A Trinity of Irish Jokes for St. Paddy's Day

Top o' the mornin' to ya! Be gosh and be gorah, but ain't it a beautiful day!

Here are three jokes to send you off on your way into a day that would have made St. Patrick bind himself and his Breastplate to this day forever!

The first is from me files - a favorite of Ms. Conroy.

Seamus suffered a serious heart attack and had open heart bypass surgery. He awakened from the surgery to find himself in the care of nuns at the Dublin Catholic Hospital.

As he was recovering, Sr. Brigit asked him questions regarding how he was going to pay for his treatment.

“D’ye have health insurance?”

Still groggy, Seamus said, “No health insurance.”

“Ah, sorry, son,” Sr. Brigit said sadly, “Any money in the bank, then?”

“No, no money in the bank,” Seamus said in a raspy voice

“Pity,” said Sr. Brigit, “Well, d’ye have a relative who could help you?”

Seamus brightened and said, “I have a spinster sister, who is a nun.”

Sr. Brigit became agitated and announced loudly, “Nuns are not spinsters!

Nuns are married to God.”

Seamus smiled at St. Brigit and said, “Aye, then send me bill to me Brother-in-Law.”

This next one's from my British friend, Carrie. A wee bit of an 'insider's joke'.

Two friends from Lambeth England and New York were walking around Dublin cathedral admiring the architecture.

'Are you enjoying your visit to Ireland?' asked a young priest.

'Very much, Father, but we can't get on with the whiskey. It's far too strong for us,' they said

'Why so?' asked the priest.

'Well, we went to some Craic on Saturday night, tried some Paddy's best and crashed out unconscious.

Sunday morning we woke at 5 a.m. bright as a button. We went to 6 o'clock mass, 7 o'clock mass, 8 o'clock, nine, ten and eleven o'clock mass.

Then we went to afternoon Rosary, downloaded the Pope's latest sermon from St Peters, followed the Stations of the Cross, got the latest version of The Priests safely onto our iPods and finally wound up at the local Catholic church for Benediction!'

'So what's wrong with that?' asked the priest.

'We're Anglican!' came the reply.

Finally, one that is a wee bit naughty. From Doug. Of course.

An Irishman is drinking in a New York pub when he gets a call on his cell

phone. He hangs up, grinning from ear to ear, and orders a round of drinks for

everybody in the bar because, he announces, his wife has just produced a typical Irish baby boy weighing 25 pounds!

Nobody can believe that any new baby can weigh in at 25 pounds, but the Irishman just shrugs, "That's about average in Ireland, folks... like I said, my boy's a typical Irish baby boy."

Congratulations showered him from all around, and many exclamations of "WOW"! were heard. One woman actually fainted due to sympathy pains.

Two weeks later the Irishman returns to the bar. The bartender says, "Say, you're the father of that typical Irish baby boy that weighed 25 pounds at birth, aren't you? Everybody's been making bets about how big he'd be in two weeks. We were gonna call you....... so how much does he weigh now?"

The proud father answers, "Seventeen pounds."

The bartender is puzzled, and concerned. "What happened? He already weighed 25 pounds the day he was born."

The Irish father takes a slow swig from his Guinness, wipes his lips on his shirt sleeve, leans into the bartender and proudly says, "Had him circumcised."

Erin Go Braugh!

Saving Time

I misplaced my appointment book sometime this past weekend.

I'm not ready to slit my wrists. Yet.

So far, I've made it through the first day without getting a nasty phone call ("We were supposed to meet an hour ago. Where the hell ARE you?") or a worried phone call ("Are you okay?").

Neither have I missed an important meeting - at least, not that I know of.

I suspect, before the week is out, I will. It's bound to happen.

Daylight Savings Time has also whipped my butt this year. This time, we didn't "save" time. We "lost" an hour. We'll "save" it again in the Fall.

You remember It's "Spring ahead, Fall back."

As I recall the explanation from my grammar school days, DST was conceived as a way not to save time but candles. It lengthened the hours of day light, thereby reducing the time spent in the dark and the need for 'artificial light'.

I seem to remember Ben Franklin having something to do with it all, he of the old adage, "Early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise".

It's an interesting idea to "save time". Except, we haven't lost or saved anything. It's the same hour, just moved to different places on the Ledger of Time. The Balance Sheet stays the same.

So far, the one thing that has actually "saved time" has been misplacing my appointment book. I suddenly have the whole week ahead of me with nothing planned. Or, at least, that's the illusion.

I was able to remember an important lunch date today, which tickled my memory into yet another appointment which follows that luncheon meeting. I know that Vestry meeting is Wednesday because I've been working on the Agenda.

But, I think I have some lab appointments this Thursday because I believe I have my annual physical next week. Sometime. I think it was Wednesday. If memory serves. Which it does less and less these days.

So, I'm spending lots of time calling places to confirm possible appointments. It's very embarrassing and humbling, but everyone seems to understand.

Indeed, I posted something on my FaceBook page and so far about 50 people have made comments. My lament has obvious struck a familiar note with lots of people.

It's been fascinating. Basically, there have been three types of responses.

I've been scolded or chided for not keeping my calendar on my iPhone, and to "back up, back up, back up" everything on my computer.

Some have registered surprise that I don't already do this. I don't. I like my paper calendar. It tells me who's on the Calendar of Saints and there's lots of room to write little notes to myself. I suppose I may have to start using my iPhone, too. But, I'll always keep my appointment book. Always.

I've also been consoled. "We're not supposed to spend time in Purgatory before we die" wrote one understanding soul.

That's a good description of the anxiety and worry I've been feeling, worrying about whether or not I'm pissing someone off or disappointing someone else.

Others have written, "You're FREE. Allow the mystery of life to take you where it will. Enjoy the adventure."

Lovely thought. Oh, how I wish I could. See also Purgatory above.

This idea of mystery has also given rise to the former Roman Catholics on the list who have encouraged me to pray to St. Anthony.

"St. Anthony, St. Anthony, look around. Something's lost and can't be found."

And you thought the 'lost and found department' beyond the Pearly Gates was all about Souls. Apparently, St. Anthony is kept quite busy helping us retrieve things here on earth as it is in heaven.

I personally like the prayer to 'find' a parking space. Our kids taught it to us years ago. "Hail Mary full of grace, help me find a parking space."

Funny, right? What's really funny is that it often works.

Ms. Conroy doesn't keep an appointment book. She also doesn't keep a check register. But, she can tell you - to the penny - how much she has in her checking account and she never misses an appointment.

Can you hear my envy?

We've had this discussion long ago. I once missed a meeting and, upon hearing about it after the fact, got out my appointment book, wrote in the meeting and then promptly crossed it out writing a note beside it "Missed."

Ms. Conroy chuckled. "What are you doing?" she asked, with that amused tone in her voice that wasn't so amusing to me.

"Well, if I write this down, I can keep track of my time."

She chuckled that annoying superior chuckle again. "What are you laughing about?" I retorted. "You don't even keep an appointment book."

"That's right," she said, she of the alcoholic parents who often "forgot" to pick her up after school or celebrate her birthday. "That way, I don't have to be disappointed."

That's when it came to me. It's all about the illusion of being in control, isn't it? I write things down and then cross them out. She doesn't write them down at all, so if it didn't happen, it wasn't supposed to anyway.

"Oh, the games people play now. Every night and every day now."

We don't save time. We can't. Oh, we try, but as the popular saying goes, "It is what it is." We all have the same number of hours in the day - in darkness or in light - and we make choices all the time about how to "spend" that time.

An appointment calendar simply allows me to "keep track" of the time I have. Which I do with some success. Until I misplace my appointment book - which I've only done one other time in twenty-four years of ordained ministry - and then everything seems out of control.

One person wrote on my FB page, "You didn't lose your appointment book. It lost you. Now you need to go find it."

I like that idea. Gives me the illusion of still retaining some semblance of my dignity in the face of constant humbling apologies.

So, if I have an appointment with you in the next few weeks, would you write to me and let me know? And, if I've missed an appointment with you, please accept my sincere apologies.

I've now got to spend some time with my iCalendar, filling in as many dates as I can remember, so I can upload it to my iPhone so I will regain my sense of control and composure.

I've got to spend time to save time - and face! Until my appointment calendar finds me again. Which, I have a feeling, it will. I think I remember where I left it. I would know for sure if I had written it down. In my appointment calendar. Which has left me.

What silly, silly creatures we are! I suppose this is why God created us in the first place.

