A sad day.

 

Good Monday morning, comrades and pilgrims on The Way and those who are along because they are curious.

According to the calendar, Winter has not yet arrived but there can be little doubt in anyone's mind that it is on its way.

Today is a sad day for me. It comes around and happens every year. And, every year, I'm not ready for it. I keep thinking, silly me, that it will get better.

I know better. But, here we are. Again. Anyway.

Jaime. Her name is Jaime. She was my firstborn. Today is the 20th anniversary of her death.

It is still unbelievable to me.

I really need - want - to say that. To acknowledge that loss. This sadness. I really have no other words that I need - want - to share on social media.

Except, I do want to say that I named her Jaime and spelled it that way because she was named after her father, James, whose birthday it is today.

I really wanted to spell her name J'aime (French: I love) but decided against it because I didn't want to make life any more difficult than it has to be when you start off in a large public elementary school that has little tolerance for individuality.

Except, I do want to say that while I miss her every day, my heart is filled with love and gratitude - full measure, pressed down and overflowing - for every single minute of every single day of the very short time she was with us.

I think these words written by LR Knost express where I am better than anything I could write.

I plan to head out to the storage shed to find the bin that contains the Christmas bed linens, the Christmas shower curtain and bath mats. I also need to find the big Christmas wreath. When it warms up, I'll take the puppies out for a stroll.

It's a day for self-care and prayer, gratitude and love.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

The Feast of the Realm of Christ

Good Sunday morning, good citizens of the Realm of Christ. This day is also known to church traditionalists as "The Feast of Christ the King" but there are those of us who know that the very idea of the Resurrected Jesus (AKA "The Christ") with a crown on his head sends Him into serious gales of uproarious laughter.

We live in very strange times, strange enough that some people have lost their sense of humor and would find statements like that "offensive". Ah, more's the pity.

I'm sitting here watching the sun come up on the horizon which I can see from my sun room on the marsh. The trees are increasingly outlined in a blaze of red which trails off into the turning-blue sky and out to the deep-blue Bay.

If you're focused only on the image of Christ with a crown on his head, with all sort and manner of naked baby angels surrounding Him, you'll miss out on how God crowns the earth every blessed morning.

If you're looking for a particular shape and hue of a crown, you'll miss out on how Mother Nature gently bows her head to accept the crimson and blue tiara and then generously spreads that light to all the rest of creation and her creatures.

You'll miss out on how the winged creatures rise up to greet her and sing her praise, the gulls laughing with astonished joy for the gift of another brand new day.

It's a great day to be a citizen of the Realm of God - a bit chilly, to be sure, but perfectly splendid in its regal simplicity and elegance. If you focus your search only on finding evidence of human glory, you'll miss it.

Keep your eyes on the horizon, your mind open to possibility and your heart filled with gratitude, and there you'll receive the dazzling crown of The Creator - the golden crown of Love, set with the sparkling gems of Hope.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

FB Reflection: Resistance!

Good Monday morning, comrades who struggle for truth, and justice, and to stay on The Way.

I've been thinking of ways that I can be part of the Great Resistance we're going to need to get through the next 2-4 years (two years to flip at least one House of Congress in the midterms, four years to flip the White House).

Not all of us can be like Nancy Pelosi and stand up and point our finger at The Oppressor in a room full of His Men (see that famous picture posted below), but we can do what she did and take a picture he posted because he thought he was making fun of her and turn it around as a picture of the triumph and strength of The Good when it stands up to The Evil.

The first is that I am going to work really hard at being kind to myself so my first impulse will be to be kind to others.

That's a slightly different slant from The Prayer of St. Francis. I know this is going to sound like heresy to some, but I think there is a slight flaw in that most beloved prayer.

See? I don't think you can give away what you don't have. You can't sow love in the face of hatred if you don't love yourself. You can't sow faith if your mind and heart are filled with doubt.

You can't sow kindness if you are not, first, kind to yourself.

At least, I can't. If you can, well, you're a much better person than I, which is not hard to imagine.

So, yes, when I see someone with a Red MAGA Hat, I will take a deep breath, smile, and say, "Good morning."

But, I can not do that unless I am, gracious and kind to myself.

That does not mean, however, that I am not ready to protest and march and perform acts of civil disobedience and go to jail. It does mean that I am not willing to surrender my basic humanity to the representation of a force for cruelty and evil.

What's that old saying? Ah yes, "Smile. It makes some people wonder what you're up to."

Think of it: A smile as an act of subversion. Makes it easier to smile, doesn't it?

So yes, I will be kind to myself so that I can be kind to others. I think self-kindness can be a superpower when you - and the other people to whom you are kind - need to rise up and face the hatred that will be coming our way.

Or, the hatred coming the way of people we love.

And, make no mistake. It is coming. In fact, in some places, it is already here. Some people of color, some Hispanics, some LGBTQ+ people, including some adolescents, are getting text messages telling them that they have been selected for deportation, or to report to a re-education camp.

It is now law in Texas, by executive order of the governor, that you must show evidence of citizenship before being treated in the Emergency Room. It's not that they won't treat you. The Govn'r says it's to have a running count on how much it costs to treat "illegals". Right.

A friend who is a social worker said that the same thing happened in a hospital on the Eastern Shore. I understand that the ER person was fired.

And, of course, you know of the demonstration that happened at the campus of Texas State where men carried signs that said, "Women are Property" and "Homo Sex is Sin." This happened the day after the election.

