Choose Today

Our celebrant on Sunday took his sermon from the Old Testament Lesson (Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25), rather than from the Gospel. I, for one, breathed a sigh of relief. I'm sick of that Gospel about the five wise virgins pitted against the five foolish virgins... I don't care how you spin it, there's just something wrong there. 

I'm currently reading The Wisdom Jesus by Cynthia Bourgeault. She mentions this Gospel and describes it as more of a koan than a parable, explaining that these teachings are not about the outer activities they describe, but are about inner transformation. Of course the wise virgins couldn't share their oil, she says, because the oil stands for some quality created inside us "by our own conscious striving." She also goes on to explain that we wouldn't get that connection unless we understood that Jesus is teaching from a specific Hebrew Wisdom Tradition.

Interesting. That falls right into place with another book I'm reading by John Shelby Spong: Jesus for the Non-Religious.

Both authors assert that Jesus cannot be fully understood until we place him in the Jewish context he was born into. Okay, I'm game for that. But... both books are also difficult reading for different reasons. Spong, already in the first chapter, has eliminated the wise men, the virgin Mary, Joseph, Bethlehem and all the singing angels. Just think of all the Christmas carols we'd have to scrap if we all agreed he's accurate in his assessment. Just think of all the amazing music and artwork over the centuries, not to mention my own lame attempts to portray these miracles. We'd probably have to eliminate Christmas too... and that's my favorite holiday. 

Not that I don't believe Spong will give adequate and excellent examples of why Jesus should still be revered as God's son; I have complete faith that he will. I'm just too blown away at the moment by losing all the lovely mythology around the birth of the Christ, (whether it's true or not.)

But back to Sunday's sermon. Joshua charges the people of Israel: "Choose for yourself whom you will serve." And he gives them a lot of choices. There were nearly three thousand minor deities available to them in that time, a time when they believed that the power struggles in the heavenly realms directly affected the outcomes on the earthly plane. The more worshipers a god could command, the more powerful he or she would be. As I was listening, I realized just how awful a choice Joshua was asking at that time. The God of Israel, by His own admission, was a jealous God. God was a green-eyed monster? You read some of the Old Testament accounts and that's not too far-fetched. Makes you want to think twice if this is the one you will serve. Yet they all agreed. The faithfulness of Israel, whatever their motivations, has given us the world we now inhabit. 

We too, have that choice. The words choose today ring the truest, though. It is a daily choice. Every day. Day-in and day-out. Saying yes once won't cut it. It has to be a vow renewed with every breath. Choose today whom you will serve.

High Hopes

The words History in the Making have been true for much of my lifetime. Civil Rights, Viet Nam, a Man on the Moon... pocket calculators, the internet... and now another chance for a nation, our nation, once thought to be great and noble, to prove itself again to the world.

The country voted in droves. I even voted, and I have not felt the desire or need to vote in fifteen years. In my mind, Hope is what this election was and is about. We hope we can regain the dignity, the purpose, the ideals we say we uphold. 

Time will tell, of course. But without that hope there is only apathy. And we (I) have been apathetic far too long. Did I mention this is the first election in which the candidate I voted for has actually won? That makes a bit of a difference in my attitude towards voting.

All Souls

We have a tradition in our community on All Souls Day, (which we are observing today instead of two days ago): we read the names of every sister who has died in community, beginning with our founder Mother Ruth. Next come the names of all our relatives and close friends who have died... for example, my mother and father, grandmother and grandfather, etc... and finally the names of all who have died in the past year for whom we have said or sung requiems. 

It's a long list.

Names that were high points of mourning several months ago suddenly bring tears again, even though they have not been specifically on my mind since we laid them to rest. Why go through all that? Why live in the past that cannot be changed, only remembered with pain or nostalgia?

Two reasons I can think of off the bat: one... these people were important to us. My litany of names may mean nothing to the sister standing next to me, but she holds me in prayer and comfort, just as I hold her when her names are read. It's something tangible we do for each other, we remember together, pay tribute together, pray for their souls together.

The second reason was mentioned in the sermon Saturday (the part I never got to in my post yesterday.) We ask the saints to pray for us, and we, in turn, pray for them. Is this foolishness or the mysterious reality of the timeless nature of creation? I cannot answer that for you, of course. (I can barely answer it for myself.) But I know that these people I have loved live on in me... some in my DNA, some in my memory, some in their teachings that moved me forward on my own path to God.

Remembering the dead is nice, but it is not enough. I thought of my grandmother today, who always worked the polls on election days. Both she and my grandfather were working class Democrats and took great delight in announcing at supper "I voted a straight Democratic ticket." If my aunt and uncle, the Republicans in the family were there, there would be heated discussion about choosing a candidate on his own merits rather than his party. I was a child, and listened to these discussions with little interest, yet they stayed with me... even as I voted today. 

When Kennedy won the presidency my grandparents were dead. They would have had to choose between voting for a Democrat or not voting for a Catholic, and I have no clue which allegiance or prejudice would have won out. Today the issue is partly religious, but much more about race. Those who struggled hard in the 50's and 60's to bring Civil Rights to all of America see this election as a culmination of their efforts. My vote will be one that supports those efforts as well. My dear friend Robert Dubie was a freedom rider in the 60's. His was one of my names read at mass this morning. They live on in us. Of that I have no doubt.

reinventing the wheel

I've heard a couple of good sermons over the past few days... 

We don't usually have mass on Saturday, but one of our Bishop Visitors was here last week and it was All Saints Day, a major feast day in the liturgical year. A sermon about saints and prayer and time travel... pretty interesting stuff. 

The lessons for yesterday, the 25th Sunday after Pentecost, most people probably didn't get to hear, as our celebrant pointed out. Most people in church yesterday were hearing Saturday's lessons because most churches were celebrating All Saints Day. Yesterday was really All Souls Day, which some will celebrate today, but we (in my community) won't celebrate it until tomorrow, because we have today off. (How's that for time travel?)

The Gospel (Matthew 23:1-12) comes smack dab in the middle of all the "Woe to You" warnings... Jesus warning the Pharisees and scribes about how they will be judged in the Kingdom of God. But in this passage he stops and says essentially, Don't throw the baby out with the bath water. Just because the Pharisees aren't practicing what they teach doesn't mean their teachings aren't valid.

It's a good point to remember any time. Not exactly the same as Don't shoot the messenger, but in that vein. The third cliché that comes to mind in all of this is reinventing the wheel.

Both celebrants talked about our church's preoccupation with the past. When we celebrate the saints of Christian history, we dwell in their faithfulness and glories. What does it have to do with us? Our past is pretty flawed, our saints were pretty flawed... why not just ditch it all and start over? 

Some are, in fact, doing this. Starting over. It's not surprising or fresh news that membership in churches and religious communities has dwindled over the past decade. Church attendance is down across the board. Monastic communities are dying out. Yet there are also movements to build new communities, based on new rules, new ideals. There is ample evidence that the hunger for spirituality is as strong as ever. But whatever is on the menu of the institutional church is simply not what people can swallow.

Everything has a life cycle. Joan Chittister wrote volumes about the life cycle of monastic communities. She had some excellent insights and warnings of her own when it comes to the need for transformation of stale and outdated practices and beliefs. 

As a community, we begin again to grapple with our corporate identity, as we also remain focused on individual ministries and obligations. It's a fine line. The company of saints provide not just a background, but a "cloud of witnesses" for our struggles today.

quotes that cut the mustard

"And when we would make much of that which cannot matter much to thee, forgive us." ~John Elbridge Hines

I came across this quote in one of Bishop Spong's newsletters. Somehow I got on his mailing list even though I have yet to read any of his books. We just acquired Jesus for the Non-Religious for our library, but another sister has been hogging it is still reading it.

