Where there's a will

The server here is down. Won't be up before Monday. I suppose I could walk the neighborhood and find an Internet cafe with WiFi but I'm feeling strangely free from that impulse.

So, I'm using my iPhone - not exactly an easy thing to do. Haven't figured out how to snag a picture off the Internet, but somehow that feels okay, too.

Oh, I've walked this neighborhood many times over the last 34 years or so. I know it fairly well. Even so, it still surprises me.

Like, yesterday.

I wanted to get an arrangement of flowers for the dinner table. I sort of remembered that there was a flower shop up the street - oh, maybe 3/4 of a mile - up on Columbus near Mass Ave.

I did a slow, gentle jog up the street and, sure enough, there it was, on the opposite side of the street. So, I went all the way up to Mass Ave, poked around a bit there, then came back down the other side of Columbus.

Lotus. Ah, yes. That was the name of the shop. But why did it feel like more than just a memory? Why did this feel like a significant memory?

Jimmy, the owner, greeted me. I know I'd never met him but he looked very familiar. Like I should know him.

Maybe it was the eye makeup. Or the sling back pumps which did not go with his shorts and T-shirt. An otherwise lovely Asian Quean, I'm sure but this is, after all, Mother's Day weekend and a girl's gotta make a living.

I explained what I wanted and he was on it. A low arrangement in shades of purple and lavender, with touches of green and white. Breathtaking in simplicity and beauty.

I applauded. He bowed. We bussed on both cheeks. I paid my bill, thanked him again, and took my leave.

Or, at least, I started to. Jimmy had been looking at me strangely the whole time. As if he had seen me and known me from another time or place. He called out to me, "I know you? Yes?"

"Maybe!" I answered.

"Hmmm.. . " we both said but knew it wasn't true. I waved. He waved. I left.

It wasn't until later - much later - before dinner as Sheri and Lois were putting the final touches on dinner and oohing and aahing over the flowers, that they asked me where I had gotten them.

It was then I remembered. The memory came cascading down in a series of images so heavy I sank to a chair by the table.

Years ago - oh, maybe 12 or 15 - when our eldest daughter, Jaime, first moved to Boston, her very first apartment was right there, in that building, above from that very flower shop. She absolutely adored Jimmy and he adored her. He would make a fresh arrangement for her every week. No charge.

I never met him - or his sister - but I certainly heard all about them. When Jaime died, they sent several absolutely beautiful arrangements in her honor.

Sometimes, we find things. Sometimes, we are found by things. I have no doubt I was led there.

Either way, it's an amazing grace.

I couldn't have asked for a better Mother's Day present.

Sometimes, where there's a will, there's also grace.

You CAN go home again.

I'm on the Acela headed north to "Umm, umm, Bawston, you're my home."

I'm going to be there to visit with some members of my family and to be present with my adopted Mamas, Sheri and Lois, for the world premiere of the documentary, "Gen Silent" Saturday night at Northeastern University.

Sheri and Lois, who are featured in the film, are two women who saved my well-padded Portuguese behind more than 30 years ago. They helped us find a lawyer to defend us in the first ever lesbian custody case in Bristol County, MA, gave us a place to stay whenever we came down to Boston from our home in Bar Harbor, Maine, fed us lobstah and a regular diet of Really Bad jokes that made us laugh and laugh until we forgot just how much trouble we were really in.

I am so proud of them and so proud to say I know them and to share this moment with them. I just hope that this documentary is seen far and wide and the message of taking care of our LGBT elders is heard.

I know I'm going to be doing some networking at the dinner Saturday night.

Oh, and as it just so happens, the Pinstripe Boyz on Steroids are playing the Dirty Water Boyz at The Fenway tonight.

It's still early in the season and my BoSox haven't yet gotten their MoJo on, but it's gonna be a great game. Well, that is if Jeeter can get himself out of the damn box to actually play the game. Ortiz has been lookin' hot, though, and my boyz definitely got the juice, so it's just a matter of gettin' Red enough to psych out the Blues.

I'm a little more than three-quarters of the way there and I'm already feeling like home. You know? My heart is feeling lighter and my spirit feels ready to soar.

I think it was Robert Frost who wrote, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

I'm almost home.

I'll be sure to take lots of pictures and post them here, along with reflections on all the various goings on.

So, behave yourselves while I'm gone. And, if you can't, admit to nothing.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

NPR Spoofs Lady Gaga

Today has been a bit of a whirl, but I must say, I just love this NPR spoof of Lady Gaga.

I mean Nina Tottenberg.

Ari Shapiro.

Joe Palca.

Korva Coleman.

Robert Siegel.

And, none other than Michele 'Be-still-my-heart' Norris.

All of these wonderful folk in whom I place my trust for hard-hitting, analytical news and commentary, doing none other than The Divine Ms. Gaga:

"Stop calling. Stop calling'. I don't want to think any more. I left my head and my heart on the dance floor."

Sometimes, ya just gotta find your way to silly in order to make it back out into the regular, serious stuff of life.

If anybody can take you there and back, it's Lady Gaga.

But, to see some of the NPR gang make the trip sorta makes me feel like something in the cosmos shifted just enough to make things right with the world for a few minutes.

I feel better already.

Oh God . . .

. . . . I am hellishly angry; I think so-and-so is a swine; I am tortured by worry about this or that; I am pretty certain that I have missed my chances in life; this or that has left me feeling terribly depressed. But nonetheless here I am like this, feeling both bloody and bloody-minded, and I am going to stay here for ten minutes. You are most unlikely to give me anything. I know that. But I am going to stay here for ten minutes nonetheless. Amen.
Harry Williams.

I love this prayer.

It never fails to make me giggle.

When I first read it, it made me gasp with its patently human honesty. It captures for me those times when I am cranky about morning prayer. When I wonder why I do it every morning, same time, same station.

Oh, I try to change it up - sometimes the daily office from the BCP. Sometimes I use the Roman Breviary. Other times, I use the Taize daily office. I'm particularly fond of Phyllis Tickle's seasonal Divine Hours.

I'm pretty disciplined about prayer. After more than 25 consecutive years, I could no sooner begin the day without time in prayer than leave the house before brushing my teeth and brushing my hair.

But, sometimes . . . sometimes there are times when I don't want to pray. Flat out. Or, at least, the prayer that comes from my heart doesn't combine the soaring, poetic language, the wonderful meter and rhythm and the inspiring connection to the ancient of days that comes from one of my prayer books.

Instead, I feel more like this prayer by Harry Williams. Or just saying something like,

"I don't feel like saying these words, God. I don't have anything better to say. Actually, I really don't know what I want to say. One option would be to just sit here, quietly, but I don't even want to do that this morning. Silence would bore me to tears right now. Truth be told, I don't know what else to do. How 'bout, say, I read you the front page of the New York Times and I'll offer some prayers for some of these people? Will that be okay? Well, it will have to do cuz I got nothing else right now. So, here we go . . ."

Which, in fact, may well be a more authentic prayer than anything I could read out of a book.

I love to tell the story of my Grandmother's prayers. She had little shrines everywhere around the house. Over in one corner was a statue of St. Gerard - patron saint of families. He would get all the prayers for her children and grandchildren, written down on little pieces of paper and slipped under the votive light.

On the large floor console radio stood the statue of St. Jude - patron saint of lost causes. He would get the prayers for those who were very sick, or, perhaps, someone who was an alcoholic.

In the corner in the kitchen was a statue of St. Joseph - patron saint of workers. He would get special petitions and intentions so that her sons ("the boys") would keep their jobs at the various factories and her daughters ("the girls") would keep their jobs as members of the various 'Lady Garment Workers Union."

Doesn't that sound elegant? Lady Garment Workers Union? They worked in sweat shops, for criminy's sake! They worked like dogs and were treated like chattel. Even with the union advocating for better working conditions.

When there was a strike, St. Joseph's shrine would glow over in the corner, there were so many votive lights around him. But, he always came through. He was the most reliable of all the saints to whom she had shrines.

Well, Joe and his wife Mary. You know. The BVM (Blessed Virgin Mary). Her shrine was in my grandmother's bedroom, on her bureau. That one always had lots of votive lights and lots of little papers tucked under them. These were the petitions of my grandmother's heart. She would often say her rosary in front of this shrine.

You could always depend on St. Joseph and the BVM. Oh, and, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, of course. Although, to be honest, I don't remember slips of paper under his votive candle. She would just say prayers in front of Him. So he wouldn't feel slighted, I suppose.

And when St. Gerard or Jude or Francis didn't come through? Well, my Grandmother knew exactly what to do. She would blow out the candle and turn the statue to face the wall. Sort of like a religious 'time out'. But, not before she would holler at him for not answering her prayer.

"And, you'll stay that way until you do as I ask," she'd huff.

It always worked.

I suspect that's because God might actually prefer it when we speak honestly and from our hearts. Even if we're angry. Or, impertinent. Or rude.

I suspect those prayers make God giggle, too.

And, when God giggles, I imagine the entire company of heaven delights at the sound and gathers round to wait the ten minutes while we huff or stew or otherwise try to find a holy place in the depths of our humanity.

Sometimes, when you pray, you just gotta remind God who's in charge.

What is ministry?

Ms. Conroy and I rarely, if ever, argue.

Which, considering we are both astrologically Taurus, is a damn miracle.

We had a humdinger of an argument the other night. About ministry. Of course.

In her defense, I think Ms. Conroy fell into the game that has been played for - oh, I don't know - at least the last decade in The Episcopal Church.

We are oh-so-anxious about being oh-so-careful to be oh-so-inclusive that we have reduced everything - including a definition of ministry - to the least common denominator.

It's the position that, why, by golly, if we are all baptized then we are all minsters and well then, gosh darn it, you know what? Everything we do is ministry!

Meet someone in the grocery store who is having a bad day and say a kind word? Why, that's ministry!

Know someone from your church or neighborhood who is in the hospital and go to visit them? Why, that's ministry!

Wait till they get home and bring them a casserole or homemade soup, some bread and a salad? Why, that's ministry!

Ummm . . . No. No, it's not. Not necessarily.

If you are a Christian, it's certainly an act of Christian charity and kindness.

If you are a Jew or a Muslim, it's an act of Jewish or Muslim charity and kindness.

If you are a pagan or a heathen, it's still an act of charity and kindness.

Anybody can do that. Please, God, that more of us would.

That doesn't make it ministry, necessarily.

I would like to think that ministry has more to do with intention.

And, prayer.

And, maybe even some reading and reflection.

Perhaps just a tad of education and training.

Like I said - intention and prayer.

I don't think we do justice to either our baptismal vows or the ministry of the baptized by reducing things to the lowest common denominator.

Here's what I think: Quite frankly, "Everything is ministry" is a crock.

To assert that "Everyone who is baptized is a minister" is a less a statement of the obvious and more a call to prayerful discernment, intention, education and training.

I think the question one needs to ask in order to answer the question "What is ministry?" is "How can I serve?" The emphasis being on the word "serve" and the question "how".

I remember doing my third unit of CPE at a private psychiatric facility outside of Boston. My CPE supervisor was a craggy old Rabbi - a very wise wise guy - who asked questions so pointed they often hurt.

"I know this is your first week of CPE," he said, "but I need someone to take call this weekend. Anyone willing and/or able to do it?"

There was silence around the room. I carefully considered it and thought, Oh, what the hell, I'll do it.

"Sure," I said, "I'll do it."

"Okay," said the Rabbi. "But, why?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Why?" asked the Rabbi. "Why would you do that?"

"Well," I said, "because you obviously needed someone, and I can arrange to be available, so, I'll do it."

"Oh, so you are being a good Christian martyr, sacrificing yourself and your own needs to fulfill another's need?"

"No," I said, a little more than annoyed. Which, of course, was his point.

"So," said the Rabbi, smelling blood on the water, "You'll do it because you want to make the others in this group look like schmucks and you're the hero?"

"Of course not," I scoffed, looking up to see raised eyebrows all around the room.

"Well then, you are just being efficient and pragmatic, like a good Anglican - getting this obligation off your plate early and looking good to boot."

Frustrated, I said, "Sure, yeah, that's it. Whatever. Look, do you want me to cover call this weekend or not? Because, you know, I sure don't need to do it and I most certainly don't need this aggravation. So, you decide. You want me or not?"

"Ah," said the Rabbi, "At least now we are coming closer to the truth. This is good. This is, in fact, wonderful. Now we can talk. Really talk."

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room before the Rabbi said, "The world would be a better place - Religious Communities would be better places, producing better people - if those who did ministry or mitzvahs in the name of the institution got really, really clear first why they are doing what they are doing."

He continued, "More damage has been done in the name of God than any other name by religious people who mean well but are driven by their own unexamined motives."

"The clearer you are about why you are doing something," he said, "the better prepared and equipped you will be to manage what you are about to do. And," he added, "the less likely you are to do damage - all in the name of God."

That was almost 25 years ago, and I've never forgotten the good Rabbi's word. I think he was speaking a very uncomfortable, most inconvenient truth.

Furthermore, I suspect that, if all ministry came out of a sense of community, we'd begin to see more effective ministry being done.

That's because I believe that if ministry came out of a sense of community, we'd tap into mechanism of accountability that are automatically but silently and inconspicuously in place when we are in relationship with each other.

Perhaps it's because I live in the land of rugged individualism where white picket fences are not as much an architectural staple but more a silent but very clear statement about the rigidly imposed boundaries of relationships.

Perhaps it's because I live in a place where people like to do their own thing - when and if they can - and at their own pace and in accordance with their own schedule.

Not in formalized programs where accountability and mutuality and on-going education, training and support are part of the effort.

Not that this is necessarily bad or wrong.

It's not. Absolutely not.

These are acts of good Christian charity. In fact, it could be any religion's act of charity. Indeed, it could even be considered secular charity.

But, please. Don't call it ministry.

Not unless you want an argument.

White Linen, Lace and Pearls

Our youngest daughter is getting married in August.

She is making her own wedding gown.

As hard as it is for me to get my head wrapped around that first sentence, I never thought I'd ever say the second.

Not that the young woman isn't talented. She is. Amazingly so. She made us dinner this evening which was delicious: grilled swordfish, bulgur wheat salad with shredded carrots and shiitake mushrooms and home made focaccia bread.

It was absolutely, perfectly delicious. Then again, I remember when she couldn't make a bowl of cereal for breakfast. The entire dinner was lovely.

After we finished dessert, we talked about the progress on her wedding gown. She has a very simple design of white/ivory summer linen shell over which she is layering lace sewn with pearls.

She has some lace from her future mother-in-law's wedding gown which, much to my amazement, is a very close pattern to the lace that is part of the dress she wore when she graduated from the 8th grade.

The dress also has some pearls as part of the bodice, which Mia thinks she can remove and sew into her wedding dress.

I have an antique pearl necklace and earrings which she'll wear, which will look elegant and beautiful. Indeed, I'll have to check the pictures, but I do believe she wore that same set when she graduated from middle school.

I keep seeing that graduation dress in front of me. It looks so small. And yet, my memory of her on that occasion is that she had grown from a tween into a budding teen and into a tall, willowy, giggly young girl.

I can still see her clustered at the back of the auditorium with her friends from The Hudson School in Hoboken, NJ, signing their names on their Year Book which they supported on each other's backs.

Where did that giggly, gawky, little girl go? When did she become this beautiful, graceful, creative young woman?

White linen, lace and pearls.

I suspect they have been present at the major events of a young woman's life for centuries. Three reliable companions on the journey across the milestones of life.

There's something about the interplay of their individual purity, delicacy and durability that speak about ancient longings and newborn hope and promised futures in a language we all instantly recognize and understand.

Meanwhile, I'm still trying to get my head wrapped around it all.

Our youngest daughter is getting married in August.

She is making her own wedding gown.

The new PT

This was what was for supper last night.

Alaskan King Crab Legs.

Dos Locos. Rehoboth Beach. Served with drawn butter, Tex-Mex rice, and salad with ginger dressing. Washed down with a glass of crisp, light California Pinot Grigo. All enjoyed with a very dear friend.

The memory lingers, still.

The shells of the crab legs were rather difficult to open, requiring the movement, rotation and use of certain arm and shoulder muscles.

So, not only did the meal have nutritional value, as well as being a social event, it also became part of my physical therapy. My shoulder doesn't feel half as frozen tonight.

Coincidence? I think not.

Hmmm . . . I wonder if I should submit this for approval to my insurance company?

Nah - It's probably considered "out of network" and I didn't get prior authorization.

Just a joke. Just a joke.

God knows, there's not much humor in either health care or the reform of the insurance industry.

But the food industry is doing just fine. Very fine, in fact.

Indeed, I can hardly wait for my next round of "therapy".

The Waiting Room

I've been spending a lot of time in waiting rooms of late.

It's that time of year - Annual Physical Exam, which includes blood work, EKG, pap smear, mammography, etc., etc., etc.

This morning, I'm in the waiting room of my Volkswagen Dealership. Lucy True Bug is having her 10,0000 mile check up and service.

As I looked around, I'm struck by the similarities of waiting room decor. Really, I can't tell if I'm in the waiting room for lab work, a doctor's exam or an imaging center.

Where do they get these damn gray-blue chairs?

Even the magazines are the same: Time, Newsweek, New Yorker . . .

Each waiting room also has a TV, but the medical facilities tend to have the station tuned to CNN. Here at the VW Dealership, I was surprised to find Regis & Kathy chatting away on the big screen TV.

Rachel Ray is, presently, teaching us how to prepared Ribs - going deep into the controversy between dry rub or wet BBQ sauce.

There are two guys here in the waiting room with me. What's fascinating is that they are absolutely engrossed in Rachel. Really. Engrossed.

I'm the one surrounded by the NY Times, the Baltimore Sun, and the Washington Post when I'm not working on my lap top.

I know. Go figure.

There are no other women here right now, but my experience has been that women would find a way to strike up a conversation. We'd start with an idle comment about something happening on the TV or something that we're reading and then, off we'd go, in no time flat.

The men? Not so much. In fact, these two guys are sitting at opposite ends of the room. They are watching the same TV program. Both nodding or otherwise individually reacting to the program - but not with each other.

It's like watching toddlers in parallel play.

The thing of it is, I'm really awful at waiting. For anything. Patience has never been my best suit. My grandmother always said I had "ants in my pants". I just couldn't ever sit still and do nothing.

Perhaps that's because it's genetic. I never saw my Grandmother sit still - except, of course, when she was reading her Bible. Even then, she was multitasking. She would be moving 'round her rosary beads while she was reading.

And, rocking in her rocking chair. And, sipping her tea. While keeping an eye on the stove or oven.

In my grandmother's house, the waiting room was the little 'nook' off the kitchen where there was a small table and two chairs and, of course, her rocking chair by the window.

Mostly, we would wait there while the food was simmering on the stove or baking in the oven. Or, after all our work was done and we were waiting to serve the meal.

It wasn't about being bored to tears by the banality of daytime television as we obviously are here in this waiting room. Or, being anxious about what invasive, uncomfortable thing might be about to happen in a medical facility.

The waiting room in my grandmother's house was about catching your breath, taking a break, reorienting yourself before you moved on to the next task. And that was always associated with prayer.

There's waiting and then there's waiting and they are very, very different. I'm much better at my grandmother's kind of waiting than at car dealerships or medical facilities - but, if I'm honest, not by much.

Patience may be a virtue, but it's also a skill and an art form. I'm very practiced at it, but not very proficient.

I've been practicing imagining these same waiting rooms - like the one I'm in now - as the little nook off my grandmother's kitchen.

I'm imagining that I'm here to reorient, refresh, renew before moving on to my next task.

Suddenly, waiting doesn't seem quite so monotonous or tedious. I don't have a case of 'ants in my pants'.

I've not exactly discovered the secret of how to acquire patience, but I have suddenly found a little room for waiting in my life.

It doesn't look at all like where I am right now.

In fact, it's quite lovely. Indeed, it's probably the most unique waiting room ever.

That's because it looks an awful lot like my grandmother's waiting room.

A Season of Pain

This is not a sympathy post.

This is a very brief reflection on pain.

As of 10 AM this morning when I received my official diagnosis, I am a person with a 'frozen shoulder'. Left one. I fit the profile - a woman, age 40-60 with an endocrine disorder (Thyroiditis).

I'm very fortunate. The pain has already subsided and the prognosis is good for a complete recovery.

There are people who live with intractable pain who have to learn how to manage their pain in order to make it through the day.

God only knows how they make it through the night.

I'm not one of those people.

My range of motion is seriously inhibited by pain. Sharp, white-hot, stabbing pain that feels as if my shoulder is about to separate from my body when it doesn't feel as if my arm is going to melt and pour right out my fingers in molten lava.

I went to see a 'shoulder specialist' today. Mind you, he's an orthopedic surgeon for disorders of the shoulder, elbow and wrist. This is different from an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in disorders of hips, knees and ankles.

Such is life in this brave new world.

I think he is 12, if he is a day, my fancy orthopedic specialist. Handsome. Very handsome. Blond. Blue Eyes. Highly educated. Board certified. Very sincere. Compassionate.

"My wife says my fan club consists of females who are either eight or eighty."

And, cute. Very cute.

He said, "If you were alone on a deserted island, you would be completely healed in two years. With therapy, we can shorten that to 6-8 months."

"Six to eight months??" I said, trying not to raise my voice - or curse.

"Baseball players get sidelined for a season with this."

"Last time I checked, baseball players were not women aged 40-60 with an endocrine disorder."

My handsome young doctor chortled. Out loud. Right in front of me.

"We can manage the pain with a cortisone shot into the joint."

"No thank you," I said.

"It will help you do your PT more efficiently and effectively," said my handsome, 12 year old MD.

"No thank you," I said.

"Naproxin, then, twice a day, on a full stomach will work well," he said, "I'll call it into your pharmacy. Start on it tonight. You still won't be able to sleep on your left side, but you'll sleep better."

"Sounds doable," I said.

"You can always call the office and just set it up to come in for a shot."

"Not going to happen."

"It just feels like a bee sting. Then, your shoulder will curse at you a bit that night. Ice it and, after that, you'll be fine."

"And, that will last . . . how long?"

"Oh, sometimes two days, sometimes, two weeks, sometimes two months, sometimes, the pain never comes back."

"No thank you."

"Okay. Apply heat. As often as you can apply it."

"I will," I said. And, I do. It helps. A lot.

"You'll come back in two months and we'll evaluate the need for surgery."

"Oh, there won't be surgery," said I.

"Okay, then," he said, smiling, "I'll see you in two months."

Smartass.

I think what pains me most is the pain that comes from out of left field.

Like, when I go to reach for the cup of tea at my bedside and the pain is so excruciating I drop it. I've broken two mugs in the past two weeks in just this manner.

Like, when I make a sharp right turn and can't negotiate the wheel as I once did and for a few seconds, wonder if I'm going to cause an accident.

Like, when I try to elevate the elements at the Eucharist and can only get so far.

I'm trying not to be a baby about this. I know lots of people suffer this and much worse pain.

As I've begun to talk about it, I'm absolutely amazed at how many people have had this. How many manage to get through it "for a season".

I have no patience for this "season of pain".

I suspect that's why it has come. Because pain has much to teach me about patience. These are the lessons I need most to learn.

I suppose, stubborn and willful as I am, I couldn't these lessons bout patience any other way.

So, to distract myself, I've been watching some of my favorite old films. Tonight, I watched one of my all time favorites, "The Princess Bride."

My kids and I have seen this so many times we can actually do the different parts - like Rocky Horror Picture Show.

I had forgotten about this scene, which is, in an of itself, a whole brilliant meditation about the nature of pain.

Prince Humperdinck: First things first, to the death.

Westley: No. To the pain.

Prince Humperdinck: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.

Westley: I'll explain and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.

Prince Humperdinck: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.

Westley: It won't be the last. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.

Prince Humperdinck: And then my tongue I suppose, I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.

Westley: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right.

Prince Humperdinck: And then my ears, I understand let's get on with it.

Westley: WRONG. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears.

That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.

I'll take a frozen shoulder any day - and twice on Sundays.

Six times before breakfast.

I'll take that with a side order of patience, please.

Make that a double.

Dear Pope: Call Me

I know. I've given lots of air space of late to the Roman Catholic Church.

If I'm not taking a walk down Memory Lane with the Nuns of my youth, I'm lamenting the catholicity of the crisis of power and leadership that filters from the Vatican and around the globe.

Having said that, I want to reproduce here, on this blog, this open letter to The Pope from Marie Fortune the pioneer and undisputed expert in sexual & domestic violence - especially in faith-based settings.

In 1977, she founded something called The FaithTrust Institute which is a national, multifaith, multicultural training and education organization with global reach working to end sexual and domestic violence.

She's written several books and her institute provides training and seminars to help people make the connection between their faith tradition and the right of every human being to live without fear and threat of violence - especially from people they love and trust (like clergy).

The woman knows of what she speaks.

So, one would think that, when in a jam, a certain person in authority might call in a certain expert to help figure out how to get unstuck.

Like, say, the Pope might just call in someone oh . . .you know . . .someone like Marie Fortune, to . . . well. . . try to help him figure out how to handle the. . . um . . . "situation". . . in the Roman Catholic Church.

I know. But, hope does spring eternal.

So, just in case, Marie posted this on her blog. I'm reproducing it here not because I think the Pope or anyone of any importance or influence in the Roman Catholic Church hierarchy will ever read it, but because I think it's so brilliant it deserves as wide an audience as possible.

We all could learn a thing or two from this crisis. And, if we do, well, that's a wee small act of redemption.

She begins:

As the crisis erupts again in Europe and the U.S. with serious questions being raised about the Pope himself, one has to wonder if the men in charge have learned anything in the past 20 years. It would appear not. If the Vatican were to ask me for advice on how to handle this situation (which they will not), here are my ten steps to justice and healing.

Dear Pope: Call Me

In fairness to the Pope, there is probably nothing he could have said to the church in Ireland that would be sufficient to bring healing to the thousands of survivors of sexual abuse at the hands of pedophile priests.

Too little, too late.

I don’t think anyone ever imagined the numbers of victims, the numbers of abusive priests, and the material (not to mention the spiritual) cost facing the Roman Catholic Church. But as the crisis erupts again in Europe and the U.S. with serious questions being raised about the Pope himself, one has to wonder if the men in charge have learned anything in the past 20 years.

It would appear not.

If the Vatican were to ask me for advice on how to handle this situation (which they will not), here are my ten steps to justice and healing:

1. Words are important but actions are the real test. Anyone who knew and did nothing or knew and covered it up should no longer be in a position of authority in the church. Holding individual bishops and administrators accountable would speak volumes.

2. Stop expecting any sympathy from the flock; you don’t deserve it.

3. Stop being defensive and complaining that the media coverage is a “pretext for attacking the Church.” You created this problem by not responding to disclosures of abuse and by trying to hide them instead of dealing with them.

4. Stop empathizing with Bishops who hid the abuse of children because they wanted to protect the church’s reputation. They sacrificed thousands of children and set in motion an institutional failure that now threatens the future of the church.

5. Come clean and own up to the system’s failures and tell us what you are doing to fix it. Remember: repentance, according to Ezekiel, means to “get a new mind and a new heart.”

6. Don’t ever use the Gospel passage about the woman caught in adultery when Jesus said that anyone without sin should cast the first stone to discuss any of this. Instead check out Luke 17:1-2: “Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to anyone by whom they come. It would be better for you if a millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown in the sea than for you to cause one of these little ones to stumble.” Jesus was serious about accountability; you should be too.

7. If you are serious, establish a commission to really investigate and recommend structural changes because this is a structural problem. Be sure to include non-bishops and non-Catholics who actually have expertise.

8. Stop pretending to “protect” the institutional church by hiding from victims and survivors. Your first job is pastoral and they are your flock. All they are seeking is justice and healing, and they have a right to expect both from their church. In fact, your defensive, lawyer-driven responses have placed the institutional church in great jeopardy. You have compromised the integrity of the church and caused many to question their faith.

9. Remember: they don’t expect us to be perfect, just to be faithful.

10. “Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.” (Hebrews 12:12)

So Pope Benedict, call me. Let’s chat.

Rev. Dr. Marie M. Fortune
FaithTrust Institute
www.faithtrustinstitute.org

Beware! Illegal Pilgrims

Mercy!

It's been rainy and cold all day today. I'm not sure if we're in the middle of a high or low pressure system, or trapped somewhere in between the two.

All I know is that my sinuses feel heavy and a headache has been threatening all day.

To add injury to insult, I've been going for physical therapy on the rotator cuff of my left shoulder, three times a week for the past two weeks. The progress has been slow but steady.

On Friday, however, the doc got a little too aggressive and the manipulation hurt so bad it made me cry. It's been tender all weekend but last night, I went to pick up the cup of tea from my bedside table and, well, let's just say it wasn't pretty.

I had therapy again today, which has resulted in some improvement, but I had to come home and take some pain meds this afternoon which pretty much knocked me out of commission.

Not to worry. I'm gong to be fine. Really. These things just take a long time to heal. But, they do. Eventually.

I only told you all of that to tell you this:

As I was struggling to find a comfortable position this afternoon, I remembered an old meditative trick taught by the nuns of my youth.

When we went to the dentist or were going to have a medical procedure, we were advised to say the rosary. The praying of each decade is followed by a meditation on one of the 15 Mysteries of the Life of Christ.

The fifth decade, as I recall, was reserved for the Sorrowful Mysteries of Jesus. Meditate on this, the good sisters promised, and you would know pain relief. 

All we had to do was consider how Jesus suffered for us - The Agony in the Garden, The Scourging at the Pillar, The Crowning of Thorns, The Carrying of the Cross, and The Crucifixion - and whatever pain we were feeling was guaranteed to lessen.

Yeah. Right.

But, the heating pad hadn't yet cranked up to it's maximum effectiveness and the pain med hadn't kicked in and I was pretty desperate.

So, I grabbed my rosary beads and began. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to get into the rhythm of saying ten Hail Mary's, one Our Father, and one 'Glory Be'. It's like any other chanting meditation, except there are more words. Funny thing is that, after a while, you don't even think about the words any more. You just get into the rhythm and let it carry you.

When I got to the fifth decade, it was time to meditate on the Five Sorrowful Mysteries and, as I had been carefully taught, remembered that my petition of prayer was to ask for mercy.

I don't know why this happened. I'm sure it's a sign of my wickedness. Proof positive that I am, as the Psalmist writes, "a sinner from my mother's womb."

The first thing I remember is getting an image of The Divine Mercy of Jesus. It's the image on the top of this post.

The next thing I remember was giggling.

We used to call this picture, "The Drag Queen Jesus."

None of us knew what a Drag Queen was, exactly, except it was something more than "Uncle Milty" (Milton Berle) who used to be on TV on "Your Show of Shows" and occasionally dress like a woman but talk like a man while smoking a cigar.

That was guaranteed to make you instantly dissolve into giggles.

That's not to be confused with "The High School Graduation Jesus."

The one that's him in a semi-profile, every hair carefully combed into place, his beard carefully trimmed, his best white tunic, and perfect back lighting to add that certain 'divine glow'.

You know, the one his mother hung over the fireplace in their little hovel in Bethlehem.

Yeah, that's the one. Over to your left.

I started giggling even more as I remembered some of the lunch room conversations we kids used to have about this - and other images of Jesus.

The nuns always had pictures of Jesus with children around the classroom. I got up, adjusted my heating pad, and started searching the internet for one of my favorite pictures of Jesus and children.

I found it!  It's "Jesus with Children of Many Nations."

Isn't it special?

It always made us wish we had been one of the children to have been lucky enough to be in that picture with Jesus.

I remember Sr. Mary Bucky (I think it was really 'Bernadette' but we called her 'Bucky' - not in her presence of course - because she had wicked splayed and bucked teeth) telling us that, if we contributed enough to 'save' ten Pagan Babies, we just might find ourselves invited to have our picture taken with Jesus, one day.

I think I actually saved five Pagan Babies (you had to bring in a dime a week to fill one card with 10 slots. The money would go "Missions" so Father could baptize a baby - in Africa or somewhere in Asia) who wouldn't otherwise be saved by the blood of Jesus.

That was five whole dollars - a lot of money back then, especially since I got $1.00 a week allowance and was expected to give $.25 per week to the church. Add a dime ever week for a Pagan Baby and well, you begin to get a basic, rudimentary meaning of the word 'sacrifice'.

I also remember this Holman Hunt version of Jesus knocking at the door.

We had our own version of Sr. Wendy who would interpret religious art to us, for our spiritual edification.

The door, she said, is your heart. She had us notice that there was no handle on the door. That's because Jesus can't open the door to your heart unless you open your heart to Him.

Well, that, in my 7 year old estimation, was just flat out silly. If Jesus is all powerful and all knowing, he doesn't need a handle. He would be able to know how to open the door of your heart without even breaking a sweat. And, six times before breakfast!

Which, of course, only inspired classic Roman Catholic kid questions like, "Sister, if God is all powerful, would he ever create a rock He, Himself couldn't lift?"

Which would lead Sister to point out that the weeds in the portrait were symbolic of the clutter and accumulation of sloth in the human mind and the bat flying around in the darkness was symbolic of human ignorance.

Yup. That's what I remember hearing her say. And she thought I wasn't paying attention. I do remember her saying, once, "Young lady, if you roll your eyes once more I'm going to knock them back into your head so they never stop rolling."

I never worried about that. What I did worry about was the stories some of the nuns told us to get us to behave in church.

"There was once a little girl, just about your age, who once chewed into the host in her mouth rather than allow it to melt at the roof of your mouth. And do you know what happened to her?"

"No, what sister?"

"Jesus CRIED OUT in AGONY and BLOOD came flying from her mouth!"

"EWWWWWWWW!!!!!"

"True story, children. Now, you don't want to have that happen to you, do you?"

"No, sister."

"Good! Then never EVER chew the host. Understand?"

"Yes, sister."

"Always . . . what, children?"

"Let it melt in your mouth, sister."

"That's right. Very good."

Besides, as comedian Kate Clinton points out, years of practice getting a melted host off the roof of your mouth with your tongue is excellent practice for other, future, adult 'divine joyful mysteries'.

As I explored all the many varied images of Jesus on the internet, what I began to realize was that I hadn't been paying attention the pain in my arm. Suddenly, it was much more bearable.

I'm thinking of writing a new meditation for former Roman Catholic kids using our childhood images of Jesus.

These would be "The New Joyful Mysteries of Jesus: Or, how I learned to relax and finally enjoy my RC childhood."

Or, maybe I'll just call it "Mercy!"

It's one of the best analgesics around, leading you to a place in the middle of a high or low pressure system, or trapped somewhere in between the two. .

Good Shepard Sunday

Today's offering is a musical meditation on the Divine Feminine in the 23rd Psalm by Bobby McFerrin.

The first time I heard this performed was 10 or 12 years ago at Princeton Chapel where I had the great honor and privilege of preaching. The choir director had called me the week before to ask if I might be planning to refer to God, at any point in my sermon, with a feminine pronoun.

I thought that was a curious question so I asked him the reason for his question. "These kids are so conservative - in every way - they are really having a hard time with this piece. I just thought it would help if they heard someone else speaking of God in terms other than "He" and "Lord"."

I remember saying something to him about, "Well, after centuries of following the voice of an all-male priesthood, it's going to take more than just this one female voice, but I'm happy to be one part of the process."

Years ago, I listened to an interview with McFerrin, who, as a matter of fact, was brought up Anglican. At one point in his life, he was seriously discerning the path he would take for the rest of his life.

He felt a strong call to the Episcopal priesthood, but he felt an equally strong vocation as a musician.

He was asked, many years later, how he felt about his decision to pursue a career in music vs. the path of ordination in The Episcopal Church.

As I recall, he said something like, "Looking at the past through the lens of fame and fortune never provides an accurate picture."

So, I won't speculate about how The Episcopal Church might have been changed by McFerrin's ordination, but I can only imagine that the voice McFerrin followed was the one he needed to hear.

Our loss. The world's gain. To wit - this marvelous piece.

The Lord is my Shepard, I have all I need,
She makes me lie down in green meadows,
Beside the still waters, She will lead.

She restores my soul, She rights my wrongs,
She leads me in a path of good things,
And fills my heart with songs.

Even though I walk, through a dark and dreary land,
There is nothing that can shake me,
She has said She won't forsake me,
I'm in her hand.

She sets a table before me, in the presence of my foes,
She anoints my head with oil,
And my cup overflows.

Surely, surely goodness and kindness will follow me,
All the days of my life,
And I will live in her house,
Forever, forever and ever.

Glory be to our Mother, and Daughter,
And to the Holy of Holies,
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be,
World, without end. Amen

Sisters, Sisters . . .

In my travels the other day, I ran into a group of nuns I used to work with in The City, when I was Director of Pastoral Care for Hospice.

I was picking up a friend who was arriving at Newark Penn Station and they were waiting there to catch a train to D.C.

I hadn't realized how much I miss them and had forgotten just how much I enjoyed working with them.

You know how that happens, sometimes? Gosh, it was good to be with them again.

Ever since, I've had the lyrics to this song running around in my head.

Irving Berlin wrote it, of course, for the film "White Christmas". I sometimes wonder what he was really thinking when he penned the lyrics.

Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters
- Never had to have a chaperone, "No sir"
- I'm here to keep my eye on her

Caring, sharing ev'ry little thing that we are wearing
- When a certain gentleman arrived from Rome
- She wore the dress and I stayed home

There, now that that's out of my system, perhaps that song will leave me alone and go haunt someone else.

The Sisters and I chatted for oh, 15, maybe 20 minutes. They were heading out to a conference on the whole kerfuffle about Rome's "investigation" of their orders. They were, predictably, disgusted.

One of them said it felt like a one-two punch to the heart. Last December, the Vatican announced an "apostolic visitation of the 340 religious women's orders to see how well they are "living in fidelity" to the church's guidelines for religious life.

As if that weren't insulting enough, the second probe, initiated in February, moved from 'evaluation' to 'investigation'. The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith — which enforces theological purity — is investigating the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, an umbrella group that represents about 90 percent of women's orders.

"This is about Vatican II," said one, "Absolutely."

"They want to reverse it - bring the church back into the 'traditional line'," said another, "And they know the best, most efficient way to do that is to try to rein in the women religious."

"Fat chance!" said another. "Look what we were able to do in helping to promote the Health Care Reform Bill. That," she sniffed proudly, "despite the displeasure of the Catholic Bishops. We may be shrinking in numbers but we are still mighty," she laughed as several of her Sisters joked about "The Incredible Shrinking Women."

As they all shared the silly joke, I felt myself instantly caught up in the music of their laughter.

It was the thing I loved about the nuns of my youth - the fact that they could wear those ridiculous habits that pinched at their face and neck and endure the oppressive of the RC institutional church and the patronizing, dismissive, often disrespectful treatment by the RC priests, and still be joyful.

It seemed to me the best revenge.

One of the nuns, realizing that our time was limited, quickly got 'round to the recent scandal, now reaching the highest levels of the Vatican - even to the Pope himself.

Each one, to a person, covered her eyes momentarily in shame at the mere mention of the issue. "Hey, wait, wait," I said, reaching out to them, "You don't have to do that with me. I get it. I know the same stories you do."

One of them flew right into my arms, giving me a grateful hug. When I looked up again, I realized that I was not the only woman with tears in her eyes.

"What is shameful," said one sister, "is that the institution is still blind to their complicity in the abuse. This is not about the 'rebellious American Church'. It's a worldwide scandal. And, it's not about celibacy. It's not about homosexuality. This is RAPE and RAPE is not about sexuality - it's about using sex as a vehicle of power. Corrupt power. The shame is on them. Not us."

There were silent nods and murmurs of agreement all around.

I asked what they thought of the Archbishops in Newark and New York.

"Oh, they are not going to help this. At. All," said one. "We know one clergy who has been very helpful with the victims. He's doing holy, blessed, sacred work, but he's being treated like a pariah by his brothers as well as his bishops. It's disgraceful. He comes to our house all the time, just for spiritual respite and replenishment."

"He's doing God's work, for God's sake!," said another, "And this is the way they treat him? Disgusting!"

"Oh, I'm sure we'll be 'investigated' for that!" said the first. And, they all giggled and snorted again and chimed in with their own jokes so quickly I could hardly keep up.

"Special space on the Official Vatican Report Card . . . ."

"Harbors priests who help victims? CHECK!"

"Still uses music from St. Louie Jesuits? CHECK"

"Uses Gregorian Chant? NOOOOOOOOO.. . ."

They were cracking themselves up with their own special brand of "nun humor".

"Oh," said my one of my absolute favorite nuns - intelligent, well educated, a heart of absolute, pure gold - "and if we have to endure one more patronizing 'God-bless-you, Sister-verbal-pat-on-the-head' I swear I'm going to say something!"

"No, you won't," said another. "We won't let you. That won't help anything."

"Well, then," she said defiantly but with a definite twinkle of mischief in her eye, "You'll just have to make sure to keep some tissues around. When 'Father' starts with that dismissive, patronizing 'God Bless you, Sister' stuff, it always makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit."

That set off peals of absolutely delightful laughter. I found myself riding the sound of it back to the memories of my youth. But this time, I was on the inside of the joke being told. It was a pretty heady experience.

All too soon their boarding time was announced and it was time to bid them adieu. We promised to meet for coffee soon. I'm already planning to take some time in June and spend an overnight retreat with them at the convent.

We'll have a chance to do some talking, catch up with each other, and maybe one of them will hear my confession. I'll pray the office with them and sing with them.

Some St. Louie Jesuit stuff, fer sure. "City of God" by Dan Schutte. John Foley's, "Come to the Water." And almost anything by Marty Haugen.

It will be like Dick Clark's American Bandstand Top 40 for former Roman Catholics.

Later, after dinner, I might even sing "Sisters, sisters" for them - especially the last line: "God help the mister who comes between me and my sister. And God help the sister, who comes between me and my man."

Of course, we'll all understand that 'man' as Jesus. I'll have made a 'nun joke' of my own. And, we'll all laugh and laugh and laugh.

Just like we used to.

And, need to.

More than we might know.

Manners

Even though I was very carefully brought up to be the Best Little Girl In the Whole World, and it's taken years of therapy to work that stuff out of my system, if there's one thing I can thank my now sainted mother for, it's the fact that she taught me manners.

I'm talking beyond please and thank you, yes sir, no ma'am.

Being taught 'the basics' by my mother was more like an education in 'Manners 3.0' for everyone else in the world.  For my mother, it was a religion and she was on a Manners and Politeness Jihad.

If you got a gift or had dinner or were otherwise entertained, in my mother's book, you had exactly 72 hours to write a thank you note.

After my wedding, my mother was much more concerned with whether or not I had gotten the thank you notes out than the actual state of my marriage.

In my mother's world, there was a proper way to answer the phone or greet someone at the door and you had better know it. (I still sometimes answer my home phone with "Good morning/afternoon/evening. . . This is Elizabeth. May I ask who's calling?")

I still remember the "trick" she taught us so we'd never embarrass her or ourselves when out to a "fancy dinner" - which would be any place other than our home.

You make a "b" with the thumb and pointer finger on your left hand and a "d" with the thumb and pointer finger on your right hand. The "b" stands for "bread" and indicates that the bread dish to your left is yours. The "d" stands for "drink"and indicates that the glass to your right is yours.

But you never EVER did that so others could see you. You placed your hands discretely under the table cloth while you make your determination.

Discretion was Lydia's signature technique - not surprising when the operative dynamic of your life is 'shame and blame' - which is very common in First Generation American families. Add to that the disease of alcoholism and you begin to understand.

When my mother got angry, she never raised her voice.  Indeed, her voice became very low and developed a certain chilling 'tone'.  If she called to you in a low voice AND used your first AND middle name, you knew that, whatever you did, your punishment began with being grounded for at least a week and went down from there.

She didn't hesitate to call you out on your 'sass'.  "Watch your tone young lady."  "Don't use that tone with me, young lady."

"Tone" and "Young lady" were like warning flags on my mother's playing field.  You knew that, if you continued, you were going to get a major foul and a stiff penalty.

She kept detailed records of Christmas Cards sent and received. Same with birthday, anniversary and Easter cards, as well as sympathy and get well cards.

Her records went back 10 years. That's how long you had to demonstrate consistently good manners. If you didn't, she would cross you off her list.

I asked her once why the decade of records.  Why not 'three strikes and you're out'?  She said that it was the standard Ms. Manners used, and if it was good enough for Ms. Manners, it was good enough for our household.

Indeed, one of her presents to me when I got married was a blue book of etiquette. I still have it on my shelf. Oh, and a notebook so I could keep my own records.  She would occasionally send me clippings, however, from Ms. Manner's newspaper column.  You know. So I could keep up.

So, you won't be surprised to hear me say that good manners naturally spill over into in my professional life. It has come in very handy as an Episcopalian.

For example, everyone who makes a contribution to the church gets a hand written thank you from me. Pledges. Memorial gifts. Whatever. Those of you who have contributed to fundraising efforts on this blog know that I am telling the truth.

Imagine my surprise, then, at the following conversation I had the other day.

I was headed into the Chatham Middle School on Tuesday to vote for a special statewide ballot on the school budget.

As I was walking from the parking lot into the school entrance, a fragile, elderly woman - pure white hair, impeccably dressed in pink and green, freshly manicured nails, Coach purse - called out to me and asked me about which entrance we were to use.

I slowed my pace and offered to walk with her to the correct entrance. She seemed relieved not to have to walk alone.