This is just the beginning. (If you are one of the people who has gotten a text, please report this to the FBI (1-800-CALL-FBI (1-800-225-5324) or online at tips.fbi.gov.)

So, I am going to make a regular, searing inventory of myself. I'm going to work very hard at improving my strengths and equally hard on discovering why it is I have a tendency to do some of the things I do and say, and pray for the wisdom and courage to change the things I need to change.

This is very important. It's like Lent only more intense because now, the stakes are high. As one 80-year-old woman said to me in church yesterday, "I'm willing to die protesting in the streets if I have to because at least I'll die for what it is I believe."

If I'm going to die for what I believe, I'm going to be damn straight clear about what it is I believe and what I stand for, and who I am. Otherwise, it will be a waste of a perfectly good life.

I don't know about you, but some people are so clear about who they are and why they were put on this earth that all they have to do is stand up in a room filled with adversity and point their finger, and even though we don't know what was said, everyone knows.

Everyone knows. Everyone is perfectly clear.

I can't be Nancy Pelosi but I want to be more like Nancy Pelosi. And, Hillary Clinton. And, Kamala Harris. And, Maize Hirono. And, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. And, Pramila Jayapal. And, Elizabeth Warren. Oh, and, Meryl Streep.

I'm willing to bet good money that those women have gotten their superpowers because they regularly do a searching inventory of themselves - of their strengths and weaknesses;

the places in their souls where there is darkness and those places where there is light;

the places they need to be consoled so they can console others;

the goodness they can receive so they can give to others;

the places in their soul that need pardoning so that they can forgive and pardon others.

the places in their soul that need to die so they can help to call into creation new ways of being, new ways of helping people in need, and new ways of respecting (and restoring) the dignity of every human being.

I've learned that I can't magically pray myself into those things. It takes work. Hard work. Painful work.

Saying The Prayer of St. Francis doesn't make it happen, but with hard work and a little Divine assistance, we can be the kind of person we want to be, the person we know in our bones that God created us to be, and do our part in the Resistance we will need.

That will take a lot of self-care. And self-care, for many of us, especially women, is hard work. But, as Kamala says, hard work is good work.

Self-care is important if you are a member of the 'target demographic' of the incoming administration - immigrants, LGBTQ+ people - especially trans people - Hispanics, people of color, "fertile" women - but it is especially important for those of us who are deeply committed to making sure no harm comes to them.

For me, it's personal. For me, that means getting ready to protect and defend the hard-working, amazing Brazilian couple who clean our home every two weeks. It means the fabulous waiter at our favorite diner who has amazed us with his mastery of the English language from his native Turkish. The Columbian men who tend to our yard with great care, and the Guatemalan men who painted the inside of our home several years ago and are now thriving entrepreneurs with a working permit and a visa. The trans daughter whom I love of a dear friend of my heart. The transwoman I only know on FB but with whom I've had transformative conversations.

Good thing Advent is right around the corner. It will give me four dedicated weeks of work, four dedicated weeks of birth pangs, and four weeks to strengthen this beloved creature of God so that may better love myself and be kind to myself so I can better love and be kind to others.

I'm ready to do the work.

I hope something good happens to you today.

FB Reflection: Holy anger

Good Sunday morning, comrades in the struggle to stay on The Way. It's a lovely morning here but it is only 43 degrees. My mood, however, is a closer match to the cold than the bright sunshine that Mother Nature is providing.

I know. It's Sunday. I'm headed off to church. I should really get my act together. But, I'm frustrated. I feel like Jesus in this morning's gospel. The disciples are busy oohing and aahing over the large stones and Jesus is trying to get them to focus on what is and what is to come.

My heart is breaking after yet another conversation with another gay or trans friend who is planning to leave the country because they are so afraid of what will happen. This is especially so for my trans friends who fear that they will not be able to get their medication, but are more afraid of the violence that will soon increase, putting their very lives in danger.

I am angry about those friends of mine who caution me about my anger, who are made uncomfortable by it, who want me to "calm down" and "spend some time in quiet".

As if I haven't.

I think I'm most upset by the very noble posts on FB, made mostly by white men and some women of privilege, who post memes about being kind and having empathy or write lofty prayers about having our will bent to the will of God.

I always get a bit nudgy when the language of "my will bending to God's will" gets trotted out. In my experience, it's never about God's will but the writer's understanding or expectation about what God's will is which he seems to know precisely what that is for me, which is pretty much that I "behave" in a way that stops making him nudgy.

So, in my morning meditation, I searched for a few minutes to find Audre Lorde's book. I always find great comfort and affirmation and inspiration in "Sister Outsider". I've posted three of my favorite quotes, but I think the one that speaks most clearly to me this morning is:

"I can not hide my anger to spare your guilt, nor hurt feelings, nor answering anger; for to do so trivializes all our efforts."

An image keeps returning to me of an old woman I met in the Cardiac Unit at Mass General Hospital when I was doing my second unit of CPE in seminary.

She was Roman Catholic and, in Boston, we were not allowed by hospital policy, to see any Roman Catholic patients. So, I was talking to the patient in the bed next to her when her priest came in. He was a fairly corpulent cleric, all full of cheer and "joy in the Lord."

"Hey, Mary," he called. "How are we doing?"

"Well, Father," she said, "I'm going to have open heart surgery. They tell me they are going to crack my chest and that I'll be in a fair amount of pain after. So, you know, I'm pretty scared."

