God Bless The Child

I'm still ruminating about this piece I saw Friday night on The Rachel Maddow Show.

While I think it's true that one picture is often worth a thousand words, in this case, it's worth about a gazillion words - or, at least, the cost of the next election.

The graph was actually put together from data collected by Princeton Economist Larry Bartels by a woman named Catherine Mulbrandon who is, she says, an "interactive designer" which, she says, "explores the areas of interaction design and data visualization."

In 2006, she created a website called Visualizing Economics. Of late, she's been working with economist Timothy Noah on a slide show for his article, The United States of Inequality.

Their slide show "The Great Divergence in Pictures" is on Slate.Com and it's a real eye-opener. I'm hardly an economist - I think it's a great day when my check book balances - but I think she clearly accomplishes her goal of "creating intuitive data displays."

She is able to take this old horse to water and actually makes me want to drink in all I can take. That's because she awakens my intuition as opposed to boring me to death with dry, dull statistics, which I learned enough about not to trust anyway.

So, back to this graph. You might want to scroll up to the top of the page and look at it again. As Rachel Maddow says, it's the prettiest picture the Democrats could hope for in this election year. It's especially important as the Bush Tax Cuts expire on December 31, 2010.

The first thing to know about this graph is that it represents actual observed performance - not just political promises - from 1948 - or just after WWII - through 2005.

You should also note that while the graph was put together by Catherine Mulbrandon, the information comes from Larry Bartels, who is the Donald E. Stokes Professor of Public and International Affairs, Professor of Politics and Public Affairs at Princeton, and Director, Center for the Study of Democratic Politics. He is also author of Unequal Democracy: The Political Economy of the New Gilded Age.

Let's start at the side bar, which breaks the income status of Americans into five brackets, the 20th percentile being the poorest of the poor (the "Tom Joneses", 'have-nots'), and the 95 percentile being the richest of the rich (the "Daddy Warbucks", the 'them that's got').

The bottom side bar represents the income growth rate in the aggregate. The blue line represents the data collected when there has been a Democratic president. The red line represent the data collected under a Republican administration.

Now, just let your 'intuitive' process take in the information.

If you've finished gasping in horror, you can see that, under Democratic leadership, wealth is more evenly divided. Under Republican administrations, however, the bottom half of the economic food chain hardly get a 0.4% increase in income while the income of those in the 95th percentile increased five times faster.

So, now can we talk about taxes? Because, you know, this is the result of a political ideology about taxes. As Washington Post blogger and columnist for Newsweek, Ezra Klein points out in the Maddow interview, when George Steinbrenner died this year, his family paid absolutely no inheritance tax on the billions of dollars left in his estate.

I'm thinking that the tax revenues from that amount alone could have fed a small starving village in Ethiopia for a year - or, continued the war in Afghanistan for at least another six months, depending on the priorities of your point of view.

This is not just about political ideology or taxation. It's really about theology. I'd like to talk - and have you think - for just a little bit about what Jesus would have to say about this. I think there are some very serious implications for bible-believing, faithful Christians here.

I suppose it comes down to how you read Mark 4:24: "For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away."

When taken out of context, these words seem to support a Republican perspective on taxation. It's Billy Holliday singing, "God Bless the Child"

Them that's got shall get
Them that's not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child
that's got his own
That's got his own

Except, of course, there's more to the story than one verse from scripture.

Jesus has been teaching his disciples in parables about the Realm of God. This verse comes in the "secret teaching" about the Parable of the Sower (Mark 4:3-9), which ends with "Let anyone with ears to hear listen!"

When he was alone with the disciples (Mark 4:10), Jesus said, "To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside, everything comes in parables; in order that they may indeed look, but not perceive, and may indeed listen, but not understand; that they may not turn again and be forgiven." These last words are Jesus adapting the words of Isaiah 6:9-10.

After he explains the parable to them, he says (Mark 4:24), "Pay attention to what you hear; the measure you give will be the measure you get, and still more will be given you."

And THEN he says, (v. 25),"For to those who have, more will be given; and from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away."

In other words - or, actually, the words of Eugene Peterson's translation in The Message:

"Be wary of the shrewd advice that tells you how to get ahead in the world on your own. Giving, not getting is the way. Generosity begets generosity. Stinginess impoverishes."

Get it?

I don't think many have - (see the words of Isiah (6:9-10) as adapted by Jesus in Mark 4:12) - but I think the work done by folks like Mulbrandon, Miller, Noah, Bartels, Klein and Maddow are beginning to have some effect.

This morning's headline in the New York Times included this article "House GOP Leader Signals He's Open to Obama Tax Cut" and this quote:

The House Republican leader, John A. Boehner, on Sunday opened the door to a compromise on the contentious issue of the Bush-era tax cuts, saying he would vote to maintain lower rates for families earning less than $250,000 even if President Obama and Democrats insisted on ending the cuts for wealthier Americans.

Oh, yes, sir. We insist, sir. Very insistently, sir.

I don't know if Boehner has been watching Rachel Maddow's show, or reading Catherine Mulbrandon's chart or the words of Jesus, but I think something has had an effect. Maybe he's been exploring "the areas of interaction design and data visualization" and his "intuitive process" has finally kicked in.

You know, it's okay if Boehner doesn't really get it. Jesus also said, "The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow and he does not know how." (Mark 4:26).

In other words, the way God's Realm grows in the world is really beyond human understanding or control. Even so, people may recognize its progress and have a part to play in it.

Bottom line: Generosity begets generosity. Stinginess impoverishes.

Or, in the words of the immortal Billie Holiday and Arthur Herzog:

Money, you've got lots of friends
Crowding round the door
When you're gone and spending ends
They don't come no more
Rich relations give
Crust of bread and such
You can help yourself
But don't take too much
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child
that's got his own

Let anyone with ears to hear listen!

And those who "explore the areas of interaction design and data visualization" intuit.

I Dream of Peace

In my mind's eye, deep where memories are stored, I remember how beautiful the morning began. Crisp. Clear. Incredibly blue skies. A brilliant sun.

A day much like today.

I remember driving down Central Avenue in Newark on my way to my office in the Diocesan Center on Mulberry Street. I remember making my way up an incline just before the Cemetary and seeing dark clouds billowing up ahead. I remember thinking there must be an incredible fire burning at one of the abandoned mills by the Passaic River.

I remember how suddenly life became a fugue. Did I turn on my radio first or did Ms. Conroy call me? Or did it happen all at once? I remember bits of information coming at me all at once. "World Trade Center." "Explosion." "Attack."

Attack?

Impossible!

This is America. We don't get attacked! (No, we attack!)

Julie!

I remembered having had a conversation with our daughter the night before. She had a late morning appointment at the World Trade Center.

Oh, sweet Jesus! Oh, no, oh no, oh, no. oh, no! Please God!

Deep in my memories, I remember walking into the Diocesan office Building. I remember seeing grim faces. I remember hearing, "Up on the roof." I remember taking the stairs up - my feet not even touching any of the stairs on any of the six flights - and meeting my colleagues there.

I stood, slack jawed, as we all watched the smoke billowing from the first Tower. As I was trying to get my head wrapped around what my eyes were seeing, I saw it. A plane came 'round and slammed into the other Tower.

It was surreal. We all gasped in horror.

This was no dream. This was nightmare in real time.

It was real. Very real.

I remember how my stomach was in a tight knot until Julie was finally able to get through on her cell phone - around three in the afternoon - to say she was okay.

I remember feeling so grateful that she was safe that I knew I had to go into The City to help. I stayed two days, helping at the Seamen's Church Institute, a few blocks from what will forever be known as Ground Zero.

I remember the heat - intense, searing. The smell - acrid, like death. The dust and ashes - pulverized concrete, steel, human flesh and bone. The faces of the firemen, police, first responders, neighbors, and volunteers. The way they had to come in to change their boots because the rubber soles had melted.

I hear the words of a Judy Collins song - one she wrote after she visited the destruction of the city of Sarajevo.She wrote it, using the words of some of the children she saw when she was there.

War's a wicked bird that never comes to rest
Feeding on the dreams of all the children
War's an evil bird flying in the dark
Every holy promise has been broken

Nine years have passed since that crystal clear September morning when the skies were filled with dark billows of ash and soot.

Nine years filled with the reality of "The War Against Terrorism". "Homeland Security." "The Taliban." "The Evil Axis of Power."

