and I were little guys there was Dairy Queen near our house. My parent’s drove us past the Dairy Queen each week on our way to and from church. My dad rarely stopped at the Dairy Queen. One day, out of the blue, on our way home Dinah started saying “I Cee,” and curling her index finger up and down. My parents have always worked hard to clue into Dinah’s attempt to communicate. It didn’t take too many times driving by the Dairy Queen with Dinah’s insistent “I Cee,” and wriggling finger for us to discover she was telling us she wanted ice cream. Her finger signal was mimicking the twist on the Dairy Queen sign on top of the building. I was really glad about her persistence because we got ice cream a lot more often after that breakthrough.
I can’t understand what God is trying to tell me. All the clues and the signs in the Bible and the cosmos leave me baffled. As with Dinah, though, I just can’t give up. There’s something about the mystery of it all that lures me into continually straining to hear and to see. I don’t get it very often, but the few times I do break code the intensity is revealing and worth the effort. Thanks to Dinah I got a lot of chocolate dipped cones. I wonder if God has soft-serve?
Instead of sweet ice cream sometimes life smells like shit. You know, really it does. When an event that smells like a four-day rotten egg invades our life, Dinah will hold her nose and say “keyqankey” Try it. Hold your nose and say, “key-qank-key.” You got it? No? Well, get a pot out of your cupboard. Get a wooden spoon and smack the bottom of that pot with the wooden spoon. That’s qank. Try it again. Hold your nose and say key-qank-key. I defy you to tell me there is a better description of something that smells really bad. I mean it sounds more realistic than saying, “boy that really stinks.”
When life goes south, stinks, really sucks do what Dinah does. Hold your nose and say, “God, keyqankey.” See if you don’t feel like God might be getting the picture a little better. When I pray, it’s all I can do to hope, at the depths of the pit I’m in, that God can smell the same foul order.
There is no excuse for boring and emotionless prayers. Dinah paints a picture for God. The nasal sound she utters lets me and I am pretty confident God, as well, know that the shit that just fell on my head is putrid and disgusting. When she speaks to God her feelings are all she has to speak with and they are undeniable.
Still, more often than not, Dinah is silent. When we go to dinner at her favorite restaurant we spend the evening like most siblings. We talk about our parents. She wants to know how my wife and kids are doing. I ask her about her friends at Art Works. I have learned to be comfortable with her silence. There are times she just wants to be quiet. She draws me into her silence. She has the ability to allow all thoughts to drift away like fragrant incense. She bundles the thoughts and sets them aside for a while. Her silence is restful. I wonder if that’s what it’s like sitting with God? Maybe, at least for me it is, sitting with Dinah is like sitting in the presence of God.
Besides not understanding God I have no idea what to say to God. I struggle trying to get the right words to communicate my feelings, emotions, desires, angst – well, Dinah has taught me to just go for it, do the best I can, just say what I can say and trust God will understand me.
It’s been our tradition at Thanksgiving that my mom asks me to say “a word” and then my dad prays for the blessing of the food. That’s been a standard ritual at our Thanksgiving gatherings for as long as I can remember.
A few years back my mom said she wanted to start a new tradition. Oh God, here we go, change. I like change about as much as the next guy, which means not at all, much less around the treasured holidays. I say a word, my dad says a prayer, we eat, and we watch football. Right? Not, not.
Mom tells us the girls are in charge. Well, I’m ok with that, sort of. My mom has it all lined out. First my daughter reads a poem. That’s good. Then my wife reads something from the Bible. That was ok. So I figure my mom is going to pray. Not, not.
My mom says that Dinah is going to pray. My parents have taken us to church from before memory, but, truthfully, I’ve never heard or seen or even thought about Dinah praying. She has an IQ of 45. Her vocabulary is limited. What is she going to say?
She bows her head. I’m watching her. I can’t bow my head and close my eyes. I have to drink this in, experience every moment. She bows her head as I imagine she’s seen us do before thousands of meals. Now what?
“God!” Here we go again. This time, though, I sensed God was there, present, at attention and listening with attentive ears. God had been summoned. God was paying attention like never before.
“God!” She repeated. There was a long silence. I could tell she was trying to gather up every ounce of intellectual and spiritual energy within her being and soul. Then it gushed forth like champagne from a freshly popped bottle. “I thank.”