"Scared?" the good Father roared, "no need to be scared. Have a little faith, Mary! God will be with you. Here, now I'll say a prayer and give you communion."

And, he did and then left in the same swirl of "joy in the Lord" in which he arrived.

The woman sat in her bed, weeping softly. My patient looked at me and said, "Go to her."

I knew I was breaking the rule. I knew I could have been "written up" for my "behavior". I knew the incident could be reported to my bishop and the Commission on Ministry.

My head knew all that but my heart informed my feet to move and I found myself over at Mary's bedside. "Well, that was quite something, wasn't it?" I asked qently. "You okay?"

She smiled and looked deep into my eyes and said, "Well, the good news is that, as afraid as I am, I'm not half as afraid as him."

"Ah," said I, "let's talk about being afraid."

And, for the next half hour, we did, my Protestant patient joining in the conversation with Mary and me so I wouldn't be in so much trouble.

Mary's words give me a bit of an insight into my siblings’ intense need to tell us about "quiet" and "calm" and "bending our will to God's will" and "empathy".

They're talking to themselves. They're saying what they need to hear for themselves. Understanding that, I can find empathy. For them. Not for those who delight in oppressing me, or sticking their finger in my wound, or shrug their shoulders about the obscenity of the incoming administration's cabinet because, well, you know, "the economy will be better".

I have empathy for the oppressors because I know, as James Baldwin taught, that prejudice, bigotry and race hatred may harm the body of its targets, it also rots the soul of the oppressor.

So, I'm just going to take my pissed-off self to church this morning and ask God to bless my anger and help me to find a channel for it to "make some noise" and "make some good trouble, some necessary trouble".

I'm going to pray for the wisdom and courage to follow The Way of Jesus, especially as I see him respond to the disciples' "Idolatry of the Stones" by not backing down and not giving up on his vision of what is and what will be.

He stays focused. God help me stay focused and not be deterred, even by my own anger and frustration.

Help me to discern and listen more closely to your voice rather than the well-intentioned voices that ask me to listen to them.

Help me to know that my anger is a holy gift.

It is the divine spark to challenge evil.

It is the energy to bring about change.

It is the vehicle to find hope.

In other words, I'm going to take care of myself in the best way I know how: To bring my whole self before the altar of God and ask God to bless me and my integrity and my authenticity and help me be more of myself and more of the person God created me to be.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

Good trouble, necessary trouble

Good Saturday morning, dear companions in the long, ongoing struggle for truth, justice, and the will and the courage to stay on The Way.

I've been looking at the lectionary lessons for tomorrow, Sunday, the 26th Sunday after Pentecost. The Sunday before the Sunday of The Sovereignty of Christ. Two Sundays before the first Sunday of Advent. (Can you believe it????)

Here's what I'm looking at:

Track 1
1 Samuel 1:4-20
1 Samuel 2:1-10
Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25
Mark 13:1-8

They're all here https://www.lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Pentecost/BProp28_RCL.html

G'won over and peruse them. It'll help you understand what it is I'm talking about. I'll wait. Promise.

Hi, welcome back. So, I don't know what popped out at you but after about the third time through, my eyes were opened to see four very different models of spiritual leadership, four different ways of being a priest, ordained or baptized member of the Priesthood of All Believers.

The first is Eli. To be fair and honest, a man of his time: A real misogynist. He uses his power and authority in arrogance and judgment. He can't hear Hannah's fervent prayer. He thinks Hannah is drunk. He's wrong. To his credit, his heart does soften to her the perils of her state and offers her hope and assurance.

The second is Hannah. Oh, just listen to the power of her song! She has suffered and been relieved. She has dared to hope and dream and her hopes and dreams have been fulfilled. And from that place of deep gratitude, she invites everyone into the song. She asks everyone to pick up their timbrel, clap their hands, and rejoice in the small and large victories of life.

A thought: You know that Mary had learned the songs of Miriam, Deborah, and Hannah which shaped and formed her own song of praise. And, you just know that, from the earliest times of his hearing, Jesus listened to all of these songs. It shaped and formed him, too. His "Lord's Prayer" echoes the notes of the songs of all of these women.

Anyway, onto the author of Hebrews - whoever he was or she who influenced his writing. What a great model of priesthood. Listen to some of the words of pastoral encouragement:

+ hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering
+ consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds
+ not neglecting to meet together
+ encouraging one another

I don't know about you, but in these very dark days of uncertainty and the intentional provocation of fear, I need to hear these words.

I hear the words of John Lewes, who also asked us not to be afraid but to provoke each other into "good trouble, necessary trouble." I'm feeling that call very deeply right now. I don't know about you, but even as I grieve, I feel I am being "provoked" to tough love and hope and community and encouragement of myself and others.

I also hear the words of Blessed George Regas, one-time rector of All Saints, Pasadena, and Giant of Justice, who encouraged us by saying, "The way we get where we're going is to set audacious goals and celebrate incremental victories."

And then, of course, there's Jesus, our great high priest, who is out with his disciples who are dazzled by the Very Big Stones in the Very Big Buildings. It's what one commentator called "The Idolatry of The Stones." (PS He wasn't talking about The Rolling Stones. Or, the other stones, either.)

Jesus is telling his disciples not to be distracted but to stay focused. Stay the course. He says,

"Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.”

