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.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
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.
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