A conversation earlier this morning caused this quote to jump out at me. (Really jump out.) Judgment is probably my worst stumbling block in my personal search for compassion. I realize I'm not alone in this, that I was taught from childhood that judgment was a good thing: it was how I compared myself to those around me, to what was expected of me, to what I expected of others... a simple formula to see how we all were doing.

But as I deepen into this new life, I keep finding that judgment, in and of itself, is like quick sand: You step in it and it's not that easy to step out.

What really matters to God? Does God really care that the Epistle candle be lighted first and snuffed out last? I was taught that those little details were important when I was trained to be the sacristan. When I see someone doing it backwards, or snuffing the candles one-handed while they reach for the books on the altar with the other hand, my first response is irritation, not gratitude. I do not think, "Oh thank you for putting out the candles," I think, "You are doing it wrong."

I am working on this, but it can't be from the outside in. Nothing will change if I continue to judge myself as wrong for judging someone else as wrong. It doesn't work that way. Forgiveness is the key. And as I am finding out, again and again... it has always been the key, will always be the key. So, thanks, Bishop Hines. (If you've not heard of him, he was Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church from 1965 to 1974, championing ecumenical and civil rights changes, and women's ordination, to name a few.)

profound platitudes...

"The hurrier I go, the behinder I get." Someone said that in conversation the other evening, and I had to smile. I don't remember the first time I heard the expression, but it stuck with me, the way an irritating jingle from some old commercial will pop into your mind... and stick there. forever.

It doesn't fit me exactly (at least not right at the moment.) I'm treading water pretty well. Every so often I gulp a mouthful, but for the most part I'm still breathing. Still there are lots of things I'd like to do that there's no time for, and lots of things I'd like to do that I'm carefully carving out time for. Balance never was my forté and probably never will be, but with the help of a daily "To Do" list and a schedule that allows for small blocks of time between prayers, cooking, doorbell, and my work outside, I'm managing. I'd like to write more often, but am finding I have less to say, or at least not enough time to say it properly.

I was at a friend's profession Friday night. She and I actually joined this community as postulants together and we were comrades/combatants our first year. We were clothed in the same ceremony and then split up for three months when I went off to Wyoming on a special project. When I returned, we had a few more months together, but then she left us and went to another order. This happens a lot in the religious life. People move around. A Vocation is not just a call to serve God, it is a call to a specific community, and that's not as easy to discern as the God-wants-you part.

My friend and I have kept in touch sporadically, which isn't always easy either. She has her life and I have mine, but for the big celebrations it's always important to be there, for each other, as a witness to friendship, to commitment, to celebrate the joy of new directions and new growth.

The best laid plans of mice and men... another expression that sticks, and in the case of her Profession ceremony, was definitely on target. A traffic accident in the city caused two (of an expected three) associates-to-be to be stranded somewhere on the highway, so they missed their reception ceremony. The one who showed up was received. The next plan-gone-awry occurred when the preacher was likewise lost in transit, and the Gospelor was asked to preach an impromptu homily. He did an admirable job, reminding us that God is spontaneous, and probably not nearly as serious as we package Him... that we should be more playful when we approach our lives of service, because a sense of humor will get us through a lot. The evening's lesson from Ezekiel concerning the water flowing from the temple was a case in point: he explained that in the desert, water is power. But if we think of water instead as blessing, a blessing for all, not just those in control of the resource, we will approach our ministries in a whole new way. He spoke of my friend as a wonderful reminder to him that God is playful, and urged her to continue to remind us of that truth.

The service moved along and we were just starting communion, when the preacher arrived. My friend stepped out in front of the altar and said, "Wouldn't it be playful... if we heard two sermons tonight?" Everyone laughed. And so we did. Finally at the end, one of the other associates-to-be had also arrived, so we went through the reception ceremony again at the end of the service.

Spontaneity. They lived it Friday night and it was a blessing and a reminder to me. So much so, that when another friend, who lives with my sisters up in Brewster, asked me to ride back to their convent instead of staying overnight, I said yes... and surprised them with an impromptu visit.

Hard lessons

Last Sunday I attended mass at my old church in Jacksonville, Florida. The new rector, who I'd just met two days before at the rehearsal dinner, sidled up to me and said "I don't really like today's lessons. Why don't you preach the sermon?" I laughed. I actually hadn't read Sunday's lessons yet, so I was curious to hear them, and then to see how he preached them. 

Ah yes ... the vineyard owner, both versions: the original from Isaiah, and the one Jesus told as a parable. It's always good to hear his source material in context with the Gospel reading. I often forget Jesus drew from Torah for many of his stories. He didn't operate in a holy vacuum, making up everything he said from scratch.

The preacher began by talking about prescription drugs and their possible side effects... how Madison Avenue has made a killing with advertising for prescription medications of all kinds, (not just the ones to enhance your physical abilities in bed.) The theory is you'll go to your doctor and ask for the drug. If the doctor prescribes it, then you'll also get a large piece of paper with all the possible side effects: nausea, headache, diarrhea (he didn't use that word) and muscle pain. It comes down to the fact that you're betting that the meds will do their job without you having to deal with the side effects. His analogy was that everything in the lessons for Sunday dealt with choice and the side effects of those choices.

In the Isaiah vineyard story God built, planted and took great care to tend His vineyard. But instead of getting a nice crop of grapes, he got sour ones. In that version it's clear that Israel, the people, are the grapes. They've entered into a relationship with God based on a covenant, where both parties have made promises, have responsibilities. God keeps His side of the covenant and expects His people to keep theirs. But they don't. Instead they are wild grapes, a people who rebel and don't honor the relationship.

While the imagery is the same for the Gospel, it's now a case of vineyard owner versus tenants. Still, there's the underlying idea of covenant: it's his vineyard after all, and the owner expects to collect his share of the harvest. But... when he sends his servants to collect, the tenants beat them up, and some servants are actually killed. After all this, the owner says to himself, "I'll send my son. Surely they will respect him." But they don't.

Let me stop right here and spin off on a tangent. Am I the only person who's ever thought the owner is naive? These tenants have just killed his servants. He did nothing. They think the place is theirs. Why would they even hesitate to kill the son? I must be missing something historical, contextual, huge... because I don't get it. 

Except of course, I do. 

The analogy that God is patient and forgiving and loving and full of mercy, giving us the benefit of the doubt time after time is clear. But both these lessons have a warning. In both these stories, there's an end to the mercy. In the first, the vineyard is trashed and allowed to be overrun with weeds. In the second, it will be given to new tenants. In the early Christian movement, they probably thought they were the new tenants. A lot of us probably still think that's the case. But the truth remains that Christians behave with the same rebelliousness, greed and self-absorption as Israel did in Isaiah's time.

Our priest said, "These are hard lessons." 

Why? Well, first of all nobody likes to admit guilt. "Not my responsibility" or "I didn't know." are two of the standard excuses when a catastrophe occurs. Take your pick... the latest debacle on Wall Street will do. "I'm not greedy like those guys. I'm just trying to get along in this dog-eat-dog world, make a decent living, give my kids a better life." 

Except... we've all bought into some pretty lame substitutes for a better life. Our kids sit in front of TVs that tell them they'll be prettier, more popular more in... with anything and everything from designer jeans to the latest Barbie, and adults will be happier, more attractive, more successful... with a bigger house, a cushier car and prescription drugs to enhance our physical abilities in bed. We didn't have to buy that story. But we all did (and do) to some degree. So here come the side effects.