The amusement value of the human enterprise alone is priceless.

Sr. Joan takes on Glenn Beck

Sr. Joan Chittister is my hero.

Her spirituality is not only the best of catholic monasticism, it is the best of the remnant of post Vatican II theology - the stuff I cut my religious teeth on when I was a child and a young woman.

She was one of my role models for ordained leadership in the church. Without knowing it, she taught me what it might mean to be a woman and a priest in God's 'one, holy, catholic and apostolic church'.

She continues to provide clear, intelligent, articulate leadership that models what it means to be a Christian and a member of a religious organization - and not just the Roman branch - that is often a barren, dry wasteland of examples of Christian leadership.

My dear friend, Nigel, sent me this article last night in which Sr. Joan takes on Glenn Beck's latest idiotic rant about 'social justice'. Beck is on the record as saying,

"I beg you," he said, "look for the words 'social justice' or 'economic justice' on your church Web site. If you find it, run as fast as you can. Social justice and economic justice, they are code words (for socialism.) Now, am I advising people to leave their church? Yes!"

In Sr. Joan's latest column at NCR, she writes about the work of Sr. Marie Claude Naddaf, a Sister of the Good Shepherd, from Syria.

Sr. Joan reports that Sr. Marie Claude is in this country

to receive the U.S. State Department's "International Women of Courage Award." Given to 10 women around the globe who have shown "exceptional courage and leadership in advocating for women's rights and advancement," the awards purpose is to support women who are working for the equality of women everywhere. And any woman who has ever spoken up for women's equality in any arena that counts -- in politics, in business, in law, in the home, in the church -- know exactly how much courage that requires. Even now. Even here.

I hope you read the entire article and learn about this woman's incredible work with those who are 'trafficked women' - women and girls who had been sold across national borders into the sex slave trade or seduced into it on the promise of a job or simply abducted into it off the streets as children.

When Sr. Joan told Sr. Marie Claude about Mr. Beck's statement, she reports the following:

I heard Marie Claude Naddaf, a Sister of the Good Shepherd, gasp on the other end of the phone. "Noooooooo," she squealed. "This is the work of God. The spiritual life gives us the energy we need to do justice. There is no contradiction! It's a circle!"

Then she said, "Invite this man to come and see me in Syria. I will show him." And one more thing. "Tell your government that it must do something to help the Iraqi refugees in Syria. They need resettlement programs and financial support for widows and children." Her meaning was clear: The United States started the war that put millions of people adrift "but Syria has borne the whole expense of it."

From where I stand, it's clear why the Glenn Becks of the world would not want to hear anything about 'social justice' from a church. Certainly not about women and war. Or about Sister Marie Claude either. Let's hope he takes the invitation.

I do, too. I'd love to hear Mr. Beck's reaction to his visit with Sr. Marie Claude.

Now, that's one time I just might turn my dial to Fox News.

Oh, and about that poster which I nicked off the blog of a Roman Catholic Right Wing nut's blog (Yeah, they got them, too. They're everywhere, it seems.).

One word, sir: The church can make you a nun (or a priest), and it can even make you an impersonator of either role, but there's something about being a follower of Christ that does not make you a 'reasonable person'.

Not when it comes to social injustice.

The Prodigals

The artistic power of Liz Lemon Swindle’s emotionally charged image rests in the father’s face and the intense grasp of his hands. The true spiritual intensity evident in the father’s embrace of his wayward son represents God’s unconditional love for us. The Prodigal Son is a reminder of God’s amazing ability to forgive and restore us, and of the human need for family and grace. (Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32)

Lent IV – Refreshment/Mothering/Rose Sunday

March 14, 2008 – St. Paul’s, Chatham

(the Rev’d Dr) Elizabeth Kaeton, rector and pastor

It has been argued, and rightly so, that this gospel passage (Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32) has been misnamed “The Prodigal Son.” Prodigal means: ‘lavishly, wastefully generous’ – to such an extent that it inspires awe and marvel. It is exceptional generosity. However, the influence of this gospel can be felt in the more common definition of a ‘prodigal’, more commonly understood as someone who foolishly spends his/her parent’s money.

There are, in fact, two prodigals in this story – the son who was a prodigal child, and, if you pay close attention to the whole story, you will also notice that the father is fairly prodigal himself. He is lavish, even wastefully so, in his generosity to his son.

Some scholars have argued that, if the son was foolish, it was because, well, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. I mean, imagine giving your child half of his inheritance – before you die! What did the father expect from his son? On the one hand, it seems foolish and wasteful. On the other, it is an incredible, marvelous, unconditional, trusting act of generosity.

Jesus told this parable not so we could pass judgment on the prodigal son, or to compare and contrast between him and the son who was faithful and dutiful. Rather, Jesus told us this story so we could learn something more about the father. The One he knew as ‘Abba’, Father.

God loves us with a prodigious love. God is wastefully lavish, with a generosity beyond measure – so much as to inspire awe and wonder and marvel. God loves us and trusts us even though God knows that we are often foolish, squandering the spiritual inheritance we have from our baptism in Jesus on things profane and secular – even ‘dissolute’. God loves us unconditionally, always forgiving us, always welcoming us back into the fold with great rejoicing and celebration.

Which is a good thing, because we – you and I – tend to be prodigal sons and daughters of a most prodigious God. So, it is argued, this gospel story should probably be named, simply, “The Prodigals” – because it is a story about both sides of what it means to be ‘prodigal’ in our lives in Christ. Prodigal like the father. Prodigal like the son.

It is fitting that we speak of prodigious love on this fourth Sunday in the Season of Lent. It is also known as “Refreshment” or “Mothering” or “Rose” Sunday – a time when we are allowed a little lighthearted break from the solemnity and penitence of Lent. Hence, the Rose colored vestments and, today, a special celebration of two of this church’s prodigal daughters – Ruth Pring and Betty Williams – for whom the newly renovated sacristy is named.

I didn’t know Ruth Pring, but some of you remember her. She was active in the Altar Guild at about the same time Betty Williams was – and both women served under the Altar Directress of all Altar Directresses – Nathalie Richardson. For some women in this parish, that name can still strike fear in the tender corners of the heart.

When Betty spoke of Nathalie, two things would happen before she told the story. First, one corner of her mouth would give way to a grin while the other corner tried desperately to maintain decorum. It never worked. The second thing to happen was that Betty would remind you that her name was not Natalie but NaTHalie. I suppose that was so because somewhere in Betty’s mind she believed that Nathalie was still around, and if she was, she wanted to make sure, if she were within earshot, that she didn’t do anything to annoy her. I can imagine that even a scowl from Mrs. Richardson could wilt the strongest psyche.

I suspect Betty, and perhaps Ruth, often felt like the Prodigal Daughters to a Prodigal Altar Guild Directress – but that had more to do with the foolish part of the definition of prodigal than the generous part. How amazing, then, that they also became so wonderfully, lavishly generous.

I understand. I was once a Prodigal daughter on the Altar Guild at the Cathedral Church of St. Luke in Portland, ME – which was the congregation that supported my ordination process. Ruth Pillsbury was ‘Directress” of the Altar Guild there, some say, since before Christ wore sandals. I don’t know this to be true but the mythology I remember was that she had a military background. She certainly ran the Altar Guild like a drill sergeant.

When you were on Ms. Pillsbury’s Altar Guild, all altar linens were to be washed using a specific laundry detergent (Octagon Powder, as I recall) which she measured out in the precise amount she considered sufficient to accomplish the task and distributed to new members of the Altar Guild at the beginning of the month in paper bags, the top folded in two crisp folds and stapled, lest their be any accidental mess. You considered yourself off probation when you no longer got a monthly bag of Ms. Pillsbury’s ‘soap powder’. That probation period could take as much as a year – or two.

She expected the corporal and purificators to be washed, starched, folded and ironed with the same precision as she folded your soap powder bag. If not, she had absolutely no problem returning them to you to be redone. She never spoke a word. She would simply inspect them silently and hand them back to you. You understood immediately and complied until you got it right.

She hated waste in any form and was especially distressed if the clergy had consecrated too much wine for communion at the Eucharist, insisting that we consume any leftovers in the sacristy after mass as part of our duties.

One day, in a bit of a flummox because I was doing double-duty – chalice bearer and altar guild – the sleeve of my alb caught the rim of one of the beautiful, large, ornate silver chalices, spilling the consecrated wine all over me. I gasped as the wine soaked through my white alb, through my clothes and even onto my skin. A heavy silence filled the room. Miss Pillsbury pulled herself around to look at me, growling in complete horror, “That’s the consecrated blood of our Lord!”