The disciples can't see it. They won't be able to see it for a long time. We can't see it either. Not with tears in our eyes and anxiety in our hearts. We won't be able to see it for a long time. But we will. We will.

The leadership we see of Jesus in this passage is that of the Prophet - the ability to see ahead and offer hope and consolation and teaching and guidance NOW.

Four different ways of leadership in tough times.

One way is that of reexamining your assumptions, softening your heart, changing your mind, and offering comfort and hope.

One way is subverting the dominant paradigm of power and walking through suffering and oppression with your head held high, not taking on anyone else's definition of who you are. Indeed, inviting others into gratitude and celebration.

One way is being a provocateur of love and good trouble; to be part of a community of love and encouragement, even if it's you who has to call that community together.

And finally, the way of being prophetic, calling people away from the idolatry of the now and the big and the shiny, and guiding them to remember who they are and whose they are and to hold fast to their values and beliefs.

One way or all four ways. Choose one. Or, two. Or, all. Whatever your choice, whether you are ordained or laity, know that you have ancient models of how to be baptized members of The Priesthood of All Believers.

I'm going to leave you with some words from someone I thing embodies all four models of Priestly, Prophetic Leadership. Bishop Steve Charleston wrote these words in 2018. Listen:

"No task is too great when you have the Spirit beside you, no call to leadership beyond what you can do. No challenge is too difficult, no goal too distant, no hope too much of a long shot. You have the sacred up your sleeve. You have the wisdom, patience, and vision you need to gather others to support the work at hand. Even time can be bent for you. Plans can be changed. Do not wring your hands before the demands of your situation, but raise them in prayer. Get the holy alliance of hope and determination going and see for yourself what is possible when faith leads the way."

I hope something good happens to you today. (How could it not? Remember, "You have the sacred up your sleeve," and "Even time can be bent for you.")

Bom dia!

A Lament

This reflection is about lament. It's a little long, so if your tolerance is short, best to scroll on by right now.

Before I begin, I want to tell you briefly about my understanding of a biblical lament. A lament is understood as a form of prayer that involves expressing sorrow, regret, or unhappiness, and then calling out to God. It's a way to process pain and find hope.

Far from being a 'pity party' or a time of self-indulgence, a lament is a way to reconstruct meaning in the very midst of suffering. It is a way to shape faith after it has been shattered.

A lament is a transformative way to understand God's character and actions. It is decidedly NOT passive but its power lies in its raw authenticity and deep integrity.

Classic biblical laments, like Psalm 13 and the Book of Job end with a decision to trust in God, which allows the psalmist to even sing God's praise.

This is a lament. These days, I am feeling a little like Hannah on the steps of the Temple. We're going to read a wee bit of her story this Sunday. (1 Samuel 1:4-20) Well, if you follow Track I in the lectionary.

Hannah had a good husband, one who loved and cherished
her, but she was unable to bear a child - a son - which was a woman's only insurance in antiquity.

So she went to the Temple and, in her despair, cried out to God, begging to deliver her from her fragile and vulnerable situation, promising God that the male child she would have would be dedicated solely to God.

In her despair, she was praying but not aloud. Her lips were moving but she made no sound. She didn't need to. Her lament was addressed directly to God.

Eli, the Temple priest, saw her there, on the Temple steps. He couldn't hear what she was saying so, of course, thought the worst. He thought she was drunk.

So, he yelled at her. Chastized her. Shamed her. Told her she was disgracing herself and to put away the wine.

Sound familiar? Anyone? I'm betting lots of women know similar stories and have been in similar places and spaces like Hannah.

We know about this kind of misogyny as well as the everyday, run-of-the-mill "micro-oppression." The side-glances. The dismissive tone they are unable to hear as such because they are really, seriously, honestly, being sincere. Bless their hearts.

I am so tired - so sick and bloody tired of being sick and bloody tired - of being told to be still, be quiet and listen - especially "listen to/for" The Spirit.

Here's the thing: I HAVE been listening. The problem is that Episcopalians have been carefully taught - lulled into believing - that The Spirit sounds "like the murmur of the dove's song." And, don't we just love to clap our hands and sway to "The Sweet, Sweet, Spirit in this place"?

Of course, we do, and this is not to deny that the Holy Spirit can sound like both of those things. But, if you've not met Shekinah Spirit, let me introduce you.

Shekinah is a Hebrew word that refers to the divine presence of God, or the visible manifestation of God's presence among Her people. The word is a transliteration of a Hebrew word that means "the one who dwells" or "that which dwells".

Shekinah is known as "the divine feminine spirit," but don't ever confuse her for a lady with an apron, pearls, and proper pumps who serves tea from a silver tea set.

Shekinah is a badass woman. You do not want to mess with her.

Ah, think I've lost it? Think I've gone over the edge? Think my anger has driven me a bit mad? Well, I have sisters who know better. Sisters - mostly of color - who have taught me about her.

Kristen Johnson Ingram describes her this way: "Shekinah takes other names. She is Shabbat, she is Presence and she is Spirit, the Hebrew Ruach.

In the beginning, Breath or Spirit or Wind rippled over the face of the womb of creation, brooded over and within the womb, stirred the waters to break and gush out and let God give birth to everything."

"She has come as Wind, a passionate intuition, as a blinding light, and a breath-sucking presence. This ain't no handmaiden but a queen, not whispering but crying out like a hoyden in the streets, bringing no consolation but urgency of motion."