I presented my hand and said, "My name is Elizabeth. It's nice to meet you."

She shook my hand briskly, sniffed and said, "Oh, I know who you are. I'm 'Mrs. Smith'. We've met before."

"Of course. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. My apologies."

"Oh, that's okay," she said, softening a bit, "I guess we're out of your usual element." We shared a polite laugh.

"You did a very fine job at the funerals of two of my friends. Very fine."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said. "That was more than two years ago for one and several long months ago for the other. How kind of you to remember."

She nodded and then added, "But . . ." A cold chill went down my spine as I instantly recognized 'the tone'. "I'm quite upset with you."

"I'm sorry," I said, "whatever did I do?"

"Well," she sniffed (she seemed to do that a lot), "I got a lovely handwritten note from you after I contributed to the memorial fund for each of my friends."

"BUT. . .," she said, her voice getting unmistakably angry, "my son also contributed and he NEVER got a thank you note."

"Really?" I said, "Isn't that odd?"

"No," she said, "It's rude! Oh, my son isn't upset but I am. I'm angrier than a wet hen. How dare you send a note to one and not to the other! That's just rude."

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said softly, "but you did say that two years ago, you got a handwritten note of thanks from me, is that right?"

"Yes, I said that. Of course I said that."

"And, after your other friend died this past fall, you did get another handwritten note of thanks from me as well, is that correct?"

"Yes," she said, deeply annoyed, "but I'm telling you that my son didn't get a thank you note from you and that makes me very angry."

"Yes, I understand and I'm sorry for that, Mrs. Smith," I said, "but might you not at least entertain the possibility that something might have happened to his note? That it might have somehow gotten lost in the mail?"

She actually stopped in her tracks, thought about this for a minute, then shook her head and said, "No. . . no. . . no. I trust the post office more than I trust clergy."

"Well, there it is, then," I said, trying not to laugh as I thought about what I knew about her local church and her denomination. I mean, I suppose there was some form of logic to her reasoning but twisting myself 'round to try and find it just hit my funny bone,

Besides, there was no sense getting upset with the old girl whose temperament was probably not the sweetest in her youth and had soured considerably with her advancing age. I could only imagine her story - the stories that had given shape and form to her life.

"Oh," she said, "don't get me wrong: I have great admiration for you and all that you've accomplished, but this sort of thing just should not be tolerated. Bad manners are inexcusable."

"Indeed they are," I agreed. "Unacceptable, in fact."

"Right you are," she said. "I'm glad we agree on this."

"Oh, I couldn't agree more," I said.

"I knew you would," said she as we arrived at the entrance to the polling place.

"Here you go, ma'am," I said, "delivered right to the door."

"Well, this has been most pleasant. Thank you, Reverend." (I confess that I giggled inwardly at this public fracture of the Rules of Grammar.)

"The pleasure has been all mine," I said as she smiled then called out to a friend of hers who was standing about half way in a very long line. She moved past everyone else, and I shook my head as I watched her rudely elbow her way to her friend. It soon became very clear that she had absolutely no intention of moving to the back of the line.

I overheard her say to her friend, "Oh that nice Reverend from St. Paul's walked me over here. What a lovely young woman, don't you think? Just lovely."

She said this, I should like to point out, after she rudely cut in line.

You know, insanity is not a qualification for this work, but it does help.

Good manners, however, are not optional.

Thanks, Mom.

The Voice of Authority

Meet Helen-Ann Hartley, a thrity-six year old priest in the Church of England assigned to the parish of Littlemore, near Oxford, and featured in the April 26, 2010 issue of The New Yorker Magazine in an article entitled "A Canterbury Tale: The battle within the Church of England to allow women to be bishops" by Jane Kramer.

Like many women, Mother Hartley patches together several jobs just to keep non-Eucharistic bread on the table. In addition to preaching at the church in Littlemore (famous as the last church built for the conservative priest and theologian John Henry Newman before he converted to Rome, in 1845, and eventually became Cardinal Newman), she teaches at the the mainstream Anglican seminary Ripon College Cuddesdon, and often broadcasts from BBC Oxford.

She can also often be found at St. John's College Chapel Choir where her husband plays the organ, when she isn't studying for her doctorate in New Testament at Oxford.

Clearly this is a bright young woman who stands head and shoulders over most of her male clergy colleagues. Were she a thirty-six year old male with such talent and credentials and five years of ordained experience under her cincture, she'd be on the professional fast track to being Dean of a Cathedral so she might be positioned for an "appointment" (as they do in the C of E) as bishop.

So, I was not surprised but unprepared to read the following quote:

"I have had to learn to negotiate the voice of my authority," is how she describes her trip down the nave. "Everyone thinks I'm 'nice,' and I guess I am, but I really don't need that label."

She also learned to negotiate her presence. When she visits her Catholic counterparts in Littlemore - two priests who became Roman Catholics after the ordination of women, and with whom she is friendly - she wears a skirt and blouse or a pair of jeans, but in meetings with conservative Anglicans who are known to be dismissive or condescending to clergywomen, she wears her dog collar "to show I'm a priest."

I should be used to that by now. Indeed, it still describes most of the days of my professional life. But, reading those words again, just now, something still gets caught somewhere in my throat and causes me to gasp before my stomach begins to feel a bit queasy.

Some of you, like me, have been at this for some time. Some of the rest of you are new to the struggle. So new, perhaps, you aren't even aware that there is a struggle.

Let me assure you: There most assuredly is. And, it's not going away any time soon.

Kramer's article gives a very cogent summation of the legal, scriptural and societal arguments for and against the ordination of women in England:

. . . given the Church’s special status, priests are functionaries of the state, and, because of this, its claim to a “religious exemption” in regard to women in the episcopate violates both Britain’s and Europe’s anti-discrimination laws.

The Scriptural argument, in brief, is this: there is nothing in the Gospels that precludes women from priestly service; Christ called men and women “equal in my hands,” and when conservatives in the Church counter that if Christ had wanted women bishops he would not have made all his apostles men, the women ask them why, then, did Christ choose two women to witness and announce the Resurrection.

But the most obvious argument is that England has done quite well by women with power, whether real or symbolic. Elizabeth II, who will be eighty-four this month, has reigned for fifty-eight years and managed to preserve the creaky institution of the British monarchy, despite the indulgences of a family at least as heedless and exasperating as Geraldine’s (note: 'The Vicar of Dibly') sitcom parish. During those years, Britain elected its first female Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, who broke the back of British unionism, rationalized the country’s economy, and — despite the attrition involved — was reëlected twice. Mrs. Thatcher took office fifteen years before women were ordained in the Church of England. Those women are demanding their own turn now.

I don't want to dwell on the arguments for or against the ordination of women. That time has, thankfully, past. I'm amazed, in fact, that it still gets any "air time" anywhere in the church.

I want to get back to this idea of 'negotiating your voice of authority'.

Kramer makes an interesting observation:

Rowan Williams, a theologian of huge distinction and, perhaps because of his almost paralytic reticence, has been trying to broker a peace between his warring priests while Pope Benedict XVI, in Rome, a theologian of less distinction but far steelier entitlement, has seized the chance to publicly invite Anglican clergymen, single and married, and their parishes into the sheltering misogyny of the magisterium.

I don't know about you, but I'm seeing a direct link between Hartley's negotiation of her voice of authority and Williams' 'almost paralytic reticence'.

I know. I know. The arc of history is long but it always bends toward justice. MLK, Jr. taught us that years ago, and it's an important lesson worth remembering in the midst of the struggle for justice.

I also know that I'm supposed to age gracefully, gaining in wisdom and patience.

Well, I'm not.

Rowan's paralytic reticence may well cost us the Anglican Communion - not women, not LGBT people, not apostacy, not disobedience from scripture, not rebellion from the 'faith first delivered to the saints.'

The Archbishop of Canterbury. +++Himself.

To wit - while Rowan is trying to broker peace among his clergy, Benedict is eating Rowan's lunch in the backyard of Lambeth Palace.

"Papal poaching" the British press called it. Indeed. And, it can only happen when the leadership concerns itself, not with the business of being leaders, but rather with being martyrs to the unrealistic belief in the power of reason to turn your enemies into allies.

Neville Chamberlain . . paging Neville Chamberlain to the white courtesy phone to teach us an important lesson in the history of negotiating with tyrants.

To be more philosophically accurate, it's Hegel. Rowan thinks that truth comes out of conflict, and sometimes, it does. Other times, as Giles Fraser, "our" canon at St. Paul's Cathedral, London, recently said, "You take the two poles and bring them together and the little guy gets crushed between them.”

Or, in this case, "the little woman."

When Rowan talks to women about restraint and patience - about the fullness of time and the "positive side to Anglican diffuseness and slowness of decision-making" and his own 'anguish' "trying to counsel patience to people who are suffering more than you are" he sounds less and less like the voice of Jesus and more and more like the voice of a most anxious man presiding over a communion whose inherent patriarchal model of power and authority is in the throes of death.

He doesn't understand that this is not a bad thing.

If Archbishop Rowan used the voice of his authority for Gospel justice, Mother Helen-Ann wouldn't have to negotiate hers.

The 'fullness of time' is a fine philosophical and theological idea, but God's time - and our time - is now.

"As the great prophet Moses wrote,

"The commandment that I lay on you this day is not too difficult for you, it is not too remote. It is not in heaven, that you should say, 'Who will go up to heaven for us to fetch it and tell it to us, so that we can keep it?" Nor is it beyond the sea, that you should say, "Who will cross the sea for us to fetch it and tell it to us, so that we can keep it?" It is a thing very near to you, upon your lips and in your heart ready to be kept." (Deuteronomy 30:11-14)

These ancient words, among others, have always been in the fullness of time.  They have now entered the fullness of our time. The truth of God is very near to us.

It's time for us to stop worrying about being 'nice' or negotiating the authority we already have in Jesus. We have all the authority we need to take another step on the journey to bringing us closer to the Realm of God.

Now.

We are living in the now.

Would someone please tell Rowan?

Happy Earth Day

They say it's my birthday

But, you couldn't tell by me - or the day.

It's all good, but I haven't had time to scratch my nose much less blog!

So, here's the Band of My Heart - the Beatles - rockin' out my favorite birthday song.

Now, it's quick into the shower to get ready to go out to dinner with some dear friends. You did know that tomorrow is Ms. Conroy's birthday, right?

I mean, I've told you that our births were 2 1/2 hours apart, right?

Wait . . . but in the same City.

Wait. . . wait. . . wait . . . but in the same hospital.

Crazy talk, I know, but true nonetheless.

We are deeply blessed with a wonderful family, great friends, meaningful (if not often difficult) work, and lots and lots of love.

And, I am filled with a profound and abiding sense of gratitude.

It just doesn't get any better than that.

"You might be a Progressive Christian if . . . ."

Remember Jeff Foxworthy, "You might be a redneck if . . . ."?

Yesterday, I ended my post about Evangelicals with a little riff on Foxworthy's joke. It was a version of "You might be Evangelical if . . . ." which was written by Evangelicals as a little joke on themselves.

Turnabout is fair play.

I invited folk to post their own version of "You might be a Progressive Christian if . . ." on my FaceBook page. In less than 24 hours, I was amazed and delighted by the response.

I think there is plenty of evidence that Progressive Christians take our faith seriously, not ourselves.

With advanced apologies to Jeff Foxworthy and many Progressive Christians around the church, I offer some of their best.

If you can use the words 'liberation', 'justice' and 'hermeneutic of suspicion' in the same sentence. . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If the one WC ("water closet") in the sacristry no longer is designated for "Men" (only). . . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Kathy)

Note: If you know that a 'WC' is a toilet and what a sacristry is . . . you might be a Progressive ANGLICAN Christian.

If you carry your church's banner in the local AIDS walk (which your church started).. . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Frank)

If 'Stewardship of Creation' is a way of life. . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Sarah)

If there's an LGBT dinner at the Cathedral and a majority of the folks who show up are straight retired couples. . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Paul)

If you would consider wearing this T-shirt . . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If you buy a pink and white striped clergy shirt for the pride parade . . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Carrol)

If you see Susan Russell on the TV news doing the "progressive Christian viewpoint" and tell everyone in the room, "Hey, she's my Facebook friend!" . . . you might be a Progressive Christian.(Maria)

If your parish has incense, sanctus bells...and rainbow flags. . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Laurie)

Your 8 year old son asks if it's okay if boys can be priests and bishops one day, too. . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If you think the following cartoon is wicked but funny . . . .

 . . . .. . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If your church has a service in Spanish and is working on adding a service in Creole. . . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If you seek actively--even forcefully--ecumenical and interfaith worship and ministries, all the while being secure in and anchored by your Episcopal/Anglican Christian faith . . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Eddie)

If the local newspaper calls you whenever they need a comment on an LGBT issue. . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Christianne)

If you know Jesus did not own a copy of the KJV of the Old/New Testament. . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (James).

You might be a progressive redneck Christian if you have a rainbow Episcopal Shield bumper sticker on your Ford F-150 pickup truck. (Maria)

If you think this should be the motto of the Progressive Christian Movement . . . . . .

. . . . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If you have a parish float or marching unit in the local pride parade . . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Elaine)

If you have at least 4 bishops and Marge Christie as FB friends . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Elisabeth).

If you belong to a church family that really welcomes all . . . you might be a Progressive Christian. (Barbara)

If you see the importance of the "spirit of the law" instead of the "letter of the law" when it comes to TRADITION, WORSHIP, AND OTHER PRACTICES IN AND OF THE CHURCH. . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Eddie).

If you have been to a U2carist . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Jay)

If you think the following cartoon is funny and is not proof positive that you have a "one track mind". . . .

. . . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

When you're worried you might have to call a straight priest (as your next rector). . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Elisabeth).

If you know the difference between homoousios and homoioúsios and can actually explain it. . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Joy).

Sadly for some...if you move the candle stick 3 inches without the white gloves...you might be a Progressive Christian (Lisa).

If you advocated to have your church listed on the Believe Out Loud website of welcoming churches and are straight. . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Lori).

If this cartoon makes sense to you . . .

. . . .you might be a Progressive Christian.

If your bookshelf includes a wide variety of authors, like C.S. Lewis, J.S. Spong, N.T. Wright, M. Daly, E.S. Fiorenza, R.R. Ruther, P. Tillich, T.D. Jakes and H.R. Niebuhr. . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If the statement "Gene Robinson is the most dangerous man in the Anglican Communion" makes you laugh out loud . . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

"If the welcome message of your church says something like: "Wherever you are in your spiritual journey—whether a hesitant searcher or a longtime churchgoer— we invite you to visit and discover if this could be a possible spiritual home for you. As Episcopalians we strive to live by the message of Christ, in which there are no outcasts and all are welcome." . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Elisabeth).

If you support Reproductive Rights because you are Pro-life - including the right to life of the pregnant woman . . . you might be a Progressive Christian.

If you actually follow what Jesus taught. . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Avianca).

If you loved all these comments . . . you might be a Progressive Christian (Judith).

That's it. Well, so far. If you have additional entries, just leave them in the comment section or email them to me and I'll update this from time to time.

Thanks to all who have contributed.  You really made my day.

I don't know about you, but I'm feeling a whole lot better about being a Christian - and an Evangelist.

C'mon in!  The Baptismal Water is just fine!