'The Help'

I rarely go to movies in the Theater.

First of all, they've gotten so expensive - even way down here in tax-free LSD - as to tarnish the experience before I even sit down in the theater. And, as Ms. Conroy doesn't like many films other than those from Disney (I had to DRAG her to "Slum Dog Millionaire" and "Avatar" which she reluctantly admitted to liking), if I go, I have to go alone.

I read the book, "The Help" last summer and loved it. I thought the writing was excellent and the story very powerful. As a Caucasian woman the racism and sexism of this story of several upper-class Southern white families in the early 1960s, from the amused and bemused perspective of their black housekeepers and cooks – as told to a perky white female journalist - made me squirm.

I couldn't imagine the film improving on the power of the book - which, I've discovered, is often the case and another reason I don't go to see many movies in the Theater.

Apparently, the power of the movie version of 'The Help' is mostly in the controversy it has stirred.

Now, why this movie has caused such a flap - and not, say, "The Secret Lives of Bees" or "The Blind Side", or "Mississippi Burning", or "Driving Miss Daisy" or "The Legend of Bagger Vance" or "The Color Purple" even Disney's "A Song of the South" and "The Princess and the Frog" - is a bit of a puzzle to me.

Maybe 'we who believe in freedom' are getting just a bit weary about the current level of racism in our present cultural and political reality.

Those of us who understand the politics of race see what's going on in this country and are outraged and sickened by the undercurrent of racism directed at all the political attacks which have been leveled at the first Black man to occupy the White House.

Perhaps the real flap is over the comments and "tweets" made by Melissa Harris-Perry, the former Princeton professor, now from Tulane, who appears regularly on Rachel Maddow and Lawrence O'Donnell on MSNBC.

She has become the "new Oprah" - smarter, better educated, articulate, more attractive - and many, many people listen to her. I confess to being a great admirer of hers and loved reading her blog, "Table Talk" when she was at Princeton and before she became famous.

Here are some of the things she "tweeted" from the theater as she watched the movie:

“Hard to tell whether it’s the representations of black women or of white women that’s most horrible”

“Thank God magical black women were available to teach white women how to raise their families and to write books!”

“The Help reduces sexism, systematic violent racism, and labor exploitation to a catfight that can be won by cunning and spunk.”

She also said on the Lawrence O'Donnell show that the movie was, to her, completing the work started by the Daughters of the American Confederacy when they “found money in the federal budget to erect a granite statue of Mammy in the shadow of the Lincoln Memorial,” which happened while the same Senate contingency failed to pass the Dyer Anti-Lynching Bill. “It is the same notion that the fidelity of black women domestics is more important than the realities of the lives, the pain, the anguish, the rape that they experienced.”

“It’s ahistorical and deeply troubling,” she argued, to make the suffering of these laborers a backdrop for a happy story. But there was a silver lining to the film, and Harris Perry concluded on a good note: actress Viola Davis’s buzz was well-earned. “What kills me,” she concluded, “is that in 2011 Viola Davis is reduced to playing a maid.”

Look, I understand the outrage over 'white agency' and the anger at yet another movie from the 'White Liberal Guilt Theater', with the message that seems to say either, ""Aw, look at those poor Negroes, I just want to help them!" or "Well, there, I feel better knowing that there wouldn't be a Civil Rights Act much less a Black President without the help of White folk."

It's not exactly the same thing, of course, but I get the same way about the "male agency" that has some men claiming that women wouldn't have gained suffrage without the help of men.

Indeed, it was only just recently that, in a movie which featured a strong woman, there was always a scene where she twisted her ankle on her high heels and some man had to carry her over the finish line and off into a romantic sunset.

Or, the "straight agency" when some make the claim that Queer people wouldn't be brinked on the edge of full Marriage Equality without the help of straight people. Hell, I even yelled for months about the Tom Hank's movie "Philadelphia" concerning the early days of the AIDS crisis because there were no lesbians in the movie.

And, I'm here to tell you that gay men would not have made it through those early days without lesbian doctors, nurses and social workers doing a lot of the heavy lifting. Indeed, we were doing the hard work of pain and symptom and nutritional management, and keeping people comfortable in their own homes, and arguing with insurance companies for hours about covering the cost of health care and doing countless Adult Forums at churches and educational events at Community Centers.

No one is ever going to write a book or make a movie about that part of the story. Which is okay. No one I know did that work for any glory, much less thanks - although it would have been lovely to have earned a mention.

That's not the problem. The problem is, to some extent, there's some truth in all of those claims about the various forms of "agency".

The book and movie "The Help" are aptly named. It's all about 'help' and who helps who through the tangled mess and poisonous web of individual, corporate and cultural prejudices and various forms of oppression.

I wasn't going to write about this but something happened just yesterday morning that prompted me to say something.

I had dropped off my beloved pup, Theo, just up the street at 'The Wizard of Paws' to be groomed. I was then heading off to Lewes for a gathering of Episcopal Clergy sometimes referred to as "The Boys and Girls Club" because most of us are, shall we say, no longer boys and girls.

I was early for my meeting, so I stopped off at one of the convenience stores to get a cup of coffee and the newspaper. As I approached the counter to make my purchase, there was a young Black man - oh, early twenties, I would say - who had just purchased a cigar.

He was looking at his purchase with a confused look and said to the Very White woman at the register, "No... um... I'm sorry, ma'am, but.... this is not the one I pointed to."

The Very White woman glared at him, "Yes it is. You took it, you gave me $1.99, I rang it up. It's yours." Then she smiled sweetly at me and said, "I'll take that for you now, hon."

I looked over at the young man, his mouth open in utter astonishment and confusion. Two men - both White - appeared in line behind me with donuts and coffee.

I looked at her and said, "Well, before you take care of me, can I ask you a question?"

A flicker of nervousness flashed over her face and, through a crooked smile, she said, "Sure, hon."

At this point, the Black, older man who was sitting in the car I passed on my way into the store appeared at the door and looked in. I could feel the men behind me shifting their weight nervously.

I looked at the young man who was looking at the cigar and shaking his head, took a deep breath, looked at the Cashier and asked, "Does this store believe in good customer service?" (I swear to God, I had no idea I was going to say that and I had no idea where I was going with it.)

She smiled nervously and said, "Of course. Now, let me take your order."

At this point, the young man found his voice and said, "But, I don't understand. I pointed to that cigar right over there, but you gave me this one, and before I could say anything, you rang me up."

She glared at him and said, "That's the one you pointed to. Now, take it because I'll have to void the sale and it will mess up our inventory and I just don't have time for that. I've got other customers to wait on. Just take your cigar and be happy with it."

The older Black man who had been looking in through the glass door now made his way into the store and stood there, arms folded across his chest, listening.

I could feel the tension rising from the two White men behind me.

I looked at the Cashier and said, "Well, if there is good customer service in this store, then you know the saying that 'The Customer is always right'. Why don't you take back the cigar you just incorrectly sold him, void the sale, return his money, and let him purchase the cigar he wants?"

She shifted her weight as she held onto the cash register for balance and considered my words. "Sure," she smiled her crooked, nervous smile, "Let me take care of you and these two gentlemen and then I'll deal with him."

I smiled and said in my best cheery voice, "Oh, I don't mind. It won't take long, I'm sure." Then, turning to the young man I said, "Which cigar did you want?"

He allowed just a tinge of relief to flicker over his face as he pointed to the cigars and said, "That one."

The Cashier didn't move.

"That one?" I asked. "The one in the red wrapper?"

"Yessum," he said.

I looked at the Cashier and pointed to the cigar. "He'll have that one."

The Cashier tightened her grip on the cash register and glared at me and then at the young man. She didn't move. Indeed, I think she was holding her breath.

As she looked away to further consider what she might do, she turned her head and caught sight of the older Black man, standing silently at the door. Suddenly, she stood up straight and went directly to the cigar and started to ring it up.

"Wait," I said. "Let me see that cigar."

The Cashier handed it to me and I examined it, asking the young man, "Is this the one you wanted?"

"Yessum," he said.

Turning to the cashier I asked, "And, how much is this one?"

"Same price," she said through her crooked smile and clenched teeth.

"Ah, then it's an even exchange," I said. "You don't even have to ring it up or void the other sale. And, your inventory won't be messed up."

The young man silently handed the cigar over to her and I gave him the cigar he had wanted in the first place.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said quietly and politely to her.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said quietly and politely to me.

And then, just as quietly and politely, he and his older friend, who had said not a word, left the store. The older man did look at me and nodded his head, which I returned.

And that was that.

I will never understand what it's like to be Black but I do understand "micro-oppression", which are little incidences of prejudice that are like tiny paper cuts that build up on your soul.

At some point, they just make you want to holler.

Now, I don't think the story I just told you is about 'white agency'.

I didn't tell you that story to feel good about myself. Neither did I tell you that story to make you feel good about White people who help "poor Negroes" or bad about White people whose prejudices make them do stupid things.

I think that is a story about one human being - one Christian - helping another human being - perhaps another Christian - through the noxious web of prejudice and oppression.

And, you know, we all need help to do that, sometimes.

That's really what I took away from the book entitled "The Help". It's not just another white-girl-coming-of-age story. Neither is it really about oppression of "the help" of Black domestic women in the sharply segregated South.

Yes, it is all those things, but mainly it's about how the character, Skeeter, comes to understand how she has become the woman she is because of the help of The Help who were more mothers to her than her own mother.

As a college graduate who has returned home, she wants to help "The Help" by helping them tell their stories. In their own words.

Truth be told, if that story were written by former Black domestics, it would no doubt be relegated to the dusty shelves of Black Literature which no one would read, much less discuss.

Here's the thing: Because of this story, we are all 'helped' to discuss the soul-damaging subtleties of racism and sexism that existed and continued beyond the horror of the lynchings and the whippings and the tarrings and feathering that were also going on at the same time.

This may be a miscarriage of history for Melissa Harris-Perry and other Black Women and, you know, I understand. I do. Indeed, I think their outrage and anger are important contributions to the conversation.

Ultimately, for me, this is a story about the power of relationships which contain the ability to create the change in hearts and minds that change in laws can only hope to achieve, but don't.

Transformation begins in the human heart - and that's really the heart of the story of "The Help".

If you don't see the movie, I hope you at least read the book. And, I hope it makes you squirm.

More importantly, I hope it inspires you to have conversations with other people about important topics like social justice, racism, sexism, micro-oppression, cultural change, the power of relationships and transformation.

God knows, in terms of all those things, we need all the help we can get - even when it makes us squirm.

"Good Morning Christians!"

When I was a seminarian at St. John the Evangelist, Bowdoin Street, Boston, there was something called, simply, "The Thursday Night Supper."

Every Thursday night, about 200 people who were hungry and/or homeless would come down the steps into the Parish Hall for a full meal - soup to nuts, as they say - prepared and served to them by members of one of several suburban churches in the area.

Jack Flaherty was the Coordinator of the Thursday Night Supper, as well as the Jubilee Senior Center on Monday and Wednesday mornings.

Jack is now numbered among the Saints of God, but when he presided over the Thursday Night Suppers, he did so as one-part Sacramental Presence and one-part High School Teacher - which he was before he retired.

Jack had a "way" about him that commanded respect. Most of the guests called him "Father". Now, Jack was a Roman Catholic who faithfully attended daily mass in his suburban home town but was always - always - in the pew at St. John's on Sunday morning.

Clearly, he was not ordained in any capacity by either the Roman Catholic or Episcopal Church, but he never disabused the guests of the status of his ordination. He just simply let them call him, "Father".

And, this is the way he would address them before leading (or asking one of us to lead) grace before the meal: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."

I once commented to him that it was really lovely to hear him treat the guests with respect.

"Well, yes," Jack said, in his breathy way, with just a whisper of an Irish brogue. "But, it's also my way of setting up expectations for behavior. If I call them 'ladies and gentlemen', it assumes that they will behave as such."

And, they did. Always. Well, in so far as most were able, given the "altered states of consciousness" of some of the guests.

That obviously made quite an impression on me, and I've never forgotten it.

I think of Jack when I hear Bishop Barbara Harris greet a congregation before she preaches with, "Good Morning, Church." For her, it's not just a quaint custom of the Black Church experience. It also sets up an expectation for behavior.

People in church need to behave like they ARE church. Because, they are.

Well, I think I'm coming to my own version of this.

As much we all need to be reminded that we ARE church, I think the need is far greater for every one of us to be reminded that we are Christians.

It's not just that being "church" comes with lots and lots of baggage, it's that we need to reclaim our status as Christians as our primary identity.

Yes, the word "Christian" is also loaded with lots and lots of baggage. In many ways, it has become a pejorative term. There are so many "Christians" who behave so badly, it makes Jesus weep.

Just look at that cartoon at the top of this post for an example.

Here's another one to your left.

Makes us all sound like we're all straight out of a 'Looney Tune' cartoon, doesn't it?

Well, based on the behavior of some Christians, it makes some of us wonder.

I say, let's take back the definition and image of what it means to be a Christian.

Let's do that by reminding ourselves that WE are Christians.

For the past 10 years or so, I've always opened the service, after the processional hymn, by saying, "Good Morning! This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it."

I think I'm going to begin to make a small alteration.

Instead of a simple, "Good Morning!" I'm going to say, "Good Morning, Christians!"

I'm not sure how that's going to go over. 

Since I won't be leading worship on a regular Sunday basis, it will be hard to determine the cumulative effect.

I know. I know. I'm probably just dropping tiny pebbles into a very large baptismal font.

You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.

I'm preceded by my dear friend Jack and have a good example in Bishop Barbara.

So, next time you're in church with me, expect me to greet the congregation like this, "Good morning, Christians."

Just know that I'm talking to you - and, that I expect you to behave accordingly.

Hybridity

Years ago – just as “The Great Troubles” about the ordination of women and Queer people began – I heard a bishop of the Church, now numbered among the saints, talk about conflict in congregations.

He said that, in his experience, most conflict in the congregation can be directly related to the fact that, in many ways, The Episcopal Church is a reflection of “The Great Melting Pot” of American churches. Fewer and fewer people, he said, were actually “cradle Episcopalians,” and were now coming to us from the baptismal streams of the Roman Catholic, Methodist, Lutheran and Presbyterian Churches.

The problem with conflict in congregations, he said, is that “converts” to the Episcopal Church have not been properly catechized. He made what was - even then - a bad analogy of hegemony about needing an “Ellis Island” for “immigrants” from “foreign churches” to give them a time to “integrate” into the culture of The Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion.

The bishop laid the blame squarely at the feet of clergy who, he said (and included himself when he was previously a parish priest), had not required “New Member Classes” and insisted on attendance at courses leading to Confirmation or Reception of these new members.

He felt an urgency about this, he said, because, when conflict came to the congregation or the diocese, the different understandings of the ecclesiology of the church – how it works out issues of institutional power and authority – led to different expectations and assumptions about how to resolve the conflict.

The bishop urged all clergy to “Anglicize” all members of their congregations and to initiate New Member Classes which would lead to Confirmation or formal Reception into The Episcopal Church.

I have always found his assessment of the problem to have great resonance with my own experience. While I have a few problems with some of his analogies, and, until recently, agreed with his conclusions, I find that I have a new-found ambivalence and discomfort about his approach to a solution to the problem.

First of all, America may have - once, perhaps - been “The Great Melting Pot”, but we have long ago left that metaphor to describe life in these United States. We are, perhaps, better described as “The Great Tossed Salad” – with distinctly identifiable ingredients making up the whole.

We've never been more E Pluribus Unum (Out of many, one) than ever before.

So, too, I think, is the reality of The Episcopal Church - and, for that matter, the Anglican Communion. If the world has become a "global village" then the Anglican Communion has become a "global village church".

Another word for this is "hybridity" - the rise of an assimilation of the diversity, multi-culturalism and realities of pluraform truth of post-colonialism which is, in itself, a critique of imperialism.

Did I just write all those big word? Sounded impressive, didn't it?

Let me give you an image of hybridity as a way of explaining.

When I was in Hawai'i, I always insisted that my friends take me out of the city and into the countryside. In one of our trips, we stopped for lunch at a Surfer Shack - one of the many little roadside restaurants frequented by surfers who are so dedicated to (or obsessed by) the sport, they travel all over the world to "find the perfect wave".

As I looked at the menu, something caught my eye that made me burst out laughing.

There, listed on the menu was "Mahi-Mahi Burito".

As I pointed it out to my friend, he laughed and said, "Yeah, well check out the 'Mexican Bagel'- which features guacamole, salsa, sour cream and shredded cheese. It's right next to the 'Italian Bagel'- which features marinara sauce, peperoni and shredded cheese."

That, to me, are images of hybridity.

In many Episcopal churches today, you'll find copies of "Lift Every Voice and Sing" and "Voices Found" and "Wonder, Love and Praise" and/or "Enriching our Music" (1 and/or 2) sitting next to each other in the pew rack.

In other churches, you'll also find binders or print bound copies with a title that proclaims something like, "St. Swithen's Church Hymnal" which contains hymns from Episcopal Church Summer Camps, "Praise Music", original hymns composed by the Organist/Choir director, and/or those which can only be found in hymnals of other denominations.

More and more, Episcopal Churches hand out service bulletins that contain everything you need for your worship experience - and take great liberty with the liturgy and music.

For example, one of my friends sent me a collect used by the church he attends which was used for Sunday's Eucharistic Service.

“Unclean God, braving defilement, inviting offense, you share your bread with vermin and outsiders; you let the Gentile woman subvert your plans; give us the faith that comes from the heart and walks beyond our boundary posts that we might be surprised by outrageous grace; through Jesus Christ, son of David and light of the world. Amen.

I don't know the source, but I'm quite sure it isn't one of the "authorized" collects from the Book of Common Prayer.

My friend wasn't at all bothered by the address to an "unclean God". What jumped off the page and leaped into his heart was the phrase, "outrageous grace".

In a way, hybridty is a kind of "outrageous grace" that allows us to see God through the lens of different cultures and experiences of God.

It's sort of an 'Outrageous Propriety' that preserves the ancient and traditional shape of the liturgy but begins to push us to an assimilation of other experiences of God that leaves everyone changed and transformed.

So, while I agree that we need to do more New Member Classes and need to be much more intentional about incorporating people from different religious experiences into The Episcopal Church, perhaps we need to serve up the pedagogical equivalent of the Mahi Mahi Burrito or Mexican Bagel.

As part of that, perhaps we need some clarity about how it is that we deal with conflict when it appears at our doorstep or in our sanctuary or 'round our Vestry meeting tables.

You know - something that incorporates the principles of good old Anglican, "Big Tent" tolerance, but understands and acknowledges that power and authority ascribed to the institutional church will be experienced differently by different people, depending on their backgrounds and education and experiences.

I'm thinking, if we embraced the reality of hybridity, we just might find the strength and courage to "walk beyond our boundary posts" and be surprised by "outrageous grace".

Uppity Women

Iranian women

I've been reading over and meditating on Sunday's Gospel lesson (Matthew 15: (10-20), 21-28) about the Canaanite woman who was uppity enough to push through the prejudice and negativity of the disciples and persistent enough to challenge Jesus to heal her daughter.

I have lots to say about her and especially Joseph and his brothers in the Hebrew lesson (Genesis 45:1-15) for Sunday. That will have to come sometime tomorrow.

Thinking about both Joseph and the Canaanite woman - comparing and contrasting their stories - suddenly reminded me of Saul Alinsky's Rules for Radicals

Saul Alinsky wrote this entertaining classic on grassroots organizing in 1971. I still have my copy, sitting prominently on my bookshelf.

Those who prefer cooperative tactics describe the book as out-of-date. Nevertheless, I happen to think that it still provides some of the best advice on confrontational tactics ever written.

Alinsky begins this way:

What follows is for those who want to change the world from what it is to what they believe it should be. The Prince was written by Machiavelli for the Haves on how to hold power. Rules for Radicals is written for the Have-Nots on how to take it away.

His “rules” derive from many successful campaigns where he helped poor people fighting power and privilege

For Alinsky, organizing is the process of highlighting what is wrong and convincing people they can actually do something about it. The two are linked.

If people feel they don’t have the power to change a bad situation, they stop thinking about it.

According to Alinsky, the organizer — especially a paid organizer from outside — must first overcome suspicion and establish credibility.

Next the organizer must begin the task of agitating: rubbing resentments, fanning hostilities, and searching out controversy. This is necessary to get people to participate.

An organizer has to attack apathy and disturb the prevailing patterns of complacent community life where people have simply come to accept a bad situation.

Alinsky would say, “The first step in community organization is community disorganization.”

Through a process combining hope and resentment, the organizer tries to create a “mass army” that brings in as many recruits as possible from local organizations, churches, services groups, labor unions, corner gangs, and individuals.

Now, combining hope and resentment is an interesting mix, no? All of it sounds to me a bit like the Tea Party folks have taken a page right out of Alinsky's Rule Book.

Then again, so has anyone who wants to change the status quo and shift the paradigm of power. If you listen carefully to the Scripture lessons for this Sunday, you can hear pieces of this strategy at work.

Alinsky provides a collection of rules to guide the process. But he emphasizes these rules must be translated into real-life tactics that are fluid and responsive to the situation at hand.

So, here is Alinsky's 'Rules for Radicals'. Uppity women, please take note:

Rule 1: Power is not only what you have, but what an opponent thinks you have. If your organization is small, hide your numbers in the dark and raise a din that will make everyone think you have many more people than you do.

Rule 2: Never go outside the experience of your people. The result is confusion, fear, and retreat.

Rule 3: Whenever possible, go outside the experience of an opponent. Here you want to cause confusion, fear, and retreat.

Rule 4: Make opponents live up to their own book of rules. Alinsky wrote: “You can kill them with this, for they can no more obey their own rules than the Christian church can live up to Christianity.”

Rule 5: Ridicule is man’s most potent weapon. It’s hard to counterattack ridicule, and it infuriates the opposition, which then reacts to your advantage.

Rule 6: A good tactic is one your people enjoy. Alinsky wrote: “If your people aren’t having a ball doing it, there is something very wrong with the tactic.”

Rule 7: A tactic that drags on for too long becomes a drag. Commitment may become ritualistic as people turn to other issues.

Rule 8: Keep the pressure on. Use different tactics and actions and use all events of the period for your purpose. “The major premise for tactics is the development of operations that will maintain a constant pressure upon the opposition. It is this that will cause the opposition to react to your advantage.”

Rule 9: The threat is more terrifying than the thing itself. When Alinsky leaked word that large numbers of poor people were going to tie up the washrooms of O’Hare Airport, Chicago city authorities quickly agreed to act on a longstanding commitment to a ghetto organization. They imagined the mayhem as thousands of passengers poured off airplanes to discover every washroom occupied. Then they imagined the international embarrassment and the damage to the city’s reputation.


Rule 10: The price of a successful attack is a constructive alternative. Avoid being trapped by an opponent or an interviewer who says, “Okay, what would you do?”


Rule 11: Pick the target, freeze it, personalize it, polarize it. Don’t try to attack abstract corporations or bureaucracies. Identify a responsible individual. Ignore attempts to shift or spread the blame.


Rule 12: According to Alinsky, the main job of the organizer is to bait an opponent into reacting. “The enemy properly goaded and guided in his reaction will be your major strength.”

Any uppity women out there want to join me in sending a copy of this to the White House?

Jesus said: "Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish."

I'm not a woman from Canaan, and she's centuries away, but I hear her talking.

Life's a beach

Three Rehoboth Beach Bums

It's been really wonderful having house guests here - especially two that are so absolutely undemanding. They didn't want to "see the sights" and didn't come with a check list of "must do's".

I didn't spend hardly any time in the car, shuttling them here and there as I feared I might.

We've just mostly sat around jawin', is all. On my deck. Around the table. At the beach.

Telling stories and laughing and laughing and laughing.

Oh, and drinking some mighty fine wine and being introduced to Hudson Bourbon.

Well, okay. I've cooked every night, but heck, I love doing that. That was a real joy. That they were so appreciative made it even more enjoyable.

Jon left yesterday. Maria leaves in about 45 minutes.

Theo and I are really going to miss them both.

I was thinking just this morning about how quickly I've forgotten that this was once our "vacation" home. Now it's our "home-home" - and Theo's "forever home" - where other people come to visit us and take their vacations.

That means, I think, that somewhere in the past few months I've quietly - almost silently - made the transition from Big City Girl to a full-fledged resident of Lower Slower Delaware.

I don't know when that happened, exactly. I only know that it has.

Life is not always a 'day at the beach'. Tragedies, sadness, disappointments, and frustrations never really take a vacation. They follow along wherever humans go or live or move or have their being, without regard to the beauty or ugliness of the surrounding environs.

I'll say this much: So far, it's a whole lot easier to deal with the occasional bad stuff, somehow, when you live in the midst of such natural beauty.

Because, people want to come and visit and vacation with you.

And, that's the best part of all.

Blessed and Perfected

I love to cook. That's no secret to those who know me or regularly read this blog.

If I'm absolutely honest, I would have to admit that what I love most about cooking is that, unlike so many areas in ministry, there is automatic, direct feedback on the effects of my work.

I put countless hours into every Sunday service - developing themes, selecting music, writing a sermon, making sure details are attended to like the acolytes and lectors and Eucharistic ministers are appropriately prepared and the Altar and Flower Guilds have done their work.

I put at least that amount of energy into planning a meal - from menu planning that takes into account the likes and limitations of my guests, the appetizers, desserts and wine I choose, as well as the music and flowers I select and the plates and glasses I use. And then, there's the actual preparation and cooking of the meal.

I especially like it when I can engage my guests in the meal preparation: Yes, please chop these mushrooms. It would be great if you could shell the shrimp. Thank you for opening the wine bottle so it can breathe before dinner.

I love doing both. I am passionate about both. In my view, both feed body, mind and soul.

There is great personal satisfaction in both endeavors and, truth be told, I really don't need expressions of praise from my guests, but I must say, it is very gratifying when it does happen.

I have house guests here this week, one of whom has read my blog, and came with a list of requests for the kinds of meals she might enjoy during her stay. 

The first thing she asked for was my Grandmother's Seafood Chowder ("Leite do mar").

I said, "But, it's August. Chowder is hot."

She said, "I'll let it cool before I eat it."

So, I made my Grandmother's Seafood Chowder. Of course, I made my Grandmother's Seafood Chowder. With shrimp, scallops, crab, clams, and, to honor her heritage - and, because there was a special on it here - catfish.

I only know how to make a big potful of it, so I hope we can find some dry ice to pack it in so she can take some of this home with her.

Last night, I made Spicy Shrimp and Creamy Grits.  That's it, pictured above.  Because of the inexplicable proclivities of the Southern temperament of my guests, I broke my own rule and put a bottle of Tabasco Sauce on the table. And, despite the fact that I seasoned it more than my Northern sensibilities would normally allow, they both used it.

Lavishly.

Go figure.

I must say, I enjoyed cooking for them as much as I appreciated the praise I received from both my guests.  There is something really wonderful and deeply satisfying about preparing and then enjoying a meal with friends.

Which is probably why the central act Jesus left us to remember Him was a meal. Simple. Just some bread and some wine. "Whenever you do this," He said, "remember me."

There is something magical about a meal shared among friends in which the memory of the event lingers long after the meal is over.

Fully divine and fully human, Jesus knew that aspect of the enterprise of being human. It's not just about taking care of a basic human need. It's about relationships and community in which breaking bread together changes and transforms us and deepens the relationship and the sense of community.

There is a spirituality of a meal well prepared and shared which often goes overlooked and unappreciated in our homes as well as our churches.

I remember being in Newark, NJ during the height of the AIDS crisis and thinking, "I want to write a grant to get a table and chairs for every apartment in every 'low-income housing' unit in the City. I want every family to sit down together, at least once a day, and share a meal together".

I know. I know. That's not going to solve all the problems of grinding urban poverty much less prevent HIVD/AIDS, but it will, I think, strengthen families and communities in ways we too easily dismiss as unimportant and do not fully appreciate.

Go ahead. Dismiss that as just the perspective of a woman and a mother and a priest.  I don't mind.

Indeed, I take great comfort in the fact that Jesus seemed to understand this. The church has adopted a simple, symbolic meal as the central act of its worship together.  In fact, we say that we believe when we do this, Jesus is fully present to us.

I believe that to be true. I also think we are more fully present to each other when we share a meal and break bread together.

I only wish more people would have a greater awareness of and appreciation for what we do together on Sunday and carry that over to the meals we share together in our own homes.

Maybe that's why I am grateful for but don't need praise or expressions of gratitude for my work.

The act - the love, the relationships, the community - are blessed and perfected in the doing.  (James 1:25).

PS - You can read one of my guests reflections here. It's called "Theo's leash".

FB Face2Face

Calling all partay people of the Internet! Listen up!

Oh ye bloggers and people of the FaceBook!  Yes, this means you.

There's a partay goin' on up in heeah!

If you read Wormwood's Doxy (And who doesn't?). Or, know about Kirkepiscatoid (And, who wouldn't?).

And, if you are on FaceBook, then, you know "Doxy" and Maria Evans.

But, what are the chances that Maria, from Missouri and "Doxy" from North Carolina, would both be in Rehoboth Beach, DE at the same time?

So, we met up at Dos Locos - of course - for some fabulous margaritas and a wonderful dinner. We caught up on people, places and things, and then - all too soon - it was time to leave.

"Doxy" is heading home this morning, but Maria is here for the next few days. Jon Richardson will be joining us later today.

We have plans to hit the beach and the discount malls and then eat our way through every eatable species the ocean has to offer.  Last night, Maria had Creamy Crab Quesadilla for supper.

She has convinced me to make my Grandmother's Seafood Chowder while she's here.

"But, it's a hot, hearty, winter dish and, in case you hadn't noticed, it's summer," I said.

"I don't care," said Maria, "I'll let it cool. But, I didn't come all this way to see you and not eat some of that Seafood Chowder".

So, it's off to the market this morning to buy some shrimp, scallops, clams, mussels, and whatever fish is on sale.

Oh, I suspect, after this visit, Rehoboth Beach will be forever changed, but all that will take is for Maria to walk the Boardwalk one time and it will never again be the same.

God is so good. Enjoy your day!

I'm pretty sure we got this one covered from here.

The word of truth is very near

Maybe I've preached one too many sermons about today's Gospel (Matthew 14:22-33) of Jesus walking on water.

Maybe I'm more drawn to the Hebrew lesson (Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28) of the story of Joseph and his brothers because of my own wonderfully awful dysfunctional family of origin.

Maybe my interest is even more keenly piqued because I've just read "The Silver Sparrow" by Tayari Jones.

Let me tell you a little bit about the book first. Here's the opening paragraph, so you can get a sense of the book and the writing skills of the author.

My father, James Witherspoon, is a bigamist. He was already married ten years when he first clamped eyes on my mother. In 1968, she was working at the gift-wrap counter at Davison's downtown when my father asked her to wrap the carving knife he had bought his wife for their wedding an­niversary. Mother said she knew that something wasn't right between a man and a woman when the gift was a blade. I said that maybe it means there was a kind of trust between them. I love my mother, but we tend to see things a little bit differently. The point is that James's marriage was never hidden from us. James is what I call him. His other daughter, Chaurisse, the one who grew up in the house with him, she calls him Daddy, even now.

That's how it begins. It gets even more interesting from there.

This is a story about a family in Atlanta, Georgia - two families, actually - one of which was kept secret from the other.

The "first family" does not know anything about the "other family". However, the daughter, Dana Lynn Yarbor, and her mother, Gwen, have always known about James's first wife, Laverne, and their daughter, Bunny Chaurisse Witherspoon.

James Witherspoon owns his own limousine service, which he runs with his brother, Raleigh.

Well, Raleigh is not exactly his brother. Raleigh is the person his mother took in as a young child after Raleigh's mother, who had been raped by her white employer, abandoned him. Raleigh's light skin and Caucasian features are a constant source of the reminder of her secret shame, which becomes unbearable to her.

Blood may be thicker than water, as the saying goes, but these two men are brothers, sure and true. Indeed, Dana's birth certificate bears the name of Raleigh as her father. Which, of course, is not true, but it was the way to keep the evidence of James' infidelity - and, bigamy - a secret.

Eventually - indeed, inevitably - the daughters from each family meet and become friends, but only one of them knows they are sisters.

There are many secrets this family keeps in order to stay part of the family.

And, that's one of the most compelling themes of this book: That the need to be part of a family is sometimes so great that individual family members will do whatever needs be done in order to stay members of the family.

Even keep secrets about lies in order to protect the integrity of the family unit as well as individual members of the family.

Even expose the secrets about lies when the truth will finally insist on being told - and because someone realizes, finally, that the secrets are preventing them from being a 'real' family.

It's all so familiar and understandable, yet seems so surreal and inexplicable.

Indeed, the author notes in the novel how common this situation actually is — so common that many churches have smelling salts for the widow who discovers at the funeral that she's not the only wife.

Jones knows this from her own life. She has two sisters, about 10 years older than she is, who are her father's daughters. The girls were never kept secret from each other but the two sisters, who have a different last name and live in a different city, have a very different relationship with their father than she experiences with this same man.

Jones says that the notion that a father can be a different person to two of his children rings true, even when you strip away the shock and melodrama of bigamy.

"Even more common than that is this idea of what I used to call half-siblings until my nephew said, 'Don't say half.' He said, 'There are no half-people. My mother's your sister; she's not your half-sister,' "

"I was giving a reading in Florida and a woman had me sign her book, and she said that on Father's Day she had written on her Facebook status something like, 'Happy Father's Day to the greatest dad in the world.' And she had seen her sister's Facebook page, and her sister had written, 'I never had a father 'cause the coward wasn't there.' It's the same man. What does that mean?

"In talking about this book I've had to get all new language, because the impulse is to say legit daughter, but all people are legitimate. That's one thing this book has taught me is everybody, every person is legitimate."

The story is as old as . . . well . . . . as old as the Bible.

Look at the story of Joseph and his brothers. He is one of the sons of Jacob who, himself, is quite the liar and deceiver and betrayer, having stolen his father's blessing from his twin and older brother Esau.

After spending some time with Laban, his maternal uncle, he worked for seven years in order to earn his right to marry Laban's daughter, Rachel. But, Laban tricked him into marrying his eldest daughter, Leah, and made him work seven more years in order to finally marry Rachel.

Bigamy - indeed, polygamy - has been around for a long, long, long time.

As has jealousy, trickery, deceit and betrayal.

"Now Israel (the name God gave to Jacob after he wrestled with an angel) loved Joseph more than any other of his children, because he was the son of his old age; and he had made him a long robe with sleeves. But when his brothers saw that their father loved him more than all his brothers, they hated him, and could not speak peaceably to him".

Joseph was a helper to his brothers, the sons of Bilhah and Zilpah, his father's other wives, and brought his father a "bad report" of them.' Israel sent Joseph to see after his brothers, who were supposed to be tending flock near Shechem, but instead, he found them at Dothan.

When his brothers saw him, they planned to kill him, concocting a story about how - oops! - he fell into a pit and was killed by a wild beast. Instead, they sold him into slavery for twenty pieces of silver and Joseph was taken to Egypt.

We later learn that Joseph, the dreamer, used his dreams to win the favor of his master and was, eventually, set free to return home.

Did he seek revenge from his brothers? No. We are told that, instead, he sought forgiveness and reconciliation.

Those, too, have been as integral a part of the human enterprise since deceit and betrayal.

All of it - all of it - to one degree or another, is part of the dynamic of family life - biological, nuclear, blended or 'shake and bake' families. Families of origin and families of choice.

We hurt the ones we love. We disappoint. We betray. We keep secrets. We make a mess.

We repent. We forgive. We reconcile. We move on  - or into something deeper and more meaningful.

Things worked out for Joseph and his brothers. Things work out for Dana and Chaurisse.  

They always do, somehow.

Or, not.

Actually, when Dana and Chaurisse finally deal with the secret and together, face the truth about their father, they lose as much as they gain in the process.

Much of it depends on telling the truth about the secrets we keep about and from each other and ourselves and being able to forgive.

That takes courage. And strength. And the desire to be part of a family that values each other enough to break the intricate web of deception and the secrecy that sometimes cloud it.

You don't have to walk on water to be able to do it, but it does take incredible faith to dive down deep into the swirling waters of family life and resurface into the miracle of truth. 

In those times, it is important to remember the words from Deuteronomy (30:14) which St. Paul quotes in his Epistle to the ancient church in Rome:

"The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart."

And, when the Word is near you, the word of truth won't be too far behind.

The Glory of God

I can't think about The Transfiguration without thinking of Hiroshima.

It's incredibly ironic that the glory of God and the potential for acts of human destruction share a place of juxtaposition on the same calendar.

The 2nd century theologian, Irenaeus, was fascinated by the Transfiguration and wrote: "the glory of God is a live human being and a truly human life is the vision of God".

Some translate that as "The glory of God is a human life fully alive," and see it as license to "follow their bliss" - come what may, without regard to the cost to self or others.

I'm sure that when American physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, who directed the scientific research known as The Manhattan Project which developed the atomic bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 and, three days later, on Nagasaki, he thought he was doing a great thing to end the War.

History reports that the immediate effects of the blast killed approximately 70,000 people in Hiroshima.

Estimates of total deaths by the end of 1945 from burns, radiation and related disease, the effects of which were aggravated by lack of medical resources, range from 90,000 to 166,000.

Some estimates state up to 200,000 had died by 1950, due to cancer and other long-term effects. Another study states that from 1950 to 2000, 46% of leukemia deaths and 11% of solid cancer deaths among bomb survivors were due to radiation from the bombs.

Among the casualties were found many unintended victims, including Allied POWs, Korean and Chinese laborers, students from Malaya on scholarships, and some 3,200 Japanese American citizens.

The very human suffering of all of these thousands of people - men, women and children who were the "collateral damage" of the war - was done in the name of peace.

Is this what Irenaeus meant by the glory of God?

President Harry S. Truman, who ordered the bombing, said on August 9, 1945:

I realize the tragic significance of the atomic bomb... It is an awful responsibility which has come to us... We thank God that it has come to us, instead of to our enemies; and we pray that He may guide us to use it in His ways and for His purposes.

An "awful responsibility that has come to us".

I can scarce draw a full breath when I read the rest of that statement.

Even so, it's a very, fully human statement.

Is this what Irenaeus meant by the glory of God?

Emperor Hirohito of Japan, in his August 14 "capitulation announcement" - not surrender - to the Potsdam Declaration, which outlined the terms of Japan's surrender, wrote:

Moreover, the enemy now possesses a new and terrible weapon with the power to destroy many innocent lives and do incalculable damage. Should we continue to fight, not only would it result in an ultimate collapse and obliteration of the Japanese nation, but also it would lead to the total extinction of human civilization.

Such being the case, how are We to save the millions of Our subjects, or to atone Ourselves before the hallowed spirits of Our Imperial Ancestors? This is the reason why We have ordered the acceptance of the provisions of the Joint Declaration of the Powers.

No surrender. Just an announcement of capitulation. A very, fully human statement.

Is this what Irenaeus meant by the glory of God?

I am not a pacifist. I'm afraid I do not have the courage.

I do believe in peace, in seeking peaceful resolutions to conflicts which do not see war as an option. But, truth be told, if someone were coming at me or someone I loved with the intent to do harm or murder, I would stand and fight.

We hold in these human hands of ours the power to do enormous good as well as the power to do monstrous evil.

It's a choice.
 
Two images of transfiguration stand on the calendar of our human lives.

The glory of God - which brings the newness of life and the finality of death - and the human life fully alive - with all its potential for life and death. 

Which one will you choose?

Oh, my aching back!

It's my own damn fault.

I wish I could say that I hurt my back while lifting a crying child or pulling someone out of a burning building.

No. I hurt my back while sitting in a beach chair for three days.  One of our daughters was visiting.  I was reading a book. A good book. A really good book.

Does that ascribe at least a modicum of virtue to my pain?

Probably not.

It is better today. At least I'm not walking like "Pretzel Woman" today, and the pain is lessening - it's more like an persistent strong ache.

Patience has never really been my strong suit.

I'm seeing a chiropractor regularly. I'm having daily mild adjustments, mild vibration, light and electro-stimulation and hydroculator packs. Years ago, I bought a home electro-stimulation unit and have been using that at home to augment the therapy. I'm also using light, mild vibration and heat therapy at home.

Oh, and Naproxen for the pain. Which helps. Some.

Actually, the problem is less with my back and more with my mood. Which has been foul. I can't do the things I want to do. Which is annoying. And, frustrating. Hence, the foul mood.

It's my pride. I know it is. I'm so damn independent and used to doing the things I like when I want and usually at a rate that's faster than the average bear.

Yesterday, I went to the market because I needed some groceries. But first, I ran a few errands - bank, post office, like that. By the time I finished and was in the check out line, I was walking like Pretzel Woman again.

The clerk took one look at me and asked, "Ma'am, would you like some help getting your groceries into the car?"

I got all girly-burbly and manage to chock out, "Oh, yes. Please. Thank you so much."

The next thing I knew, he was picking up the phone and calling someone. All of a sudden, a young man named Charles was packing my bags into boxes, saying, "If you give me your address, I'll deliver this to your home five minutes after you get there."

I totally embarrassed myself and started crying, saying, "Oh, no, no, no. You don't have to do that."

"Yes, Ma'am. I know I don't have to. There's no charge," he assured. "It's a service we provide for our customers who have mobility issues."

Mobility issues. Suddenly, I have mobility issues. Who knew?

"Well, it's just temporary," I said. "I'll be fine by Saturday or Sunday. Really. I just sat for too long in my beach chair and pulled a muscle. I was reading a book and I lost track of time. I'm really going to be fine. Really," I said, as I dabbed a tissue at my eyes.

And, I will.

But, this has been humbling.

Charles arrived at my home almost exactly five minutes after I arrived, just as he promised. He brought the boxes into my house, helping to put things into the refrigerator and freezer and into the pantry, closely following my directions.

When he finished, I pulled out a $5 bill to give him a tip. He looked horrified. "Oh, no, no, no, Ma'am," he said. I can't take that. That's way too much.

"Look," I said, "If you take this $5 I promise I won't cry. If you don't, well, I'll probably get absolutely hysterical and it won't be pretty."

He smiled and said, "You remind me of my grandmother, only you're a lot younger but just as stubborn. And, funnier."

"Thank you, I think," I said as I handed him the $5 bill.

He looked down at his feet and then looked at me and said, "Your car has a placard on the dash that says, 'Episcopal Clergy'. Is that you?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'll make you a deal," he said. "If you say a prayer with me, I'll take your $5."

"That's got to be the best deal I've had in a long time," I said. "Sure, let's pray."

"Wait," he said, "I really need prayers for my dad. He lost his job six months ago and hasn't been able to get a job. I told him that I would take the year off to work to help the family, but he won't hear of it. I'm working this summer to help with my college tuition instead of taking summer courses, which really embarrasses him. He's a very proud man. He really needs our prayers."

"I think I know a little bit about pride," I said, "And embarrassment. So, this one will come from the heart."

We held hands and prayed. He thanked me and gave me a big hug before he left.

I'm not sure, but I suspect that prayer for Charles' dad probably did more to heal my aching back than heat or electro-stim or vibration or Naproxen.

I suspect that prayer that comes from a humble and contrite heart is a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving that rises like incense before God.

Maybe that's why I'm doing a bit better today. That, and I'm doing my reading in a proper chair and not a beach chair. My mood is even better today. I know I'll be back to my old self by Sunday or Monday.

Until then, though, I plan to continue to walk a bit more humbly with God.

It's not only good for my soul. Turns out, it's also good for my back.

Oh, and of your kindness and mercy, please pray for Charles and his dad.

It's not the economy that's breaking the back of this country. It's the unemployment.

Now, there's a real 'mobility issue' for you, right there.

Thanks.

Genesis 37:19

Acacia Merlin

Remember the 'good old days'?

You know. When life seemed less complicated and the summer rolled along in one lazy, beautiful sunshiny day after the next?

When lemonade never tasted sweeter or colder, and you never counted a calorie or worried about the intake of sugar?

When there were simple pleasures to be enjoyed like laying on your back in the tall grass or reading a book under the shade of a tree or riding your bike all over the neighborhood - without a helmet?

When you could go - uninvited - to a neighbor's house and know everyone by name - including their pets - and chat for a while on the cool of their porch?

When your father (well, okay, your mother - men wouldn't do this) could stop at a gas station for directions and/or a free map and know they'd be reliable - as certain as they were that you were safe in the back seat without wearing a seat belt?

When you could go to a department store and the sales clerk was not only knowledgeable about the product but was also interested in actually providing you with "good customer service" - which you are now promised (but rarely receive) if you stand in line at a "Customer Service Desk" where an overworked and underpaid person listens to you with obvious disinterest and then gives you a form to fill out?

Memories are wonderful, aren't they? Except, of course, when they become a kind of aching nostalgia that sours your enjoyment of the present moment.

I hear strains of this aching nostalgia in conversations about the current political climate as well as in my work with a few churches where I'm engaged in some consulting work.

There are Democrats who remember the good old days of the political party that offered a New Deal and a vision of Camelot and the Great Society and sang their unofficial song: "Happy Days Are Here Again".

There are Republicans who remember great leaders like Eisenhower and great communicators like Regan and 'compassionate conservatives' like G.H.W. Bush and sang . . . um, I couldn't find an unofficial or official song for the Republican party, except this one was suggested.

I suspect neither FDR nor JFK would recognize the Democratic Party today. Neither would Eisenhower or Regan recognize the "Grand Old Party" for all the 'tea bags' littered on the current political landscape.

As the Republicans seem to have shifted even more to the Right, the Democrats seem to have shifted away from the Left to a more moderate or conservative position on the political spectrum.

I don't know too many people on either side who are happy about that.

Conservative Republicans seem absolutely disgusted by the shenanigans of the Tea Party with their "our way or the highway" approach and "we'll humiliate you - even one of our own - if you don't do what we want".

Likewise, Liberal Democrats seem thoroughly befuddled and enraged by the President's willingness to negotiate and seek compromise with folks they consider terrorists. I don't know what the man is supposed to do with a Republican majority House and a Democratic majority Senate except seek the higher ground, but that's just me.

Even so, everyone seems to be unknowingly quoting a line from Shakespeare's Richard II (Act III, Scene 2): "O call back yesterday, bid time return."

It seems to be the increasing lament of many churches whose unofficial theme is "Build A Better Yesterday." Two of the churches I'm working with actually said the same thing, word for word, as their vision and prayer: "We just want to be the same close, happy church family we once were."

Right. Good luck with that.

Any church that is interested in re-creating the past doesn't have much of a future.

The Seven Last Words of a Dying Congregation are:

We.

Have.

Always.

Done.

It.

That.

Way.

I wish someone would make a poster of that and make sure it was displayed prominently in the Parish Hall of every church. If more than three people in any given congregation say that more than once in one week, someone should begin to toll the church bells because they're already dying.

In working with these churches, I've found myself going back to the shape of the Eucharistic liturgy as a model for churches to consider as a model of their individual and congregational life of faith.

Week after week, we come into church and process to a hymn which hopefully strikes the theme of the lessons we are about to hear. The collect prayer "collects" this theme and gives us a preview of what is about to come.

Then, we listen to the stories and psalms of our Hebraic roots. As Verna Dozier often pointed out, the sequence of our liturgy is really off because the Epistle is really a reflection of the Gospel not the Hebrew Scripture.

Be that as it may, we then hear a sermon which, hopefully, the preacher will help us understand the meaning of all the lessons - but especially the Gospel - for us today. Right now. In our time. And, how we can live out the Gospel and the stories of our faith more faithfully.

We reaffirm that faith and join our voices with the ancient voices of the church in a Statement of Belief which we call The Creeds. For Sunday Eucharistic Service, in a church which professes to be "one, holy, catholic and apostolic" in nature, that means the Nicene Creed.

We then say prayers for the concerns of the world and the church, bringing the concerns of the world to the Body of Christ and, hopefully, find inspiration to bring the Body of Christ into the world.

I find The Announcements highly disruptive at this point - my kids used to call it "Half Time at the Episcopal Bowl Game" - and would much prefer them at the end of the service, but I have come to see it as the way in which the community 'lives out in their lives what they profess with their lips". I rarely miss an opportunity, during the announcements, to make a connection between a church event and the gospel.

It's the Eucharist, however, which is the central act of our Christian lives. This is where we bring all of the stories of our past, all of our concerns for the present, all of the brokenness and poured out messes of our lives, all of our prayers of thanksgiving for what was and is, and all our hopes and dreams for our future - all of it, everything - to be changed and transformed into the Living Presence of Jesus.

The Chronos of the past and the present and the future, and "all the company of heaven" come together in one mystical Kairos moment we call "Holy Communion".

In Christian theology, it is a time - the time - when God acts. Indeed, in Greek Orthodox Liturgy, before the liturgy begins, the deacon proclaims, ""Kairos tou poiesai to Kyrio" ("It is time [kairos] for the Lord to act"); indicating that the time of the Liturgy is an intersection with Eternity.

Hmm . . . what might happen if we made that announcement just before our liturgy begins? 

When we fully participate in the Sacred Mystery of Eucharist, it is not just the bread and wine that are changed and transformed. We, too, are changed and transformed into agents of God's mission in the world and become witnesses of the unconditional love of Jesus and vehicles of the power of the Spirit.

I recently attended Eucharist where the priest held up the host, broke it, and then looked distracted as he dropped the host into the patten, fussed with the altar linens and mumbled, "Alleluia, Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us."

He might as well have been saying, "Damn, I forget to change the oil in the car this week." I burst into tears and fled from the church as quietly and quickly as I could.

I know. I know. The validity of the sacrament is not dependent upon the character of the priest. It just broke my heart, is all. I was in no state to receive communion. No wonder that church is in trouble.

The point is that, if we miss the mystical nature of God's presence in our midst, if Eucharist is just a perfunctory exercise in a quaint religious duty, no wonder the past becomes more important than our present or future.

No wonder some of us keep trying to "Build A Better Yesterday".

The point of the Eucharistic liturgy is not to forget the past, but to bring the best of the past into our present, leaving the rest behind, so we can move, unencumbered, into building a better future.

I can't do much about the political landscape. Frankly, I think we all need to accept that things have shifted and move on - or, move with it - and seek the serenity to accept the things we can't change, find the courage to change the things we can, and gain the wisdom to know the difference.

As it is also said in Twelve Step Programs, "The wise person knows that success in life is achieved by simply putting a whole lot of mistakes together in a way that works".

They also say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

So, these days, on hot days, I drink sugar-free lemonade with lots of ice.

I have a GPS in my car instead of stopping at a gas station for directions.

I try not to get too discouraged when I ask a sales clerk a question about a product and write letters to the company when a sales clerk has been helpful (Did this just the other day for my new best friend "Johnny" at Staples).

I still love to sit under the shade of a tree while I read my Kindle, and I will get a helmet before my next bike ride.

The Dreamer - Renoir

While I lament that the last true Liberal Democrat may have been buried in a grave with Ted Kennedy's name on it, I try to see the good in my political party and call and write my Representatives - and yes, my President - when I think they've done a good job as well as when they need a good, swift verbal kick in the pants.

And, I still have hope for this old church of ours - that we may bring the best of what has been in the past into the present, leaving the rest behind, so we may become more of who we are and live into the vision God has for us - as individuals and as a Body of Christ.

You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. We know from scripture what often happens to dreamers (see Genesis 37:19).

That's okay. I'll take the risk and responsibility of my dreams.

Actually, St. Paul's words to the ancient Church in Ephesus inspire me daily:

"Glory to God whose power working in us can do infinitely more than we could ask or imagine: Glory to God from generation to generation in the church, through Christ Jesus for ever and ever. (Ephesians 3:20,21)

Somebody in the church give me an 'Amen'.

103

Sometimes Broadway, Sometimes the Catskills

She had nodded off when I first walked in the room in the Extended Care Facility. She was exhausted, it would seem, from just having had her morning bath.

Her nursing attendant, a tall, bronze, stately woman with beautifully manicured nails and a distinctive British lilt said she had just been chatting away and often "takes a cat nap after I pretty her up."

I'll call her "Mary". She's 103 years old.

I had been asked to visit with her by a local pastor who is a bit overwhelmed by a sudden summer rush of weddings, baptisms and funerals. I had been promised lots of wonderful stories. "Get her to tell you about how she killed the cow," he said.

I sat by her bedside for a few moments, watching her breathe as peacefully as a newborn. The permanent in her gray-white hair needed a bit of a renewal but was combed and neat. She wore a dark print "house coat" which accented her white-pinkish-white skin color against the white, starched institutional sheets.

Her complexion was clear, her cheeks were pink and her face remarkably wrinkle-free for a woman of 103. I wondered what that face had seen over the years.

I placed my hand in her hand, which was quite large for a woman. Her fingers were gnarled and misshapen. I had been told she had been raised on a farm but her hands would have told the story anyway. Hard work, being on a farm.

Suddenly, I felt her had grip mine tightly as she gently stirred in her bed. Her eyes popped open, revealing sparkling blue eyes that were bright and curious but unafraid. I'm sure she had gotten used to waking up with a stranger by her bed. That tends to happen a lot in Extended Care Facilities.

"Hello," I said. "My name is Reverend Elizabeth. Father __ asked me to come and call on you today."

She smiled broadly and then cleared her throat. "Well, if he's 'Father' then I shall call you 'Mother'", she said, as she chuckled a bit and her eyes danced mischievously.

She never loosened her grip on my hand the whole time I was there, except to make it even tighter when she wanted to accentuate a point she was making.

"Please call me 'Elizabeth'," I said. "It's what God calls me."

She chuckled again, "Well, if it's okay with God, it's okay with me, but," she said, raising a gnarled finger and pointing it at me, "If any one of the staff comes in here while we're talking, I shall introduce you as 'Mother'. It will drive them all crazy."

We shared a wicked giggle. I knew right then and there that I was in for a treat - whether or not she shared the story about how she killed the cow.

"I understand you grew up on a farm," I began. That was really all she needed to begin.

"Yes, in rural Virginia," she said, looking past my clergy collar and deep into my eyes, using them as a gauge as to just how much information she was going to share with me no matter what authority my clergy collar conveyed.

"And you?"

"Well, I lived in the outskirts of a city in Massachusetts, in an apartment above my grandparent's house. My grandfather had a vegetable garden, some goats and sheep and a few pigs. Just enough to feed the family. My grandmother had a flower garden in the front yard and some fruit trees and a vineyard in the back yard. So, technically, yes and no."

She nodded. It was enough information for her to continue. "Well, when I say 'rural Virginia' I mean 'rural'. The next farm was 5 miles down the road. We had dairy cows and horses, pigs, sheep and goats. I was the youngest of six but I pulled my share of chores right alongside my sisters and brothers."

She paused for a moment to clear her throat and ask for a sip of water. She studied the glass after she took a sip. "This don't taste anything like the water we used to pump from the well. Now, that was some good drinkin' water."

I smiled and nodded as she eyed my bottle of water. "You pay money for that?" she asked, more incredulous than judgmental.

"Got it at the vending machine in the lobby on the way in. It's already 92 degrees out there. Supposed to run to the triple digits today. Got to stay hydrated."

"Huh!" she said. "Never thought I'd live to see the day when people paid money for water in a plastic bottle. Foolish, init?"

"I suppose it is," I said.

She sighed deeply. "Well, I suppose I'm the Queen of Foolish. Got married when I was 14 years old. Did they tell you that about me?" She closed her eyes and shook her head with disbelief. "That was just the way it was done, back then. Well, at least in rural Virginia it was. My husband was 20 years old. Today, he'd be charged with statutory rape. We just laughed and said he 'robbed the cradle'. So, who am I to think paying money for water in a bottle is foolish?"

Her ancient blue eyes danced in her ancient head. Oh, this one was a pip at one time. Anybody could see that with one eye shut.

"He was a good man," she said. "Well, he was a man. I caught him once, out in the barn, with my cousin Suzy. They were under the hay - half naked. Didn't take no Einstein to figure out what they were doing. My first thought was 'damn fool'! Ever laid in some hay? It's okay if you're just gonna lay there, but if you got 225 pounds of farm man pumpin' on top of you, that hay can suddenly find its way into places God never intended hay to be, if you know what I'm sayin'."

She quickly scanned my eyes to see if she had shocked or offended me and, when she saw that I not only understood, I saw the humor, she laughed and squeezed my hand.

"Whatever did you do, Ms. Mary?"

"Well," she said, shifting her weight in the bed, "I looked at him and I said, 'Get your sorry, low-down, cheatin' behind into the house'. And, while he was picking up his britches, I turned to her and I said, 'And you may have had him in the hay, but you ain't gonna have his ring on your finger. That will be his punishment. He's gonna havta stay married to me and make this right. You hear me?'."

"And," she said, with a harumph that was just as resolved as the day she first said it, "that was exactly what happened."

Rhinestone Cowgirls Don't Cry

She was quiet for a while as she seemed to fold up that painful memory and put it away, back where it belonged, in a small box labeled, "Forgive, but never forget".

"That's what's wrong with women today," she said. "You gotta understand that men will stray from time to time. That's just their nature. They don't often use the brains God gave 'em before they unzip their fly, you know?"

I smiled and nodded. She laughed and said, "Do you know why men chase women they have no intention of marrying?"

"Um," I'm not sure," I smiled. "But, I'm sure you're going to tell me."

She squeezed my hand to ready me for the punchline. "For the same reason dogs chase cars they have no intention of driving."

We giggled as wickedly as two school girls in a junior high bathroom. I swear I saw the face of a 14 year old flicker for a few seconds across her 103 year old eyes.

"But," I asked, "are you saying that women should put up with infidelity?"

"No, no, child," she said, "But you gotta give 'em one - just one - chance to make it right. And, if you do it right, they'll never do it again. Mine didn't. Not ever again. No sir."

She looked down at her sheet, squeezed my hand and then said, "Sometimes, you just gotta let 'em hear you growl."

"Ah," I said. "And, if that doesn't work?"

"Then, I say, let 'em chase cars they'll never drive."

She sighed again. I could tell she was getting weary, even though she was obviously enjoying herself as much as I was.

"So, you want to hear about the time I killed the cow?"

I didn't even have time to respond before she launched into it. "I was working for a neighbor - milking cows - making a little extra money to buy some material to make a party dress I wanted. Didn't have a party to go to, but I figured, when I get invited, I'll have a pretty party dress to wear."

"Now, cows can be as stupid as some men. They nudge you and push you for some more hay, even when they got their belly full. So, this one cow kept pushing me toward the fence where there was a bail of hay on the other side. I shushed it for as long as I could and then she pushed me so hard, I fell right on my backside."

"Well," she continued, "I've always had me a bad temper. Don't mean to. Learned it from my older brothers. I was just a little thing and so they taught me how to fight so I could take care of myself when they weren't around."

She cleared her throat before she continued, "Next thing I know, I'm up on my feet and I punched that old cow in the head - right between the eyes. She stood there for a few seconds, stunned, and then she fell right to her knees and sorta swayed there for a few more minutes, looking for all the world like a drunken floozy in a gin-joint. Then, she mooed real loud and fell over and died, just as quiet as you please."

"What did you do?" I gasped.

"Well, I runned out of that barn and called the farmer. I didn't tell him what I did, I just told him that one of his cows fell over and liked to died."

"The farmer, he come in and take a look at that cow and just scratched his head. He mumbles to himself, 'Well, they all eat the same hay and feed. Nothin' seems to be wrong with the rest of them. Animals is strange, ain't they?' And I said, 'Yes sir,' trying not to let him see my knees knocking."

"Well, that farmer saw how scared I was anyway, so he patted me on the head and said, 'I'll make sure to send some of this meat over to your kin'. And then, he walked out of that barn and right back to work."

She closed her eyes and looked down at our clasped hands. She pumped them a few times, as I imagined one would pump a cow's teat for milk. When she looked up again, her bright blue eyes were dancing with tears.

"You know," she said, "I never ate one piece of that meat. I couldn't. I felt so guilty."

She wiped a tear from her eye as she said, "I told my priest that story and I asked him to give me absolution for the fact that I hadn't told the truth to that farmer, but I never asked for absolution for killing one of God's creatures."

She pumped my hand again and then looked me in the eye as a tear fell from her eye and asked, "You got an absolution prayer for killing a cow?"

"Of course," I said, as I closed my eyes and raised my hand to absolve her.

"No, no, no," she said. "I want a proper confession. From the Prayer Book."

I reached into my purse and got out my pocket edition of the BCP, opened it to page 447 "Reconciliation of a Penitent" and handed it to her.

"What are you going to use?" she asked.

I pulled out my iPhone with my BCP app and said, "Got it right here."

"In that? Get out? Oh, my goodness? Who would have ever imagined such a thing?"

"Stranger than paying for bottled water, init?" I said with a smile.

"Stranger," she said as she fixed her glasses to look at the words on the page.

She cleared her throat, blessed herself with her left hand as her right hand remained clutched to mine and began, "Bless me, for I have sinned."

Old Woman and The Toad - Judy Somerville

What she regretted most, she said, was that her temper had gotten control of her brain and it ended up costing a life. She said she had vowed before God never to let her temper get the best of her again, and that, in all those years, she had kept her vow - even when she got mad at her husband's infidelity which made her mad enough to have killed them both, right then and there, in the hay in that barn, all those many years ago but instead forgave them both - and hoped that this would be sufficient for her penance.

I assured her of God's pardon and forgiveness and the absolution of her sin.

"The Lord has put away all your sins," I said.

"Thanks be to God," she said.

I found myself chocking over the familiar words which end the Rite, "Abide in peace, and pray for me, a sinner."

"I will," she said, as a tear streamed down her face. "I will," she vowed solemnly.

She closed the book and let it rest on her lap. An exhaustion swept over her face and slumped her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said, her eyelids heavy with sleep.

She opened them slowly and said, "You will come back, won't you?"

"If you'll have me," I said, "I would love that."

"I will have you always in my heart," she said as she closed her eyes and her chin dropped to her chest. Soon, she was softly snoring, but her hand was still firmly clenched in mine.

I stayed there with her for a few more minutes, and found myself inexplicably singing to her softly, "Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so." I sang it as prayer. I sang it as lullaby.

Her nursing attendant appeared at the door and began singing softly with me, "Little ones to him belong. We are weak but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so."

Her hand finally relaxed and I was able to release my hand from hers.

The nursing attendant whispered to me over the bed as she lowered it slightly, "You know, whether we're three or a hundred and three, we still need to be reminded of the love Jesus has for us all."

And you know, she's right. Even though we may know it in our hearts and live it in our lives, we still need that "Blessed Assurance" from time to time.

Especially when memories of things "done and left undone" come back to haunt us.

Whether we're three or a hundred and three.