I've been listening to her, Shekinah. Hers is no dove murmuring a song. She is howling like a wounded animal for all of her children who have been and will be harmed and injured. She is roaring like a lion because Her pride is threatened by predators, frauds, and thieves who are now in the highest positions of power.

This is my lament to her, as I sit outside the Temple, on the steps. It is based on Psalm 13 and the writings of Kristen Johnson Ingram and inspired by our sister Hannah.

How long, O Presence of God, will you hide your face?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts?
How long will I be mocked and derided?
How long will all that I abhor triumph over me?

Help me not to run from the fire of Divine Love
Let me not settle for warmth but to burn with passion.
Help me live up to your demand to be w/holy as you are.
Consume me - swallow me alive - so I can be more of myself
than I ever dreamed I could be

Help me to eat, yes, a little of this bread,
Help me to drink, yes, a little of this wine.
just to wash it down so I'll grow strong.
Breathe on me until I am filled with your Holy Spirit
Make me fit for the Realm of God.

I sing your praise because you are badass.
You will not let your daughters suffer
nor your sons commit abominations.
I will sing your praise as a song for the journey
As I turn my passion into compassion
and work to bring your justice, your peace
into a world that is broken and dark and
in need of your Light.

This is my lament. Amen.


NOTE: "Hannah on the Temple Steps." Image by Carrie Kleinberger, an "imaginative realist" from Minnesota, she retired from a 21-year career as a public defender for Juvenile and Family Court in Ramsey and Washington Counties in 2001 and works in oil on canvas and on wood panels.

Job and Marcellus Williams

A Saturday morning Reflection on Facebook.

Good Saturday morning good friends of the Autumnal Season. It was a difficult night of sleep last night so we're moving slowly around here this morning. Even our sweet puppies, Eliot and Olivia, are taking long naps.

By the grace and mercy of God or St. Michael or St. Gabriel or Peter Pan or Tinkerbell, or whoever is in charge of these sorts of things in the cosmos this weekend, I am not preaching on Sunday or have any liturgical duties or responsibilities.

Even so, I find that the story of Job - the first lesson in Track I of the lectionary - has been with me all week. It's the story in scripture - though not of real characters - of the epic battle between good and evil, God and Satan.

The richness of the story which lends its durability comes from its many layers of human behavior and deistic thought. It's a story about the problems of monotheism in a pluralistic culture, and the role of community - Job's "friends" - in the midst of great unmerited, inexplicable, and monstrous suffering.

The story raises more questions than provides answers:

Why do bad things happen to good people? How could a loving God be so casually cruel and use such unjustifiable tyranny? What is required of faith in the presence of Evil when we believe the source to be a 'test' from God?

What is to be done about the problem of Evil? Does it come about because God can be so easily seduced by Lucifer? Is it a real entity or a spirit that blows into the soul of a human being, wreaking havoc and mayhem, leading them to make impossible choices for good or ill?

I've been thinking back to when I was newly ordained and hearing the story of a man who had been ordained a deacon with the apostolate of prison ministry and was studying for the priesthood.

Here's the thing: the aspirant for holy orders was serving a life sentence for the murder of his wife and the attempted murder of his infant son.

In 1967, Vaughn Brooks, a 25-year old Black man and member of the historically Black Church, St. Thomas' Church in West Philadelphia, came home at 4 AM after a night of card playing and beer drinking "with the boys," and observed a man leaving his apartment.

When he confronted his wife, Annabelle, she told him that the man had been her lover and that the 15-month old male child asleep in the nursery - Vaughn, Jr. - was not his son but the child she had conceived with her lover.

Mr. Brooks left the room, retrieved his bow and arrow, returned to the bedroom, and let five arrows fly - two to her neck and two to her chest. They entered her body with such force that she was pinned to the mattress.

He said, "I think what was going through my mind was that I was going to kill my whole family."

He then went to the nursery and started to strangle the infant he had thought was his son but then "something made him stop" and he revived the child.

He claims no memory of the confession he scribbled on the kitchen wall -- a few short sentences distinguished by the fact that he corrected his spelling.

Crossing the street, he knocked on the door of his parents' home, told them what had happened, and telephoned the police.

He confessed to murder and was sentenced to life in prison at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institution outside of Philadelphia. While there, Vaughn came to the attention of the Rev. Frederick F. Powers, an institutional chaplain with Episcopal Community Services of the Pennsylvania Diocese.

Chaplain Powers detected in Booker what the Bishop described as a “serious interest” in the church. The chaplain gave the prisoner some basic studies in the Bible and theology and endorsed him as a lay reader to assist in services at the prison.

At Chaplain Powers's urging, the Right Rev. Robert L. DeWitt, bishop of PA, visited the inmate in prison and reported that he had been impressed by Booker's “earnestness and intelligence.”

After the advice and counsel of the Commission on Ministry and with the approval of the Standing Committee, Bishop DeWitt approved Booker for postulancy.

After a two-year course of study supervised by four priests, he was ordained deacon and then priest.

Eventually, Booker was paroled and released from prison and was called to serve as rector of Meade Memorial Church in Alexandria, VA.

Booker - then 50 years old, three months ordained, nine years removed from the Pennsylvania penal system, a convicted murderer and a priest of God - preached his first sermon.

He offered no further details but disclosed his crime indirectly, preaching of Moses, who murdered an Egyptian and buried his body; David, who lusted for Bathsheba and gave the orders that led to her husband's slaughter; and Paul, who minded the cloaks at Stephen's stoning and "was consenting unto his death."