"The Kingdom of God will be taken away and given to others." In our day and age, how does that work? On Sunday, the priest had his own idea about how it happens. He thinks it won't be a drastic thing... more like erosion. Certain things lapse and ethics become lax. He wondered aloud how many people ask themselves "What does God want from me?" rather than "What do I want?" Not so many. I know that even in the convent it's an issue. We, who have given our lives to God are still plagued with the "I wants" instead of the "God wants" or even worse, we pretend that God wants what we want. 

And yet, in times of disaster, it seems to me easier to hear the hard lessons, to swallow the medicine that will make us well again. We are a greedy people. Yet when that greed is paying off, who wants to hear it's wrong? Only when the house of cards begins to tumble do we buck up and get clear about our priorities. Maybe now is the best time to hear these lessons.

coming home

They say you can never come home. Depends on how you define "home". I've had many homes in my lifetime and some were harder to come back to than others. 

My home now is the convent. But that's not exactly accurate... my home now is a group of women who have chosen a life that's off the beaten path... a much simpler way of living than what I've found on this vacation. 

Specifically I'm referring to the act of living and moving and being in a complicated world. My world now is way less complicated than it was before, not just in not having to decide what to wear in the morning, but in the intangible emotional choices. 

I find I can no longer hold together the various strands of subtle innuendos and personality quirks, hostile grudges from past wounds, constant struggles to carry (and manage) the baggage of childhood. I say the wrong things in the wrong places. (Well, actually that's not new for me.) But it's different now, because for the most part, it's unwillingly and unwittingly done. 

The women I live with have quirks in their personalities, of course. But we are more transparent. In the convent there's no need to posture or impress, no need for lots of words to describe the indescribable... and as a result, there's no need to posture or impress the outside world either.

So, for the most part, I have little or nothing to say. Except when I open my mouth to make an observation... and experience the backlash that it was the wrong thing at the wrong place and the wrong time. Then I'm awash in guilt for not knowing better, not remembering some topic was taboo ground, not discerning that one person needs assurance, while another needs to hear a truth nobody else will tell them. It's a complicated world and I no longer live in it.

So... I'm at the airport, waiting for my flight to my less complicated world. They have free wireless in this airport, and I'm taking advantage of the novelty of being plugged into my email (and the internet) in a public place. I've just experienced a hectic week of wedding preparations... parties and receptions and rehearsal dinners, the wedding itself, and the reception and another party yesterday. Each individual event was carefully planned and lovingly executed, the bride and groom are delightful people with a wonderful array of friends and family. But when you put all those events and people together, it was exhausting. 

This coming week I'll be doing some of it all over again as my sisters and I prepare for another Life Profession next Saturday. Not so many parties, but certainly the excitement of the preparations will be the same. They've just announced my flight has been delayed another hour. More time to enjoy the novelty of free internet and airport cuisine.

on your mark... get set...

When I was little I remember using a variety of procrastinating mantras... all were supposed to be preparing me for whatever I was about to do next. "On your mark, get set, go!" was from track (I think) and of course I never ran a single loop of track in my life. It's probably not even called a loop.

Another was: One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready and four - to - go! I liked that, you could drag out the inevitable for a long time with that.

The operative word, of course,  was... go. 

I'm getting ready to go. I leave for the airport tomorrow at oh-dark-thirty, and I'm going through all the preparatory motions of a lifetime of admonitions... don't leave home without clean underwear, don't take a long trip without cleaning your baseboards, never leave dirty dishes in the sink... 

In mid-life I turned those rulings into an art form. I would wash and iron everything I owned and hang it all neatly in the closet. It took days and often a very long night before I could finally pack what I was actually taking with me and leave home. I'm not as compulsive now, but I still have the last load of clothes in the dryer as I write this. Of course I don't have so many clothes now.

My dear friend's daughter is getting married in Florida. My younger son and his family lives in the same city. My times there are always too short, but this time, especially, it will be hard. I'll be gone less than a week this time, and the "wedding of the century" (as it's been dubbed by friends) will take up a lot of that time. I've not seen my grandchildren in almost a year... but I will see them soon.

I have recently acquired eleven boxes of odds and ends, mostly books, from my life before the convent. All the kitchen things have been integrated into our convent or taken to the church pantry where I work. The books are a work in progress... our librarian is sorting through them to select what she wants for the library, the arts and craft books will go to the art room. But some are design and symbol resources, collected over a lifetime, and they are still in my office on a shelf near the computer. Mine!!!! I have to laugh at this reaction, because it's certainly not new. Even though I lived without these resources for six years, I find I still want them for myself. This too shall pass. My suitcase is full, not with my clothes, but with presents for family and friends... from this new hoard of goodies I'd forgotten I even had. It's so much easier to let go of those things. Just not the art resources.

set up

(Matthew 20:1-16) Our celebrant reminded us this morning, that any time we hear Jesus saying "The kingdom of heaven is like..." (fill in the blank), he really means: this is what the world would be like, our world, if we acted according to God's purpose and not our own. And Jesus' mission, he said, was to bring God's kingdom to earth.

I always feel a little differently about that. Whenever I hear Jesus say "The kingdom of heaven is like..." I know to look out, because he's going to say something that makes no sense, does not seem fair, and will take me a whole lot of contemplation to finally get it. If I ever do finally get it.

Today's Gospel is a prime example. The vineyard manager goes out early in the morning to hire day laborers. After a bit, he sees he needs more help so he goes looking, and hires a few more. And again, and again throughout the day, right up until an hour before quitting time, he hires the last ones he can find. So far so good.

Then he sets them up. Really. He deliberately sets them up, calling them in reverse order to be paid. No sealed envelopes in this company, everybody gets to see what everybody else gets paid. Well look at that! Those guys who only worked one hour just got an entire day's wages. Wahoo! Whoopie! We're gonna get a bonus, nyah nyah nyah..

Only that doesn't happen. The final payout for everybody is one day's pay. Grumble, grumble, grumble. So what's with this? You give those slackers the same as us? And the vineyard owner says, "What? I can't do what I like with what belongs to me? You feel cheated? We contracted for a day's wage for a day's work. That's what you got. Take your money and scram."

Then he proceeds to rub salt on the wound by saying "Maybe you're just jealous because I'm generous." Okay. Intellectually I get it. His money, he can do what he wants. And if I had been one of the five o'clock workers I'd be ecstatic. Maybe feel a little guilty about the other guys with the sunburns, but nevertheless ecstatic.

But what about the dawn workers? I think they have a legitimate gripe. If they had been paid first and sent home none the wiser, wouldn't that have been easier to swallow? Of course word would have spread, but it's going to spread now anyway. 

With my protestant-work-ethic-mentality, all I can think is if I can sleep til noon and I'll still be paid for the whole day, why should I kill myself to get there on time?

Our celebrant told a story from his own experience that helped with an answer. When he first came to New York, he had seen men early in the morning, waiting... They were mostly immigrants, day laborers, waiting for construction foremen to come by in their trucks. A truck would pull up and the driver would roll down his window and hold up two or three fingers, to indicate how many workers he needed. The men would start running. The first ones to the truck were the ones who got the jobs. Jobs were scarce. These men had families to feed. They could not afford to be picky, or late, or slow to move. 

That's a good point. If the whole story is a metaphor for God's abundant grace... and the emphasis is on grace, then none of us can afford to be picky. Or late. Or slow to move. Our souls are on the line. 