I was like Dorothy, standing before The Wizard, my knees knocking. Everyone else seemed frozen in place. Even the two young acolytes, two tow-headed boys who normally stood together with goofy smiles like Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee were turned into pillars of salt. One gasped and the other said under his breath, “Uh-oh!” Even the Dean, John Beaven, a man for whom the word ‘affable’ was surely created, stood silent and pale, silently wishing himself to dissolve into the corner he had pressed himself.

I was instantly reduced to tears – not an easy task, then or now. Miss. Pillsbury, who had put her hands on the counter, her head bowed as if in silent prayer, now turned her head slightly sideways to look at my tear-stained face. My voice cracked as I sobbed, “What am I to do, now, Miss Pillsbury?” It was more a plea than a question. I hadn’t whined like that since I was 4 years old.

Then, a miracle. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I might not have believed it, but it was there, on the stony face of Miss Pillsbury, just as surely as there was the stain of consecrated wine on my alb. It was a hint, a glimmer, a mere shadow of a smile that slowly crossed her face, ever so slightly lifting the corners of her mouth and brightening her eyes.

She looked away again and then back at me, sideways, cleared her throat and then said, “I suppose we’ll have to burn you.”

The Dean began to giggle, which signaled Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee to guffaw. I felt my initial confusion melt into relief and managed to smile through my tears. That would be enough of that. Miss Pillsbury cleared her throat again, and we all snapped back into work-mode, smiling secretly behind her back. Now and again, someone would walk by and poke my back or put their hand on my shoulder in a silent gesture of sympathy.

The story went forth and it was said that this was the one and only time Miss Pillsbury actually smiled while ‘on duty’ in the sacristy, remembered as an amazing act of prodigious generosity.

You know, they just don’t make ‘em like they used to. They don’t make them like Nathalie Richardson. Or Ruth Pring. Or Betty Williams. They are a generation of Prodigal women who loved and served a Prodigal God by loving and serving on the Altar Guild. You may have heard that Bobbi Villanuava died this week after a long battle with Alzheimer’s Disease. She loved serving on the Altar Guild and she loved serving with Betty Williams. So did Eleanor Kernaghan, whom you may remember died several years ago. So, in fact, did we all. We all miss Betty terribly.

Now, Bobbi and Eleanor were very different than Nathalie or Ruth or Betty but every single one of those women were prodigal in their love of God and their service on the Altar of this church. So are the women – and the one man – who presently serve on this Altar Guild.

In many ways, it is a foolish, lavishly wasteful ministry. Tending to starching and ironing purificators that will be used once and then need to be laundered again when a paper napkin might do just as well. Trying to discern the cruet for the wine from the cruet from the water. Enduring snide comments about the white communion wine. How do we know when to put out more wafers for consecration? How can you tell if the wine has been consecrated? And, however do we know the liturgical color of the day?

And, for what? Does anybody notice? Does anybody care? I can’t tell you if God cares – well, not about the minutia and the details. What I know is that God cares deeply and loves it when we love generously, lavishly, wasteful, because that’s exactly how God loves us. And you know, sometimes we don’t notice and sometimes, it seems that we don’t even care. And yet, God loves us anyway. Sometimes, even more.

I don’t know this for sure, but I suspect there’s a special place in heaven for former Altar Guild members. I suspect Ms. Pillsbury is there, sharing a laugh with Nathalie and Ruth and Betty, who are joined by Eleanor and, this week Bobbi. All the fair linens are starched to a fare-thee-well and all the silver and brass are polished to a wondrous gleam.

They are, I’m quite sure, admiring our newly renovated sacristy from above, where there’s a place for everything, and everything is FINALLY in its place. There are even places for things we didn’t know we needed to have a place for. I imagine Betty is looking down, shaking her head and saying, “Why couldn’t they have done that when I was around to enjoy it?”

We are, each one of us, prodigal sons and daughters of a most Prodigal God. For love – like vocation, as Gail Goodwin reminds us (and Jon reminded us last week) – makes more of you than you thought you could ever be. Nathalie and Rruth and Betty are now larger than life because of their prodigal love of a prodigal God made manifest in their vocation in the Altar Guild.

As St. Paul reminds us, “So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new.” And let the church say, “Amen”.

The Shoes of the Fisherman

I've stopped watching the 11 o'clock news before I go to bed. I sleep much better now.

I think I'm going to switch off my RNS, ENS and other, secular news feeds on my computer. I think it might improve my digestion.

This morning's news contained this little tidbit. To wit:

The fallout from the growing Catholic sex abuse scandals finally reached as far as the pope Friday when it was revealed that Benedict XVI knew a priest was a pedophile in 1980 but approved a stint in therapy that allowed him to continue in the ministry, where he remains today.

Apparently, Gerhard Grube, the Monsignor at the time who was under the ecclesiastical authority of then Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, ". . .takes 'full responsibility' for the decision to return the priest to pastoral work."

The good Monsignor, now 81,said in a statement released by the archdiocese that he had not made the future pope aware of his decision because "it was the kind of call that was often left to his underlings".

I don't even know where to begin.

Let me start with an admission that, yes, Virginia, there are pedophiles in the world and many of them seem to be Roman Catholic priests.

And yes, I do believe that celibacy is a vocational call. It may not be lifelong. It may be periodic or episodic. But it is, I think, an authentic vocation that can be healthy and life giving - the source of enormous compassion and generosity. It is the same path of all true, authentic vocations.

That being said, I think some pedophiles are born "intrinsically disordered". Others, I think, suffer from "arrested development" as a result of the combined trauma of their own childhood sexual abuse which, cast off and abandoned to the outer darkness of ignorance, secrecy, cover-up and betrayal, is further perverted by the "unnatural" state of imposed celibacy.

By "arrested development" I mean that these men, having been sexually abused at a young, tender age, and filled with unattended and unhealed trauma, shame, guilt and confusion, are unable to find healthy sexual expression with another human being - male or female - of their own age.

I'll leave it to the experts to determine whether it's nature or lack of nurture.

I'm not a psychologist or psychiatrist, and I don't play one on TV, but that is how I have made sense of some of the men I have known from my Roman Catholic childhood who have been convicted of heinous crimes against young boys and girls who were part of their flock.

The memories haunt me.

I remember turning almost green with envy when "Sister" would call up a young male classmate because "Father" wanted to see him in the sacristy. Eventually, these boys would be hand picked by Sister for "junior seminary" because it was determined that they had "a call" to the sacred order of priests.

I would sigh loudly and shuffle my feet under my desk as a way of registering my disgust that, just because I was a girl, I couldn't help Father at the altar, much less in the sacristy with the holy tasks of priesthood.

Indeed, no female was ever allowed near the altar. That's because, being female, we were "insufficient matter" - which meant we didn't have "the right stuff" to be in the service of God. Besides, we were "unclean" once a month, see? Can't have anything "unclean" near The Holy.

Except, of course, if you were celibate like the nuns and the old post-menopausal ladies who were "allowed" to be part of the Altar Guild. Then, you could clean up the sacred dishes. You know. Because that was "women's work" anyway.

What haunts me is the look I would get from some of those boys as they left their seat in the classroom to meet with Father in the sacristy. "Shut up" one would occasionally say under his breath as he passed my desk.

It wasn't until one of those boys was arrested for sexual relations with a minor that I remembered. And, I understood.

The look in his eye and the tone of his voice finally reached a place of truth in me. I've been haunted by him - and others - ever since.

That boy was no pedophile. Neither was the man he had become. Oh, I suppose that's the technical, medical word for it. And, truth be told, it really doesn't matter what it's called.

It is wrong. Heinous. Evil. It is a perversion of both the Golden Rule ("Do onto others what you would have done unto you.") and the so-called Silver Rule ("Do not do unto others which you would not have done unto you.")

The Ethic of Reciprocity only works when the person attempting to live by this rule treats all people, not just members of his or her in-group, with consideration and kindness. It is perverted and tarnished when used to perpetrate harm.

I suppose when the Gospel of Jesus Christ is held hostage by the lust for power of a hand full of men, resplendent in red or purple shirts who dress up in long white dresses and gold-threaded brocade even as they say "Blessed are the poor . . .", what you get is perversion up and down the line of apostolic succession.

The Shoes of the best Fishermen and women have always had mud on them. Working in the Fields of the Lord will do that.

This ain't mud. This smells to high heaven.

The stories of sexual and physical violence perpetrated on young, innocent, often vulnerable children give me nightmares and make me sick to my stomach. And yet, turning off the news feed on my computer or my TV before bedtime is not going to change what has happened. Neither will it change what needs to happen.

A good place to start is for the Pope, his College of Cardinals as well as his Bishops, Priests and Deacons to make a public act of repentance, a full confession of their complicity in these heinous crimes, an apology to the hundreds of thousands of victims with the provision of some means of restitution, and a solemn vow that measures will be taken to insure that nothing like this ever happens again.

For God's sake, stop "investigating" the theology and ministry of Religious Women who live in community and begin to get your own houses in order, boys.

Instead, let's have an investigation of the connection between sexuality and spirituality. Let's stop holding our impulse for divine intimacy hostage to misguided, ignorant human purity codes.

Let's work on healing the ancient rift between sexuality and spirituality so that we might better understand and more ethically use the divine gift of sexual expression for the good of all of God's creatures and creation.

Yes, let's see sexuality as being a 'procreative' act - which doesn't mean that sexual activity is limited only to those times that will lead to the procreation of children; rather, it means that it is for ("pro") - and honors - God's creation.

Perhaps if we were more pro-creative and less recessive - indeed, more proactive and less reactive - the church - Roman, Orthodox, Anglican and Protestant - might be better able to do the work of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Which includes ALL. Not just some. Young and old. Rich and poor. Male and female. Straight and not so straight. Beautiful and not so beautiful. (Thanks to Desmond Tutu for that.) All. All. All.

Perhaps more of us would have muddy - not mucky - sandals.

Better yet, perhaps we'd decrease the opportunities and chances of doing harm to "the least of these", for Christ's sake.

I know I would sleep better at night.

O, be some other name!

That line, of course, is from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, written in the 1600s:

JULIET says:

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

Yes, I know. What matters is what something is, not what it is called.

I've been thinking about this as I've considered this story about Rabba Sara Hurwitz.

Here's the story in a nutshell (as it were):

Hurwitz, an Orthodox Jew and one of three leaders of an Orthodox congregation in Riverdale, was ordained last year by Rabbi Avi Weiss. At the time the Jewish world took note, though it wasn’t until she was given the titular equivalent of rabbi that the controversy really began.

At her ordination last year, Hurwitz was given a newly-created title, the acronym Mahara”t, which stands for Manhigah Hilchatit Ruchanit Toranit, “Leader in Halakha [Law], Spirituality and Torah,” but it never caught on in the wider Jewish world. It was a term no one had ever heard before, and it was difficult to remember.

In addition, many women (and some men) argued that there’s something offensive about giving a woman a different title than accrues to the men who complete the same course of study.

As Hurwitz recounted, “When I walked into a funeral home, it was easier to say ‘rabbi’ than explain what a maharat is and go through the whole discussion.” So her mentor, Rabbi Avi Weiss, announced early this year that henceforth Hurwitz would be known as Rabba (It’s actually the term most Israeli women rabbis use for themselves, though it’s largely unknown outside of Israel.).

But the head of Agudath Israel, the Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) denominational body in the United States, put Weiss in cherem—a kind of communal excommunication—for giving Hurwitz the rabbi-equivalent title this winter.

“These developments represent a radical and dangerous departure from Jewish tradition,” the organization said in a prepared statement, “and must be condemned in the strongest terms.” Any congregation served by a woman in a rabbinic position, they said, cannot be considered Orthodox.

Rabbi Weiss has struck a deal with the Rabbinical Council of America and agreed to stop conferring the title “rabba,” though Agudath remains unsatisfied. Whether or not Hurwitz will keep her title remains to be seen.

A "radical and dangerous departure," eh? which "must be condemned in the strongest terms".

And you thought the Anglican Communion had problems!

Mind you, her title is not "Rabbi" but the feminine equivalent of the title.

So, taking a cue from Mr. Shakespeare, does it really matter what her title is, as long as she's able to fully function in her role?

As you consider that question, allow me to point out that there are, I think, parallels in other issues.

A few years ago, one of the members of my congregation, whom I dearly love, said to me, "Elizabeth, I understand your passion for marriage equality, and I want you and Barbara to have full access to all your civil rights, but (you knew there was a 'but' in that, didn't you?), the problem is the word 'marriage'. If you had all the same rights, would you be satisfied with some other word for it?"

I looked at him, sighed and asked, "Would you?"

I hate to be simplistic, but I think both issues have to do with the prevailing religious and cultural paradigms of power. Both are very male, very heterocentrist, and firmly fixed in the psyche of our religion and society.

On one level, it's all pretty silly, isn't it? I mean, Shakespeare is right, isn't he? In the end, what difference does it make, really? What matters is what something is, not what it is called. Isn't that right?

So, to argue from the other side of the question, what difference does it make if Sara Horowitz is called "Rabbi"? What matters is what something is, not what it is called. Goose/Gander, Sauce/Title . . . . .

Just the other day, I got a call from a friend who retired to a diocese in the Southwestern part of the country. She's finally found an Episcopal church that suits her and is just settling in. The rector has hired a woman as his assistant who is reportedly "young and filled with enthusiasm and energy."

I asked for her name, thinking I might know her. "It's a small church, after all."

I heard my friend sigh deeply. The long silence was heavy.

"Father Kate," she said.

Now it was my turn to be silent. "Excuse me?" I said, finally.

"Oh, yes," said my friend, "No joke. It's Father Kate."

Oye vey!

Then again, isn't this like the communion wafer calling the matzoh bread flat?

'Father' - for centuries and in many places, still - is the Christian version of 'Rabbi'. Both terms that have exclusively male characteristics in their DNA.

Indeed, the little joke I sometimes make is that the church is the only place I can go and put on a long, white dress and be in traditional men's clothes. Every Sunday is, in its own way, a little liturgical drag show.

I've gotten some flap about my email. "motherkaeton@ . . .". There's a long story to that, which I won't go into here, but bottom line, it was a little joke between Ms. Conroy and me, having a little something to do with how 'mother' has become half a word.

It's not so funny to some of my friends and colleagues - almost exclusively women - who have raised more than an eyebrow of surprise and/or distress.

Part of the problem lies in the title 'priest'. I mean, male or female, Bishops are called "Bishop Jones." Deacons, too, and chaplains, as well as doctors, lawyers, judges, mayors and military personnel enjoy a gender-free title that can easily precede their first name or surname.

No one is called "Priest Smith."

I always introduce myself as "Elizabeth". The parents at St. Paul's long ago wanted some kind of title for the children to use so as to convey a sign of respect. So, we settled on "Reverend Elizabeth". Sounds warmer and is more grammatically correct than "Reverend Kaeton."

Sometimes, in very formal circumstances, I'm called "Dr. Kaeton". But mostly, it's 'Elizabeth' - which is what God calls me. It's also what my mother insisted I be called which people - usually those I've just met (and mostly men, come to think of it) - try to turn into a nickname like "Liz" or "Betty".

If you dare break my mother's hard and fast rule and try to "diminish" (in her words) my name, well, I can only warn you that you will have to deal with her in the afterlife - or risk that her spirit might just come to wherever you are and smack you right upside the head.

All kidding aside, there is something about a threat to the dominant power paradigm in all this that keeps niggling at me.

I keep hearing the words of Frederick Douglass, abolitionist and women's suffragist. I haven't thought it quite through just yet, so I'll leave you with his words:

"Let me give you a word of the philosophy of reform. The whole history of the progress of human liberty shows that all concessions yet made to her august claims, have been born of earnest struggle.

The conflict has been exciting, agitating, all-absorbing, and for the time being, putting all other tumults to silence. It must do this or it does nothing.

If there is no struggle there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground, they want rain without thunder and lightening. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters."

"This struggle may be a moral one, or it may be a physical one, and it may be both moral and physical, but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.

Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them, and these will continue till they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress."

"Power concedes nothing without a demand.
It never did and it never will."

Is all this controversy about a title the surface or presenting issue of a deeper power struggle? Or, to coin a phrase from Shakespeare, is this 'much ado about nothing'?

Indeed, as Juliette says:

What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;

Except, of course, when the name of the rose is 'Inequality', from the variety of 'Prejudice' in the Garden of Patriarchy.

Gen Silent

My dear friends and spiritual mothers in the process of my Coming Out just told me about this new film Gen Silent which is scheduled to be released in May.

Indeed, Sheri and Lois are featured in this promotional clip of the film "Gen Silent". I'm so proud of them, I could simply burst.

The shocking, sad story needs to be told. The LGBTQ generation who worked and struggled for our civil rights, to whom we owe an enormous debt of gratitude, are now being forced back into the closet in order to survive.

I encourage you to watch this 4 minute clip and visit the website. I'm hoping to be in Boston for the premier - to support two women without whose support I wouldn't be here today.

We've come a long way, but we still have so much farther to go.

If you haven't been part of it before, it starts today.

Welcome to the journey!

The Song of Hannah

If you haven't heard by now, where the heck have you been anyway?

Mary Glasspool has received the necessary number of consents to her election from Standing Committees in The Episcopal Church to proceed with her consecration. She needed 56. To date, she has 61.

No one knows the exact number of bishops who have voted 'aye' or 'nay'. An abstention counts as a 'nay' - an easy albeit cowardly way for those without cojones or ovaries not to consent.

Here's the press release from ENS.

Here's what Daniel Burke at Religious New Service reported.

Lesbian bishop-elect clears crucial hurdle
(Gotta love the headline, right? Of course she cleared the hurdle.She's a lesbian!)

(RNS) A majority of dioceses in the Episcopal Church have confirmed the election of an open lesbian as a bishop in Los Angeles, bringing Bishop-elect Mary Glasspool one step closer to consecration.

The Diocese of Los Angeles, where Glasspool was elected as an assistant bishop last December, announced confirmations from 61 of the denomination's 110 dioceses on Wednesday (March 10).

A majority of diocesan bishops, however, must also consent to Glasspool's election before she can be consecrated a bishop. Episcopal Church headquarters in New York keeps the bishops' tally, but generally does not release it until the outcome is sealed.

"I look forward to the final few consents to come in from the bishops in the next few days, and I give thanks for the fact that we as a church have taken a bold step for just action," said Los Angeles Bishop Jon Bruno.

Glasspool has until May 8 to receive the necessary votes from bishops. If her election is confirmed, she would be only the second openly gay person (note: but the first LESBIAN) to be elected a bishop in the U.S. church or the wider Anglican Communion.

Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams, the spiritual leader of the Anglican Communion, said last year that Glasspool's election "raises very serious questions" and urged Episcopal bishops to reject it. A majority of Anglicans in the 77-million-member communion reject homosexuality as unbiblical and the election of an openly gay priest as bishop of New Hampshire in 2003 has caused widespread dissent

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Rowan 'Blah-Blah-Blah' Williams.

Does anyone on either side of the aisle or sanctuary - left, right, front, center or back - listen to anything that man has to say anymore?

As for me and my house, we are listening to Hannah, singing her song with the ancient women and men who have marveled throughout the ages at the most marvelous works of God.

Hannah is a prophet, one of the two wives of Elkanah and the mother of Samuel. This is what she sang when her prayers to conceive were answered. (From 1 Samuel 2:1-8)

I imagine Hannah grew up hearing the song of Miriam, the sister of Moses. She learned it by heart. Sang it as she tended to her chores. Hummed it as drew water from the well. Miriam's song was the basis for the Song of Hannah.

I imagine Mary, the mother of Jesus, grew up hearing both Miriam and Hannah's song. Learning them. Memorizing them in her heart of hearts. Both songs provided the foundation for her own Magnificat.

Let us join with Miriam, Hannah and Mary and rejoice with all the angels and archangels and all the company of heaven and earth, for surely today, this day, the arc of history began to bend just a little closer to justice.

My heart exults in you, O God,
my triumph song is lifted in you.

My mouth derides my enemies,
for I rejoice in your salvation.

There is none holy like you,
nor any rock to be compared to you, our God.

Do not heap up prideful words or speak in arrogance;
Only God is knowing and weighs all actions.

The bows of the mighty are broken,
but the weak are clothed in strength.

Those once full now labor for bread,
those who hungered now are well fed.

The childless woman has borne sevenfold,
while the mother of many is forlorn.

God destroys and brings to life, casts down and raises up;
gives wealth or takes it away, humbles and dignifies

God raises the poor from the dust;
and lifts the needy from the ash heap

To make them sit with the rulers
and inherit a place of honor.

For the pillars of the earth are God's,
on which the whole earth is founded.

Signs of Spring

It's amazing what you see when you actually travel the speed limit.

I was heading back to the office yesterday - a glorious afternoon with temps hovering near the 60s - after doing a pastoral call and some errands.

It was so glorious I was thinking of pulling over and taking the top down on Lucy True Bug when I spotted him just up the road.

Pudgy boy. Maybe eight, nine years old. Just home from school. Jeans and a short sleeve T-shirt with a puffy vest over it. Yankees baseball cap - on the right way. Talking to his mom who was giving him some stern instructions about something. Holding the leash to a beautiful yellow lab pup who was sooOOOooo excited about the walk they were about to take.

As he turned from the driveway, his mom watching closely, I couldn't tell who was more excited, the young lad or the lab pup.

There was an unmistakable bounce to his step which the pup matched, step for step. They looked for all the world like a very picture of the first day of Spring - fresh, excited, full of the energy of new life.

You could almost see the blood rushing through his veins like the sap beginning to flow in the linden and maple trees that lined the streets of his neighborhood. You could see excitement and joy push through his every pore like the purple crocus will begin to push through his muddy front yard in a few weeks.

As I drove closer to him, I could see the broad smile on his face. This was one happy dude - happy to be home from school, happy to be a young boy out for an afternoon walk on a beautiful day. Happy it wasn't snowing!

I was remembering my own childhood, on a similar day, now in the dim past but brought close and very present in the bright sunshine. It made me smile even broader.

About the time I was lost in my own memories, he noticed me. I must have been smiling as foolishly as he was.

Then, it happened. He tilted his chin up, put his free hand to his baseball cap and tiped it as he nodded his chin upward, almost defiantly, and gave me a bright smile.

It was just a small gesture but it was hugely New Jersey. You'd have to have seen it before to recognize it. Think Fonzie on Happy Days for a close facsimile. I could almost hear my young friend saying, "Eh, ow you doin'?"

Just like his old man.

Nature or nurture?

I think it's a little bit of both.

Either way, it was a great day in this North Jersey neighborhood. We may be in for a few more flakes of snow and March and April may yet provide is with more blustery, windy cold days than any of us wants, needs or requires, but I am starting to believe that Spring may actually come this year.

I saw it in that little boy's face.

A place for everything . . . .

Those are some - ahem, I repeat some - of Ms. Conroy's caps.

She's taken to wearing them instead of her wig, which, these days, she only wears for 'special occasions'.

She says her wigs are too hot. Gets uncomfortable. Makes her itchy.

I think the truth of the matter is that she's much more comfortable with her baldness - from an auto immune disease - than she is with wearing a wig.

The one on top is the one she wears when she's on call for the Chatham Emergency Squad. It's one of her favorites.

She must be wearing her absolute favorite one today because I couldn't find it.

Why, it's her Boston Red Sox cap, of course. (Did you really have any doubt?)

A parishioner presented me with this nifty little device that attaches to the top and bottom of the door, with spiffy little clips on which to hang your caps.

I came right home and put it on the pantry door in the kitchen, across from the back door that enters from the garage and next to the door leading to the basement where we hang our weekday coats on another nifty little over the door gadget.

You know. Right where she can't miss it.

I'm guessing this will work for, oh, a week, maybe ten days. And then, I'll hear her in the morning, fussing to one of the pups, "Now, where did I put my cap? Did you take it? Did you hide it?"

The pups will look at her, at the alert and ready to please, cocking their sweet little heads in the cute way they do but thinking to themselves, "This woman is absolutely hopeless! She can never find her cap and then accuses us of taking it. Sheesh! I wish someone would get her a cap organizer."

Well, 'someone' has.

Thank you, Phyllis.

Now, we'll just have to wait and see if she actually uses it.

In the process, we'll test that old adage about 'teaching an old dog new tricks.'

Anybody wanna make a wager?

A Place Called Hope

According to the United Nations, the first International Women's Day was celebrated in 1911. More than one million women and men attended rallies in Austria, Denmark, Germany and Switzerland. They demanded the right to vote and hold public office, and for an end to job discrimination.

The day is now marked as a time "to reflect on the progress we've made to call for change and to celebrate acts of courage and determination by ordinary women who have played an extraordinary role in the history of women's rights," the United Nations says.

In some places like China, Russia, Vietnam and Bulgaria, IWD is a national holiday.

And then, there are places like Uganda, where,Action Aid reports, that sexual violence is the main reason that girls drop out of school.

They also report that:

70% of those living in poverty are women

45 million girls are currently denied an education

Women in poor countries grow more than 60% of the food but own less than 1% of the land

Every minute a woman dies as a result of pregnancy complications

One report included this story:

Isatu Kalokoh, a 32-year-old mother of three, lives in the far-eastern suburbs of Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone.

In her community, 60 percent of the residents are women. Kalokoh is a housewife, but many of the women here making a living farming oysters, selling wood and working as petty traders of small retail goods.

Only about 100 women in her suburb can read, but a single female chief, elected over the resistance of many men, runs the community.

Despite this victory, many husbands in Kalokoh's neighborhood consider wives to be their property and beat them when they are home.

This was the case for Kalokoh in her second marriage to a man who often shows resentment towards her three children from a previous marriage.

"When my husband comes home from work, he grumbles about my children," she told researchers with Action Aid, based in Johannesburg, South Africa, the largest global anti-poverty agency. "When we go to bed at night, he forces me to have sex with him as much as he likes. My husband always promises to change his attitude, but will do the same things again. I feel very ashamed now."

Action Aid issued a report today in London that offers a sample of similar stories.

Although violence against women affects countries that are both rich and poor, and women of different backgrounds, authors of the Action Aid report say violence blocks progress in every major development target. This violence ranges from intimate partner violence in couples to sexual violence in the classroom.

The authors say violence--from rape during armed conflicts to domestic violence--is a leading cause of death and disability among women of all ages, and costs nations billions of dollars as it drains public resources and lowers economic productivity.

Action Aid has been documenting the stories of women from Burundi, Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo, in a project aimed at reducing violence against women. The women have been provided with legal, psychosocial support, livelihoods training and lobbying advice.

You can visit their website and read their report Her Stories in which African women tell remarkable accounts of how they have overcome violence and discrimination in appalling circumstances.

Roseline Watta Beah, ActionAid’s facilitator in Sierra Leone, summed up the women’s feelings: “The project has been a journey from a place called nowhere to a place called hope. But hope here is built on shaky ground, needing consolidation if we don’t want to be sent back to nowhere.”

I hope you read the report and use at least part of this day to reflect upon the status of women and consider how you might help make a place called hope more stable for women around the world.

Here are some very simple considerations. Why not . . .

1- Help to change other women’s lives through organizations such as Amnesty International and Action Aid, or the Anglican Women's Empowerment project. Those are just three. There are many more. Commit to providing assistance to one.

2- Commit to buying from fairtrade companies where mothers can work to feed and clothe their families in safety.

3- Reflect on the lives of some of the women on the Calendar of Saints, saying the glorious words of the Magnificat in between each reading.

4- Telephone or write to your female relatives and friends, telling them how much they mean to you.

5- Spend time with the greatest feminine spirit of all - mother nature. Go and plant a wildflower garden, listen to the bird sing, bathe in the sunshine, get drenched by the rain, let a snow flake melt on your tongue.

What will you do to honor the women in your life or yourself today?

More importantly, what will you do to help change the status of women around the world, helping to bring them from a place called nowhere to a place called hope?

More of you

G'won over to The Ultimate Word to read Jon Richardson's sermon this morning.

Here's the quote of the day, just to whet your appetite. It's from Gail Godwin’s book, "Evensong".

“Something is your vocation 

if it keeps making more of you.”

Where the Wild Things Were!

This is my bishop, the bishop of Newark, Mark Beckwith, on the right, singing with the bishop of New Jersey, George Councell, on the left.

They were singing together on Friday night at the Diocese of NJ Convention.

I'm told they were singing, "Wild Thing".

Why?

Apparently, because they can.

Just two wild and slightly nerdy guys rockin' out in matching purple shirts to a completely nonsensical but easy to sing to 'oldie-but-goodie' from the 70s.

What's that slogan: "Whoever you are and wherever you are on your faith journey, The Episcopal Church welcomes you."

If you don't believe that after seeing this picture of these two bishops . . . well . . .I'm not sure what it would take to have you believe it.

Okay, somebody get some pans and wooden spoons from the kitchen, turn the pans over and rock out a beat on them with the spoons. Everybody now, sing along:

Wild thing
You make my heart sing
You make everything groovy
Wild thing.

Wild thing, I think you move me
But I wanna know for sure
C'mon, hold me tight.
I love you.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon wild thing.
Shake it, shake it, shake it, wild thing.
Ah, wild thing.

Rock on, Mark and George!

Rock on!

Photo credit:  Whiteycat

Going 'round in circles

Of all those who have immigrated from Africa to the New York Metropolitan Area, I probably know those from Liberia best, followed by people from Ghana, then Nigeria.

That is, perhaps, due to lots of reasons, none the least of which is the long standing history between The Episcopal Church USA and The Episcopal Church of Liberia.

We tend to run in similar circles.

Liberia, of course, is the West African nation settled in 1847 to settle freed American slaves. They and their descendants, having learned well from their former masters, eventually became the 'elite' class in Liberia, repressing and suppressing the Krahn, part of a rural tribe in inland Liberia.

How does one break the circle of violence, prejudice and oppression?

The stories I have heard from my Liberian friends who survived the bloody civil wars under the presidencies of Samuel Doe and Charles Taylor, are every bit as horrifying as the stories we hear today from Congo, Sierra Leone and Cote d'Ivoire.

I'm no historian of Africa, but my African friends remind me all the time that Africa is not a nation but a continent of nations made up of many tribes.

Ghana (formerly 'Gold Coast'), from the lens of this one woman who has spent some time there, is one of the most stable nations in Africa. In fact, it ranked 7th out of 48 sub-Saharan African countries in the 2008in the Ibrahim Index of African Governance.

The nations of Botswana (which ranks 4th in the IIAG) and South Africa (which ranks 5th) clearly lead the way behind the island nations of Mauritius, Cape Verde and Seychelles .

Liberia, under the leadership of President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, is also making great strides toward a stable government.

President Sirleaf is, of course, the the first modern, and currently the only elected female head of state in Africa. Her election is accredited to the advocacy of a peace movement known as 'Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace'.

So, it should come as no surprise that one of the first things she did was to address the issue of sexual assault and rape in her country.

Besides spearheading the move to curb the mismanagement of government finances for generations, she also issued an Executive Order making education free and compulsory for all elementary school aged children.

Along with my Liberian friends, I have closely followed Mrs. Sirleaf's presidency, marveling at her ability to lead, even as her political foes remain in power.

Former President Charles Taylor followers remain in large numbers in Liberia's government. Taylor's estranged wife, Jewel Howard Taylor, is in the Senate. So is Prince Johnson, whose gruesome torture and murder of President Samuel Doe in 1990 was captured on a widely-distributed videotape.

Mrs. Sirleaf, a mother of four and grandmother of eight, is slowly but surely turning her country around and restoring peace and stability to her country, making it a better place for women and children, as well as their husbands and fathers.

She is simultaneously breaking circles of oppression while expanding circles of power. Her nickname is “Iron Lady" - not for nothing, I'm sure.

Liberia has also reportedly become something of a modern laboratory for the rise of women making peace. In addition to having a woman serve as president, women are marching in foot patrols, and the head of the U.N. mission, Ellen Margrethe Loj of Denmark, is a woman.

My Liberian friends who have gone home for a visit report the presence of a special female United Nations police unit from India who stomp out crime on the city streets of Monrovia by day as well as stand guard under the hot, steamy sun outside the Monrovia headquarters of the president.

When they are off-duty, 'home' for these women is a military barracks where they tell bedtime stories to their toddlers via video conference calls.

Together they form what has come to be known as "the thin pink line" of a U.N. recruitment campaign for the 21st century.

As it marks the 100th International Women’s Day on March 8, the United Nations is intensifying efforts to recruit women for peacekeeping missions that seek to mend what war has wrought.

The theory is that women employ distinctive social skills in a rugged macho domain. They are being counted on to bring calm to the streets and the barracks, acting as public servants instead of invaders.

“When female soldiers are present, the situation is closer to real life, and as a result the men tend to behave,” said Gerard J. DeGroot, a history professor at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland who has written books about women in the military. “Any conflict where you have an all-male army, it’s like a holiday from reality. If you inject women into that situation, they do have a civilizing effect.”

Here's a video clip of the efforts, in which you can hear Mrs. Sirleaf being particularly blunt about the role of women in the recovery of her fragile country, which was battered by 14 years of civil war that left about 200,000 people dead and survivors haunted by torture, systematic rapes and the exploitation of drug-addicted boy soldiers.

"What a woman brings to the task is extra sensitivity, more caring,” Mrs. Sirleaf said in an interview. “I think that these are the characteristics that come from being a mother, taking care of a family, being concerned about children, managing the home.”

According to this article in the NY Times:

The softer approach is critical in Liberia. In 2004, a U.N. report criticized peacekeepers in Liberia, the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Haiti for the sexual abuse of young women by trading food and money for sex. In 2005, 47 peacekeepers were accused of sexual abuse in Liberia, compared with 18 peacekeepers who were accused last year, according to the U.N. mission.

Top U.N. officials credit the arrival of women for helping improve behavior. Yet within Liberia, national peacekeeping units from different countries are still debating the best approach, tinkering with ways to best deploy female peacekeepers — or “blue helmettes” in U.N. lingo.

Is this a good thing? For women? At what individual cost to the "female peacekeepers"? I ask these questions especially in light of what we know goes on in our own military (see "Perturbing The Forces" from a few days ago).

I've been 'going 'round in circles' lately, considering all types of circles. There are surely circles of violence and oppression and abuse that need to be broken. There are circles of influence and authority and power that need to be expanded.

I've been thinking a great deal about this, especially after I've considered the Episcopal Women's Caucus three year experiment in "Circle of Leadership". (See ENS story here.)

Ann Smith, the former head of the National Episcopal Church Office on Women in Ministry, developed a version of this circular model of leadership at 815. She instituted the 'Women of Vision Program' back in the late 1980s, a leadership training program for women based on the "the millionth circle" which energized women's organizations, clergy and lay leaders as well as seminarians. (I still treasure my copies of the Circle Calendar produced by Ann, Sr. Helena Marie and Ginny Doctor.)

"The millionth circle" refers to the circle whose formation tips the scales and shifts planetary consciousness. The phrase comes from Jean Shinoda Bolen's book The Millionth Circle: How to Change Ourselves and The World, which in turn was inspired by "the hundredth monkey," the story that sustained anti-nuclear activists in the 1970-1980s to continue on when conventional wisdom said that nothing (certainly not ordinary people) could deter the nuclear arms race between the superpowers.

Even before that, Margaret Mead said, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."

There is an organization known as "The Millionth Circle," a grass-roots, international volunteer organization of women who believe that circles are the means through which world consciousness will change.

Indeed, they are part of the gathering of women at the U.N., March 2-13, promoting winning strategies to achieve gender equality.

I'm going to reproduce the "Circle Principles" of this organization here, because I think they stand in an interesting juxtaposition to the efforts of the U.N. to increase the presence of women in the Peacekeeping force.

CIRCLE PRINCIPLES
The following are some suggested guidelines for a circle:

Create sacred space. This includes physically preparing a space to accommodate the participants in a circle, usually with a centerpiece or altar.

Listen with compassion and for wisdom. This includes listening without an agenda, suspending judgment, being curious and finding the underlying meaning in others' statements. Also, it is listening for wisdom as it comes through each participant.

Speak from your heart and experience. Speak one at a time. This includes saying what is true for you and speaking to the center of the circle, not to another individual. We offer our experience and feelings to the circle, not our advice. Also, we speak one at a time and invoke a talking piece when needed, to ensure that all are heard.

Invite silence and reflection when needed, in you and in the circle. This includes listening to our own inner guidance before speaking. Also, we request silence and reflection in the circle when we feel it is needed.

Take responsibility for your experience and your impact on the circle. This includes demonstrating self-respect and self-restraint. We self-monitor to ensure that our needs and expectations are being met. We ensure our contribution adds to the positive experience of all in the circle.

Keep the confidence of the circle. This refers to our confidentiality agreements. What is spoken in the circle, stays in the circle to help ensure a safe environment for sharing our experiences and feelings.

Make decisions, when needed, by consensus. This refers to our decision making process. Should a circle need to make a decision, it is generally desirable tocome to a consensus.

The note at the end of the list says this: "These guidelines can be used as a starting point for group agreements in any circle, knowing that each group will add or delete as they see fit."

I'm thinking these principles, wonderful as they are, would not apply to those who are part of the 'blue helmettes' on the 'thin pink line' of U.N. peacekeeping.

As I reflect on this, I'm also haunted by the wisdom of two very different people. Abolitionist and worker for the suffrage of women, Frederick Douglass said,

"Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have the exact measure of the injustice and wrong which will be imposed on them."

He also said, ""Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will."

"Sister Outsider," Audre Lorde, in her famous address, said,

"The master's tools will never dismantle the master's house."

She was arguing against internalizing a patriarchal fear of difference - in particular, sexism, racism and homophobia - in the women's movement, which in her view will never dismantle the "house" of oppression in which we women live.

Somewhere, in the midst of all of that great wisdom and true statements lies the truth of our liberation as women and men.

I'm sure I don't know the 'best way to deploy female peacekeepers'.

I don't mean to sound glib or simplistic, but I guess I want to employ female - and male - peacemakers.

I mean, Jesus did say, "Blessed are the peacemakers."

We may be able to 'keep' the peace with violence or the threat of violence, but we will only be able to 'make' peace with the human heart.

Given the human enterprise, it's bound to be an evolutionary process, I suppose - from peacekeeping to peacemaking.

Although, because we do not always learn from our history - much less our herstory - we are sometimes doomed to repeat it, going 'round and 'round in circles.

Because we have forgotten our his/herstory, evolution to a higher form of existence is only a deceptive illusion. It may well be that we have only come 'full circle'.

Even so, I find that the circle I want to create is one that is a circle of blessing.

I want to bless the women who form "the thin pink line' of U.N. Peacekeepers as well as all those who are Peacemakers, and ask you to join me in blessing them.

I want to bless the women of our Military Forces who work to keep the peace in this country and around the world, even as they suffer violence to their own bodies. I ask you to join me in blessing them.

I want to bless the women who have gathered from every corner of the earth to gather at the United Nations to work on improving the status of women, and I ask you to join me in blessing them.

I want to bless Ellen Johnson Sirleaf and the important work she is doing in Liberia in creating and destroying circles, and ask you to join me in blessing her.

I want to bless Ann Smith and all the women of vision who learned from their mothers and grandmothers and taught our sisters and daughters so that we might continue to work for a vision of peace. I ask you to join me in blessing her.

I ask you to join me in a blessing upon all peacekeepers and peacemakers, for surely we will more clearly see the Realm of God and bring that vision here on earth as it is in heaven.

May that circle be unbroken.

Lamentations of the Father

Note: I heard Ian Frazier do this years ago on A Prairie Home Companion. A friend sent it to me this morning as it appears in The Atlantic Monthly Online. There is also an audio link so you can hear this father read his lamentations. It's every bit as funny as I remembered it.

Laws Concerning Food and Drink
Household Principles
Lamentations of the Father

by Ian Frazier

Sermon on the Table

OF the beasts of the field, and of the fishes of the sea, and of all foods that are acceptable in my sight you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the hoofed animals, broiled or ground into burgers, you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the cloven-hoofed animal, plain or with cheese, you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the cereal grains, of the corn and of the wheat and of the oats, and of all the cereals that are of bright color and unknown provenance you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the quiescently frozen dessert and of all frozen after-meal treats you may eat, but absolutely not in the living room. Of the juices and other beverages, yes, even of those in sippy-cups, you may drink, but not in the living room, neither may you carry such therein. Indeed, when you reach the place where the living room carpet begins, of any food or beverage there you may not eat, neither may you drink.

But if you are sick, and are lying down and watching something, then may you eat in the living room.

Laws When at Table

And if you are seated in your high chair, or in a chair such as a greater person might use, keep your legs and feet below you as they were. Neither raise up your knees, nor place your feet upon the table, for that is an abomination to me. Yes, even when you have an interesting bandage to show, your feet upon the table are an abomination, and worthy of rebuke. Drink your milk as it is given you, neither use on it any utensils, nor fork, nor knife, nor spoon, for that is not what they are for; if you will dip your blocks in the milk, and lick it off, you will be sent away. When you have drunk, let the empty cup then remain upon the table, and do not bite it upon its edge and by your teeth hold it to your face in order to make noises in it sounding like a duck; for you will be sent away.