Each of these biblical heroes, Booker said, was stained by the gravest of sins. Each was redeemed through the extravagant forgiveness of God.

"Scripture tells us that there is great cheering and great celebration in heavenly skies when the sinner who was lost is found," he said.

Meade Memorial Church- which had not had a pastor for 18 years or a Black pastor for 25 years - erupted in cheers.

How does it happen? How does the man who pulled the bowstring rise to become an Episcopal priest, entrusted with the souls of an entire community? And why does his wife's ghastly murder endure, for some, as the first act in a parable of divine mercy rather than the last act in a parable of divine indifference?

I have those questions written down in the chapter of Job in the copy of the Bible I used for study while I was in seminary.

All these many years later, I still have the same answer:

I don't know.

I do know that, all these many years later, I still need to learn lessons about my vulnerability and weakness and the strength of the divine spark within me to claim those two human qualities as companions who know the pathway to God.

I still need to learn what the story of Job has to teach me about mutual interdependency, compromise, and what constitutes "help" before I take my leave.

I think there is a key to these lessons in what Jesus has to say in Mark's Gospel for Sunday:

"Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”

And then, and THEN, scripture tells us, Jesus "took them (the little children) up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them."

I think the mystery of THAT love, the love that is a reflection of "love divine, all loves excelling" may well be the only answer we ever receive to Job's questions.

On this side of the veil, anyway.

Off I go into this day. My heart is filled with gratitude for the love of family and friends and all the lessons life brings us in all its peculiar and unexpected ways.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

PS:

Marcellus Williams, recently put to death in a Missouri State Prison who was, even by the prosecutor's tell, an innocent man, wrote this poem which was read by Helen Mirren. His final words before his death were "All Praise Be to Allah in Every Situation!!!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgBkYPWZ0xY

 

FaceBook Sunday Morning Reflection 

August 18, 2024

Good Sunday morning, children of the Bread of Life.

We're almost done with this summer cycle of John's Gospel and Jesus torturing the metaphor of Bread until we say, "Stop! Okay! I get it! You are the Bread of Life. If I eat this bread, I'll know Life Eternal. Got it!'

Well, you must admit, it IS a difficult concept to get your head wrapped around, even if you are well-acquainted with metaphors and similies.

It's the stuff about "unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you" that really pushes the envelope, I think.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have just left the Metaphor Zone.

I often wonder what it must be like to be a person who has not really been exposed to Christianity except, maybe, little snippets here and there about "love your neighbor," and "love one another" and then decides to walk into church one Sunday morning and hears:

"Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them."

Whoa, Nellie! Mic drop. Mind blown. Where's the door?

Actually, I know this is going to sound sacrilegious and close to heretical, but I can't imagine that when we get to heaven there'll be two lines - one EZ pass lane for Christians and one TSA, take off your shoes, laptop out of the suitcase, only 3-ounces of liquid, full body scan lane for anyone who hasn't been baptized or received Holy Communion.

I think John might have been exaggerating just a teeny-tiny bit to convince The People of The Way to take a right turn away from The Temple and toward Jesus.

I mean, c'mon.

Do you really think that when Gandhi got to the Pearly Gates he got turned away? Or Buddha? Actually, I think Jesus came right out and greeted Buddha at the gate and brought him in himself and the two of them are walking together around heaven even as I write this.

Then again, I can say all this because I'm not a rector and I get a pension that no one can take from me, so I've earned the right to be a little heretical. Especially if I err on the side of generosity.

I think Rachel Held Evans has it absolutely right (and she was an Evangelical who became Episcopalian, so, you know, she's got the creds) when she said:

"The church is God saying, 'I'm throwing a banquet and all these mismatched, messed up, people are invited. Here, have some wine."

Anyway, just this week and next and we'll be done with the metaphor of Bread. The Gospel will be gluten-free once again.

I can't leave you without noting a very important date on today's calendar and Thee Best story that goes along with it - especially since we'll soon be learning to say, "Madame President."

On this date in 1920, the 19th Amendment to the Constitution was ratified, giving women the right to vote.

The first national constitutional amendment had been proposed in Congress in 1878, and in every Congress session after that. Finally, in 1919, it narrowly passed both houses of Congress and was sent to the states to be ratified.

Most Southern states opposed the amendment, and on August 18, 1920, it all came down to Tennessee. The pro-amendment faction wore yellow roses in their lapels, and the "anti" faction wore red American Beauty roses. It was a close battle and the state legislature was tied 48 to 48.

The decision came down to one vote: that of 24-year-old Harry Burn, the youngest state legislator. He had been expected to vote against it, but he had in his pocket a note from his mother, which read:

"Dear Son: Hurrah, and vote for suffrage! Don't keep them in doubt. I noticed some of the speeches against. They were bitter. I have been watching to see how you stood, but have not noticed anything yet. Don't forget to be a good boy and help Mrs. Catt put the 'rat' in ratification. Your Mother."

He voted in favor of the amendment.

In your prayers, please remember one Harry Burn who was a good boy and did what his mother asked and changed history to include herstory. It's not like changing bread and wine but it's pretty damn near miraculous. I think Jesus is well pleased.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

Sean Rowe, Presiding Bishop.