If the emphasis is on abundance, though, then gratitude is the only appropriate response. I may have been up since dawn today, but there were times when I grossly overslept. I cannot begrudge another that same grace.

curve balls

I remember as my mother got older, she would need more time to get herself ready in the morning, more notice when something out of her normal routine would occur. I used to think it was funny. At the time, I could still be ready for work in twenty minutes, and would change plans at the drop of a hat, especially a beach hat.

But now that I live with so many older sisters, I see what a curve ball does to their psyches... it just upends them when something unexpected interrupts their schedule. One of our priests will be moving to Canada soon. One of our older sisters is from Canada, and this morning when he announced at mass that it might be his last time with us, he asked to see her before he left. (She often sleeps late and was not in chapel at the time.)

Simple request, especially since she actually was up when I went to check. But she was not dressed, and could not even contemplate getting dressed at that moment. She didn't want him to see her in a bathrobe, so... the answer was no. 

He understood, because he has his own family Alzheimer situation, but I realized how careful we must all be now... not to promise anything that may seem reasonable to us, but will not be possible for the elders to accommodate.

On the other hand, the two of us who are the "responsible ones" this week, are experiencing our own curve balls. First it was the phone system... down. DSL... down. That's finally been fixed. Our Home Health Aid, who helps with both of the two eldest, will be taking one to the doctor, so we'll have to be more vigilant about the other who will be left unattended. I'm on beeper this week, which means I'm not supposed to leave the house,  but I also must pick up milk and eggs from the Farmer's Market and our CSA share. Sister has three directees and I have one, a new one... and I'm supper cook.  We will be running on empty by nightfall.

How many times?

(Matthew 18:21-35) This is the parable about forgiveness. Peter asks Jesus how many times must we forgive someone who hurts us? Seven? And... (depending on which translation you read,) the answer is either seventy-seven or seventy times seven,  which would be four hundred and ninety. Either way, the answer certainly implies a bunch of times. That goes against the grain in our society. Someone who keeps forgiving and forgiving and forgiving is usually seen as a pushover. There's an expression: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice shame on me. That puts the burden on the victim to make sure the consequences fit the offense... an eye for an eye and all that.

But today's Gospel has left a bitter taste in my mouth for other reasons. Ever since I participated in a Bible study class in my early years as a novice, I've had doubts that Jesus actually said this.( Not the part about seven times seventy, but the part about the king going back on his word and tossing the "wicked slave" into the torture chamber.

Here's why: One of our group posed the question: If the human king in this parable is the stand-in for God, and God can just take back his forgiveness in anger... where does that leave us? I'd never thought of it that way. I'd always thought it was just a story, an object lesson, like my Nana would say the boogyman would get me if I didn't behave. You don't forgive your neighbor and God will get you.

But her question brought up a lot of discussion at the time. In this particular story, the king has already forgiven the first slave his debt. Period. It's only when the other slaves turn him in for not forgiving his own debtor that the king goes berserk and has a hissy-fit... puts all the debt back and sends him to be tortured until he can pay it. This is nonsensical. If the man is in the torture chamber, he's not going to be working off his debt. It's vindictive. Is our God vindictive?

Our celebrant this morning took a different tack. He opened with the acknowledgement that some things are easy to forgive and other things really test us. As he spoke, I thought of all the people who lost friends or family members on 9/11/2001. How each anniversary brings it up all over again... the pain, the loss. Some have been able to forgive, some may never be able to.

He spoke of "the grim burden of not being able to forgive" and I thought of the expression "carry a grudge" in light of his words grim burden. Of course. We carry it. The torture chamber is one of our own making, even though in the parable the king imposes it as a penalty. Perhaps the penalty has always been in place as part of the human condition, and until we can learn the simple but maddeningly difficult lesson, we will continue to blame and accuse and expect payback. And, when it is not forthcoming we will live tortured lives. And even if there is payback... the death penalty for murder, for example... it will never be enough. An eye for an eye never replaces the first eye.

But he went on... "We should always be forgiving," he said, "because we are always in need of forgiveness." Now that's different. Way different. It's different  because it comes from the heart of who we are, no matter how wonderful we'd like to be. And it's is not a threat from a vengeful God, it's a statement of compassion and hope, instructions from a God who wants to help.

Forgive, not because we have been forgiven, but because we'll need to be forgiven. And soon. He asked just how high each of us rated forgiveness. As compared with justice in a world full with violence and evil. That's a sticky one. Both are two sides of the same coin if we are to improve the human condition globally. But our celebrant believes that forgiveness is central to all of it. I agree. 

In Memorial

I have a friend who's writing a book about 9/11. Well, I'm not exactly sure it's about 9/11, but it's about depression in the aftermath of great disasters, and she saw a lot of depressed people in the aftermath of that one. She was my spiritual director at the time, and we met every month. 

It's been seven years today. I can still remember where I was and what I was doing when I was rocked by the news. I say rocked in retrospect. At the time I was calm. I am usually calm in crisis situations and only fall apart later. 

The problem with my reaction to 9/11 was I could never fall apart... not in the weeks or months that followed, not when I was finally forced to go down there and look at the big hole in the ground, still smoking. I felt something... horror, I think, when I saw scraps of paper still clinging to fire escapes east of Ground Zero, months after the attack. Last year I actually contributed to another friend's art project with that image... the view of a fire escape from below, with a scrap of debris, the actual debris, hanging from one of the rungs.

Seven years and I am finally beginning to feel something. 

I'm almost finished with the book Three Cups of Tea. If you haven't read it yet, (It's been on the Best Seller List, for goodness sake!) It's about one man's passion to bring education to the poorest and most remote villages of Pakistan. Greg Mortenson was in Pakistan when the towers fell. He'd been traveling to and from there for years, building schools one village at a time. He had first hand knowledge that it was not Muslims, nor the people of those countries who were the extremists who had done this.

I was sickened by a lot of what happened after 9/11... fundamentalists crying Armageddon, politicians swooping down on New York City, suddenly their city, to wave the flag, promise retaliation and justice for this heinous crime against our people. I couldn't help thinking: what about our own crimes against the marginalized people of the planet? Wasn't this act of deliberate destruction a symbol that we were not especially innocent? That somebody felt they needed to get our attention regarding our increasing wealth and comfort at everybody else's expense? But that was certainly not a popular opinion then, and is still not. This is America: Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.

Except it's the white race that's been free and the other races expected to be brave. For the first time in history a black man has the opportunity to become president. If some crackpot doesn't try to kill him. Crackpots abound. They do not all wear turbans.

not now and not me

...Moses said to God, "Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?"
and then again: "Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' Then what shall I tell them?" (from Exodus 3:1-15)

Our celebrant reminded us this morning that the whole idea of meeting God face-to-face is not necessarily the pleasant and profoundly uplifting exchange we (naively) think it will be. No, she said, encounters with God happen in unexpected places, at unusual times and in odd ways. The story of Moses and the burning bush can be a paradigm for us: God's will for Moses was not an easy job. And Moses' conversation with God was mostly argument. I think of the line in the Lord's Prayer Thy will be done and my own subsequent response, just not right now, and just not by me. 

In the Gospel reading (Matthew 12:26) Jesus tells his disciples the hard truth about discipleship: What profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? In most of the versions the word soul is used; in some it's substituted by life, meaning the true life. In the Contemporary English Version it says: What will you gain, if you own the whole world but destroy yourself? 

Your soul, your life, your self... these are called forth in encounters with God. Difficult. Uncomfortable. Because God recognizes qualities in us that we cannot recognize. Don't especially want to recognize. Whoever thinks that believing in God is the easy way out of this life is mistaken. But definitely worth the effort.

Book Review

I'm reading a book called 36-Hour Day. Called "the definitive guide to Alzheimer's", it should probably be required reading for all baby-boomers, and their children who will end up watching them deteriorate. It's actually fascinating reading... not only because it helps me understand the odd behaviors of my aging sisters, but also because I recognize myself in the early stages of this process, even though I still function on a reasonably high level. I forget things now. I have to use spellcheck more often. It takes me longer to learn a new task, and I do things on my computer the way I've always done them, not because I can't learn new key commands, but because there's a certain satisfaction in going up to the menu and clicking "save".

I still say Alzheimer's, even though the official designation is Alzheimer Disease (without the 's). I learned Alzheimer's. It would take a lot of energy to learn it without the 's.

There's a cultural more in religious communities that explains why we do certain things the way we do: Because we've always done it that way. It confounds new sisters testing their vocations. They think it's a joke. But it is and it isn't. They cannot understand the stubbornness with which the community expects certain duties and tasks to be performed, certain rituals to be observed.

When this culture clash occurs (and it always does in some form or another) the new recruit will respond in a number of different ways: She gets angry. She argues that there is a better way. She argues that it doesn't matter. She tries to change the community's perception of how it should be done. She does it her own way in spite of the conflict. She does it the community's way but resents the hell out of it. She learns the value of doing it the way we've always done it.

Getting to that final stage... acceptance is one of the necessary steps in a sister's vocational test. Her ego must surrender to the community's established way of life. Many cannot make the leap. It's just too counter-intuitive for a normal 21st-century-conditioned woman.

With our elders, we see them less distracted and upset when they can continue to do things the way they've always done them. There's a certain security in recognizing a cup on the bathroom shelf where it's always been placed. Routine and ritual take on new meaning. The book explains all that. I recommend it.

toot toot

It's been so long since my last cartoon post (way back in January I think) so I feel the need to let those readers who used to visit that site, know that the boys are back.

If you liked the first two series, you might like the third. (Nothing like tooting my own horn.)

what goes around...

My best friend is leaving town in less than a month. She's moving across country to San Francisco, a place I once thought I would be moving to... I was going there to live with a boyfriend. (Who actually turned out to be married.) I didn't move there after all. 

I've visited, though. It's beautiful. Just like my friend. As much as I will miss her, I am so happy for her. She's going to a new job, where it looks like they might actually appreciate her, unlike the sorry excuse for a boss she has now. She has slaved for this guy for years... saved his carcass on many occasions, made him look good to the board of directors, to his constituents and colleagues, to the public and has he ever shown her one tenth of the respect or acclaim she deserves? Of course not. 

She is too capable and even-tempered to be a prima donna, too much of a self-starter and a problem-solver to be a squeaky wheel, has too much dignity to play into his stupid political power ploys. And... in our society it's easy to take advantage of honest, hard-working loyal employees. He did.

But that scenario is about to change. What goes around comes around.

So... Best wishes, bon voyage, good luck and happy trails... I hope I can come visit you in your new digs by the Bay... 

paradox

We celebrated our community's "Foundation Day" yesterday. It was my first as a life-professed sister of the community; why that made a difference, I'm not sure exactly. I've been treated like a member since my acceptance as a postulant. But it was different. I told one sister, I used to look at the bricks, now I am one.

Emotionally, it was huge. (I cried.) The four sisters who live at Melrose, the convent in Brewster, came down mid morning for the day. Those four extra voices at mass made such a difference. One of them, a gifted musician, made our little organ do cartwheels. The service was lovely, the preaching was excellent, we were all together. Emotionally huge.

But... maybe it was huge because I was absolutely wiped out from being up in the night. One of our beloved elders has just come home from the hospital. Her surgery was Thursday and the insurance companies won't allow long hospital stays anymore. She can't get up by herself yet, she's too wobbly, and I just happened to be on beeper duty this week. The beep beep beep went off at 12:30 and again at 5:00. Uh oh... Diarrhea. I was (am) a mom. I've had my share of cleaning up poopy pants, it's not a big deal. Still, it took a while... changing sheets, cleaning up, finding new night clothes. She was a doll through the entire process, cheerful and helpful, apologetic and embarrassed, yet she let me help her do what needed to be done. I didn't think much about it at the time.

In her sermon, our celebrant spoke about the concepts of holy time, holy tools, holy place. When King David decides he's going to build God a Temple, God says "Did I ever say I wanted a house?" It was not God's need, it was ours. We have a distinct history of making altars, tabernacles, places of special sanctification. From early standing stones to mighty cathedrals, we have needed to differentiate between the ordinary and the sacred. Also with our tools... the special vessels for mass, special vestments. And with our time. Here we recite a fourfold Divine Office: Lauds, Noonday, Vespers and Compline. We set these times for prayer aside from the rest of the day, and when the warning bell rings, we stop whatever we're doing and gather in the chapel. It would seem that the larger truth: that all time is holy, all ground is holy is being ignored. She said no... we understand that on an intellectual level, but we cannot comprehend it, not really. So the defining, the comparisons, the degrees of sacredness we assign... all give us a framework for awareness. Layers of mystical awareness.

Jacob, on awakening from his dream of angels says: Surely the LORD is in this place; and I knew it not. We may assign certain times and places as sacred, but God is everywhere and shows up unexpectedly and we know it not. Until later. An afterthought. Oh... that was holy ground. That was holy time.

And so it was for me as she spoke. I thought about the early morning hours, literally up to my elbows in excrement. That was holy time. And I knew it not.

As she continued her thread of the mystical layers of awareness, she said that once in the center, with God, that's not the end. We must keep moving, and come back out to the outer realms. These holy times are always temporary... temporary resting places so we can renew, replenish, but keep on keeping on. And, she said we can be temporary resting places for others.

I thought about that, tried it on to see if it fit. Had I been a temporary resting place for my sister in distress? Maybe. But the larger truth was that she was the holy ground and my time with her, cleaning her bottom was the holy time. Paradox... don't you just love when that happens?

stalling

While I was in Newport, I went to Sunday services with my friend. A beautiful little church (little only by St. Bart's standards) was in the midst of summer chaos: a priest in charge, a retiring organist, lots of parishioners on vacation... yet the Spirit still moved through the aisles, in the Nave, and spilled out into the coffee hour afterwards. Spirit always seems to move in chaos. I forget that when I'm stuck in the eye of the storm.

The preacher/priest-in-charge did not forget, though. Her job is to hold the boat together and to help her parish navigate through difficult waters ahead. Her texts were pertinent to that: The angel of the Lord speaking to Elijah, who had run away to the cave in the mountain, "What are you doing here?" And Elijah giving his blow-by-blow response, "I've done my best. Nobody listens. They broke all your furniture. All the other prophets are dead, and now they're trying to kill me."

She outlined the usual things such a prophet might feel: the sense of despair at being all alone in the work for God, discouragement, fearfulness, dog-tiredness... standing at the edge of the abyss. Two choices then: hide in the cave or step out into the chaos.

She spoke of the concept of chaos, from very real physical tumult to the simple busyness of each day's activities; how easy it is to get caught up in our obligations and cares, to feel physically battered like tropical storms batter the coastline. She returned to the reading from 1st Kings. God was not in the wind, or the earthquake or the fire. God was in the still. small. voice. "What are you doing here Elijah?"

So... we are called back out. Into the chaos. She noted that in the hymn: Jesus calls us o're the tumult, it never said Jesus calls us out of the tumult. Life, she said, is not a fairy tale, and (contrary to what some believe) the Gospel does not call us to live happily ever after.

Yet the tumult wearies us. When I am weary, I am more easily prone to fear. 

Fear... we each respond to fear in different ways. Some snap at everyone around them, some are paralyzed and cannot function. Others become obsessed with controlling what can be controlled. None of it is pretty. Yet necessary. To find the stillpoint which is God, is to know after all, that God is with us. The cave may seem like safety, but that is also illusion. Risk is the key.

I thought about their little church, struggling to make it through another storm. But the words were meant for me as well. Some of you know I draw cartoons. I do it for the fun of it, but I also do it for deeper, less understood reasons. I've been in the safety-cave around this activity since the last series. (Mainly because the next step gets a whole lot stickier, and I am afraid of being glued to some place I don't want to be.) Yet, like Elijah, I keep hearing the question "What are you doing here?" Stalling, God. That's what I'm doing here.

Who is Jesus?

I was sitting on a park bench, minding my own business, when a young woman approached me. "May I ask you a question?" she asked. I steeled myself for what would be the usual continuation... not really a question, but a sad story and then: the plea for money. 

But instead she said, "Who is Jesus to you?" I looked at her. She was carrying a handful of orange pamphlets. Are Jehova's Witnesses canvassing the parks? I wondered. I was wearing our community's summer-simple habit, a dark blue Lands End dress, with no veil, just the cross and girdle cord, also dark against the blue. If you didn't look closely, you might not even notice it was a habit.

"The Son of God?" I said, with that annoying lift at the end that I associate with Valley Girls and most of the young people I overhear in the subway... those who use the word like in the middle of every phrase... like, you know, when they're like talking to each other?

"Oh, so you believe in Jesus?" she asked. 

"I do," I said with probably way too much emphasis on the do, (overcompensating for my annoying first response.) 

"Do you go to church?"

"Every day." She looked shocked (impressed) at that.

"I'm a nun," I explained, "I have to go to chapel every day, four times a day, actually." She didn't quite understand the term nun. 

She handed me one of her pamphlets: Moses in Manhattan, a cute little cartoon about an imaginary Moses wandering through potholes in Queens, braving rush hour in the Bronx and getting side-tracked in Brooklyn, all in search of the promised land.  It was a tract published by Jews for Jesus. She pointed out the address and email on the back and told me if I had any questions I should call or write. Then she was off... in search of more promising converts.

I sat there awhile and studied her pamphlet. At the bottom in small letters it said, Please do not litter!  I laughed. Practical instructions in the promised land.

Home is...

Home is... where the heart is, something you can never return to, where they have to love you whether they like you or not. All those definitions apply in one way or another, yet none of them can describe the sense of home.

I've had a lot of homes in my life, have had to leave a lot of them for assorted reasons, and the idea that you can't ever go back, not really, is as clear as glass. But you can go back to the memories, and as I do that, year after year when I visit Newport, I recapture some sense of what home was for me then.

The beach is my place... for whatever reason... Irish genes, childhood joys, the fact that we all evolved at some point from the sea, and Newport, Rhode Island, was the closest I ever got to living near the beach. You could say I  lived near enough, all those years in Jacksonville, Florida, but the ocean was eighteen miles away. I lived near the river. The river is lovely, but it is not the beach.

The smell of salt, seaweed, decaying fish, the cool breeze off the water, the sound of waves slapping the sand, or crashing against rocks, the whole salty-sandy-sticky earthiness of the experience is what takes me away. Where do I go? I go to God. In the cosmic sense, I go to the beauty and breathtaking created world... the sheer expanse of blue sky scudded with clouds atop the equally majestic expanse of water below. But I also go inside. I remember things at random... childhood things, beach things, talks I've had with God that were never resolved, the choices I've made over a lifetime that have been wise or foolish, but have led me here... to now, to this latest place I call home.

Last night I unpacked. I pulled out my beach dress, the cover-up I wear over my bathing suit. It smelled of salt and seaweed and suntan lotion. I put it on and wore it to bed. 

Newport Report

Come Saturday Morning... that's a song I remember from my past somewhere. Saturday morning it is. Today is my last full day of rest time... where did it go?

As I said goodnight to one of our elders last Sunday night, she asked me "How long will you be gone?" "Just a week," I said, more to assure her I'd be home soon than to comment on the length of time I'd get to play. "Oh, that's not enough," she replied. I smiled, "It will have to do."

Vacations are like that, aren't they? You either have the kind where the days fly by and it's time to leave before you know it, or the kind where you're slipping things into your suitcase two or three days before it's time to go.

I used to be a four-day-girl. That was the exact amount of time I could spend before I started getting antsy to get back home, back to work, back to my own bed. Not this trip. My work at home can be done by others. (Not that any of them wants to keep doing my share.) My bed here is way more comfortable than my own, and it feels like I've just not had enough beach time to rest my weary soul. I haven't. It's rained a bit... cold rain. We went to the movies on one of those days, (Mama Mia!) and drove around shopping on another. On another I just cuddled up with my books and the remote control. TV is such a novelty, even if there's nothing I want to watch. 

Yesterday was sunny. Wahoo! So off we went around noon... loaded down with umbrellas, beach chairs, our books, a cooler, towels. 

I remember my first husband lamenting his days when he could go to the beach with just a towel. At that time we were also lugging all the kiddie paraphernalia: pails and shovels, rafts, blanket, towels, the cooler. Going to the beach was an expedition, and the combination of sand and salt water usually left everyone a bit cranky. 

My second husband disliked the beach. He was fair-skinned and burned easily, so it was always time to leave just as everyone else was getting comfortable. He'd tap his watch impatiently to wrangle the kids out of the water, and we'd begin packing up. The "beach" also meant sand in the car, and he carried big gallon jugs of water to wash everyone's feet right before boarding. "Stay on the towel!" he'd shout to the sandy offenders in the back seat. Everyone was a bit cranky.

Yesterday my friend and I spent most of the afternoon under our umbrellas, reading. We walked the shore a bit (lots of seaweed, no shells) and took turns lying in the sun on the blanket. When it was time to come home, nobody was cranky.

I'm not sure what we'll do today, but it looks like it might be sunny again... :)

dancing with weeds

Today's Gospel was another agricultural parable... (Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43) We had one last week too. Last week's was about the idiot sower who tossed his seeds every which way and only a portion landed in the field. The rest ended up in the rocks, on the gravel, in the bushes with the thorns. Our celebrant last week explained the agricultural inconsistencies with the concept that God will not fit into our preconceived tiny, safe, careful or frugal opinions... nor of our misguided beliefs that there is only so much grace and glory to go around, so we'd better place rules and restrictions on its distribution. God breaks all the rules we make for Him/Her in our efforts to understand.

Today the Gospel is about the sower who plants wheat (this time in the field) only to discover someone else has also planted tares (weeds) and now they're growing up together. "Should we weed the garden?" his laborers ask. " Nah... Just let them grow up together and when it's time for the harvest, sort them out."

I'll admit I know just enough about gardening to be dangerous, but in our little plot out back I'm weeding all the time. Doesn't seem to bother the flowers and herbs at all. So what's with waiting until the harvest?

I was blessed again today to go out for church and the preacher explained things a whole lot better by going back to the King James language: Tares. While most of us think weed of the common vetch variety, there was a specific plant called the bearded darnel which looked almost exactly like wheat throughout the growing stages, and produced seeds which were poisonous. That at least makes sense of the no-weeding-edict.

But he went on to elaborate, and came to many of the same conclusions that I heard last week. First of all, he set aside the entire second half of the Gospel... the part where Matthew has Jesus (supposedly) explain this parable for the disciples... that the angels will come and sort us all out at the end of time and the good folk will all get gathered into the barn and the bad folk will all go off to burn in hell. His take on the second half was that this interpretation was just one more of our own human projections... just another attempt to put God in the scarcity box... another way to keep score.

And Jesus was not one to keep score. At least not in this sermon. No, the focus was on enjoying the Kingdom of God which is at hand, the one Jesus spoke about as a reality now.

And who belongs in this Kingdom? Who gets to enjoy it? Who qualifies?
Anybody. Anybody who loves as they have been loved. Anybody who loves as they want to be loved.

As an aside, the music today was from Missa Luba, a Congolese Mass, arranged by Guido Haazen. As the opening strains of the Kyrie soared up into the dome above our heads, my body swayed with an inner urge to dance. Of course I didn't. I'm a nun and an Episcopalian... we don't normally dance in church.

As part of his sermon, our preacher talked about re-education as unlearning or discarding much of the stuff we learned in our childhoods. He also mentioned that the world could be made up of two kinds of people: those who are dancing and those who are complaining about the dance. I'd add a third... those who aren't dancing but wish they could.

politics and religion

I'm finally getting around to posting about Sunday's Sermon. Yes, I realize it's Wednesday. As they used to say in my youth: "the hurrier I go, the behinder I get." That's not about to change any time soon. Life in the geriatric zoo muddles on and we muddle (and meddle) right along too.

But back to Sunday... we had no priest to celebrate over the holiday weekend. In fact we have a dearth of Sunday priests this month. Many are on vacation, and those who are not, are substituting for those who are. So at least two of us got Get-out-of-jail-passes last Sunday to visit an outside parish church. Of course I went to my home-away-from-home... the church I work for two days a week. In the summer the music ramps up as they continue to promote their "Summer Festival of Sacred Music". This past Sunday was Bernstein's Chichester Psalms, as well as an incredible piece from The Peaceable Kingdom by Randall Thompson. Harp and timpani added extra depth, as did the sweet clear voice of the treble soloist. Just the music alone is reason enough to attend St. Bartholomew's on Park and 50th Street, but the sermon was excellent too.

The preacher noted that any sermon preached on a national holiday has its special pitfalls. Any fool knows that mixing religion and politics could get you killed, (Jesus, the first example that comes to mind) but he launched right in anyway... with the observation that Jesus was not an early American patriot, he was a Palestinian Jew. He went on to suggest that if we are not aware of how our faith informs (or more likely does not inform) our politics, we will fall prey to the arrogant assumption that "God is on our side."

He also laid out a few major differences between the expectations of national patriotism and the expectations of Christianity, differences we are quite likely to forget when we pledge allegiance to the flag. (Or does anybody still do that?)

• Patriotism calls us to protect ourselves; Christ calls us to lose ourselves.
• Patriotism calls us to provide for our own... (our own families, cities, states, nation); Christ calls us to provide for the least of these... the poor, the marginalized, the immigrants.
• Patriotism calls us to amass wealth, Christ calls us to give it away... all of it.
• Patriotism calls us to retaliate when attacked; Christ calls us to turn the other cheek, to forgive our enemies.
  

In closing, he said, "Christ calls us to be more than good Americans." Reflecting on his list of differences, I wonder how we can be good Americans with the prevailing sense of what a good American is... I thought to myself, any people setting themselves up as a light to the nations are damned to failure.

good questions

Our celebrant yesterday always says something to trigger my own questions, my own issues with this religion I profess to love, and have supposedly devoted my life to. She's the chaplain for a prestigious New York University and I suspect her students have plenty of questions of their own to trigger her own internal debate.

Yesterday's readings alone are enough to put a damper on anyone's admiration of a God who asks the impossible... just to test us? I always go back to my own deep-seated belief that I agreed to whatever tests I have to take before I was even born... that God and I sat down and had a conversation and what happens in this life is a result of that conversation and those agreements. (It may be fairy-tale thinking, but it works for me.)

In the Old Testament lesson (Genesis 22:1-14) poor Abraham, after proving several times that he was willing to obey God's outlandish directions, was asked to kill his only remaining child. He'd already thrown out his first-born... left him and his mother to fend for themselves in the desert... Now, God says, "Go kill the only one left, the child of your heart, the promise for your future generations." God does not say: "this is a test, this is a drill, you will be graded on your response." Besides, you have to wonder just how traumatized Isaac was after being tied up, laid on a stack of wood, seeing a knife in his father's hand. "Hey Mom, guess what Dad tried to do to me while we were away!"

And then there's Pauls letter to the Romans: (Romans 6:12-23) He's going on and on about the tremendous difference between being a slave to sin and a slave to obedience. Hey, either way, it's still slavery.

Last, there's the Gospel of Matthew... (Matthew 10:40-42) the end of the passage where Jesus has come to bring the sword and not peace... trying to get some justice into mix. If you do these things you will be rewarded... give a little child a drink of water, for one thing. For most of us that sounds pretty reasonable. In America we carry our bottled water everywhere, whether we buy it new or keep refilling from the tap. In backpacks and purses, you see water bottles of every shape and size.

But in Jesus' time and place, our celebrant explained how outrageous a command that might be. In the desert "Water is Life and Life is Water." In the culture of the day, water was scarce, and only the strong and the useful were allowed just enough to survive. There was no concern with so many ounces a day to promote good hydration and regular bowel movements. You got just enough, no more. Children and the elderly did not work, could not carry heavy loads; they were disposable because they were not useful. It was not cruelty that prompted this outlook, it was survival.

So for Jesus to suggest that you pour out your precious water by the cupful for a child was just as outlandish as God's command to Abraham. (Like Father, like Son.)

In closing, she asked us the exact same question that our celebrant of a week ago asked: What is the Scripture saying to us NOW? What does Christ call us to know/to do in this generation? Knowing the context of the words does help us to make better sense of what was written and why. Knowing that child sacrifice was a common practice in Abraham's time helps us understand that the need for this kind of sacrifice was being overturned, not promoted. Knowing that slavery was a normal part of life in Paul's time helps us understand his language. Understanding that water was more precious than gold helps us understand how important it was to Jesus that a new kind of justice be understood.

But we can't leave it there. What is the Scripture saying to us NOW? What does it mean to us? How will we change because of any new meaning we take away? She gave an example: the things/people we thought were disposable are precious to God. Another thought: The culture of sacrifice is alive and well even now. Scapegoats abound in every walk of life. Why is that? And if it is a part of the nature of God, what must we give up? Perhaps it is only our idols we must abandon? And if so... what are our idols?

As always... good questions. Need time and meditation to grasp the answers.

total mentality

Today is my day off. I slept til almost noon. That is to say I slept off and on. Construction across the street begins early every morning. Last Monday one of those huge dump trucks began backing into place at 6:15... beep! beep! beep! That was it. I was up by 6:30. (Some day off.) But today it was already 7:20 before the clattering and pounding and beep beeping made its way into my consciousness. I pulled the pillow over my head and went back to sleep. Off and on.