Thankfulness? What was Dinah thankful for? Not only had she been dealt a bad hand. Someone had dealt her cards from the wrong deck. While we hope for a straight or a four-of-a-kind, she was playing poker with Old Maid cards. She would never experience many of the things that bring joy to this life. Yet, I heard her say, “I thank you God.” For what?
“God, I thank. Mom, Dad, Gia, Cafu, Nee, Esika…” What came after our names was a flood of emotion from every eye and heart in the room. We were the objects of her prayer and our lives were now the thankful ones. We had been blessed by Dinah’s beckoning of God into our midst. Fixated on my sister, I was pretty sure I had finally seen the face of God.
To me, that must be prayer. Dinah puts it out there. No begging or pleading for rescue from the inconveniences of existence. She didn’t want anything to be magically made better. Nothing to be fixed, or protected or made right, she only offered thanks in what appeared to be the cold absence of the reasons to be thankful.
I’m a very slow learner. It seems I have insulted God by looking for God. It took me two seminary degrees to realize that everything I really know and understand about God has come from my sister. Not from learned teachers, mystics or professors. I’ve read hundreds of books about God, what I’ve gained from them is miniscule in comparison to what I’ve gleaned from Dinah, who can’t read. I’ve been fortunate enough to hear some of this generation’s best thinkers give their finest oratory about the things of God. Every word I’ve read and heard spoken has been filtered through Dinah’s 50 words. The best I can truly say about God is, I not not know.
At a pilgrims rest I encountered a dubiously curious holy man. “What are you doing here?” His poetic voice and pointed question pushed back my tired soul causing my eyes to come up for air.
“Uh, I’m on a pilgrimage.” When I said the words in his presence it sounded more like I was trying to steal a holy relic instead of discovering something about the mystical unseen.
“Humph,” he softly snorted. His crackling blue eyes pierced into my soul, “You wouldn’t be insultin’ God by lookin’, now would ya?”
Admittedly, I have spent the best part of my life searching for an intellectual encounter with the holy. At holy wells I prayed to see the water stir. Listening to great teachers, I yearned for “the” word that offered proof. Practicing spiritual disciplines in hopes for a revelation, a word, a punctuation mark, all have left me feeling unfulfilled.
Yet, in all my travels and personal efforts the only experience of a revealing encounter with the holy has been in the presence of my little sister. My sister is wise. She’s also strangely weird, a little nuts, often somewhat silly, and frankly, retarded. In PC-ese she’s special, challenged, mentally and physically handicapped. Technically she has Prader-Willi Syndrome (PWS).
My baby sister dances with God. For some reason unbeknown to me, I get to watch. Her name is Dinah. It reminds me she was named after a biblical character. Well, that’s not true. My mom named her after Dinah Shore. But it would have been really cool if she were named after the Dinah in the Bible. Maybe Dinah Shore was named after the biblical character?
Though my sister has this public relationship with God I doubt seriously if she thinks that much about God. But, when she does, when she communicates that encounter, it’s like a waltz. Her moments with God have nothing to do with her being Prader-Willi, it’s just the way she “lives, moves and has her being” through the world. In a sense her intimacy with God is as visible as her daily encounter with the rest of us.
Dinah has these little koans, cloudy windows into her hidden world. She’s like a druid priestess reciting rituals from another world. She often says, “I not not know.” When I ask her what she thinks about God she says, “I not not know.” I mean really, I could say the same thing. What do I know about God? Nothing. I could say, well the Bible says, or this guy I heard said, or my mom said, but what do I know? Nothing. What do I really honestly know, intellectually know about God? Nothing, nothing, as in “I not not know.” Of course she says that about a lot of other things too, but that’s her being genuinely honest. I wish I were that forthright. Especially when someone asks me questions assuming I know the magical answer. I think I’ll start telling them, “I not not know?”
As in, “Gil, why do shitty things happen?” Well, I not not know. That sounds better than some dreamt up theological bullshit. Doesn’t it?
PWS is attributed to the deformity of chromosome-15. It’s random. No one knows why it happens. It was identified in 1956, the year after my sister was born, by Andrea Prader and Heinrich Willi. Characteristically, Prader-Willi’s are hyperphagia among other things. Hyperphagia? Technically that means they eat too much. On the PWS website they sell refrigerate locks, that ought to tell you something. They sneak food. Steal food. Dig it out of trashcans. And then they hide it like an alcoholic stuffing bottles in little secret drawers everywhere in the house.
When we were preteens my sister would eat two or three loaves of bread in the middle of the night. At first my parents thought I was eating all that bread. I was a growing boy so I must have been downing the midnight snacks. One night my dad stumbled into the bathroom only to find my sister stuffing herself with an entire pie. As a result of their eating disorder, PWS people become obese as children. Many of them die in their twenty’s from related obesity issues. The average PWS dies at the age of 32. The oldest survivor was 64. Today my sister is 53.
PWS also have anger outbursts. Their outbursts are a rage that is wildly unrestrained. It’s like road rage on steroids. Typically the anger is directed at themselves. On occasion Dinah has ripped off her clothes and marched down the street screaming. Dinah has broken and destroyed more of her own beloved possessions than I can remember. Obviously, the outbursts add to the stress of the individual and their families. Dinah has taken several forms of psychotropic drugs, which help in some cases. She calls them her “weird pills.”
Her relationship with God isn’t a result of the drugs she takes. She’s always lived in that thin place with God between this world and the next. Dinah’s interchange with God apparently is real and fully functional.
We were on a walk in a mountainous area of Arizona. It was a summer day when the clouds were rolling in and rain was threatening. A dark clouded thunderstorm signaled a downpour was a few minutes off. The sound of thunder was crackling through the trees causing us to jump with every demonstrative bone rattling snap. In fear we were walking as fast as we could to get back to our cabin.
Out of breath and still a ways from the cabin, Dinah stopped. She glared up at the sky. “God,” she hollered out. “Dat enough.” She waited as if God would say, “Oops, I’m sorry about that,” and stop the storm. Instead another rattle of thunder roared through the trees. Dinah shrugged her shoulders and smirked as if to say, “Well, I said my peace that’s all I can do.”
Ok, I get it, or think I do. I can say whatever I want to God, just realizing God’s not Santa Claus and everything’s not going to work out just like I want it to. In fact God may not be in control of the thunder and lightening. Still, I can say my peace. That’s good enough. Then I can go on and keep walking. At least that’s what Dinah does.
Adding to Dinah’s genetic complications she had a temperature of 108 degrees during the first week of her life. Yes, you are right, my sister should have died a long, long time ago. The speech area of Dinah’s brain was affected most by the life threatening temperature. Consequently, she has about 25 words the average person can understand. She also has about another 25 or so words and signs that she uses to communicate with her family and closest friends.
When she and I were little guys there was Dairy Queen near our house. My parent’s drove us past the Dairy Queen each week on our way to and from church. My dad rarely stopped at the Dairy Queen. One day, out of the blue, on our way home Dinah started saying “I Cee,” and curling her index finger up and down. My parents have always worked hard to clue into Dinah’s attempt to communicate. It didn’t take too many times driving by the Dairy Queen with Dinah’s insistent “I Cee,” and wriggling finger for us to discover she was telling us she wanted ice cream. Her finger signal was mimicking the twist on the Dairy Queen sign on top of the building. I was really glad about her persistence because we got ice cream a lot more often after that breakthrough.
I can’t understand what God is trying to tell me. All the clues and the signs in the Bible and the cosmos leave me baffled. As with Dinah, though, I just can’t give up. There’s something about the mystery of it all that lures me into continually straining to hear and to see. I don’t get it very often, but the few times I do break code the intensity is revealing and worth the effort. Thanks to Dinah I got a lot of chocolate dipped cones. I wonder if God has soft-serve?
Instead of sweet ice cream sometimes life smells like shit. You know, really it does. When an event that smells like a four-day rotten egg invades our life, Dinah will hold her nose and say “keyqankey” Try it. Hold your nose and say, “key-qank-key.” You got it? No? Well, get a pot out of your cupboard. Get a wooden spoon and smack the bottom of that pot with the wooden spoon. That’s qank. Try it again. Hold your nose and say key-qank-key. I defy you to tell me there is a better description of something that smells really bad. I mean it sounds more realistic than saying, “boy that really stinks.”
When life goes south, stinks, really sucks do what Dinah does. Hold your nose and say, “God, keyqankey.” See if you don’t feel like God might be getting the picture a little better. When I pray, it’s all I can do to hope, at the depths of the pit I’m in, that God can smell the same foul order.
There is no excuse for boring and emotionless prayers. Dinah paints a picture for God. The nasal sound she utters lets me and I am pretty confident God, as well, know that the shit that just fell on my head is putrid and disgusting. When she speaks to God her feelings are all she has to speak with and they are undeniable.
Still, more often than not, Dinah is silent. When we go to dinner at her favorite restaurant we spend the evening like most siblings. We talk about our parents. She wants to know how my wife and kids are doing. I ask her about her friends at Art Works. I have learned to be comfortable with her silence. There are times she just wants to be quiet. She draws me into her silence. She has the ability to allow all thoughts to drift away like fragrant incense. She bundles the thoughts and sets them aside for a while. Her silence is restful. I wonder if that’s what it’s like sitting with God? Maybe, at least for me it is, sitting with Dinah is like sitting in the presence of God.
Besides not understanding God I have no idea what to say to God. I struggle trying to get the right words to communicate my feelings, emotions, desires, angst – well, Dinah has taught me to just go for it, do the best I can, just say what I can say and trust God will understand me.
It’s been our tradition at Thanksgiving that my mom asks me to say “a word” and then my dad prays for the blessing of the food. That’s been a standard ritual at our Thanksgiving gatherings for as long as I can remember.
A few years back my mom said she wanted to start a new tradition. Oh God, here we go, change. I like change about as much as the next guy, which means not at all, much less around the treasured holidays. I say a word, my dad says a prayer, we eat, and we watch football. Right? Not, not.
Mom tells us the girls are in charge. Well, I’m ok with that, sort of. My mom has it all lined out. First my daughter reads a poem. That’s good. Then my wife reads something from the Bible. That was ok. So I figure my mom is going to pray. Not, not.
My mom says that Dinah is going to pray. My parents have taken us to church from before memory, but, truthfully, I’ve never heard or seen or even thought about Dinah praying. She has an IQ of 45. Her vocabulary is limited. What is she going to say?
She bows her head. I’m watching her. I can’t bow my head and close my eyes. I have to drink this in, experience every moment. She bows her head as I imagine she’s seen us do before thousands of meals. Now what?
“God!” Here we go again. This time, though, I sensed God was there, present, at attention and listening with attentive ears. God had been summoned. God was paying attention like never before.
“God!” She repeated. There was a long silence. I could tell she was trying to gather up every ounce of intellectual and spiritual energy within her being and soul. Then it gushed forth like champagne from a freshly popped bottle. “I thank.”
Thankfulness? What was Dinah thankful for? Not only had she been dealt a bad hand. Someone had dealt her cards from the wrong deck. While we hope for a straight or a four-of-a-kind, she was playing poker with Old Maid cards. She would never experience many of the things that bring joy to this life. Yet, I heard her say, “I thank you God.” For what?
“God, I thank. Mom, Dad, Gia, Cafu, Nee, Esika…” What came after our names was a flood of emotion from every eye and heart in the room. We were the objects of her prayer and our lives were now the thankful ones. We had been blessed by Dinah’s beckoning of God into our midst. Fixated on my sister, I was pretty sure I had finally seen the face of God.
To me, that must be prayer. Dinah puts it out there. No begging or pleading for rescue from the inconveniences of existence. She didn’t want anything to be magically made better. Nothing to be fixed, or protected or made right, she only offered thanks in what appeared to be the cold absence of the reasons to be thankful.
I’m a very slow learner. It seems I have insulted God by looking for God. It took me two seminary degrees to realize that everything I really know and understand about God has come from my sister. Not from learned teachers, mystics or professors. I’ve read hundreds of books about God, what I’ve gained from them is miniscule in comparison to what I’ve gleaned from Dinah, who can’t read. I’ve been fortunate enough to hear some of this generation’s best thinkers give their finest oratory about the things of God. Every word I’ve read and heard spoken has been filtered through Dinah’s 50 words. The best I can truly say about God is, I not not know.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Veronika Decides to Die
Paulo Coelho is one author that captures a lot of my reading time. His work has significant influence on my thinking and writing.
While at the dentist I was reading The Plague by Albert Camus. The hygienist, who I had not met, came in, introduced herself and promptly asked me what I was reading. She asked me what it was about and I responded "death." She asked me if I was afraid of dying. I told her "no" and asked her the same question. She indicated she was not because she was Buddhist. She wanted to know if I was religious. Hesitantly, I said I was a Christian. Curiously, she wanted to know if I had always been a Christian. At this point knowing she was about to put her hands in my mouth if recognized I didn't have time to share with her my complex string of chaos theory related musing about God, Jesus, Trinitarian incarnational worldview and sacramentalism, and my universalist-like theology so I went for "sort of."