Katharine Jefferts Schori, Sean Rowe, and Michael Curry

So, the Episcopal Church continues to meet in General Convention in Louisville, KY, and thank God, none of the deputies, alternates, bishops, vendors or volunteers is female, pregnant, and suffering a miscarriage because, if she were, she may end up in jail, given the "states rights" in that particular state concerning reproductive rights.

We'll know today or tomorrow where the next GenCon will be happening three years from now. I really, truly hope we don't give our money to a state that doesn't treat women and LGBTQ people, and people of color like full citizens with equal rights. I'm not voting but people I know and love are and they might just read this during a downtime in the legislative process.

We have elected a new PHOD (President, House of Deputies) by re-electing Julia Ayala Harris to another term. For only the second time in our history, that position had been contested - and by two other women of color. Today, we are electing a VPHOD which, by canon if not by tradition (and, in The Episcopal Church, tradition is practically canon), must be a different order of ministry than the PHOD. So, the slate is all clergy.

Yesterday, of course, we elected Sean Rowe, who has been serving as bishop of the Diocese of Northwestern Pennsylvania and the Diocese of Western New York, to be our next Presiding Bishop.

Now, contrary to what you might have sensed from all the hype - the bishops meeting in secret in a cathedral proving only that all bishops have a bit of Drama Queen in them - a PB is NOT a Pope. In its origins, the position of the Presiding Bishop is just what it says - someone to preside over meetings of all the bishops. You know, so things would be "meet, right and proper, so to do." Because, of course, that's the first, albeit unwritten rule of Anglicanism: Order. The second is like unto it and also to be revered: Tolerance.

I'm not at all surprised that Sean Rowe was elected on the first ballot with seven more votes than were absolutely necessary to win (He received 89 votes. 82 votes were needed to win.). He's fairly popular in the dioceses of his jurisdiction. One of his constituents said to me of him, "He's one of the last of a dying bread of genuinely nice White Guys. And," she added, hastily, thinking I'm sure of ++Michael Curry, "he's a good preacher."

Well, the rule of elections has held. The polar opposite of the incumbent gets elected. I've seen it in every PB election since John Hines who was progressive and passionate about social justice, who was then followed by John Murray Allin who was conservative and opposed to the ordination of women.

Ed Browning, who was as informal and as comfortable as a lovely old sacristy slipper famously said, "In this church of ours, there will be no outcasts." He started the whole movement for radical inclusion in the church. Reaction to Allin, much?

Frank Tracy Griswold, was formal and erudite, from old, mainline PA money, a good, solid moderate Anglo-Catholic who supported women and consecrated +Gene but was all about deepening spirituality. I firmly believe that he and Browning could not deny the brisk breeze of the winds of change and Griswold, especially, smelled schism in the air which seemed to make him perpetually anxious.

Katharine Jefferts Schori was the first woman PB, and she was formidable. Her mere presence as a bishop was so threatening she was forbidden by the Archbishop of Canterbury to wear her miter with the rest of the bishops when visiting Southwark Cathedral in the UK. As I said the other day, the bishops who left for ACNA threw the vote to her because they thought, like all arrogant tyrants, "apres moi, le deluge" and were setting up the church for failure which would be blamed more on a woman and not so much on them. I understand that more women were called as rectors while she was PB than at any other time. The "Great Episcopal Schism" also happened on her watch.

Michael Bruce Curry tried to move our focus away from our anxieties about bean counting and ASAs and "all things institutional church" into a more relational focus with God and Jesus. "If it ain't about love, it ain't about God," will forever be his mantra, and "The Jesus Movement" will always be his legacy.

Sean Rowe, I think, is going to put our focus back on the institutional church with a heart for cutting down the bureaucracy, focusing more on the local church, strengthening them, and really working on mergers at every level. He, himself, has been bishop of NW NY and WPA, and I suspect we're going to see more diocesan mergers in the next decade.

It's about time, I say.

The next decade is not going to be a particularly exciting time, but there will be lots of organizational change, at which Rowe apparently excells. As Rowe said, “If we’re honest with each other and ourselves, we know that we cannot continue to be the Episcopal Church in the same way, no matter where we live.”

It's going to be a reaction to the previous guy, as it always is. Which won't be bad. To be honest, we need it.

In his first public remarks after his election, Rowe said, "“God is calling us ever more deeply into the unknown." I chuckled and thought, "The man is preaching to himself as well as the church."

I have no doubt he has no idea what he's gotten himself into. I strongly doubt anyone before him really understood the enormity of the position of PB.

He's about to find out. So are we. Here's the thing to remember, which I know Sean knows: He's not the Pope, but he's not just the PB. The role has expanded into a more global presence.

No, his election will not directly affect the 'bums in the pew', except that we will have a new name to pray for in the Prayers of the People. The role of the PB is more of a "Climate Control Officer."

The PB sets the tone and tenor which impacts the environment in the diocese and in the sanctuary. The policies and politics of the PB give permission or cover to diocesan bishops and rectors to step out on issues of faith - or hide behind them.

We're in for an interesting journey over the next 9 years with the youngest PB ever elected. (He is 49, beating out John Hines who was elected at the age of 54). I think Michael, as always, captured it best when he said to General Convention earlier this week at the joint gathering of the House of Deputies and the House of Bishops before the legislative sessions started:

“I’m here to tell you this Episcopal Church is stronger, more durable, and has a future that God has decreed and that God has figured out.”