Soldiers at the airport, carrying large rifles. In the subway - which didn't run anymore past Chambers Street. Don't take the tunnels into The City. The bridges are probably safer. But, probably not by much.

Then began an immoral war started by a Shrub from Texas. Retaliation. Iraq. Afghanistan.

The boogey-man of our youth now become a swarthy, thin man, dressed in long robes and a cloth wrapped around his head.

Satan had a new name: "Saddam Hussein".

We know because everyone tells us so - especially the televangelists who also tell us that all of this happened because of abortion and "the gays."

Life becomes part of the Theater of The Absurd which seems to re-open every few years with the same old tired script of hatred and ignorance and fear, but with a new cast of characters.

A "God-fearing, bible-believing Christian" man in Gainesville, Florida, feels "called by God" to call his church to burn the Qu'ran in protest of the proposed Islamic Community Center in lower Manhattan.

Nine years of being fed the Bread of Fear - risen by the yeast of greed, baked in the ovens of corruption - will do that.

But, in my mind's eye, deep where memories are stored, I also remember times of peace. When I close my eyes, I push aside the memories of the horror of terrorism and war and dream a dream of peace.

I hear the refrain of Judy Collins'. It comes to me as a lullaby. It comes to me to inspire my dreams.

But when I close my eyes
I dream of peace
I dream of flowers on the hill
I dream I see my mother smiling
When I close my eyes
I dream of peace.

No, we will never forget. How could we?

The death toll of the three attacks - The Twin Towers in New York, the Pentagon in Arlington, VA and a field in rural Shanksville, PA - stands at 2,996 people, including the 19 hijackers. The overwhelming majority of casualties were civilians, including nationals of over 70 countries.

Can we also remember that the almost 3,000 casualties of 9/11 include approximately sixty Muslims?

If we remember all the other facts about that fateful day, nine years ago, we must also remember that.

If we conveniently forget our Muslim sisters and brothers who also died in the attacks by a radical Islamic religious sect, we diminish our own hopes for peace.

If we dream a dream of peace, we can begin to hope for it.

If we can hope for peace, we can begin to imagine it.

If we can imagine peace, be can begin to work for it.

On this ninth anniversary of an event which has left its permanent scar on our land and in our hearts, and seared itself to our memory, let us also remember peace.

Let us dream a dream of peace. It begins with me. It begins with you.

It is the best memorial we can create for all who lost their lives, all who lost their dreams, all who lost their hopes on that fateful day, nine years ago today.

Let us remember peace so we can make it our reality.

When you close your eyes
Do you dream of peace?
Do you dream of flowers on the hill?
Do you dream, you see your mother smiling
When you close your eyes
Do you dream of peace?

Life on L.S.D.

The Really Big News here on LSD (Lower, Slower Delaware) is that yesterday, the road was paved.

Folks are still talking about it this morning. Everybody said it was really quite something - wasn't it? - to watch those boys put down the pavement, spread it around, then bring out those big machines to roll it flat.

Why, people actually pulled up their lawn chairs to the end of the driveway, just to watch all the goings on and the particulars of the art of paving a road. I hear Mrs. Johnson brought out a big pitcher of her famous iced peach tea - even gave some to the workers on their break.

And, oh my, can't you still smell it this morning? Maybe just a little? But it was Really Bad last night, wasn't it? Why, you could almost see the vapors coming in through the walls, it got so bad there at one point, didn't it?

Well, and it's a good thing they got it done, isn't it? 'Bout time. We've only been complaining for the past coupla years. The only bad thing now is if some of these teenagers start getting their parents to get them those motorized golf carts and they start having drag races up and down the street like they did over at Pot Nets.

You heard about that, right? Terrible noise. Kids! What's wrong with their parents? Could be dangerous. Put up a $25 fine. Had to get the cops involved and everything.

Really? I asked. I don't know. Something about 'drag races' with golf carts seems pretty funny. I mean, how fast can they go, really? Five, maybe ten miles per hour? And they can't make too much noise - not like cars or motorcycles . . . .

. . . . Silence.

Nobody's smiling, except Mr. Schleimacher has a decidedly impish grin peeking out from under the brim of his John Deere cap which covers most of his face when he turns it down to stare at his shoes so his wife can't see.

So . . . . wasn't the corn good this year?

Thus passed another early morning conversation with some of my neighbors.

We're not in the Northeast Corridor anymore, Dorothy.

I don't think I ever really had regular conversations with my neighbors there. Oh, occasionally. If they caught you (or you caught them) at just the right time of day and in the right mood you just MIGHT have an actually conversation and not simply a perfunctory exchange of howdy-do's.

Here in LSD, people actively engage you in conversation. Sentences are often punctuated - in the middle or at the end - with a question designed to pull you into the conversation. Or a statement is constructed as part of a question, soliciting your agreement or opinion.

I haven't met a "busybody" in my neighborhood. You know - the kind who like to make statements as a prelude to asking you a personal question. Oh, I'm sure they're here. They are everywhere. I just haven't met 'em. Yet.

No gossips, either. Old Mr. Ollis checks in on the elderly and lets us know if they need special tending to. He stopped by in his golf cart just the other day to tell us that Old Mrs. Simonelli had a fall but one of her grand kids stopped by about 10 minutes later and she's okay.

I should note that the unofficial rule is that anyone who's lived here longer than 20 years is called "Old Mr/Mrs/Ms so-and-So" which is really short for "Good Old . .."

Or, if one is past the age of 85 one is referred to as "Old Mr/Mrs/Ms So-and-So" - because your really are considered "ancient of days".  But, it's said with reverence and respect.  A signal that we all ought to look in on the fragile elderly among us occasionally and be sure they're okay so they can continue to live independently for as long as they can.

"Old Mr. Ollis" is in his mid-70s, but has lived here for about 25 years. We can rely on him to cart bulk trash off to the landfill over on Rte 5, fix a ripped screen, mow your lawn, or repair a leaky pipe.

If you call him on the phone and he's not there, the message you get is his wife saying, "You have reached The Ollis' and Ollis' Small Jobs." He and his wife fill us in on the details of the community - on a "need to know" basis, of course.

Good Old Mr. Ollis.

That doesn't mean that there haven't been the usual curious questions about the new full time neighbor at the end of the street - Where're you from? What do you do? How'd you come here? - or a few gentle pokes into the particulars of my life.

Like the conversation I had with Mrs. Hollyfield the other day, who clearly knew about "my situation". I guess the sign we put up on the house a few years ago that reads, "Welcome to Llangollen" might have given it away. I mean, these days, everyone can google, can't they?

"Don't get me wrong," she said, "I love my husband - he's a dear, dear man and has been a good father and provider - but after God takes him, there won't be another man in my house, I can tell you that. No sir. You know? One man is enough, if you get my point. Maybe more than enough," she laughed.

"If it weren't for the sex, you know, I would have been very happy living with another woman. Then again," she laughed, "if I had known the sex wouldn't last very long, I might have changed my mind from the very beginning!"

We both giggled like naughty school girls.

"Well," I said, trying to keep my tone light, "I don't think that's something one can change one's mind about, you know?"

"Oh, of course!" she said, "You are the way God made you, and God made you a beautiful person. I'm sure your partner is a good person, too. She's a nurse, Mr. Ollis said. A hospice nurse. God love her. A hospice nurse and a priest! How wonderful! God bless you both."

"Well, thank you," I said, a bit taken aback that we had obviously been part of someone's conversation at some point. I shouldn't have been. Mr. Ollis gives out information on a "need to know" basis. I'm sure she just connected the dots.

"We'll be celebrating our 34th Anniversary next month," I added, mostly out of my own discomfort. I suppose I wanted to add some legitimacy to her praise.

"Thirty-four years!" she exclaimed. "Bob and I just celebrated our 58th. God is good!"

"Now, listen to me," she said, lowering her voice, "not everyone around here is as . . . . accepting . . . you know? Some may give you a hard time. Oh, they'll be pleasant and won't do you any harm but they really won't TALK with you. Know what I mean?"

"Sounds pretty much like North Jersey to me," I said, "but that's because there, people live such busy, important lives, you know?"

"Oh, I'm from Philly," she said. "Same thing. Same thing in Boston and Chicago and almost anywhere these days. Sad, you know? Such a rat race."

I nodded my head, just really beginning to understand my own failings.

"Prejudice and ignorance are everywhere, too. It's really not them," she said. "It's what they've been taught. What they hear in some of those God-awful churches they got around here with pastors who act all humble and such but I call them 'God's Peacocks'. They strut and preen and talk about Jesus, but it's really all about them, isn't it? Never seen such insecure people in my whole life! They just pick on the gays because somebody's got to be lower than them. Makes them think they look better. Just makes them look ignorant - like they don't know anything about Jesus."

"Holier-than-thou," she muttered between her clenched teeth.

"Like that idiot in Florida who wanted to burn the Qu'ran," she said, clearly disgusted. "Or those people in New York City - wanting to stop that Islamic Community Center from being built! They give Republicans a bad name!"

I giggled softly. 

"Non-denominational churches!" she muttered.  "You won't find Methodists doing anything like that!" she said, straightening her shoulders as she exclaimed, "I'm Methodist. We're all about social justice. It's in the Bible, despite what Glenn Beck says, but what would he know, him being a Mormon and all, you know?"

"Oh, and, covered dish suppers!" she laughed as she said, "You'll have to come to our next one. End of September. I'll get you the date. Or, buy our cook book. I can let you have one for five dollars. Two of my recipes made it in there. You'll love it!"

She took my hand in hers, like an old friend I had just met for the first time, and said, "Just don't pay them any mind. You just keep being the beautiful person you are, loving God and helping people the way you do. You and your partner. Okay?"

"You bet," I said, grateful for her words.

And that, as they say, was that.

I walked up the street, checked the mail, got The NY Times at Perry's One Stop at the top of the street, and talked a bit with the some of the Baymen at Perry's Bait Shop next door before I walked back home, got another cup of coffee and moved to my spot on the deck that faces the water.

The fish are really jumping this morning. The herons, egrets, gulls and ducks are loving this milder weather. I spotted a family of green heron in the marsh the other day and was absolutely delighted to spot them again this morning. Mama is out now, teaching the young to feast on the grasshoppers and other insects that call the marsh their home.

It's going to be a huge adjustment, learning to live a slower paced life on LSD.

But, I think I'll survive. Might even thrive.

I might just have to get myself back to the Northeast Corridor every once in a while. Just to remind myself of what I'm missing.

And, what I've got right here.  You know?

A Nimrod in Florida

I don't know whether to be astonished, embarrassed, angry or disgusted by the story of the Gainesville, Florida pastor's plan to burn hundreds of copies of the Qu'aran on the eve of the Anniversary of 9/11.

I suppose I'm experiencing a bit of all of those emotions.

It's such a primal, primitive thing, isn't it? The power of fire to burn away the forces of Evil. It calls up images of ancient tribes dancing in a circle around a bonfire to ward off the evil forces of the enemy.

It's a tribal thing, really. Something from the pre-modern world. Superstitious beliefs based on ignorance and fear. In my mind's eye, I keep seeing images of women believed to be witches burning at the stake during the Salem Witch Trials.

It seems all a part of the Theater of The Absurd.

It's almost humorous - in the way a cartoon from one of Gary Larson's "The Far Side" collection reaches into the deep recesses of the reptilian part of my brain and makes me laugh.

I'm remembering one of my favorites. In the first frame, a big hulk of a guy stands in front of a towel dispenser in the men's room, reading the instructions: "Pull down. Tear up."

The next frame shows that the guy has pulled down and torn up the entire towel dispenser.

I suppose I thought about that particular cartoon because that's the way Pastor Terry Jones is reading select parts of Christian Scripture.  Funny, right?

Except, the scene unfolding at the "Dove World Outreach Center" (how ironic is that?) in Gainesville, Florida is anything but funny - even to the reptilian parts of my brain.

It's part and parcel of the Islamophobia which has infected this country of late, seen in all of its recent ugly, angry manifestation at 51Park, the proposed Islamic Community Center in lower Manhattan, brought to its "logical" conclusion. Except, it won't end there. Because, this kind of theological belligerence has no real logic except that of ignorance and hatred and fear.

The Gainesville Pastor of a tiny (a reported 50-100 members, depending on the source) non-denominational evangelical Christian church says that he feels "called by God," based on what he reads in Christian scripture, to "send a message" to all Muslims that their religion is evil and to "peaceful Muslims" to "continue being peaceful."

So, he started a Facebook page called "International Burn A Koran Day" - which almost immediately launched him into well more than his fifteen minutes of fame.

He says that the FBI, CIA and Homeland Security have all contacted him, asking him, in the name of national and international security, to change his plans.

Even General David Petraeus has expressed concerns that this may spark anti-American violence among extremists in Afghanistan and around the world. It would be detrimental and dangerous, especially, he says, to U.S. troops serving in Afghanistan.

Jones says that he shares that concern. "It's hard for people to believe, but we actually feel this is a message that we have been called to bring forth," he said last week. "And because of that, we do not feel like we can back down."

Jones says he has received over 100 death threats. So, he and some of his members are 'packing heat' - walking around with guns strapped to their bodies as they walk around the church grounds and pray in the church.

Please note that, according to Jones, the Qu'ran is "evil" because it espouses something other than the Christian biblical truth and incites radical, violent behavior among Muslims.

Pot, meet kettle.

Pull down. Tear up.

As faithful Muslims who observe the closing days of Ramadan pray ardently to Allah, faithful Jews pray to Yahweh as they celebrate the New Year with Rosh Hashanah. This is a holy time - a Holy Season - for many of God's children.

Jews, Christians, and Muslims consider Abraham father of the people of Israel. For Jews and Christians this is through his son Isaac, by his wife Sarah. For Christians, Jesus is our Great Prophet in whom we all share in his Priesthood. For Muslims, Abraham is a prophet of Islam and the ancestor of Muhammad through his other son Ishmael, born to him by Sarah's handmaiden, Hagar.

Although called by different names and worshiped in different ways, Christians, Jews and Muslims all share the same One God. It all comes down to a question of spiritual and theological legitimacy - and whose Word is more sacred, more holy.

Meanwhile, the ninth anniversary of 9/11 fast approaches. Images of the destruction of the Twin Towers loom like the ancient Tower of Babylon.

It is an image filled with ironic symbolism.

Although the Bible never states this explicitly, the Tower of Babel is assumed to have been built by Nimrod, the son of Cush, grandson of Ham, and a great grandson of Noah, who was depicted in Scripture as a man of power and a great hunter.

The legend of Nimrod and the Tower of Babel is that Nimrod ordered the Tower to be built not to the honor and glory of God, but as a means to lure the people from their dependence up God and to bring them into constant dependence upon his power.

The idea of this great grandson of Noah was to thumb his nose at the God who once tried to destroy the world, if God should ever have a mind to drown the world again. Nimrod would build a tower too high for the waters to reach. In so doing, he would avenge his ancestors for destroying their forebears.

Scripture (Genesis 11: 1-9) tells us that when God saw that the people acted so madly, S/he did not resolve to destroy them. Instead, God caused a tumult among them, by producing in them diverse languages, and causing that, through the multitude of those languages, they should not be able to understand one another.

Well, good work, God. Mission accomplished. We seem to have many Nimrods who have built many symbolic towers to our own honor and glory. We increasingly rely on our own power and not Yours. We remain confused and fearful and angry. We don't understand one another and are constantly at war with one another, leading us further and further away from building up your Kingdom, your Realm of Peace.

Except, of course, for Christians, the story of the Tower of Babel is redeemed by the story of Pentecost: "And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. And there were dwelling at Jerusalem Jews, devout men, out of every nation under heaven. Now when this was noised abroad, the multitude came together, and were confounded, because that every man heard them speak in his own language." (Acts 2:1-6)

I suspect "Pastor Nimrod" in Gainesville, Florida has not gotten that far in his reading of Holy Scripture.

I'm going to leave you with a few other images - ones of healing and kindness. The following is a video by Sami Yusuf, a British-Iranian Azeri Muslim singer-songwriter. The music he composes and the lyrics he writes relate mainly to Islam and being a Muslim in a rapidly changing, post-modern world.

The BBC has dubbed him "The King of Muslim Pop."

Yusuf is a devoutly spiritual Muslim and often uses his art and music as a means of promoting the messages of love, mercy, peace and tolerance, which he reads in the Qu'ran. He strongly encourages Islamic youth to be proud of their identity.

Yusuf says of this song, "It is an attempt to honor the small acts of kindness. It is a tribute to those who sacrifice and stand up for good even when it's hard, even when it's tough -- it is an embodiment of gracious generosity in practice."

I think that's exactly what's called for in response to the 9/11 event being planned by a modern day Nimrod: Healing through simple, small acts of kindness.

It's what Jesus would do. And, Muhammad. And, Moses. And, the Buddha.

And all who love truly love the One God who loves us all. Each and every one.

How old is 'old enough'?

I'm waaaayyy too young to have become an old fart, but a recent experience made me fear it's starting to happen, despite my best efforts.

I fear I'm no longer "cool" - or understand what it is anymore.

Last week, as I was preparing to move to Delaware, I was really looking forward to picking up my granddaughter in South Jersey and spending some time with her on the ride and in my new home. She had told me that her father had fixed up his iPod Touch and downloaded "her" music on it so she could listen to "her" favorites during the two hour ride.

Look, I understand. I have "my" music and "my" favorites, too, which includes Stevie Nicks, Arrowsmith, and Mötley Crüe, as well as Billy Joel, Sweet Baby James Taylor, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and almost anything MoTown. I'm also quite fond of Black Eyed Peas, Dave Matthews Band, Dixie Chicks, Girlyman, James Blunt and Mika, to name just a few. I like some opera as well as jazz. My musical tastes are pretty eclectic.

Besides, it was my generation who said, "Never trust anyone over the age of 30."

I might have been a bit touchy because just the week before, I had driven our daughter Julie and our granddaughter Mackie to the rehearsal dinner the night before Mia and Bob's wedding in Ms. Lucy True Bug - top down, music cranked up, singing to some of the tunes on my iPod at the top of our voices.

Mackie knew some of the songs, but wanted to hear some of "her" music, but didn't have her iPod with her. Of course she wanted some of "her" music. She loves Taylor Swift. Adores her. Went to see her in concert. Still has stars in her eyes when she talks about the experience. (Note to self: Download some Taylor Swift this afternoon.)

Julie had downloaded "California Gurls" by Katy Perry (with Snoop Dogg) on her iPod. I had heard it, of course, but was amazed that they knew ALL the words - even the Snoop Dogg rap part.

I was even more surprised that a few of the lyrics made me squirm when I heard a nine year old sing them: "California girls / We're unforgettable / Daisy Dukes / Bikinis on top / Sun-kissed skin / So hot / Will melt your popsicle / Oooooh Oh Oooooh."

Okay, so "Daisy Dukes" - of the TV program "The Dukes of Hazzard" - was a 70s show that saw a bit of a revival when Jessica Simpson played the role of Daisy in the 2005 movie version. "Daisy Dukes" has come to mean the very short denim shorts worn by that character.

Hmm . . . but, about the "melt your popsicle" reference. . . . As we sang and I watched my daughter and granddaughter "put their hands up" and sing with absolute abandon, I considered that this nine year old didn't really understand what she was singing - and that the sexual connotation didn't seem to register with my 30-something daughter. I figured I was probably over-reacting to the fact that this wasn't "my" music.

Besides, it was just flat-out fun to be singing together in the car - three generations of us - celebrating the impending marriage of someone we dearly loved to a young man who would soon become part of our family. Already had, in many ways.

So, while I was getting a cup of coffee to go at Starbucks, I picked up the latest CD by Katy Perry - the one with the Cotton Candy theme - and thought, if Mackie didn't have it on her iPod touch, I could play "California Gurls" for her and we could sing again. I would redeem myself and be a "really cool Nana". Indeed, I might even give her the whole CD. Wouldn't that be "cool"?

I did notice the "parental advisory" on the front and figured I should listen to the whole CD before giving it to her. Probably a few f-bombs littered here and there, I thought, which I could advance and skip over. If that were the case, maybe I would keep the CD for myself, if I liked it.

I remembered playing the 8-track cassette (Gee, maybe I really AM that old), of "A Chorus Line" in the car when my children were Mackie's age. I would skip over "Tits and Ass" even though they knew the song from listening to it at their friends houses.

"Awwwww, Mommmmma," they would groan. "We already know what they're singing."

"I know," I would say, "But you won't be singing it in my car."

Somebody has to hold the line. That's part of a parent's job, isn't it?

WELL!!!! Good thing I had plenty of time on the ride to South Jersey.

So, the first song is "Teenage Dream". An upbeat, bouncy tune with lyrics that have sexual innuendo written all over them: "Let's go all the way tonight / No regrets, just love / We can dance until we die / You and I / We'll be young forever."

Okay, okay. So I remember when the Everly Brother's song "Wake Up, a-little Suzy" was banned from the airwaves because of the lyric, "The movie wasn't so hot / it didn't have much of a plot / We fell asleep / Our goose is cooked / Our reputation is shot."

Just as I was mulling over whether or not to skip this one, the next song came on: "Last Friday Night". A few upbeat cords to open the song. Then, she starts to sing: "There's a stranger in my bed/ There's a pounding my head / Glitter all over the room / Pink flamingos in the pool / I smell like a minibar / DJ's passed out in the yard / Barbie's on the barbeque / There's a hickie or a bruise / Pictures of last night / Ended up online/ I'm screwed / Oh well / It's a black top blur / But I'm pretty sure it ruled."

I'm no prude, but I confess that my jaw dropped. By the time she got to the part about "menage a trois" I immediately skipped over it and went onto the next cut on the CD.

There are a few other tunes which aren't bad. "Firework" is passable. "Circle the Drain" - drops an f-bomb but it's about her being fed up with her boyfriend's addiction. "The One that Got Away." All modern anthems to old teenage themes.

And then, there was "Peacock". I don't know if you're ready for this. I certainly wasn't, but here goes: "Wanna see your peacock, cock, cock / Your peacock, cock / Your peacock, cock, cock / Your peacock / I wanna see your peacock, cock, cock."

I know sex sells. But I mean. Really?

This is a long, long way from back in the day when my parents had a fit because "Elvis the Pelvis" was on The Ed Sullivan Show. They finally decided to let me watch it because my mother remembered her parents not wanting her to watch Frank Sinatra.

"Someday," she said, with a touch of something unmistakable in her voice that defied my young years to define, "you'll be a mother and you'll understand."

I don't think either one of us could have imagined that there would one day be a young woman named Katy Perry who would sing, "Are you brave enough to let me see your peacock? / What you're waiting for, it's time for you to show it off / Don't be a shy kinda guy I'll bet it's beautiful / Come on baby let me see / Whatchu hidin' underneath."

Needless to say, I slid the CD into my purse so Mackie wouldn't see it and grumbled that I had actually paid $10, thinking I'd give her the CD, when in fact I would only play one song on the damn thing.

I mean, I'm glad for the 'parental advisory' on the front of the CD cover. But, really? This is what passes for "pop music"?

I really don't know how to compare it to anything else in pop culture because I confess that I don't listen to much on either commercial television or radio. Oh, I like some of Beyonce's stuff and I think Lady GaGa's music is much more artful than her . . . um . .. "presentation" (frankly, I think their videos are nothing but soft porn - whatever that is), but I find most of it pretty vapid.

I'm really not "old fashioned", I don't think, but isn't this stuff just a bit beyond the pale? Have we, at long last, lost all sense of decency?

Help me out here, friends. Is this stuff you listen to? I'm not passing judgment, I'm just really curious.

How old does one have to be to find this music - well, not the music, which is fine, but the lyrics - "acceptable"? For you or your children or grandchildren?

What are the parameters here? Where do the lines get drawn? How do you decide? How do you deal with 'peer pressure' when curiosity begins to peak and hormones are beginning to surge through pre-adolescent bodies? When do songs like this begin to provide tacit permission to behaviors that kids are simply not ready for?

How old is 'old enough' and how old is 'old fashioned'?

A few days later, Mackie saw the CD which I had placed near the other CDs at the music center in the living room.

"Oooo, Katy Perry," she squealed as she started to dance and sing, "California Gurls, we're unforgettable. Fine, fresh, fierce, we got it on lock. West Coast represents, so put your hands up. Oooooh Oh Oooooh."

"Can we listen to the whole CD?" she asked.

"Look at the lower left hand corner of the CD cover," I said.

Her face fell, "Parental advisory. Awww." She put the CD away and said, "Okay."

Okay? Okay! So, okay.

No argument. She understood. She got it.

Obviously, her parents are doing a great job setting the boundaries and defining the parameters. I'm not alone in this. And, neither are they.

This is good. This is very good.

I heard my mother's voice saying, "Someday, you'll be a mother and you'll understand."

I think I am finally able to define that unmistakable tone in my mother's voice. It has to do with the sadness of sensing the end of innocence mixed with the challenge of beginning to set boundaries to protect as much of it as you possibly can.

It has to do with letting go a bit so your kids can discover for themselves who they really are as unique individuals while still setting the parameters on expected behavior for being members of this family.

It does take a village to raise a child. Indeed, I think it is even more important now than when we actually lived in villages.

Funny thing is, I'm not feeling quite so old any more.

I'm feeling 'old enough' to be a contributing member of the village. A part of something important. Vital. Still an active participant in shaping the future.

And still pretty "cool," if I do say so myself.

"Nana's represent, so put your hands up. Oooooh Oh Oooooh."

Summer, 2010

The rumor is that Summer has "officially" ended.

Yesterday, there was a "funeral" for Summer 2010 down at Bethany Beach. Jazz Band. Coffin. People in costumes. The place was packed.

Happens every year, I understand.

The calendar in my new home office says that Autumn "officially" begins with the "autumnal equinox, scheduled for September 22, 2010 in the Northern Hemisphere."

It's one of two times a year when the Sun crosses the equator from north to south, and the day and night are of approximately equal length. The other time, of course, is during the vernal equinox, also known as “the first point of Aries,” the point at which the Sun appears to cross the celestial equator from south to north. This occurs about March 21, marking the beginning of spring in the Northern Hemisphere.

It would appear that the rumors of the death of summer, like those once circulated about Mark Twain, have been greatly exaggerated.

It's a glorious morning here on Rehoboth Bay. At 7 AM, the temperature was 74 degrees out on my deck with a warm, gentle wind coming up from the west across Indian River. The sky holds a few billowy white clouds which slowly float by like great fluffs of whipped cream in a dish of melted blueberry ice cream.

The heron, egrets and gulls are feasting on breakfast in the marshes. A pair of gulls suddenly fly up from the marshes, squabbling over a small fish one has in her beak. An occasional fish jumps over the ripples in the water, daring his predators to interrupt or end his joy.

Nothing seems either to have ended or begun - except another day in the last few, glorious days of the Season of Summer.

I must say, however, that it is noticeably quieter here this morning. Fewer cars in fewer driveways. More and fuller trash cans out for pick up later this morning. I have not heard one boat pass by the house this morning, where there had been at least a dozen by this time yesterday morning.

The parking meters will begin to disappear from some of the streets in Rehoboth and free parking will soon return to the entire city. Soon and very soon, I'll be able to put away the container of quarters I normally carry around in the car during July and August.

I'm thinking that perhaps it's not such a bad thing to send out the rumor that Labor Day is the "official" End of Summer. It saves the last few days of this glorious season for those who know that the world is not ruled by Madison Avenue or Wall Street but rather by the ancient rhythm of the days, which can not be tamed by keeping them locked away behind the bars of a dollar sign.

I found myself singing that wonderful hymn - #8 in the 1982 Hymnal, with those glorious words by Geoffrey Anketel Studdert-Kennedy, and haunting melody by Elkanah Kelsay Dare - as part of my morning prayer:

Not here for high and holy things
we render thanks to thee,
but for the common things of earth,
the purple pageantry
of dawning and of dying days,
the splendor of the sea,

the royal robes of autumn moors,
the golden gates of spring,
the velvet of soft summer nights,
the silver glistering
of all the million million stars,
the silent song they sing,

of faith and hope and love undimmed,
undying still through death,
the resurrection of the world,
what time there comes the breath
of dawn that rustles through the trees,
and that clear voice that saith:

Awake, awake to love and work!
The lark is in the sky,
the fields are wet with diamond dew,
the worlds awake to cry
their blessings on the Lord of life,
as he goes meekly by.

Come, let thy voice be one with theirs,
shout with their shout of praise;
see how the giant sun soars up,
great lord of years and days!
So let the love of Jesus come
and set thy soul ablaze,

to give and give, and give again,
what God hath given thee;
to spend thyself nor count the cost;
to serve right gloriously
the God who gave all worlds that are,
and all that are to be.

Let the end of Summer, 2010 begin. It's all a gift, anyway. Something to be enjoyed and used to the honor and glory of God. Until it ends and a new Season in the Cycle of Life begins.

It's the resurrection of the world, carried out right before our very eyes. Every day. Day by day.

We can mourn its passing or enjoy its presence while it's here. Now. The choice is ours.

Either way, the Lord of Life allows us to do with the day whatever we will - to squander it foolishly or squeeze it out to the very last drop, until the blue sky drips slowly into the dark of night, only to follow the light of the stars into the brightness of a new morning.

Today - This Day, which the Lord has made - is absolutely glorious, no matter where in the Season or on the calendar it happens to land.

You'll excuse me while I dive into it.

Why I like folding laundry

Last night, I called Jon Richardson to check in on his first day as Priest In Charge of his new parish in Jersey City, NJ.

For those of you who may not know, Jon was my seminarian for two years. He returned to spend last year as Interim Youth Missioner with me. One of the real joys was having him ordained to the priesthood last December at St. Paul's.

So, I called to check in on his first day in his new congregation. He preached a fine sermon which you can read here.

He said it went well - just a few "hiccups" in the liturgy - but that he had spent the afternoon clearing out the back yard of the rectory property, which had been grown over by weeds. He's gotten it to the point where he's actually planted some grass seed and some of it is starting to sprout.

He was watering it with large containers of water, but when he cleared out some more of the bramble, he saw that there was an outside water faucet. Unfortunately, he discovered that it had frozen and burst in some frigid past winter season, and he set out to fix that. After the faucet was fixed, he then found a hose in the basement which he hooked up and is now able to regularly water his newly sprouting lawn.

I laughed and said, "Well, Jon, now that you've gone through all this trouble, you've just made yourself a whole lot more work. I mean, that grass is going to have to be cut, you know."

"I know," he said with a chuckle and then told me a story about his Dad, who is a now retired Methodist pastor. Back in the day, however, when he and the family lived in the parsonage, someone from the church would always come by and offer to cut the grass on the lawn.

His Dad would always decline saying, "You know, there's so much I do in ministry that I don't get to see the results. At least, when I cut the lawn, I can look behind me and see what I've done."

I understand. Completely.

Which is why I like to fold the laundry.

There's something about taking the towels out of the dryer or off the clothes line and smelling their freshness. I love to put them all in a great pile on the bed or on the kitchen table and take a moment to stand back and look at the disorganized mess that's there.

Then, slowly, one by one, I take out the towels and fold them just the way my mother folded them - and her mother before her. It's always in thirds across the broad end of the towel and, depending on the size of the towel, in thirds again lengthwise.

My grandmother said that all work can become prayer if you remember something about God as you're doing it. Towels - like pillow cases and sheets and tablecloths - are folded in thirds, she said, so as to remind you of the mystery of the Trinity. She encouraged me to say - or sing - the Doxology as I worked.

As each towel is folded, I love to stack them up on each other to take to the linen closet where they are transferred to the shelves. I love to put them all in order and then, once again, stand back to appreciate my work before I close the door.

I sometimes actually feel my shoulders lighten as I walk away from the linen closet. I can feel my step become a little quicker as I glance back over my shoulder at my humble accomplishment.

There is something deeply soul-satisfying about manual labor like folding clothes, cleaning house, mowing the lawn. Some of us don't know this satisfaction because we hire others to do it for us - housekeepers, gardeners, etc.

Indeed, we just said farewell to our housekeeper, Linda, who was part of our family for the last 14 years. She was with us in Maplewood and Chatham, coming once a week, every week, on Friday morning.

She's from Brazil and would often challenge me by speaking in Portuguese, forcing my memory banks into overdrive to try and keep up. We sometimes worked together, side-by-side, to accomplish a major seasonal cleaning challenge.

We've known each other through her divorce, the death of her youngest brother, and I went to court with her when she and her daughter gained American citizenship.

What I know from my family roots - which were reinforced in my relationship with Linda - is that there is enormous dignity in humble acts of service.

Linda always took great pride in my clean rectory. She had an air of dignity about her as she went about all her seemingly menial tasks. She liked to say - by way of boasting and reminding herself of the purpose of her work - that it was her money which allowed for most of her family to come to this country "for a fresh start".

In case you didn't know, this - THIS - is why we celebrate Labor Day.

It's not just the "official" end of the summer season. Neither is it just the beginning of the Baseball Pennant Season which segues into the start of the NFL and College Football Seasons or NASCAR racing.

Labor Day is a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. Celebrated on the first Monday of September, it constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country.

Most of those 'workers' came to this country for a 'fresh start' - or a new beginning. Many of the threads of the Labor movement are tied up in the whole cloth of the Immigration movement.

These workers not only form the foundation of the "strength, prosperity and well-being of our country," they are the invisible threads of dignity that remind us of the principles on which this country was founded.

I remember them not just on Labor Day but every time I fold laundry, as well.

I give thanks to my grandmother who worked as a domestic on Beacon Hill in Boston when she first immigrated to this country when she was 15 years old.

I give thanks to my mother who worked as an assembly line presser and was a card-carrying member of the ILGWU - the International Lady Garment Worker's Union - as one of the mill girls in Fall River, MA.

I give thanks to all the people who work in factories, or drive trucks, or clean houses or hotels or cut lawns, or work in fast-food restaurants, or on farms - many of whom are not the beneficiaries of the Labor Union Movement and therefore, do menial work for meager wages. I pray that their hope and dignity are never compromised by the low state of their compensation.

Finally, I give thanks for the mystery of the Trinity which gives shape and form to my life - how the third generation grand daughter of a lowly peasant woman had the opportunity for a fine education and a lovely home on Rehoboth Bay on the Delmarva Peninsula of the Eastern Shore of Delaware.

Actually, what I enjoy most is looking behind me - way behind me - and seeing everything I've been able to achieve because of the accomplishments of so many people who've gone before me.

It makes my whole physical and emotional and spiritual being feel lighter and causes my heart to sing.

And, you thought I was just folding laundry.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

I posted a question on my FaceBook page yesterday morning and a very spirited conversation ensued.

My question was this:

My new rector is "Fr. Max". Long tradition of calling rectors "Fr." here. So, he asked me what I wanted to be called. Hmmmm . . . "Mother" is the logical choice, but . . . having said that. . . Not. Really. Comfortable. It's mostly for the kids. Everyone else will call us by our first name. What do you think?

Last time I checked, there were almost 90 comments. Guess I hit a nerve, huh?

I've been in places where I've been called "Mother" or "Mother Elizabeth" - mostly inner city congregations with High Anglo-Catholic traditions. In churches from broad-church traditions, I've been mostly known as "Reverend Elizabeth," - which is still grammatically incorrect but better than being called "Reverend Kaeton," I suppose - if there can be degrees of grammatical incorrectness.

I mean, think about it. The title for a Judge is "The Honorable So-and-So" but s/he is called "Judge So-and-So," or simply, "Your Honor." Not, "Honorable So-and-So."

My title is "The Reverend" but it is grammatically incorrect to use that in a direct address. Folks from more free-church traditions seem to be fine with it. Episcopalians seem to have a particular sticking-point with this.

It's parents who either ask me about - or assume to call me by - my title as a way to emulate and teach respect in front of their children.

Their teachers are called "Mr. Smith" or "Mrs. Jones" or "Ms. Anderson." So are their neighbors. The crossing guard is "Mr. White".  The Librarian is "Ms. Black." Police Officers are also called "Officer Johnson." So, referring to their clergy person with a title is a sign of respect - which I think is good.

Privately, their parents call me by my first name. Well, most do. There have been parents who insist on calling me "Reverend Elizabeth" even in private, personal conversations - even after I've said, "Please, call me 'Elizabeth'". I have come to accept that as their way of reminding me - and them - of how they see me and what they expect of me. And, it's okay.

Funny. In almost every other profession, titles are not gender specific. Doctor. Nurse. Attorney. Judge. Mayor. Senator. Officer. Private. Corporal. Sargent.

Bishop. Deacon. Chaplain. Dean. Canon.

Not Priest.

Lutherans have long used "Pastor" - which I sorta like. "Parson" has a quaint sound. I guess I'm of a certain age that "Elder" rubs me the wrong way.

The Quaker tradition of "Friend" - no matter the status of ordination - is lovely. Egalitarian. Biblical, in fact. It's what Jesus called us - well, those of us he didn't call "Beloved." He saved that title for the "anawim" - the outcast.

As one clergy colleague commented, "I guess the important thing is to make sure you answer when you're called."

Absolutely.

My dilemma has to do with the fact that personally, I don't like the title "Mother". Or, "Father". I think it sets up a very negative relational dynamic. I think it can be infantilizing for parishioners which has the potential to communicate a kind of "respect" that is simply fraught with psychological baggage that is less than helpful in Christian community.

Actually, I think it's hysterical when newly ordained 30-somethings are called "Mother" or "Father". And, if I'm in a group of clergy who are referring to each other as "Mother" or "Father" I almost always, at some point, get a really, really bad case of the giggles and have to leave the room.

Some commented on FaceBook that "Mother" carries a lot of social/cultural baggage. Well, for others, so does "Father". Sometimes, a lot more social/cultural baggage.

However, I think it's important, when there's been a norm established in the community, and the male has a certain title, the woman ought to have the equivalent title. This, for me, is the deal-breaker.

Yes, it's about parity. It's more about respect.

One clergy woman commented on FaceBook: "I went with no title and have now been told that the lack of respect I get is because people call me by my first name ..."

I think there's probably more to the situation, but she may be onto something symptomatic of the larger problem.

I know. I know. Respect has to be earned. Well, let me tell you from personal experience: in the institutional church, a woman who is a priest could walk hand stands for 10 miles, while chanting the Angelus in perfect pitch and key - twice before breakfast - and still not get the respect her male colleagues get just for walking into a room.

In the church, for women, respect is not easily 'earned'. Oh, it may have the outward and visible signs of respect, but it's really just the social graces of learned behavior.

Respect, when afforded to women, is not done so easily or well. In my experience in the church, respect must be the expectation of the ordained woman from her congregation.

This is key: She must first respect herself enough to expect respect from others.

Let me say that again:

A woman must first respect herself enough to expect respect from others.

In my experience, anyway, that's how it works. Other women's experience may be different. The experience of other clergy men may be different - or, the same, depending on their age.

This has been MY experience. This is how I conduct myself and the expectations I go in with in a new social situation.  It has changed - modified some - as I've collected wrinkles and gray hair.  I suspect some of that may be more respect for my age than my gender or my authority.

Bottom line: I have learned to respect myself and to expect respect from others.

When necessary, I insist on it.

You knew I had a story about this:

Very early in my ordained ministry, I was called for jury duty. I did NOT want to serve. It's not that I didn't want to perform my civic duty. At that particular time, I just didn't have time. I had previously served on jury duty. I would have been happy to serve at another time, but this was just a HUGE imposition on me and my community at that time.

So, I wore my collar to jury duty, figuring that no one really wants a clergy person in the jury box. This was one time I thought the negative press about "religious people" might just work in my favor.

Not so. After several hours of milling around a large room filled with other Very Unhappy People. I was called into a jury pool for a case where several employees were suing a large company for asbestosis.

The judge wanted to interview the possible jurors. I was called to take the stand, sworn in by the bailiff, and then the judge addressed me.

"Ummm . . . I see you're a clergy person."

"Yes, your honor," I said, dutifully.

"Well, I'm Catholic," he said, "and we call our clergy 'Father'. What shall I call you?" It was hard not to notice the smirk on his face.

"Well, I'm Anglo-Catholic (I meant that as my theological position but we had not yet begun to think of ourselves as Anglican the way we do now)," I said, "and you may call me 'Mother'."

He just about chocked.

"Uh. . . well . . .in the Catholic church, 'Mother' is a nun."

"Yes, I understand. I used to be Roman Catholic," I said, "But I'm not Roman Catholic any longer. I'm Anglo-Catholic. So, if you call your priests, 'Father', you may call this priest 'Mother'."

"Priest?" he chocked again, "I mean, don't they call you 'Minister'?"

"We're all ministers in baptism," I said, trying to contain my growing disdain for him. "In The Episcopal Church, I am called a 'priest'." I paused for effect:  "Not 'priestess'. Priest."

"Well, isn't there anything else I can call you? I mean, like Reverend? I mean, isn't that what all Protestant clergy are called?"

"You could, I suppose, but you would be grammatically incorrect, your honor. I mean, I wouldn't call you 'Honorable ______'. I'd call you 'Judge _____ ' or simply, 'Your Honor'. And, by the way, I'm not Protestant. I'm Anglo-Catholic."

He grimaced. He shuffled papers. He cleared his throat.

"Well, then . . . . um . . .'Mother' . . . um . . . my first question to you is this: Is there any reason you know that would disqualify you from this case?"

"I'm not sure, your Honor," I said.

"You're not sure?" he raised his eyebrow in response as he lowered his chin onto the palm of his hand and tilted his head to listen to my response.

"No. I mean, well, does it matter that I think the real trial here is not whether or not the company is responsible for these men having asbestosis? Rather, I think that corporate greed is on trial here, and how the bottom line in Corporate America is always more important to the men in those hand-tailored suits and imported Italian shoes than the health and well being of those who work for them."

Yes, I was trying to get out of jury duty, but I had just sworn to tell the "truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." So, I did.

The legal team for the plaintiffs broke into broad smiles. The legal team for the defense looked down at their shoes while they shuffled papers.

I looked back at the judge who was still resting his chin in his hand as he allowed a deep sigh of frustration to escape his lips. He stared at me for a while before the turned to the plaintiff's bench - never moving his chin from his hand.

"Gentlemen?" he asked.

"Oh, we'd LOVE this juror, your Honor. Thank you."

He looked over at the defense team.

"Need I ask?"

"The defense respectfully declines this potential juror, your Honor."

The judge looked back at me in total befuddlement.

"You are excused .. . 'Mother' (he said it like it was half a word) . . .but I reserve the right to keep you for the rest of the day in the potential jury pool."

"Yes, sir," I said. I couldn't resist adding, "I suppose I could find something to do for the next hour or so. If you'd like, I would be happy to provide pastoral care to these gentlemen here - the plaintiff's - while their legal team interviews potential jurors."

"No . . . no . . . um, thank you. That's very . . . um . . . nice of you . . .um . . . but that won't be necessary. You are excused. I mean, if you want, you can leave now. You don't have to wait around."

"Thank you, your honor," I said as I started to leave my seat.

"No, wait," he said. "One more question: Who is your bishop?"

"Excuse me?" I asked, startled.

"Who is your bishop? I want to write him a note and send him my condolences. He certainly has his hands full with you in his diocese."

The courtroom burst into a nervous giggle. I blushed and said, "Well, thank you, I think," and then got the hell out of there before answering his question or risking being sent to another jury pool.

It wasn't until later that I became furious. I mean, really! The judge making a joke about calling my bishop was the absolute HEIGHT of patriarchy. One man in authority sending condolences to another man in authority about "the little woman."

Harumph!

No, I probably hadn't earned his respect, even though I made him use a term that was equal to the status of male clergy in his life. Ultimately, he didn't even fully treat me with respect - making a joke so I would know who was really "in charge".

I just taught him how to behave in public. I can only imagine how I might have been treated - or how he might have treated other ordained women - if I hadn't insisted on at least the social pretense of equality. I know when I'm being "managed" or "tolerated".

I'd like to think that times have changed. Attitudes have changed. There are now three women who serve on the Supreme Court. There are more than a dozen women who are bishops in the Anglican Communion.

Then again, there is a woman who is Presiding Bishop and Primate.

And, we've seen how the Archbishop of Canterbury treats her.

Someone left this comment on my FaceBook page, which I just loved:

"I am reminded of a (perhaps apocryphal) story from the Diocese of Western Michigan where, so it is said, there was a diocesan convention floor debate on what to call women priests. In frustration, someone said, "Well, what DO Anglicans call women in authority?" And someone else said, "Your Majesty." Works for me."

Truth be told, the title of respect I've always loved is "Momma" - which is what my children call me.

I must admit that the title I love most is "Nana".

Only five people in the whole world can call me by that name. They were born into that privilege. I trust there will be a few more yet to come.

I hope to always be found worthy of the respect and trust and honor inherent in that title. I think I work the hardest to earn that one. I'd like to think I deserve it - and always will strive to do so.

All the rest of ya'll, just call me Elizabeth.

It's what God calls me. And, I always respond. Because I know God respects and loves me - even when I haven't exactly been loving and respectful to myself.

And, that's all that really matters.

" . . .babes in Christ."

It was just a small thing, really. A silly little poem tucked away on page 20 of an otherwise serious, conservative periodical. Just a few lines written down that raised more than a few eyebrows:

It's All In Her Genes

It's all in her genes
She likes to say
When avoirdupois
Won't go away.

Yes, look from behind
To see what she means
No doubt that you'll find
It's all in her JEANS.
- Anonymous Ancient Egyptian

Susan Russell, Senior Associate at All Saints Church, Pasadena, posted this wee ditty on her blog, having been first alerted by Mary Glasspool, Bishop Suffragan of the Diocese of LA. Someone named "John" identified the author as a "female octogenarian" in the comment section of Susan's blog.

Now, one might find this little poem vaguely amusing, considering the source. One might even be impressed by the somewhat clever interplay of "genes" and "jeans". One might be further impressed by the use of the word "avoirdupois" - unless, of course, one is a fan of Scrabble or the NY Times Crossword puzzle in particular or of wordsmithing in general.

One might expect such a poem to appear on the pages of the AARP or in a newsletter which features works by people of that generation.

One does not expect something like this to appear in a publication like The Anglican Digest which declares its mission as

"Our goal is to connect the Church by gathering articles that tell the vital story of our faith.

The material in each issue is for a varied audience and includes ministry ideas for clergy and laity, devotional and historical material, as well as humor and news briefs from around the Anglican Communion."

TAD, whose "pocket-size pages are made up of some things old, some things new, most things borrowed, everything true," has been around since 1958. It is published bimonthly by SPEAK, the Society for Promoting and Encouraging the Arts and Knowledge (of the Church) at Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

The Editor is the Rev'd Dr. Kendall Harmon, Canon Theologian of the Diocese of South Carolina and well known across the broad spectrum of the church as an outspoken "orthodox" critic of The Episcopal Church and her "progressive" leadership. We have Dr. Harmon to thank for coining the now ubiquitous if not odious and annoying and essentially inaccurate terms "reasserter" ("conservative" or "orthodox") and "revisionist" ("liberal" or "progressive").

Its web page states that the "market" of TAD is "the entire Church, clergy and lay, those highly theologically educated and 'babes in Christ'."

So, as a somewhat highly theologically educated babe. . . in Christ, of course, I took laptop in hand and wrote to Dr. Harmon.

After quoting the offensive poem, I wrote

I don't know what I find more objectionable and offensive - the obvious sexism of the "poem" or the fact that the author is hiding behind a pseudonym.

We have had our theological and political differences in the past, Kendall, but I've always experienced you as a gentleman.

I rely on that personal experience as I anticipate a full apology.

As National Convener of The Episcopal Women's Caucus, I insist on one.

I have not received an apology. I'm not holding my breath.

"Wait, what's the big deal?" someone is asking. "It's a little poem - perhaps in bad taste - but it's not like it's the end of the world."

Well, yes. Yes, in fact, it is. Some of us are trying to end of the world of the prominent social paradigm of patriarchy which is resisting its long-overdue but eventual death with every fiber of its still considerable muscle.

There's a word for this. It's called "micro-oppression."

Micro-oppression is subtle, not as obvious and therefore harder to point out or confront than oppression. Sexist micro-oppression occurs frequently and has a tendency to wear a person down over time. All micro-oppression tends to be “invisible” and we often experience the cumulative effect of it as tension between ourselves.

Micro-oppression is death by a thousand paper cuts.

This poem has a particular sting because the mis-education of a woman of a particular generation was published by an otherwise reputable Christian journal.

In December, 1987, in an essay entitled "Spirituality: An African View", Dr. Clarence Glover wrote:

"The greatest weapon that the oppressor has in his hand is the mind of the oppressed."

Media often reduces women to objects of sexual desire and not much else. Women are still seen as the bearer of children and the home maker. Little girls are socialized at a young age to look pretty for men so they can fulfill the life long dream of finding that husband, having that wedding and making those babies.

Now, being a wife and a mother is a noble calling, to be sure, but one person's nobility can be another person's shackles.

When you have been brought up with shame and guilt because you are "the weaker sex," - when you are barraged daily by subtle and not-so-subtle messages and images about the shape and form of a "perfect" woman's body - even "innocent little poems" like this make it easy to give in to the despair and the daunting odds of reversing your negative civil rights and social situation.

Thomas Jefferson said, "The price of liberty is eternal vigilance".

It's the small, unexpected appearances of sexism which require vigilance - and persistence.

Yes, it's tedious, thankless work. Yes, it is work that is often misunderstood and criticized or minimized and dismissed as insignificant. It is especially painful when other women - knowingly or unknowingly - are the vehicles of micro-oppression.

The price of liberty is worth it. To quote that national hair care product for women: "Because you're worth it." And, so are our children - male and female - who are also being shaped and formed by a culture which is still deeply imbued with the sometimes indelible stains of oppression and micro-oppression.

We may be "babes in Christ" but our baptismal vows charge us to "grow into the full stature of Christ," and to "respect the dignity of every human being."

That journey can lead us, in the words of Martin Smith, to the "crucifyingly obscure boundaries of our faith."

So, put on your 'jeans' and allow the 'genes' of your faith to carry you forward into that journey - no matter the shape 'avoirdupois' lends to that which is behind you.

The Handfasting Ceremony

Note:  I am - we are - deliriously, deliciously, dramatically happy. And, thoroughly exhausted. I think we got about four hours sleep last night. I am posting the Handfasting Ceremony we used as I know many of you have expressed an interest in how it all was done. I'll write more on it later and post more pictures - hopefully those done by the professional - later. For now, thank you all for your wonderful kind words of love and support. Mia and Bob make a wonderful couple. We are thrilled that our family is growing in such unexpectedly blessed and wonder-full ways.

A few words about the history of Handfasting

Handfasting is an ancient custom - before the Council of Trent required the presence of a priest - especially common in Ireland and Scotland but also in Poland and Czechoslovakia with roots in the Nordic Cultures, in which a man and woman came together at the start of their marriage relationship. Their hands, or more accurately, their wrists, were literally tied together. This practice gave way to the expression "tying the knot" which has come to mean getting married.

During this particular ceremony, six cords are tied around the couple's wrists, each representing a vow made between them. These particular cords were fashioned by the couple, with "family artifacts" of jewelry from various family members woven in among the ribbon.

Handfasting tradition holds that these cords remain tied together for a year and a day, at which point, the couple gathers the witnesses to their vows and has a celebration of their first year of married life.

The rings exchanged are the lasting and constant reminder of those vows made on this day.

The Handfasting Ceremony

To the assembled:   Greetings and welcome to you all! We are gathered here today to witness and to celebrate one of life's greatest moments, to give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, and to add our best wishes and blessings to the union of Maria Conroy Kaeton and Robert Gordon Leong. We have come here this day to share in their joy as they come now to be united in the state of holy matrimony.

To Bob and Mia:  Know now that since your lives have crossed, you have formed ties between each other. The promises you make today and the ties that are bound here will cross the years and will greatly strengthen your union. With full awareness, know that you declare your intent to be handfasted before your friends and family.

Do you still seek to enter this ceremony?

Mia and Bob: Yes, we seek to enter.

Does anyone here have any objections to this couple being handfasted in marriage? If so, speak now or forever hold it to your heart (wait for the space of three heartbeats).

I bid you look into each others eyes. Bob and Mia, these cords are a symbol of the lives you have chosen to lead together. Up until this moment, you have been separate in thought, word and action. As your hands are bound together by these cords, so too, shall your lives be bound as one.

The First Cord

Mia, will you honor him?
I will.
Bob, will you honor her?
I will.
[To Both] Will you seek never to give cause to break that honor?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. Join your hands. (First chord is draped across the bride and groom's hands.)

The Second Cord

Bob, might you ever cause her anger?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Mia, might you ever cause him anger?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you together take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of this union?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape second chord across the couple's hands.)

The Third Cord

Mia, might you ever burden him?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Bob, might you ever burden her?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you share the burdens of each so that your spirits may grow in this union?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Third chord is draped across the couple's hands.)

The Fourth Cord

Mia, will you share his dreams?
I will .
Bob, will you share her dreams?
I will .
[To Both] Will you dream together to create new realities and hopes?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape fourth chord across the couple's hands.)

The Fifth Cord

Bob, might you ever cause her pain?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Mia, might you ever cause him pain?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you share each other's pain and seek to ease it?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape fifth chord across the couple's hands.)

The Sixth Cord

Bob, will you share her laughter?
I will .
Mia, will you share his laughter?
I will .
[To Both] Will both of you look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape sixth chord across the couple's hands.)

(The cords are tied together and the couple’s hands are bound in the priest’s stole.)

Just as your hands are now bound together, so too, are your lives. May you be forever one, sharing in all things, in love and loyalty for all time to come.

As it is, you cannot always be physically joined.

(The Handfasting Cords are removed, without untying them, and replaced on the altar.)

And so, we use the wedding ring to symbolize that connection. It is a constant reminder of the sacred bond shared between a husband and a wife.

Who holds the rings?

(The rings are given to the Bride and Groom)

Bob and Mia, you hold here in your hands the wedding rings that you will exchange with one another. When you give a ring to someone in marriage, you are giving them a symbol of your eternal love, a love that, like the circle formed by each of these rings, has no beginning and no end.

As you understand this, and wish to affirm the love that the giving and receiving of these rings represents, please, exchange your rings with one another, and state for each, “With this ring, I thee wed”.

Beginning with you, Bob

(Bob places the ring on Mia’s finger and states,)
“With this ring, I thee wed.”

And now you, Mia

(Mia places the ring on Bob’s finger and states,)
“With this ring, I thee wed.”

Bob and Mia, now that you have joined yourselves in matrimony, may you strive always to meet this commitment with the same spirit you now are now exhibiting. Inasmuch as you have consented together to enter into the holy bonds of marriage; and having pledged, and sealed your vows by the giving and receiving of rings, it gives me great pleasure to pronounce that you are now husband and wife.

Congratulations! You may share the first kiss of your marriage!

Oh, Happy Day!

Could these two people look any happier?

I think not.

Well, we had the rehearsal and the dinner last night.

Everyone and everything looks absolutely lovely.

The Very Big Tent is in the yard - all set up for the reception - complete with dance floor.

The deck - where the ceremony will take place - is beautifully festooned with flowers. Bob and Mia and Bob's parents, family and friends have done an amazing job getting the house and yard ready. I'm so grateful.

The "hand fasting cords" were handmade by the bride and groom into which they wove various "trinkets" from some old jewelry given to them by various family members.

We practiced tying them on their wrists. Celtic tradition says that they come off all bound together and then stay bound for a year and a day, at which point, the couple gathers kith and kin and renews the vows and promises they made, one by one.

I think that's perfectly lovely, don't you? And, inherently wise.

After the rehearsal, we all went out to dinner.

This is our granddaughter, the incomparable "Ms. Mackie J" who is flower girl, and our daughter, "The Fabulous UES Girl, Ms. Julie", who is a bridesmaid.

We traveled together to the restaurant from the rehearsal with Ms. Lucy True Bug's top down, singing along with Black Eyed Peas "Tonight's Gonna Be A Good Night" at the top of our voices.

Dinner was several courses in true Northern NJ Italian style - amazing hot Italian bread, mozzarella, tomato and fresh pimento salad, fried calamari. And then, we had dinner. I had the veal piccata, which was incredible.

In between courses, we played "Hangman" and "Tick Tack Toe". And laughed and giggled and tried to contain our excitement, but only barely.

I'm about to run out to do various errands. Gotta get Ms. Lucy True Bug washed and sparkling clean. Hang out with Ms. Mackie J. Get my ensemble for tonight assembled. Hang out with Ms. Mackie J. Get my hair done while Ms. Mackie J gets hers done. Wait excitedly while the rest of the grandchildren arrive later this afternoon.

Oh - did I mention that there's a wedding today?

Why yes. Yes, in fact, there is.

Mia and Bob are "tying the knot". A more beautiful, loving couple you'd be hard pressed to find.

Thanks for your prayers and expressions of love and good wishes. They will continue to hold us all up as we make our way into this beautiful day which the Lord of Life has fashioned to be blessed by Love.

I'll post pictures tomorrow.

Today, I'm just savoring the sublime happiness of this Most Happy Day.