As she cleaned my teeth she asked if I ever read any Coelho. I nodded I had. She quizzed if I had read Veronika Decides to Die. I indicated I had not - being, she said, that I was interested in death, she highly recommended the book. Not wanting to offend someone with a sharp instrument in my mouth I agree to read the book.
Coelho does not disappoint and the hygienist made a good recommendation. But, the story is not about death - its about life and the choices we have about how to live that one solitary life we have been given. As the cover suggests, the story is about redemption. But even deeper it is a story that offers another way, not just a way or the way but another way.
While at the dentist I was reading The Plague by Albert Camus. The hygienist, who I had not met, came in, introduced herself and promptly asked me what I was reading. She asked me what it was about and I responded "death." She asked me if I was afraid of dying. I told her "no" and asked her the same question. She indicated she was not because she was Buddhist. She wanted to know if I was religious. Hesitantly, I said I was a Christian. Curiously, she wanted to know if I had always been a Christian. At this point knowing she was about to put her hands in my mouth if recognized I didn't have time to share with her my complex string of chaos theory related musing about God, Jesus, Trinitarian incarnational worldview and sacramentalism, and my universalist-like theology so I went for "sort of."
As she cleaned my teeth she asked if I ever read any Coelho. I nodded I had. She quizzed if I had read Veronika Decides to Die. I indicated I had not - being, she said, that I was interested in death, she highly recommended the book. Not wanting to offend someone with a sharp instrument in my mouth I agree to read the book.
Coelho does not disappoint and the hygienist made a good recommendation. But, the story is not about death - its about life and the choices we have about how to live that one solitary life we have been given. As the cover suggests, the story is about redemption. But even deeper it is a story that offers another way, not just a way or the way but another way.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
A few ramblings
The Sun is one of my favorite and most read magazines (www.thesunmagazine.org). There is an informative interview with Pramila Jayapal. She is an India-born US citizen, activist and author, working on a project to make Washington, DC a "hate-free zone." The article in the Sun is titled "Without a Country Pramila Jayapal On the Problems Immigrants Face." The interview is personal, concise and packed with important information regarding possible solutions to this complex issue.
Are you going to watch any of the World Series? Yes, it begins tonight. Instead of focusing all your attention on the players, watch the managers. These are two guys who lead from different perspectives and both have great success.
The Phillies manager is Charlie Manuel. He's old school, low-key, shy, unwilling to do interviews or speak in public - he lets his players play the game, simply trying to create an environment where they can shine.
Joe Madden is the Rays skipper. I've known Joe for 30 years. He's a detail guy. A friend of mine described him as librarian. True, Joe reads and studies the game like no one else. He knows the statistics and situation better than anyone. He was one of the key factors in the Angels winning the 2002 WS, he was their bench coach.
Check it out, two differing styles that strive for the same result, creating environments of community.
A very good friend complained that I'm not writing on my blog enough. Sorry about that
I will make an real effort to write no less than once a week. Thanks for your encouragement.
Are you going to watch any of the World Series? Yes, it begins tonight. Instead of focusing all your attention on the players, watch the managers. These are two guys who lead from different perspectives and both have great success.
The Phillies manager is Charlie Manuel. He's old school, low-key, shy, unwilling to do interviews or speak in public - he lets his players play the game, simply trying to create an environment where they can shine.
Joe Madden is the Rays skipper. I've known Joe for 30 years. He's a detail guy. A friend of mine described him as librarian. True, Joe reads and studies the game like no one else. He knows the statistics and situation better than anyone. He was one of the key factors in the Angels winning the 2002 WS, he was their bench coach.
Check it out, two differing styles that strive for the same result, creating environments of community.
A very good friend complained that I'm not writing on my blog enough. Sorry about that
I will make an real effort to write no less than once a week. Thanks for your encouragement.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
An end to hunger
Is is possible to end worldwide hunger? In our life time? At any time? Jesus said in the first century, "You will always have the poor with you." Well, being poor and being hungry are two different things. Jesus also told the disciples to feed the hungry. And Jesus said when we feed the hungry we are offering food to the hungry.
Today a few hundred bloggers have committed to writing about the Millennium Development Goals - the attempt to end poverty and hunger in our life time. Is it possible? Yes, it is. It is possible if we will all do our little bit.
A friend of mine went to Seattle to visit his friend. While there he met a man who every morning bought two loaves of bread and enough peanut butter and jelly to make sandwiches. He took those sandwiches to a place where homeless men gathered under a bridge. Each morning for two weeks this man did the same thing. When my friend arrived home he was so moved by this man's actions that he sent him a check for $100 with a note that said, "for your ministry." A week later my friend received an envelope from the sandwich maker returning my friend's check, the attached note said, "Make your own damn sandwiches."
If each of us would make our own damn sandwiches we could make a difference and reduce the hunger of the men living under the bridge in our own neighborhood. Make a difference, make your own damn sandwich today.
Today a few hundred bloggers have committed to writing about the Millennium Development Goals - the attempt to end poverty and hunger in our life time. Is it possible? Yes, it is. It is possible if we will all do our little bit.
A friend of mine went to Seattle to visit his friend. While there he met a man who every morning bought two loaves of bread and enough peanut butter and jelly to make sandwiches. He took those sandwiches to a place where homeless men gathered under a bridge. Each morning for two weeks this man did the same thing. When my friend arrived home he was so moved by this man's actions that he sent him a check for $100 with a note that said, "for your ministry." A week later my friend received an envelope from the sandwich maker returning my friend's check, the attached note said, "Make your own damn sandwiches."
If each of us would make our own damn sandwiches we could make a difference and reduce the hunger of the men living under the bridge in our own neighborhood. Make a difference, make your own damn sandwich today.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Last out at Yankee Stadium
Trivia question - who recorded the last assist and putout at the last game played at Yankee Stadium? The Yankees played the last game in the House that Ruth built last night (September 21). The answer to the question is first baseman Cody Ransom. Why would I care to know such trivial trivia? Cody Ransom played baseball at Grand Canyon University in 1998, the year we won the Northern Division of the Western Athletic Conference, NCAA Division I.
Cody played shortstop at GCU. He was a gifted college player and a leader on our team. After his senior year he was drafted by the San Francisco Giants. Cody quickly made it to the majors with the Giants. He has played with several major league teams, primarily as a defensive specialist.
Cody graduated from Chandler High School and then played two years at South Mountain Community College. While a sophomore at South Mountain his team suffered a horrible tragedy. Cody was riding in a van where the driver's side front tire blew and the van rolled. Killing two passenger's and severely injuring others. Miraculously Cody and some of the others in the van did not suffer life threatening injuries. To his credit he continued to play and worked hard to achieve his goal of playing professional baseball.
Cody is a fine young man and a credit to his family. The baseball family in Arizona is proud of him and want to congratulate him on being a part of a historical moment. It was fun to watch.
Cody played shortstop at GCU. He was a gifted college player and a leader on our team. After his senior year he was drafted by the San Francisco Giants. Cody quickly made it to the majors with the Giants. He has played with several major league teams, primarily as a defensive specialist.
Cody graduated from Chandler High School and then played two years at South Mountain Community College. While a sophomore at South Mountain his team suffered a horrible tragedy. Cody was riding in a van where the driver's side front tire blew and the van rolled. Killing two passenger's and severely injuring others. Miraculously Cody and some of the others in the van did not suffer life threatening injuries. To his credit he continued to play and worked hard to achieve his goal of playing professional baseball.
Cody is a fine young man and a credit to his family. The baseball family in Arizona is proud of him and want to congratulate him on being a part of a historical moment. It was fun to watch.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Arizona Together
Prop 102 is the so-called "Marriage Amendment." Here are the reasons I am voting against this Prop.
Marriage - even though it's already defined in state law and even though we voted on this two years ago our legislators are forcing this vote again.
The LDS Church has raised $3 million to support the passing of 102 and the Roman Catholic Bishop of the Diocese of Phoenix sent a mandatory message DVD to be shown at every mass in support of 102. Why?
We already voted on this - don't the politicians get it?
If you read my previous post you will also understand my personal stake in this matter.
Marriage - even though it's already defined in state law and even though we voted on this two years ago our legislators are forcing this vote again.
The LDS Church has raised $3 million to support the passing of 102 and the Roman Catholic Bishop of the Diocese of Phoenix sent a mandatory message DVD to be shown at every mass in support of 102. Why?
We already voted on this - don't the politicians get it?
If you read my previous post you will also understand my personal stake in this matter.
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