“And I’m here to tell you, don’t you worry about this church. Don’t you weep and don’t you moan. Just roll up your sleeves and let’s get to work. That’s our future.”

So, roll up your sleeves, lace up your boots, blow your noses, and get ready to get back to work. We're still part of the Jesus Movement. The only way any Movement maintains momentum is to move.

Let's get on with it.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia!

Ash Wednesday - Sr. Bucky

 Good Ash Wednesday morning, good people of Lent. It's the first of 40 days of the Lenten Season. Like a fine wine, this season needs to age and then aerate before it is fully appreciated.

It's amazing to me how many of us are still stuck in 6th Grade Sunday School when we were taught to "give up something" for Lent - a small sacrifice to reflect the Great sacrifice of Jesus on the Cross.

I can still hear Sr. Bucky's high, thin, post-menopausal voice shrilling, "Surely you can give up yer bubble gum or penny candy for 40 DAYS and 40 NIGHTS after JESUS, himself (make a fast sign of the cross after a quick bow of the head) Suffered in AGONY on the cross for YOUR SINS."

No, Bucky wasn't her name. It was Sr. Mary Joseph Something-Or-Another. We called her Sr. Bucky behind her back because she had really awful bucked and splayed teeth.

I know, I know. We were horrid children. Horrid. I know that because Sr. Bucky told us that at least three times a day. After a while, you know, you just figure, what the heck. No matter how good I am, she'll always and only think I'm horrid.

SooOOooo . . . to her face it was, "Yes, sister," and "No, sister," and "Please, sister," and "Thank you, sister," but after school, far, far away from earshot of her or any of the other nuns, it was "Ugh! Sr. Bucky."

Then there came the day when one of the fathers of one of the kids in the church school who was a dentist "fixed" Sr. Bucky's teeth. Well, he yanked them all out and gave her dentures. I have to think there was another remedy to the poor dear's orthodontic challenge, but that was probably the cheapest and easiest and so it was what was done.

She was so proud of those dentures. Seriously. And, you know, it did dramatically change her appearance. But, not her disposition. She was still a horrid human being. So, we continued to call her Sr. Bucky. And, for her part, she continued to call us horrid children.

So, my memories of Ash Wednesday and Lent as a child are that we were served a double portion of the guilt trips and images of the suffering and agony of Jesus. I think the word "SUFFERING" was written on the BlackBoard and stayed there throughout the entire 40 days and 40 nights of Lent, lest we forget.

It was replaced the Monday after Easter with colorful butterflies who perched themselves on the words, "HE IS RISEN!". Or, "ALLELUIA!" Or "REJOICE!". It varied from year to year, depending on that particular nun's mood.

How we ever made it through without losing our minds and breaking the Sixth Commandment I'll never fully understand.

Later on, after Vatican II as I recall, some clergy tried to make up for the sins of the fathers (as it were) and try a new tack. "Take something ON for Lent," was the new Lenten slogan. We were to try something new. A new way to pray or meditate. A new course of study. Learn a new language.

You know, something that was rollicking good fun. Which missed the point just as badly as giving up candy for Lent. I have come to know that Ash Wednesday is really a joyful day.

Yes, way. Okay, it's not like the joy of Christmas, and it's nowhere near the joy of Easter. There is a maturity to the joy of Ash Wednesday. Sort of the difference between appreciating a glass of Boone's Farm Wine at $1.99 per bottle and a glass of 2010 Domaine Armand Rousseau, Chambertin Grand Cru at $75,000 per bottle.

It begins with understanding that famous statement from Carl Sagan, "“The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of star stuff”.

Once you get your head wrapped around that, you begin to appreciate that the smudge of ashes on your forehead on Ash Wednesday is the beginning of a process to connect you more securely with the origins of your life.

It is to understand that we are connected in ways too deep for human understanding that we are part of a Great Mystery that includes stars and comets, planets and asteroids, sun and moon, ocean and stream, mountains and valleys.

It's about understanding what Bill Nye (the Science Guy) used to say, "We are a speck on a speck, orbiting a speck, in the corner of a speck, in the middle of nowhere."

That puts us all in our place, including Sr. Bucky who, poor tortured soul, didn't get to understand or appreciate that until after she, herself, returned 'dust to dust, ashes to ashes'. Which is why she treated us like dirt.

She had no idea that when Joni Mitchell sang the words to Woodstock, she was not being a hippie radical, she was singing the joyful truth:

We are stardust, we are golden / We are billion-year-old carbon
And we've got to get ourselves / Back to the garden

So, friends, Rejoice! It's Ash Wednesday! We're all gonna die. So, take this time to really live. As de Chardin said, "We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience."

Your Lenten task is not to become spiritual. You already are. Your task, this Lent, is to become the BEST human being you can be before you return to the spiritual plane from which you came.

Let's get on with it, shall we? Don't give something up. Don't take something on. Be more of the image God intended when you were conceived and created.

Gratitude is a good place to begin. Find one thing to be thankful for today and then watch how your heart begins to open. I don't know how it works. It's a mystery to me. I just know that it does.

I am convinced that if you cracked open the middle of the middle of this planet, the sound that would emerge is millions of billions and trillions of voices saying in millions and billions and trillions of languages and tongues, "THANK YOU".

But, all those languages would merge together and the sound you would hear is not specific words but laughter. Deep, raucous, joyful laughter.

And that, my friends, is your Lenten assignment if you choose to take it: To listen for the joy in the center of the universe.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia!