Blue Christmas at The Beach

Can I just say how much I love the creative process?

For about two hours this afternoon, it was my absolute privilege to work with my rector, Max Wolf - a strong, pastoral, experienced leader - and the director of music, Alex Helsabeck - an amazingly talented, passionate musician - at All Saint's, Rehoboth Beach.

We were transforming some work I did in 2006 on a service of "Blue Christmas" for an affluent suburban congregation to one that would work for this ocean-side community and surrounding rural, farm areas.

I think we've got something that will really work for this place, at this time, for these people. How we got to this point is just a wonder of creativity and generosity of spirit and wisdom born of experience.

I just love being part of that process with other professionals. What an absolute delight and privilege!

Our service is scheduled for Tuesday, December 21 ("The Longest Night" or "The Winter Solstice") at 6 PM at All Saints' Episcopal Church, Rehoboth Beach.

Please feel free to adapt this liturgy to the needs of your own community, giving appropriate credit, of course (you'll note I did at the end).

I've lost count, but I think I've personally sent the 2006 version of this liturgy out to more than 50 clergy/laity around the country in the four years I've been doing this. God only knows how many have clipped this from my blog. I rejoice to think it's at least double that amount.

This is, without a doubt, the most important pastoral liturgy I do all year. I am delighted and honored to have the opportunity to do it again this year.

Of your kindness and mercy, keep this work of ministry in your prayers, that all who are "blue" this Christmas may know the "comfort and joy" promised in the miracle of The Incarnation.

A Blue Christmas Service

The Episcopal Church of All Saints, Rehoboth Beach

December 21, 2010, six o'clock in the evening

THE GATHERING OF THE PEOPLE

Musical prelude

Words of Welcome

Welcome to this Blue Christmas, a time when we can, with others, acknowledge the "blue" feelings we have at Christmas time, the reasons for them, and offer them to God. This time has been called the "long dark night of the soul" and "the winter of our discontent" in which memories of past experiences and the pain of present experiences can become overwhelming. For some, Christmas Day is the most difficult. For others, Christmas Eve, or New Years Eve, or the beginning of another lonely New Year. In this service, we'll have some singing appropriate to the Christmas Season, recognizing that this is not a season of joy for everyone. We will invite you to reflect on the pain, the loneliness, and the sadness you may feel and offer it to God for healing and transformation. We pray that you will find hope and comfort in knowing that you are not alone. Always remember that God knows your pain and loves you unconditionally.

Opening Prayer

All who are able, please stand

One: +For you, O God, our souls in silence wait.
All: Truly our hope is in you.

One: God of abundant mercy, you have given us grace to pray with one heart and one voice, even though our hearts are broken and our voices tremble with grief and sorrow. Comfort, comfort, Lord, your Holy people. Comfort those of us who sit in darkness, mourning 'neath our sorrow's load. Speak to us of the peace that awaits us, of the balm of healing for our weary and wounded souls. We ask all this, trusting in the promise you have made to hear the prayers of two or three who have gathered in the Name of your Holy Child, Jesus.
All: Amen.

Hymn # 482 Lord of All Hopefulness

THE PROCLAMATION OF GOD'S WORD

All who are able, please be seated.

A reading from Hebrew Scripture: Selected verses from Isaiah 40

"Comfort, comfort my people" says your God. "Speak to the heart of Jerusalem and call to her that the time of service is ended ... Look up to the heavens! Who made the stars, if not the One who drills them like an army, calling each one by its own name? So mighty is God's power and strength that not one fails to answer. Israel, why then do you complain that our God does not know your troubles or care if you suffer injustice? Our God, the everlasting God, the creator of the farthest parts of the each, never grows tired or weary. No one can fathom the depths of God's understanding. God gives power to the faint and strength to the powerless. They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength."

Hymn# 67 Comfort, Comfort Ye My People

A Reading from the Psalms: Psalm 22

ONE: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, so far from the words of my groaning?

ALL: O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but I find no rest.

ONE: In you, our ancestors trusted. They trusted and you delivered them.

ALL: It was you who took me from the womb, you who kept me safe upon my mother's breast; since my mother bore me, you have been my God.

ONE: Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.

ALL: God does not despise the affliction of the afflicted; God does not hide from me. When I cry to God, God hears me. Thanks be to God!

A Gospel Reading: Matthew 11:28-29

"Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for you souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

Solo by Alex Helsabeck “Sure in This Shining Night” – Samuel Barber

There follows a time for silent reflection. During this time, baskets with pencils and The Christmas Stars of Hope are distributed. You are invited to print the name(s) of those who have died or your particular petition of prayer These will be gathered and your prayers will be remembered by this congregation during the Christmas Season.

CANDLE LIGHTING LITANY OF REMEMBRANCE

Reader: God who is with us, in this season of looking forward; of anticipating the celebration of your Son's birth and return in glory; we often find ourselves uncomfortable, uneasy, worried and sad. The lights and gaiety, the music, the bright joy around us, often make us more unquiet, more out of step, feeling even more disconnected and different.

All: Come, holy Child of Bethlehem

Reader: Some of these feelings come from false expectations. Others come from real situations and issues that face us or those we love. Some are from events we may influence and some are beyond our control. Trusting in your grace and provision, we name these situations and face the pain and dislocation they cause us. We claim your promise to companion us in bearing them. We claim your steadfast love for us, knowing you will help us find peace for our troubled spirits. We claim your wise and merciful power, that you will meet each need as is best for us. (Silent reflection follows)

All: Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a soul like me
I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.

Candle #1: Reader: God of Light and Life, we light this candle for all those who are struggling with issues involving physical or mental health. We especially remember those struggling with cancer, depression, or thoughts of suicide. May its light remind us all of the healing available to us in Christ Jesus. Hear our prayers that anguish be minimized and your good plan fulfilled for each who suffer. (Silent reflection follows)

All: ‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved
How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed.

Candle # 2: Reader: We light this candle for all those who are struggling with issues involving financial concerns, job loss and seemingly insurmountable debt, especially in this time of recession. We also remember the homeless in our community, especially the reportedly 125 high school students who are homeless. May its light remind us all that you are the Great Provider, you will give us our daily bread. Empower us to take the steps we need to solve these problems. Draw us to the right people and programs to help us. (Silent reflection follows)

All: Though many dangers toil, and snares, I have already come.
‘tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

Candle #3: Reader: We light this candle for all those who grieve, especially those in our parish family, whom we now name (Time is given to say the names of our loved ones who have died – silently or aloud). You know our deepest need, you understand our pain- lost dreams, lost opportunities, the separation of death. May its light remind us that we are not orphaned, we are not alone. Grant us grace that in pain we may find comfort, in sorrow hope, and in death resurrection. (Silent reflection follows)

All: The Lord has promised good to me, his word my hope secures:
he will my shield and portion be, as long as life endures.

Candle #4: Reader: We light this candle for all those who wrestle with the chains of addiction. Help us to name that which enslaves us and face it: food, alcohol, drugs, pornography, shopping, escapism, self medication, and self abuse in all its forms. May this candle bring your light to those secret, and not so secret, activities of imprisonment. Hear our prayers for deliverance and freedom; help us and those we love break the hold of these evils. (Silent reflection follows)

Solo: Alex Helsabeck “Pieta Signore” Alessandro Stradella

Candle #5: Reader: We light this candle for all those who are victims of violence in any of its forms. May its light lead us to peace, safety, and truth. Pour forth encouragement to claim your help in healing physically and spiritually, to trust in your justice, to find assistance, to resist blaming ourselves, to be confident in the future you have planned for us, a future full of hope. (Silent reflection follows)

All: Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail, and mortal life shall cease
I shall possess, within the veil, a life of joy and peace.

Candle #6: Reader: We light this candle for all those who are experiencing the pain of broken relationships with family, children, spouses, and friends. May its light remind us of the pure communion you desire for all your creation. Our desire for this same communion makes estrangement so painful. Lead us to relinquish the hold broken relationships have on us, to forgive ourselves for our contribution to the breach, to forgive those who have hurt us, to take the steps to mend that relationship, if possible. Lord, we know that sometimes we suffer from a broken relationship with someone who is now dead. Help us to prayerfully examine, receive and extend forgiveness in that situation, that we may live again. (Silent reflection follows)

All: When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we’d first begun

Candle #7 Reader: We light this candle for all those who are suffering the consequences of war, famine and unbridled disease. May its light remind us of your holy calling to every one who believes you are the light of the world. Change the hearts of all who resort to violence, who seek revenge. Protect those who find themselves far from home serving their nations or the needy. We know you are in the midst of those in anguish and pray that your healing presence will be seen, felt, and embraced. Reveal to us how to join in your saving work- to make tangible gifts to alleviate suffering, to support those on the front lines of natural and manmade disasters, to pray unceasingly for peace in our families, our neighborhoods, our world. (Silent reflection follows)

All: Praise God (x’s 7)
Praise God (x’s7)

Candle #8 Reader: We light this candle for all those who are estranged from you, who are besieged with doubts, who are overwhelmed by the world and do not claim your presence in their lives. We pray for them, and therefore ourselves, for we confess that each of us knows this condition. Lord, may the light of your love lead us all home to you. (Silent reflection follows)

We ask all these things in the strong name of Jesus.
All: Amen.

All who are able are welcome to now bring their “Stars of Hope” forward and place them at the altar. On your return, please gather around the candles, forming a circle and holding hands as together, we say

Our Father, who art in heaven . . . ...

Hymn #111: "Silent Night"

The Blessing:

My friends, life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who make this earthly pilgrimage with us, so be swift to love, and make haste to do kindness, and the blessing of God, who comes to us as +Creative Presence, Saving Grace and Lifegiving Spirit be upon you and all whom you love and pray for this day, and forever more.
All: Amen.

Please return to your seats

Dismissal:

One: Let us bless the Lord
All: Thanks be to God

Hymn: #56 O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

A light supper will be served in the Parish Hall, through the door in front of the altar, to your left. Please come and stay for the solace known to those who gather in the name and community of Christ Jesus. We are grateful to Ollie Wolfe for coordinating this meal.


We are also grateful for the ministry of tonight’s reader.


We are blessed by the ministry of Alex Helsabeck, Director of Music, and for the consistent, strong pastoral leadership of our rector, the Rev’d Max Wolf.


This service is a compilation of prayers and litanies from various sources arranged by the Rev'd Dr. Elizabeth Kaeton, who is deeply grateful for the work of the Rev'd Dr. June Maffin, Anglican priest from the Diocese of New Westminster, now residing in the Diocese of British Columbia, Canada, and Jeanine Locicero, an Episcopalian who works as Director of Worship Arts and Youth, Allendale United Methodist Church, Saint Petersburg, FL


Please feel free to take this bulletin with you and share or adapt this liturgy with others who may be comforted.

Advent 3.0: Ahi wela

The first time I went to Hawai'i, back in, oh, 2000, I was quickly introduced to the music of IZ.

That would be Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, an Hawai'ian musician most widely known for his haunting version of "Somewhere over the Rainbow."

Israel was proudly Hawai'ian, from Tongan lineage. His voice is hauntingly beautiful. My favorite songs are the ones he sings which simply showcase his voice and his ukulele.

This morning's gospel lesson of John the Baptist reminded me of IZ and his music - especially the songs on his album "Facing Future".

Isn't that what this morning's gospel was all about? Well, it is, at least, for those of us who know how this Advent story ends - with the Incarnation.

The more I've been thinking about this morning's Gospel lesson for the Third Sunday in Advent, the more I've thought about IZ and his song "Ahi wela" or "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

I'm struggling to ward off the coming of what I think is a cold, so my passion for writing is a bit dimmed. It's a bit difficult to stay focused when your head is full and your nose is running.

I'll leave you with this amazing version of 'Ahi wela' for you to ponder the Great Mystery of the Incarnation as I believe is embodied in this version of this wonderful song.

Consider this an Advent III meditation an the act and the incarnation of Love.

Find a quiet spot, center yourself, and turn on the sound or speakers of your computer. Prepare to be transfixed by the sound of IZ's voice and the words of this enchanting song.

I bid you to consider, most especially, these lyrics:

Fire is hot here inside
In the act of Love
Overwhelms here my body
Throbbing much doubly here in the heart.

Ahi wela mai nei loko
(Fire (is) hot here inside)
I ka hana a ke aloha
(In the act of love)
E lalawe nei ku'u kino
(Overwhelms here my body)
Konikoni lua i ka pu'uwai
(Throbbing doubly much in the heart)

Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky

`Imo `imo h'k' iki
(Twinkle, twinkle little star)
Ha`oha`o au i `oe
(How I wonder what you are)
I luna loa o ke ao
(Up above the world so high)
Kohu kaimana i ka lani
(Like a diamond in the sky)

(E hana hou i ka hui)
(Repeat chorus)

Advent 2.7 at Langollen

I've been out most of the day with Ms. Conroy, getting ready for Christmas at Llangollen.

This is the wreath at our front door, which I decorated myself (as if you couldn't already tell).

 

We've always - always! - had a mantle in our home. We don't have one here at Llangollen - not surprising for a home on the water - although we do have a small gas heater in the sun room.  When the renovations are complete, we will have a gas fireplace there, but even then, the mantle will not be big enough to hold all the Christmas stockings.

So, I improvised and used the "curio" shelf above the couch as the mantle to hang the eighteen (18!) and counting stockings. They include one for Ms. Conroy and me, six children, five grandchildren, three sons-in-law, one daughter in law, and one VSBF (Very Serious Boy Friend - as opposed to a RNB, which is a "Right Now Boy").

This is the Great Ficus Tree of Christmas.

Some of you may remember the trials and travails of schlepping her here from New Jersey.  Well, as you can see, she made it and is in great form.

She is festooned in red bows, candy canes and Christmas ornaments of the Twelve Days of Christmas - minus one or two that have gotten "misplaced" in the move.

We have purchased a proper Christmas Tree - a Frasier Fir - which has lovely blue highlights - and is sitting in some water in the sun room, breathing and expanding her branches.

Tomorrow night, I'll go out and put on the lights and let her sit for another night to get used to her new home.

Then, on Christmas Eve, she'll be fully dressed in ornaments and garland and memories and melancholia of Christmases past and hopes for future Christmases filled with hope and joy which will make future memories.

Here, to your right, you will see Ms. CoCo sitting guard over Father Christmas and some of the many Bathing Beauties of Rehoboth Bay.

She takes her work rather seriously, Ms. CoCo does, never leaving her post unless to bark at a boat going by the house and out into the bay.

She can hear them more clearly these days, by the "crunch-crunch-crunch" of the boat breaking through the very thin icy covering of the water.

Oh, she may run to get a quick drink of water from her bowl, and perhaps take a potty break or two, but for the most part, she is persistent and vigilant.

Father Christmas will make his appearance on December 24th. Sleep well and rest assured that Ms. CoCo is on guard duty.

 

Ah, and here Santa Claus is just chillin' in Ms. Manning's chair.  He has a few Russian "nesting dolls" to keep him company on the Celtic Tree mosaic tile table Mia and Bob made us as a Christmas present last year. 

At the ready, under the table, you'll note there is a copy of a collection of Walker Percy's stories. No one loves a good short story more than Santa, and no one can tell them quite as well as Walker Percy - especially the one about what makes a good Southern bourbon.

He's sitting in front of the Great Ficus Tree of Christmas, delighted that she made it here in such good shape and seems to be thriving. He'll be very happy once the Christmas Tree is up and decorated so he can join her there. 

I'm going to go into the kitchen soon and begin to make the Cranberry Pistachio Biscotti which will adorn most of the Christmas presents I'll wrap, as well as be festively wrapped as presents for friends and colleagues.  It will also be part of the breakfast we'll have on Christmas morning.

You can find a great recipe for it here.

Once the Christmas Tree is ready for her debut, I'll post her picture here.

Right now, I'm "stirring up" for Christmas - which I suppose is appropriate on the night before "Stir up Sunday." So, as I take my leave to be covered with flour and sugar, cranberries and pistachios, let us pray:

Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen.

Off I go then.

We'll talk tomorrow about some things that have been stewing in my head and pondering in my heart about Mary and women in the church.

I feel a rant coming on.

What? Did you think all this house decorating would turn me all gushing and mushy and nostalgic?

Not on your life!

I'm just starting to get all stirred up.

You have been duly warned.

Advent 2.6

I was out most of today, doing a bit of Christmas shopping. Checking the sales, mostly. Grateful that our family celebrates "Little Christmas" - around the Feast of the Epiphany - when we, like The Wise before us, exchange gifts.

I found myself trying to imagine what Mary might have been doing this weekend, so close to delivering her child.

She was certainly not out in the malls, shopping the sales. Waddling her heavy, pregnant body down the aisles at K-mart, bending over the discount racks, looking for that perfect gift at the perfect price. Checking the various departments to find the items on her family's "Christmas Wish List."

There was no discernible joy in the shops and the stores today. Even the usually irrepressibly cheerful sales clerks could not hide the deep furrow in their brows, the anxiety that lingered at the corners of their lips, upturned in a professional smile, or the worry that creased the corners of their eyes.

Instead of visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads, questions hovered like the last, stubborn, fat fly of summer:

Will I have a job at the end of the holiday?

How will I pay the rent?

The electricity?

The car payment?

Meanwhile, lives are held hostage in a congress stirring with hostile politicians, some of whom want to "Win One for the Gipper" and bring back the heyday of Regenomics, while on the other side of the aisle, the Party of "Yes We Can," is saying to an embattled, dispirited President, "Oh, no you won't."

Meanwhile, my thoughts are with Mary, full of grace - and child.

Never mind that snow did not lay on the ground while lo, how a rose 'er blooming from a tender stem hath sprung.

Never mind that historians say she probably had the child sometime in March, when the other lambs were being born in lowly stables, in hillsides around the Judean countryside, while shepherds tended their flocks by day and night.

I've always had a bit of a giggle that the Feast of the Annunciation on March 25 was probably more like the Feast of the Nativity.

However, if you are going to take over the pagan holiday of the Winter Solstice, and make the date of the birth of Jesus fall on the 25th of December, then the announcement of her conception MUST have been on the 25th of March. Right?

Exactly nine months to the day. Right?

Anyone who has ever been pregnant can tell you that no pregnancy - no matter how perfect - ever lasts nine months to the day.

Except, of course, men do. Who have never been pregnant. So, how would they know? Really. It does make for a wonderful story, however. Miraculous, some would say.

Most women only try to stifle a giggle.

Every woman who has ever been pregnant - or longed to be pregnant - or was pregnant and lost the child - or decided she couldn't continue the pregnancy - will tell you that pregnancy and birth are miraculous events.

Some miracles are more wanted than others.

As I schlepped from aisle to aisle in store to store, I found myself wondering what Mary 'pondered in her heart' as she padded around her home. Watching. Waiting. Feeling the baby stir in her womb, move and turn and kick and then - miracle of miracles - drop into place.

Ready. Ready or not, here He comes, whether the clouds descend or not.

I'm quite certain Mary stirred a pot of soup or stew and not Christmas pudding. Or, perhaps she did. A little something sweet for her husband to enjoy after a long day over the hard wood and the saw and the lathe.

I imagine she said a little prayer for 'Stir Up Sunday' - something that came closer to the mark than the one in the Book of Common Prayer or Roman Breviary. I imagine it might have sounded a bit like this:

Here I am, God. Look at me! A woman and no man! Very young and very pregnant and newly married to a much older man. I am a disappointment to my parents and a scandal in my village. I am sometimes confused but I am not afraid.

Even so, my heart - no, my very soul! - is a reflection of your Love. And, my spirit is filled with joy!

As your child stirs within my womb, please, of your great might, stir up the hearts of your people that they might find the will and the strength and the courage to do justice, and love mercy. Help us to always walk humbly with you - much like the way I waddle, pregnant with you.

Come quickly, O God, and deliver me - deliver us - and show us the path that leads to our salvation.

For your people are suffering, O God. Come quickly to help us. Come quickly to bring justice. Come quickly to help us help ourselves, and bring us peace - your peace - that passes all human understanding, that we may know joy.

I found myself looking at the woman whose face was lined with worry as she considered whether or not she could afford the "Barbie Sing With Me Mini CD Player" for her daughter - and the young man behind the cash register who wanted to be any place but there - and the grandfather in the Irish golf cap and Brooks Brother's jacket who looked at the price tag on the Coach purse and then rolled his eyes and whistled before he put it back on the shelf - and I wanted to whisper,

"It's okay. He's coming. Stir up your souls and get ready. In fact, he's already here!"

The Language of God

Portuguese is my first language.

As an infant, when I cried or was fussy, I heard my mother's voice coo, "Shhh. Shhh. Que e errado, querida?" ("What's wrong, sweetheart?").

As I fell asleep, I heard my mother or grandmother or one of my aunts singing a soft lullaby, "Nana, nene, na casa da avo, avo nao tem cochao, o nene dorme no chao" ("Sleep, baby, at grandmother's house, grandmother doesn’t have a mattress, the baby sleeps on the ground").

That's probably not completely correct - a mixture of Lisboan and Azorean Portuguese - but it's the way I remember it - what I used to sing to my own babies.

Mi avo used to say, "Learn to speak Portuguese, or else, when you get to heaven, you won't be able to understand what the angels are saying."

It is a very beautiful language.

When I went to school, I quickly discovered that not everyone held the language of the Portuguese in such high estate.

As the newest immigrant population to move into Fall River, MA, the educational system was not prepared to deal with a great influx of children who did not speak English - or, in my case, didn't speak it well. So, I spent the first quarter of the first year of my academic career in a class with "special needs" children.

Well, that's not what that class was called. We didn't yet have a language for "learning disabilities". The class was called, simply, "Retarded Learners". On the playground, we were known as "The Retards."

At the time, I wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but I knew it wasn't good. Something of which to be deeply ashamed. My parents were absolutely mortified. And, angry. My mother declared that we were never to speak Portuguese again in the household. And, we never did.

Mrs. Kelliher, my first-grade teacher, knew I was neither a "retarded learner" nor had "learning disabilities", so she sat with my "special needs" and taught me to speak English. By the second quarter I was mainstreamed into the regular classroom, but by then, the damage had been done to my self-esteem.

I can read Portuguese fairly well and understand most of it when it's spoken to me (I'm a little fuzzier with Brazilian or Lisboan Portuguese), but I have a HUGE block when it comes to speaking it myself. That block has a name on it. It's called: SHAME.

I suppose that's one of the reasons that, while I love language - the sound of it, the intelligence of it, the limits of it, the varieties of it, the way it can play with itself - I don't completely trust language.

I'm especially fascinated by what language reveals about the culture and life circumstances of an individual or a community.

Have you ever noticed that many women from Texas or Mississippi or Alabama are much more apt to hold onto their Southern accents, while men from those same places are more apt to either drop their accent completely or soften it to a sometimes barely discernible lilt?

I suspect there's a powerful message in there about communication and power and status and gender in the workplace, and who is 'taken seriously' - or how language can be used seductively to someone's advantage (or, in some cases, disadvantage).

I remember when the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, came to General Convention to "speak to us" about a moratorium on ordaining LGBT people to the episcopacy. I groaned. Something happens in the gray matter of the brains of Episcopalians - especially men in purple shirts - when a man in a purple shirt begins to talk to us in muted, grave tones with a heavy British accent.

The rapid 'rat-a-tat-tat' of the language of rap or 'poetry slams' is a reflective mirror on the frenetic pace and often violent reality of the urban landscape. The language is often raw, peppered with vulgarities or obscenities, leaving little doubt in the mind of anyone who is paying attention about where that person is 'coming from', so to speak.

I have a very dear friend - an African American man (Happens also to be heterosexual. He can't help it. He was born that way.) who is very close to my heart - with whom I sometimes get into trouble over language. His hermeneutic of suspicion is often - necessarily - in overdrive. Sometimes, when I gently tease him about something, I can see his hackles go up and he is on alert for "the language of oppression." Sometimes, when he gently teases me about something, I have a similar reaction.

The language of our gender differences is compounded by our experiences of the power inequalities of race and ethnicity. We often communicate things to each other we don't intend. Offensive things. It can be challenging. And, exhausting.

In an odd way, it's part of the cement of our relationship. What keeps us together in a commitment to be friends in spite - or, in fact, because - of our differences of race and gender and sexual orientation. Because we have so much to teach - and learn from - each other.

Every profession seems to have its own lexicon - a language that separates and identifies itself as unique. Some of it is intentionally 'code' - like the hand signals between the catcher and the pitcher in baseball.

Nouns become verbs and verbs become nouns. Particular situations - "out in left field" - become a descriptive phrase for another situation.

One of the hallmarks of the language of the medical profession is emotional distance. "We have exhausted all treatment plans," means, "There is nothing left we can do. Your loved one is going to die." But, a doctor will rarely say that - out loud - unless s/he is very tired and frustrated and sad.

That's not only for the benefit of the patient's family, but for him or herself as well. Doctors HATE to give up. Which is not a Bad Thing. I personally want a doctor who will 'exhaust all treatment plans' before s/he decides 'there's nothing left we can do'. And, a certain amount of emotional distance is often critically important in order to make keen analysis and difficult, sometimes pressured judgments and time-sensitive decisions. It's interesting to me how that gets reflected in the language of the profession.

When I worked for a time in the neo-natal intensive care unit, some doctors had taken to writing in some babies' charts 'FLK'. It was a code to everyone in the NICU to pay close attention to this one, and perhaps consider doing some chromosomal or endocrine studies in the future.

'FLK' stood for 'Funny Looking Kid'.

Say the word "Hospice" and what you hear is "Death". That isn't always necessarily true, but it's become a shorthand, of sorts, for communicating the gravity of a situation which is - ready for it? - "terminal".

In the movies - well, up until a decade or so ago - when a baby is going to be born, someone will ask someone to boil some water. When someone was about to die, someone would send for the priest. Either way, you knew what was being communicated without ever saying the words "birth" or "death".

Religious language is much the same. I'm willing to bet that The Anglican Communion wins the dubious distinction of having the largest lexicon in all of Western Christendom.

Who else has a sexton to clean the narthex and the undercroft? Or sings the Te Deum or Magnificat or celebrates Whitsunday/tide, Rogation Sunday, Septuagesima, Sexagesima, Quinquagesima, Michaelmas, Ascensiontide, Season of Trinity, or Rose/Gaudette Sunday? Or fusses to make sure there's a proper pyx, ciborium, corporal, burse, and veil in the sacristy and an aumbrey in the sanctuary - preferably above the credence table and not, say, in the middle of the crossing which would interfere with the crucifer and acolytes during the procession of The Great Litany?

Indeed, who else in the Anglican Communion but The Episcopal Church USA has a UTO Sunday, or an Every Member Canvass, knows about Venture in Mission, the Decade of Evangelism, or the 1928 Prayer Book Society?  Or, cares?

It serves to set us apart, doesn't it? Says something about our class status and education and how we value intelligence. All without saying those words.

There's a line in the book (and movie) "A River Runs Through It" - the story of a Presbyterian minister and his wife and two sons, set in the Big Sky Country of Montana. The line, I think is spoken by 'Older Norma', the narrator. It goes something like, "They were Methodists, a denomination my father referred to as Baptists who could read."

It's probably my snooty Episcopalian sensibilities that have to work very hard to stifle a chuckle when I hear "Christianese" being spoken. I'm not very fluent in Christianese and probably, if you're reading this, neither are you, but you and I recognize it immediately and understand every word that's spoken.

There's a very funny clip on YouTube about Christinese which you can watch here. Let me give you a few examples:

"It's a real blessing to be with you today."

"The Lord put it on my heart to talk to you."

"It grieves my heart."

"My spirit is deeply troubled."

"I struggle with that."

"I stepped out in faith."

"Uh, huh" and "Mm, mm, mm."

When I'm not being sinfully classist about this, I must admit that what's really being communicated here is, well, something that 'troubles my spirit' and 'grieves my heart'.

I sense - and I confess that this probably says more about me and my hermeneutic of suspicion than anything else - an underlying religious tyranny. That comes more from the insistence on conformity of language than the language itself. The YouTube makes a little joke of that. I don't find it very funny.

The latest example of that is a blog my friend Ann sent me about the death and last written words of Elizabeth Edwards. You can find it here at the blog "American Power", where blogger Donald Douglas critiques and criticizes Edwards' Facebook post in which she writes, "You all know that I have been sustained throughout my life by three saving graces—my family, my friends, and a faith in the power of resilience and hope."

Douglas laments - indeed, it's the title of his blog - "Elizabeth Edwards' Parting Statement Omits Mention of Faith in God".

Oh, but wait. There's more. There always is with these wing-nuts.

Clearly Elizabeth Edwards wants to put her faith in something, be it hope or strength or anything. But not God. I wonder if it's just bitterness, that's she's been forsaken by more than just her estranged husband --- that's she's been forsaken by Him. And imagine if she'd have become First Lady. Americans generally expect outward expressions of faith in our presidents, Christian faith especially, and thus in our First Ladies as well. The Democratic base obviously doesn't care, as we can see in the "wow factor" expressed by the author at the American Prospect. Being anti-religion is cool, so Edwards' non-theological theology gets props from the neo-communists. Still, at her death bed and giving what most folks are calling a final goodbye, Elizabeth Edwards couldn't find it somewhere down deep to ask for His blessings as she prepares for the hereafter? I guess that nihilism I've been discussing reaches up higher into the hard-left precincts than I thought.

Can you believe this?

Here's a telling question from Douglas, "Haven't the campaign communications consultants schooled her in how to talk the God-talk?"

". . .how to talk the God-talk". Clearly, this man's understanding of the language about God is limited by his strict adherence to "God-talk".

How ever does he get through the psalms?

Indeed, how does a man who criticizes - in the name of political expediency - the words of a woman who is dying from metastatic breast cancer, put his head down on the pillow at night and wake up in the morning to look at himself in the mirror?

The "God-talk" we use, the language we employ about God, pales in comparison to the language of God.

God speaks to people in a variety of ways. God spoke to Elizabeth Edwards and comforted her with words like "resilience' and 'hope' that revealed the presence of God's spirit. Edwards then used those very same words to try to bring comfort to her already grieving family and friends.

I believe that God speaks to us in vibrant colors of blue and green, and muted tones of azure and moss. God also speaks in the cry of the gulls and the soaring of the eagle, the quack of a duck and the peep-peep of a baby chick.

God's words can be heard in the soft rustle of the summer wind on the marsh grass, and the hard 'clack-clack' of a barren, frozen branch on an icy bedroom window.

God speaks to me, personally, in magnificent sunsets and sunrises, the way the tides come in and go out, and the way the stars twinkle in the night sky.  I've always heard the children's song "Twinkle, Twinkle" as a prayer in response to the language of God in the twinkling sparkle of a star.

God speaks powerfully to me in music and poetry and the arts, in the imagination and intelligence of the human mind as well as the intimate body language of making love.

God may speak even more powerfully to others in the language of mathematics or chemistry or biology or psychology or physics.

I don't know, when I do get to heaven, if my grandmother will be right and the angels will speak to me in Portuguese. I suspect that the angels will speak to us in whatever language we consider beautiful.

My fantasy is that when one of our 'fundegelical' brethern or sistern appears before God and says, in his or her best Christanese, "Father God, I juss wanna say . . .", She's gonna slap her more than ample thigh, tilt back her double-chinned face, open her full mouth and roar with laughter.

And, when I get to heaven and stand before God and ask, in proper clipped English, "Is this the narthex?" And "When do we celebrate Quinquagesima?" She's going to do exactly the same thing.

And then all of us, my fundegelical brothers and sisters and I, will be escorted by the angels to the Great Banquet Table, where we'll feast for days on great mounds of mashed potatoes and pasta - oh, and a whole table piled high with those amazing, spicy Jamaican meat pies - and drink great vats of wine and eat veritable boat loads of chocolate and never gain an ounce or be troubled by one millisecond of heartburn or have a care or concern about cholesterol or fat or carbohydrates.

And, the only prayer of satisfaction and gratitude and thanksgiving we'll make is the sound I believe is at the center of the universe: "Om".

And then, we'll be scooped up in the arms of the angels, who will sing us a soft lullaby.  In the end - as it was in the beginning - we'll all be like wee babies, sleeping on the soft cloud ground in our Grandmother's house.

I don't know this to be true, but I believe it is.

If we're honest, isn't that the underlying message of all of words and symbols and metaphors - no matter what language you speak?

Evidence of The Divine

I've been thinking a great deal, these days, of writing a letter to Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury about the Anglican Covenant.

I understand that it would most likely be an exercise in futility. Someone on his staff will read it and it will, no doubt, end up in the circular file.

I've also been too angry to write anything that, even if it did, by some small miracle, end up in Rowan's hands, might have any sort of impact. Just another "Angry American" spouting off because she can.

Which called me to really look into my anger about all this. Which was helpful.

The first is obvious. The Anglican Covenant is neither Anglican nor a covenant.

The Anglican Communion is not a church. It's a communion of loosely federated churches which have their own structures of governance, held together by bonds of affection, not laws.

The emphasis is on 'communion' - it's about the relationships between individuals and churches in various provinces around the world, all held together by our relationship with God through Jesus Christ, assisted by the Holy Spirit who is still revealing the Truth.

Neither is it a 'covenant'. It's a 'contract'. A contract is an agreement often made in suspicion. The parties do not trust each other - which is why they have to write things down and 'set their seal' to it - and they set "limits" to their own responsibility. A 'covenant' is an agreement made in trust. It's a concept deeply rooted in all Abrahamic religions in which the parties love each other and put no limits on their own responsibility.

So, the first thing that makes me angry about the 'Anglican Covenant' is that it's a Big Fat Lie. And, I really hate lies - especially when telling the truth is actually easier.

The truth is that it's more a 'Contract Against America', based on principles of retribution, not reconciliation. Additionally, this 'contract' attempts to centralize power and authority which is decidedly un-Anglican.

I could go on and on about the way these things are true - and you can find lots of supporting information here - but I think the most offensive thing about the Anglican Covenant is this:

It lacks imagination.

Indeed, I think the problem with most organized religions in general and the Anglican Communion in particular, is that it lacks imaginative leadership.

I suspect that's because our present leadership style is one that operates on an assumption of pathology. Something is "wrong" so we have to "treat" it - or at least "fix" it.

What's "wrong" with the Anglican Communion, in the opinion of some, is that we are becoming "too liberal" as manifested and embodied in the full inclusion of all God's people into the corridors and councils of power and authority.

Women and LGBT people become the pathogen - the 'foreign bodies' - which have begun to inject themselves into - or have been allowed to enter - the system. Indeed, some women and LGBT people who are ordained - or elected and consecrated bishops - have taken up something akin to 'Resident Alien' status in some parts of the Body.

The less we understand - or want to understand - about the pathogen', the more afraid we become. The more afraid we become, the higher the incidence - or illusion of - chaos. The more chaotic things feel, the less control we think we have, the greater the impulse for rules and laws.

And, scapegoating.

And, the sort of punitive, retributive components we see in Section IV of the Anglican Covenant.

The Anglican Covenant has become our "vaccine" - our "inoculation" against this new viral strain some call "progressive" or "liberation" theology.

At least, that's how I've come to understand the advent of what to me is this perfectly horrid aberration on the landscape of the Anglican Communion known as the Anglican Covenant.

The other day, I listened to Leonard Lopate interview Bill Shore on his NPR program. Shore, the founder and director of Share our Strength, has written a book entitled "The Imaginations of Unreasonable Men" - a book about a small cadre of scientists — collaborators and competitors — who are determined to develop a vaccine for malaria — a feat most tropical disease experts have long considered impossible.

In this country, DDT has come close to eradicating malaria. Shore reports that last year there were 2.7 million Americans with the disease, resulting in a 9% malaria-related death rate. In Africa alone, there were 247 million cases, resulting in 30% malaria-related deaths.

Eighty percent of those deaths were children under the age of five.

80% !!!!

Covering bedding with mosquito nets treated with DDT has made a significant impact on reducing the death rate, but scientists have found that mosquitoes have both adapted to the DDT and are now coming out earlier in the day. Clearly, the problem is more complex than a simple solution like netting.

What is required, Shore maintains, is this:

"Character, ambition, imagination, and the stubborn conviction that good is not good enough are indispensable to every leader seeking higher ground.”

He calls on scientists to become "more entrepreneurial" in their spirit. To think "outside the box" - indeed, "outside the lab" - and employ their imaginations to find the pathway which leads to the eradication of malaria.

There's a message in there - in this modern parable - for the Anglican Communion, especially if her leaders insist on an approach from a standpoint of pathology.

It's easy to project our anxieties and fears and locate them in particular people - like women and LGBT people. That's a very common dynamic. The diagnosis - and therefore the 'treatment plan' - is wrong, however, because we have not done a careful analysis, employing our religious imaginations.

The 'problem' with the Anglican Communion is not 'resident aliens'.

The problem with the Anglican Communion, at its core, is the challenge of how to be an Anglican - indeed, a Christian - in an anxious world.

This is not a new problem to either Anglicanism or Christianity. I don't think I need to recite the historical evidence which supports my premise. Scripture and the history of Christendom are filled with stories about what happens to people - good, faithful people - when fear and anxiety lead to a perspective of pathology and chaos.

The people who cried "Crucify him!" were not bad people. Most were good people who loved God. They were just anxious and confused and afraid. Very, very afraid.

"Be not afraid". That's what every messenger from God ever said to anyone who was being asked to do a bold, new thing.

It's the first thing the angel Gabriel said to Mary.

Jesus said it over and over again to his disciples. "Be not afraid."

There's another interesting metaphor from Shore's interview which I think may give us an insight into how to be an Anglican in an anxious world.

There are two approaches to eradicating malaria. One is to develop a vaccine which will trigger the body's immune system to ward off the effects of the disease. The other is to find a way to block transmission of the parasite from the saliva of the mosquito into the blood system.

While neither one has ever been done before with a parasite, both are entirely within the realm of possibility. Indeed, the pharmaceutical company Glaxo Smith Kline is presently running a fairly controversial experimental program with 17,000 children in Africa which is very close to finding a malaria vaccine. This would be, as I understand it, the best route to the goal of eradication.

One blocks the pathogen from entry into the body. One allows the pathogen to live in a body which can now tolerate the pathogen without any adverse affects. The first is a very expensive and complicated endeavor. The second is less so.

The first approach relies on the fact that the "combination lock" of enzymes - a "lock and key" of molecular and genetic codes - in the mosquito's saliva which allows it entry into the blood stream is static. It is not.

Shore reports, for example, that the HIV virus has 13 or 15 gene strains. The malaria parasite has something like 53,000 gene strains. It has changed and mutated over the hundreds and, perhaps, thousands of years it has been in existence. It will no doubt do that again, rendering the "blockers" eventually ineffective. It is, however, a short term solution.

The second approach - transforming the body's immune system to enable it to live with the parasite - is key to eradicating the devastating effects of malaria on the rest of the body.

Are you following me here?

We can go with the Anglican Covenant Blocker approach or we can work on something more transformative. Something that allows The Body (the Communion) to build up a tolerance and adapt so that it does not become "dis-eased".

It doesn't take much imagination to understand that Love - Incarnate and Divine - is the transformative agent, the vaccine with which we all need to be inoculated so as not to become disabled and diseased by fear and anxiety.

"Perfect love casts out fear", said St. Paul, and he weren't no pathologist or malariologists. However, he did understand something about the nature of God and the human community as the Body of Christ as well as the idea of the 'communion of saints'.

I think we might want to go back and see what St. Paul had to say to the early churches in Corinth or Rome and get some idea about how we might apply ancient principles of How to be Christian in Times of Anxiety.

If we engage our religious imagination, we just might discover how to be Anglicans who are Christians in these anxious times. We'll have to "think outside the box" - or, beyond the pews, and outside the walls of the church.

We can do it. We can live together in peace without the punitive restrictions and centralizing power of an Anglican Covenant. I'm convinced we can. God has given us the grace to do these things. May God now give us the will - and the imagination - to achieve them.

The poet William Blake wrote, "Imagination is evidence of the divine."

If I could say anything and put it into a letter to the Good and Holy but Most Anxious Archbishop of Canterbury that might actually have a chance of finding its way to his desk, it would be this:

Gentle Sir,

I am certain you have read William Blake's poems "The Tyger" and "The Lamb" from "The Songs of Innocence and of Experience". Please re-read them. They may provide you some inspiration as you face the challenges of the days and weeks ahead.

Blake's words, "When the stars threw down their spears / And watered heaven with their tears" may well be an apt description of how you see the Anglican Communion right now. Indeed, many share that perspective. Rationalists have often been overwhelmed by the fact that our dream for a tame, gentle world, guided by kindness and understanding, must ultimately face the reality of the Tyger.

I do not believe that the Anglican Covenant is the answer to the problems that beset the Anglican Communion. I believe you know this. I believe you knew this before the folks from GAFCON, who had helped to provide the initial impulse to this endeavor, rejected it even as it was being approved by Synod to be considered by individual dioceses in The Church of England.

I believe that the Anglican Covenant is, in its most benign form, a misguided attempt to inoculate the Anglican Communion against the virulent pathogens of anxiety and fear which have become epidemic in our lives of faith.

We don't need more laws to contain our fears. We need more love - even if only manifested in the unwritten doctrine of Anglican Tolerance. The simplicity of this fact does not diminish its truth.

God made both the Lamb and the Tyger and it is Jesus who calls us to the Realm of God where both might live together in the Beloved Community. I believe that the Anglican Communion is one place where the Lamb and the Tyger might live together, one bringing a keener sense of appreciation to the other.

Indeed, I, and many like me, believe the mysterious gift of the Anglican Communion is precisely what the world needs as a place to practice the multiplicity of expressions and manifestations of our Christian faith.

I really only have one request of you. It is this: Please use the enormous gift of your God-Given intelligence in service of your "character, ambition, imagination, and the stubborn conviction that good is not good enough". These are indispensable to every leader seeking higher ground.

Imagination is, I believe, as William Blake wrote, evidence of the divine. The world needs - aches, groans, longs, waits in eager anticipation for - manifestations of the Incarnation. Now more than ever.

May God's abundant grace bless you and bring you hope and joy this Season of Advent and through the year.

Yeah, I know. Circular file. Definitely, circular file.

Well, at least I feel better.

Where do broken dreams go?

The news tonight of the death of Elizabeth Edwards stopped me dead in my tracks.

Whatever else I was thinking about - ruminating over, fretting about - seemed to instantly disappear. The "hostage" situation of the American middle class and the unemployed. The tax "compromise". The failure of courage in the name of compromise. The Anglican Covenant (why do I even bother?).

Even thought I knew it was coming. Knew she had stopped all treatment a few days ago.

"Further treatments of her cancer would be unproductive," her doctors had declared, in the clinical, emotionally detached way of medical professionals.

She knew she wanted to die. The cancer had metastasized to her liver and her bones.

I couldn't blame her.  I just didn't think it would be this fast.

She was a lawyer. A best-selling author of two books. A wife. A mother. She had advised her husband in two bids for the presidency. She convinced him to lean more to the left than he was comfortable on the issue of health care reform.

She also differed in her husband's view on marriage equality. "I don't know why someone else’s marriage has anything to do with me," she said. "I'm completely comfortable with gay marriage."

Wouldn't she have been a grand First Lady?

She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004. She thought she was in remission. In 2007, even though she was asymptomatic, she and her husband and her doctor announced that her cancer had returned and spread.

And, that she would continue to be active in his campaign bid for the presidency.

"We are not in denial," Edwards wrote in an updated version of her first memoir published in 2007. "I will die much sooner than I want to.

In 2009, she revealed that she knew that her husband had had an affair with a former aide to his unsuccessful vice presidential campaign - that, in fact, they had had a child together. They were legally separated, living out the year required by North Carolina law, before the divorce.

"Nothing will be quite as I want it, but sometimes we eat the toast that is burned on one side anyway, don't we?" she wrote in the memoir "Resilience."

She said that she wasn't afraid of death because the death of her son Wade, in 1996, had changed her perspective and made her strong.

She once said that sometimes the wind does not blow your life the way you want, but you stand up to the storm, readjust your sails, and move on.

She called that "Resilience".

Others might call it "Resurrection". 

I wonder, as I look at this picture of her and her husband, taken on their wedding day. I wonder about the hope in her eyes. The happiness on her face. The love in her heart.

I don't wonder so much about "resilience" or "resurrection".

I wonder this: Where do broken dreams go?

Are they just toast, burned on one side, that we eat, anyway?

Writing on her Facebook page that "the days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered," Edwards expressed gratitude for the love and support she's received during her years in the public eye.

"You all know that I have been sustained throughout my life by three saving graces -- my family, my friends, and a faith in the power of resilience and hope," she wrote. "These graces have carried me through difficult times and they have brought more joy to the good times than I ever could have imagined... It isn't possible to put into words the love and gratitude I feel to everyone who has and continues to support and inspire me every day. To you I simply say: you know."

Elizabeth Edwards is dead. She was 61 years old. She died surrounded by her three children, her siblings, and her estranged husband, John.

No matter how resilient you are - how much you believe in the resurrection -  news like that stops you dead in your tracks.

You know.

Symmetry in the Sanctuary

It's one of those mornings.

I have about 16 things in my head and a road trip ahead of me.

Which is good.

I'll get it all sorted out in the car.

When I get like this, I imagine I must be quite a scene to my fellow travelers. I mean, when I'm in the car and I've got a bunch of stuff rummaging around in my head, all vying for attention, I need to hear myself think.

So, I talk. Full throat. And, often, when I talk, I use my hands.

I must look like I'm quite insane. Sometimes, I pass someone on the road who is looking to see if there's someone else in the car with me. Sometimes, they smile shyly and wave before they move along. Very. Quickly.

The only thing more embarrassing is when I am lost in a song. You know. Singing at the top of my voice. Full stage-mode.

Don't snicker. It's happened to you. You know it has.

One of the things in my head is a letter I'm composing to Rowan Williams. Yes, the Archbishop of Canterbury. He may not think that he needs to hear from me, but I do. Obviously. Not that I think I'm going to change his mind about anything, but I just can let this rest.

This letter needs to be clear and articulate and balanced. Not that I think he'll read it anyway. I suspect he has "staff" who read these things before passing them along - or placing letters like these in "the circular file".

Actually, I think it's cartoons like the one above that have the greatest effect. Not on him, but on those who influence him. And, I trust there are LOTS of people who have influence on him. Not anyone like me. Let's just say I don't have the right "equipment."

So, I'm taking this brilliant little cartoon along with me. To ponder. To consider. To laugh - which always shakes the cobwebs from my mind. To allow the humor of it to move my creativity which happens to be stuck in frustration over the whole bloody Anglican Covenant.

So, here. Enjoy. And, if you've got a moment, I'd love to hear from you.

If you were to write a letter to Rowan, what one thing would you like him to know?

Whatever IS the problem with the Anglican Communion today?

Okay, carry on. Please try not to mess up my things while I'm away from my computer. If you take something, please put it back before you leave.

I'll expect a 500 word essay on my desk by the close of the day.

The Marsh Man of Llangollen

Water color by Paula Atwell

An owl has taken up residence in the marsh in front of my house.

I hear him calling shortly after the sun sets and it gets dark.

It's not so much a distinct "Whooo" as it is a "woooo". It sounds more like the wind blowing over a narrow bottle opening.

"Wooooo. Woooo. Woooo. Woooo."

The sound of it is haunting and arresting.  It feels ancient and present all at once.

As I reflect on the scriptures that take me through Advent, my religious imagination is stirred. When I go out onto my deck at night, I feel as if I have my own Advent John the Baptist calling me to a deeper spirituality - an Advent Spirituality of the Wilderness - or, in this case, the Marshes of Llangollen - liberating my religious imagination to greater freedom.

It is calling me to the Advent Spirituality of Isiah, who continually inspires my own religious imagination, with dreams of the Realm of God here on earth that:

The wolf shall live with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
and a little child shall lead them.
The cow and the bear shall graze,
their young shall lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,
and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's den.
They will not hurt or destroy
on all my holy mountain;
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD
as the waters cover the sea.
           ---- Isaiah 11:1-10

In a wee bit, I'll be heading to church where we'll hear this gospel pericope:

Now John wore clothing of camel's hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey. Then the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all the region along the Jordan, and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.

But when he saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism, he said to them, "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruit worthy of repentance. Do not presume to say to yourselves, `We have Abraham as our ancestor'; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.

"I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire." Matthew 3:1-12

Maybe it's because I'm neither a Pharisee or a Sadducee that my "Owl in the Wilderness" doesn't sound half as harsh as this morning's gospel.

I'm really just a white girl who loves Jesus, and tries to do the right thing and make a difference in the world.

I hear the "Wooooo. Woooo. Woooo," as a call to 'metanoia" - to repentance - to "turn around" to a new life. An expanded life. A life trying to catch up with where Jesus already is. A life trying to imagine more. Better. Greater.

I think I have "arrived" only to find that I have so much more to go. So much more to discover. So much more to expand. So much more to shovel past, to separate the wheat and chaff from my life, down to the very threshing floor of faith.

If I can imagine more of the Realm of God come here to Earth where life is better for more people, the greater the possibility of it actually happening in my life time. 

"Wooooo. Woooo. Woooo. Woooo."

It sounds like an invitation. A welcoming to Advent. A call to go deeper into the wilderness of faith.

I recently picked up my copy of Inkheart by Cornelia Funk. It was one of the last books my daughter Jaime and I read together.

Wiki summarizes the book far better than I:

Inkheart follows the adventures of a 12-year-old girl named Meggie Folchart whose life changes dramatically when she realizes that her father, a bookbinder named Mortimer (Mo), has an unusual ability; when he reads aloud, he can bring characters and items from books into the real world. When Meggie was young Mo read a book called Inkheart, causing Meggie's mother to vanish into the book and allowing Capricorn and his men to escape into the real world. Meggie and Mo's adventure takes them throughout Europe, particularly Italy, and brings them into contact with many unusual characters.

'Unusual characters', indeed. A magician. An Aladdin. A man consumed by desperate loneliness for his wife and family. Other men and women, consumed by an evil quest for power that is not their's for the asking or taking. A family trying to 'turn around' so they can be together again.

But the real story is about a young girl who is challenged to discover her own gift, engage her own imagination, and discover her own voice, even as she faces into a howling, evil wind come to destroy her and the people she loves.

In the very beginning of the book are these words, from a poem by Shel Silverstein. As I read them, I fell in love with them all over again - so much so that I've included them as a new addition to the headliner of my blog:

If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A Hope-er, a Pray-er, a wisher, a Magic Bean buyer,
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

I hear that as a call to Advent. To metanoia through telling the "threshing floor" stories of our faith. To a repentance of the heart. To turn around, turn around, turn around in some flax-golden tales of scripture and the stories of our own lives, till it all comes 'round right.

And, the Marsh Man of Llangollen - like an Owl in the Wilderness, and John the Baptist in the Desert - is, even now, saying, "Wooooo. Woooo. Woooo. Woooo."

An Open Letter to My Eldest Granddaughter

Hello, sweetheart,

You made a comment when you were here at Llangollen on Thanksgiving Day. It was just an offhand remark. An observation of sorts. You made it once before, at the rectory in Chatham. You didn't say it to be bad or a mouthy 'smart aleck'. You weren't mean-spirited. You said it wistfully, almost to yourself.

Do you remember?

You said, "Gee, everything in this house is so old."

This time, however, you noted with a certain amount of surprise and approval, that we had purchased a flat-screen television for the living room, noting that it was "kinda small".

And, I suppose it is. It all depends on what you're used to, I guess.

I've been thinking about this business of "old". A lot.

When I was your age, I had the same attitude about anything my parents or grandparents did or owned, so I understand. I've also been thinking that it might be important for you to understand a bit where I come from - so you'll know where I'm coming from. If you know what I mean.

Actually, I'm thinking it might be my responsibility to tell you some of these things, so you'll understand some things about yourself - who you are. Who your "people" are. And why some of us do the things we do and believe the way we believe.

I'm going to write a bit about myself, but, if you change the ethnicity to Lebanese or French Canadian, or Irish - all part of the 'ethnic stew' that makes you who you are today - and tweak some of the details, you'll get pretty much the same picture.

So, here goes:

Today, you and I understand ourselves to be American. When I was your age, I understood myself to be Portuguese. My parents and aunts and uncles softened that a bit by saying we were "Portuguese-Americans" but they would never have said that around my grandparents.

Everybody else was American. We were Portuguese. I think that was pretty much the same for Italians, Irish, Lebanese, Greek, Jewish and French Canadians who made up the distinct neighborhoods of my - and your other grandparent's - youth.

There were no "African-Americans". Well, there were but they were called "Negros" - well, when people were being "nice". At any rate, I never met a 'person of color' until I was about your age. Oh they lived in my town, but "on the other side of the tracks". Hidden away. So marginalized they were invisible.

I think I was about your age when I realized that I was, in fact, an American. But, it was confusing.

Americans went to the "supermarket" to buy their food. We, on the other hand, had a bread man who came on Wednesdays and Fridays, a poultry man who delivered eggs on Mondays and chickens ("fresh killed" was written on the side of his truck) on Wednesdays, a produce man who delivered fresh vegetables and fruits in season, and a 'Hood' milk man who left glass bottles (not plastic containers) of milk on our doorstep in an insulated aluminum box (very modern) along with a small block of ice.

No one ever got salmonella or e-coli. If you did get sick, however, you rarely went to the doctor. You had to be nigh unto death to go to an actual physician, mostly because there was no "health insurance" but also because if you had a health problem, my grandmother had a treatment.

If you had an ache or a pain, you got a "mustard plaster" slapped on the offending joint or body part. If you had the flu or a head cold, you got to sit over a large pottery bowl of steaming hot water into which my grandmother would plop a very large dollop of Vicks Vaporub and then sit under a "tent" of somebody's flannel shirt that covered your head and the bowl so you could breathe in the vapors.

After that "treatment", Vicks was also slathered on your chest and under your nose, making the whole bedroom smell like an Altoid feels in your mouth - "curiously strong". But, it didn't matter. After you drank the "hot toddy" (whiskey boiled in water, sugar or honey and cinnamon) and went to bed, you were pretty much unconscious for twelve hours straight. When you woke up, the 'head cold' was gone.

Alcohol was as much a social drink as it was medicinal. If the baby was teething (and, there always seemed to be a teething baby somewhere in my family), we would rub whiskey (the stuff my grandfather made in the cellar, along with wine and beer) on their gums.

When we could afford it, we got a small bottle of paregoric (camphorated tincture of opium - yes, opium) to rub on their gums. I know, right?