When you chew your food, keep your mouth closed until you have swallowed, and do not open it to show your brother or your sister what is within; I say to you, do not so, even if your brother or your sister has done the same to you. Eat your food only; do not eat that which is not food; neither seize the table between your jaws, nor use the raiment of the table to wipe your lips. I say again to you, do not touch it, but leave it as it is. And though your stick of carrot does indeed resemble a marker, draw not with it upon the table, even in pretend, for we do not do that, that is why. And though the pieces of broccoli are very like small trees, do not stand them upright to make a forest, because we do not do that, that is why. Sit just as I have told you, and do not lean to one side or the other, nor slide down until you are nearly slid away. Heed me; for if you sit like that, your hair will go into the syrup. And now behold, even as I have said, it has come to pass.

Laws Pertaining to Dessert

For we judge between the plate that is unclean and the plate that is clean, saying first, if the plate is clean, then you shall have dessert. But of the unclean plate, the laws are these: If you have eaten most of your meat, and two bites of your peas with each bite consisting of not less than three peas each, or in total six peas, eaten where I can see, and you have also eaten enough of your potatoes to fill two forks, both forkfuls eaten where I can see, then you shall have dessert. But if you eat a lesser number of peas, and yet you eat the potatoes, still you shall not have dessert; and if you eat the peas, yet leave the potatoes uneaten, you shall not have dessert, no, not even a small portion thereof. And if you try to deceive by moving the potatoes or peas around with a fork, that it may appear you have eaten what you have not, you will fall into iniquity. And I will know, and you shall have no dessert.

On Screaming

Do not scream; for it is as if you scream all the time. If you are given a plate on which two foods you do not wish to touch each other are touching each other, your voice rises up even to the ceiling, while you point to the offense with the finger of your right hand; but I say to you, scream not, only remonstrate gently with the server, that the server may correct the fault. Likewise if you receive a portion of fish from which every piece of herbal seasoning has not been scraped off, and the herbal seasoning is loathsome to you, and steeped in vileness, again I say, refrain from screaming. Though the vileness overwhelm you, and cause you a faint unto death, make not that sound from within your throat, neither cover your face, nor press your fingers to your nose. For even now I have made the fish as it should be; behold, I eat of it myself, yet do not die.

Concerning Face and Hands

Cast your countenance upward to the light, and lift your eyes to the hills, that I may more easily wash you off. For the stains are upon you; even to the very back of your head, there is rice thereon. And in the breast pocket of your garment, and upon the tie of your shoe, rice and other fragments are distributed in a manner wonderful to see. Only hold yourself still; hold still, I say. Give each finger in its turn for my examination thereof, and also each thumb. Lo, how iniquitous they appear. What I do is as it must be; and you shall not go hence until I have done.

Various Other Laws, Statutes, and Ordinances

Bite not, lest you be cast into quiet time. Neither drink of your own bath water, nor of bath water of any kind; nor rub your feet on bread, even if it be in the package; nor rub yourself against cars, nor against any building; nor eat sand.

Leave the cat alone, for what has the cat done, that you should so afflict it with tape? And hum not that humming in your nose as I read, nor stand between the light and the book. Indeed, you will drive me to madness. Nor forget what I said about the tape.

Complaints and Lamentations

O my children, you are disobedient. For when I tell you what you must do, you argue and dispute hotly even to the littlest detail; and when I do not accede, you cry out, and hit and kick. Yes, and even sometimes do you spit, and shout "stupid-head" and other blasphemies, and hit and kick the wall and the molding thereof when you are sent to the corner. And though the law teaches that no one shall be sent to the corner for more minutes than he has years of age, yet I would leave you there all day, so mighty am I in anger. But upon being sent to the corner you ask straightaway, "Can I come out?" and I reply, "No, you may not come out." And again you ask, and again I give the same reply. But when you ask again a third time, then you may come out.

Hear me, O my children, for the bills they kill me. I pay and pay again, even to the twelfth time in a year, and yet again they mount higher than before. For our health, that we may be covered, I give six hundred and twenty talents twelve times in a year; but even this covers not the fifteen hundred deductible for each member of the family within a calendar year. And yet for ordinary visits we still are not covered, nor for many medicines, nor for the teeth within our mouths. Guess not at what rage is in my mind, for surely you cannot know.

For I will come to you at the first of the month and at the fifteenth of the month with the bills and a great whining and moan. And when the month of taxes comes, I will decry the wrong and unfairness of it, and mourn with wine and ashtrays, and rend my receipts. And you shall remember that I am that I am: before, after, and until you are twenty-one. Hear me then, and avoid me in my wrath, O children of me.

Mama Bears and Baby Bears

First of all, let it not be said that this isn't an absolutely amazing film clip. It is. Flat out. It's three minutes and fifty-five seconds well worth your time and attention.

I have absolutely no idea how it was made. Like I said, amazing!

When I first saw it, I sat riveted through the whole thing, bursting into tears at the end. As I watched it again - and again - and again - I realized that this was much more than a story of a Baby Bear and a Cougar. Which is why the ending always reduces me to tears.

I don't know about you, but I have had times in my life when, in my innocence and naivete, I thought the world was mine in which to frolic. And, that wasn't just somewhere in my youth or childhood.

Sometimes, even in the midst of all of its raw wilderness, the beauty of life can be so overwhelming that I can get lost in it.

Sometimes, the ability for some people to rise above their circumstances and find it within their poverty to still be generous is positively inspirational.

Sometimes the power of the human spirit to soar and triumph over brokenness and despair leaves me breathless.

Sometimes, the evidence of God's presence is so irrefutable, so undeniable, that I am awed and humbled and thrown into a state of utter ecstasy and complete bliss.

But mostly, I just plod through life. Going through the motions. Not really paying attention. Dealing as best I can with the sturm und drang. Anesthetized by the normalcy and routine of daily life. I wander and stray. Sometimes, I get lost.

And then, something happens. Danger always lurks at the fringes of our lives, no matter how safe we think we are. Our affluence will not save us. Our physical strength will not secure us. Our intellect does not know the path to safety.

Safety, I have come to understand, is just an illusion. None of us is safe. No, not one. Especially when we are not paying attention.

Sometimes the danger, like in this clip, is physical and very real. But, there are psychic and spiritual perils that are equally ominous. Equally menacing. Equally hazardous.

Evil is real. Very real. I have seen it. I have known it. I have fought my share of demons in my time. I'll bet you have, too.

I don't know why it is, then, that I should be surprised when the demons return and reappear - sometimes in the most unlikely places and from the most improbable people.

You know. Like, the church. And, good folk who call themselves 'Christian'.

What I have learned, however, is that, when I have stood nose to nose and eyeball to eyeball with Evil, even though I be battered and bloodied and scared out of my wits, at some point, something somewhere deep inside kicks in.

At some point, I stand full up on my haunches and roar. Full throat. Half out of fear, half out of absolute conviction that I can not - will not - let Evil overcome me. That I must use everything inside me to fight.

Even if I lose, I have to know that I have lost giving it everything I've got. That I have spent the best of myself in the battle.

In that moment, a "Me that is inside me" begins to find a place of courage. A "Me that is bigger than me" begins to roar. A "Me that is behind me" cries out against Evil more loudly than I ever could.

And, in that moment, the demon always backs off. Skulks away. Does not look back.

I turn and run to Her - this Mama Bear that has never really been farther away than the point of my most terrible danger.

This Mama Bear beckons me into her arms, washing off my wounds and loving me, even in the foolishness that placed me in the path of danger in the first place.

It is a miracle, this love of a Mama Bear. It is a love that is fierce. Unconditional. Grace-filled. Unearned and undeserved. And, always available to me - but most especially in moments of most horrific danger.

I sometimes forget that, in those moments, I can not rely on myself. There's a "Me that's bigger than me" who is waiting for me, just beyond my sight which has been blinded by sheer terror - or, apathy.

In those moments, what I have to do is find within me the spark of divinity that called me into being - the ember that glows amidst the mortal ashes of my humanity - and call upon it. Blow upon it until it comes to the Life that came to save my life.

If you know what I'm talking about, you'll appreciate this film clip.

If you don't, you'll enjoy it anyway.

But, know this: Life - all of life - is a precious gift.

You can really only know just how precious life is - how beautiful and wondrous it is - until you are about to lose it.

And then, no matter the outcome, you will find that you have the power to save yourself because you have been saved by the Love of One who loves you as fiercely and unconditionally as a Mama Bear.