The baby had colic? Easy. One or two tiny drops of paregoric mixed in with the baby's "formula" - a concoction of evaporated milk, corn syrup and water, all properly sterilized in boiling water and removed with thongs - would do the trick.

It also helped if you ironed a diaper, placing it carefully in the crib and put the baby, face-down, tummy on the warm cloth. "Back to sleep"? Not when I was a kid.

If you had menstrual cramps, you got red wine, boiled with lemon and honey. Again, you'd be practically comatose for the day, but you wouldn't find yourself anywhere near anything that even seemed like discomfort.

The way we looked at illness and health was also very different. We understood that we were human and that human beings don't live forever. We knew that because (1) we heard it in church every Sunday - which we had to attend, no matter what, and (2) because we often visited the local cemetery to "make a visit" to our relatives who had died.

My grandmother - "mia Vavo" had what she called "pick-a-nickas" at the cemetery. These were command family performances - no arguments - no discussion. You practically had to get a "doctor's excuse" not to attend - and that meant that you must be close to death, but a doctor's certification was the only excuse my grandmother would consider. And, even then, she would raise a suspicious eyebrow.

She would spread a table cloth over the grave, near the headstone and put out a big cardboard box of food. We would sit on the grass or on the nearby benches and have our lunch while Vavoa and some of my aunts and uncles told stories about the deceased.

Christmas and Easter? You knew you were going to "make a visit" to the family plot sometime during that season. No questions. No discussion. No arguments. That's just how it was. You would put a "blanket" of flowers on the grave - which always made me giggle, thinking how silly it was to try to keep a dead person warm with a blanket of flowers.

I totally missed the point about love. I guess I wasn't "old enough" to understand.

And, and, and . . . you dressed up. Sunday finest. It was about 'respect'.

We knew other people - Americans - had grandparents, but they lived some distance away - "over the river and through the woods" - not on the same street or in the same house. Until I was nine years old - your age - we lived in the apartment above my grandparents, but my grandmother's house was where the family always gathered, in some constellation, almost every day of the week.

We ate with our grandparents - my grandmother making big vats of stews and soups and large baskets of bread - which we gobbled up without care or concern for cholesterol or fat or grams of protein.

As we sat around the large dining room table, my grandparents would sometimes tell stories about how they came to this country "on the boat". They were both teenagers. They both traveled alone - without their parents or any of their relatives. I still have my grandmother's "guitara" - her guitar - which she brought over with her, along with her one small bag of clothes and her dreams.

My grandfather was 18 when he met my grandmother in Boston. She was 16. They were married soon after. My grandmother had twenty pregnancies and twenty-two children (two sets of twins). Only 15 of her children survived to childhood. When I was a child, I had nine aunts and uncles.

But, I knew of everyone who had died. Heard about them from conception to death. I knew because we went to visit them at the graveyard on a regular basis where their stories would be told. We would laugh and say prayers and leave with a deeper understanding of who were were and whose were were and what we believed.

Well, that's some of what I want you to know. There's a lot more, but we'll save that for another time. Your other grandmothers and grandfathers will have to tell you of their experiences of their youth.

Now, as I read over what I've written to you, I can see where you'd think "everything in this house is so old". I don't think of myself as "old".

I think of myself, as the French so elegantly put it, as "une femme d'un certain age" (that's pronounced 'a'jea') - "a woman of a certain age".

I think of myself as "getting older" - just like you. And, your sister. And, your parents. We all "get older". I'm certainly "older" than you, but I'm not "old". At least, I don't consider myself "old."

I'm not as sure what "old" is - as, like you, I once did - but when I was a kid, it meant "out of date". Meaning, "no longer useful". Something to be thrown away.

And, as you'll discover - one day soon, before you know it, and as we all do, eventually - that this is simply not true.

In fact, I'm really glad to have had the experiences I had when I was your age. I'm glad to have gone through a period of time to witness the evolution - and, revolution - of the American identity.

It makes me appreciate what it means to be an American. To live in America. To continue to work for the principles this country on which this country was founded.

That becomes especially important to me when people we've elected to positions of governmental power and influence start talking about "immigration reform" - by which they mean tightening the controls over who can come into this country to live. And work. And, have families. And, dream.

Everyone in America came here from a different place. Except, of course, for the "First People" - the "Native Americans" - to whom this land once belonged. Even they understood, however, that no one could "own" the land. Or, other people. Which made it easier for other people to take advantage of them. And now, we're trying to take advantage of anyone who wants to come and share the dream of freedom and hope.

I think part of the problem is that we've forgotten - or don't know, or become disconnected from - our stories. We've forgotten that most of our grandparents and great grandparents came here as 'immigrants'. Most of them came here with the clothes on their backs, a small bag of clothes and maybe a few pictures, and memories and dreams in their hearts.

Indeed, in a few weeks when we celebrate Christmas, one of the stories we'll hear is about how Mary and Joseph, the parents of Jesus, were once "strangers in a strange land". If it hadn't been for their courage and their faith, we wouldn't even be having a Christmas to celebrate.

I don't want that to happen to you, my darling - to forget, or not know your own story and lose appreciation for all you have.

I don't think it will, given the amazing parents you have who not only make sure that your daily needs are met and cared for, but are instilling you daily with values and ethics and morals. I'm sure you don't understand this fully, but I can tell you that you are one very fortunate, one very highly blessed little girl - especially because you have such terrific parents.

In these days leading up to Christmas, I hope one day you'll understand that it's not the "new things" your parents give you that make you fortunate and blessed. In fact, it's the "old things" - the ideas and ideals, the values and morals - they give you, which you'll come to know are the most precious gifts.

I've been thinking that, like all the "old things" that are in this house, it's part of my job, as an "older person", to tell you the stories behind all those "old things". I'll let you decide for yourself what's important to take and what's important to leave behind. Just as I have.

I'm certainly glad we don't use some of my grandmother's concoctions any more. We know now that while they treated the symptoms, they, in fact, could have been very harmful - especially to babies.

But, I do appreciate her more holistic approach to health and illness. An ounce of prevention is still worth a pound of cure. Maybe worth even more, these days. (And, I'm not just talking about inflation.)

I'm glad women don't get married at age 16 any more - that you can make a choice between being a mom and having a career. Or, like your own mom, do both. It's so much better for women today than it was for my grandmother. She'd be the first to tell you that choice is so critically important to the idea of freedom we have in this country.

And, even though my grandmother didn't consider us "Americans" she taught me great respect for others. She loved nothing more than the neighborhood gatherings, once a year, where everyone would bring foods of their own ethnic specialties. She took great pride in her cooking and appreciated the culinary skill of others.

She and Mrs. Goldman from the next block would talk for hours about the stories of the women in what she called "The Old Testament" and Mrs. Goldman called "The Torah." They had a deep respect for each other, even though their religious beliefs were so very different.

Their conversations on warm Spring or Summer afternoons on my grandmother's front porch, where Mrs. Goldman would stop by on her way home from her son's shop and have a cold drink, taught us to respect the differences in others because we discovered, through them, that we have so much to learn from each other.

I think we've lost some of that respect for the differences of others. Ironically, that's really what makes "America" great.

Perhaps, if we could regain that sense of respect, we would have a better chance of eradicating racism and bigotry and hatred completely.  I'm hoping and praying that your generation will help us make even greater gains in this struggle.

Maybe one day soon, in the spring, we'll take a trip to one of the cemeteries where your relatives are buried and have one of my grandmother's Saturday afternoon "pick-a-nickas". We'll set out a table cloth and bring a big basket of food and sit and talk and tell stories.

Maybe I'll tell you some of the "old, old stories" about Sarah and Hagar, Ruth and Naomi, Judith and Ester, Rachel and Leah, Mary and Elizabeth, Mary and Martha, so you'll know about the heritage of great women from whom you come, and find some inspiration to be courageous and bold about what you believe.

Of all the presents I could give you this Christmas - or at any time, really - I think the gift of stories is the most valuable one of all.

That's something you can't get from a television - new or old.