Yesterday was a great day. My friend, the deacon's lovely daughter was married in the late afternoon and a huge gala reception was staged later in the evening at Chelsea Piers. It's been a while since I've been to a wedding, and I guess this was my first as a nun. There's not much difference... all the same smiles and tears for all the same reasons. The bride was resplendent and her mom and dad glowed with pride and joy. They have a wide and wonderful circle of friends and it was nice to reunite with people I haven't seen in a long time.

The posh reception was something else. I can't remember ever seeing (or eating) so much food in one place. First there were the appetizers... crab cakes, shrimp cocktail, chicken tidbits, watermelon dominoes, wine and beer and mixed drinks of all kinds. But wait, there's more... there were buffet tables with full-course-mini-meals... lamb, seafood risotto, salads and condiments... and the Asian buffets... dumplings, chicken katsu, beef and rice dishes and those styrofoam looking chips... I am a such a sucker for hors d'oeuvres. Even though I was warned that this was only the beginning, that a full sit-down dinner would follow... I ate everything I was offered. Yum. We were assigned tables and once the curtains were pulled and we were invited in, I found I was seated with a table full of friends... some I already knew, some I was just meeting. Music with a definite Latin flavor rocked the room and all those youngsters with all that energy to dance all night were out there in the thick of it.

Each place setting was surrounded by glasses... white wine glass, red wine glass, water goblet, champagne flute... and so many knives and forks and spoons that would have unnerved the most sophisticated diner. But everyone was relaxed and in a mood to party, not to notice who was using what utensil for which course. Except the wait staff. They carefully (and precisely) refolded each and every napkin that had been slung aside as people stopped mid-course and made their way to the dance floor. They continued to do this over and over again, all night. It made me laugh. it reminded me of myself... so persnickety about lining up the water glasses in the cupboard by glass shape and size. Even if another sister has already put the glasses away, I will stop and rearrange them in order. "I definitely have wait staff mentality," I thought to myself.

But not totally. A priest friend on my right, had arrived too late for the hors d'oeuvres. When the first course was served... delicate spring rolls with a mysterious contents that looked and tasted a bit like ham salad, (later we found out it was raw tuna) we gobbled them down in seconds. She was still hungry. So was I. An adjacent table was missing four of its occupants... I just exchanged our plates with two of the no shows. "I'm a nun. It's okay if I do this," I told the folks sitting there. They laughed. Did I mention that the attentive wait staff was also refilling our wine glasses every two minutes? I have no idea how much wine I actually consumed... it's hard to keep up when you take a swallow, look again, and your glass is still full.

By dessert you'd have thought I'd have been stuffed. Not on your life. Four more people at our own table left early so I did the plate shuffle once again for my friend and me... Hey! mini chocolate soufflés with almond ice cream on the side. Who can resist hot and cold together? Not me. Besides, the food was already paid for. I figure we were simply making sure our friend got his money's worth. "I definitely have a thief's mentality," I thought.

Close to midnight the party was still going strong, but my Cinderella genes were warning "pumpkin" so my priest friend and I said our goodbyes and best wishes. With the blessing of the father of the bride we each snagged a centerpiece from two of the empty tables and walked out boldly carrying our spoils. What a hoot. A priest and a nun copping the flowers at our best friend's daughter's wedding. On my way home a homeless man hollered at me. "Sister! How did you know I needed some flowers?" I handed him one. "Just lucky, I guess." And smiled. All the way home.

Here's the deal...

This post is prompted by the sweet anonymous comment of a day or two ago, but even my daughter-in-law sent an email checking on me. Thank you both. I'm here. I'm okay. (Relatively.) I've not posted for several reasons... nothing to say, or... too tired to say it... or too tired to say it without hurting somebody's feelings. I've been told a war with too many fronts is destined for failure. Well, I'd say any war is destined for failure, but I understand the point because that's what's going on in my life at the moment.

First, (and these are in no special order) there's the monotony of same-old, same-old... which plagues everyone from time to time, but especially religious. They even have a name for it: acedia, from the Greek akēdeia meaning indifference. Another way to put it: Spiritual torpor and apathy; ennui.. or to be even more judgmental: sloth, one of the seven deadly sins.

Second, there's the non-stop geriatric-zoo-syndrome which is getting to the few of us who still have functioning brains. There are the "walker wars" (yet another example of a war nobody can win) and the elevator was put out of commission last week when the door was derailed by two walkers trying to cram themselves into the space available for one. Of course that was right after mass and before breakfast, so the two of us who can climb stairs (holding a tray full of food) had to bring them their breakfasts in the library, while we waited for the repairman to arrive. Of course that's not nearly as bad as when the one sister "forgets" her walker altogether and hobbles down the hall on her own, careening off the walls. Please take your pills, sister. Where is your cane? No, today is not Wednesday. To make matters even more hilarious, our four older sisters just started their annual week-long silent retreat. Can they remember they are in silence? Do they care? What day is it?

Third is my new job. New jobs are, by their nature, stressful and tiring. Learning the ropes takes time and effort. To my chagrin and irritation, my typically fast learning curve is no longer that fast. Must be old age. Damn. (No wonder employers don't want to hire people in their sixties.) I am getting it, slowly, but it's also taking its toll on my already flagging energy.

And then... there are family matters which weigh on my heart but I cannot confront because I have no energy left to even begin the conversation about "what's wrong?" That limbo state weighs heavy too. I'm too tired to blog. (Except of course this morning... when an especially good sermon sparked the teensy weensy ember left smouldering in my heart.)

Hurling peace

Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law — a man's enemies will be the members of his own household. ~Matthew 10:34-36

In his sermon today, our celebrant used the words "not to hurl peace... but to hurl swords" I've just googled all the English versions available on Bible Gateway and couldn't find "hurl peace" anywhere. I found send peace, bring peace, put peace, and make life cozy, but no hurl peace. Our celebrant is a renown Bible scholar; I doubt he made it up, although he could have. It got my attention, (and not just for the multiple meanings of "hurl").

This is a tough passage for a lot of us. At Christmas we sing of Christ as the "Prince of Peace" and make much noise about "Peace on Earth, good will to everyone." Even Jesus said "Blessed are the peacemakers." Yet here he is, in Matthew's Gospel, saying that's not what he's about?

I love it when this particular preacher asks all the obvious questions and then comes up with the not-so-obvious answers. Well some are obvious, but most of his answers are too difficult to face much of the time. Today was no different. He first explained about context... that Matthew's Gospel was written in a period where the reality of being put to the sword was all-too-common for Christians. To the people of their day they were the lunatic fringe, subversives, a blasphemous sect, a bunch of crazies. They were hated by Orthodox Jews and pagans alike... for their abominations and mysterious superstitions. What we call today "deprogramming" back then meant death, not psychiatric counseling.

As Matthew's Gospel goes on to say in the following verses: He who loves father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me; and he who loves son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me. And he who does not take his cross and follow after Me is not worthy of Me. In the context of the times, to be a Christian required total commitment. There was no room for conflicting commitments to family, no compromise for someone looking to save his skin.

That was then; this is now. What about now? We are not now persecuted for our beliefs, and we bear the name of Christ without having to pick up his cross. In fact, many of us are quite reluctant to say we "stand with Christ" when it's politically offensive or personally inconvenient.

But the point was this: we (as Christians) are not supposed to be the ones hurling the sword. (Uh oh.) To stand with Christ means to be the victim as He was. (Double uh oh.) I think of 9/11... and our haste to wage war on someone... anyone so we could feel better about ourselves. The few lone voices of reason and compassion and desire for reconciliation were quickly shushed up in the headstrong rush for retaliation. We asked the wrong questions. We went to war for the wrong reasons and with the wrong people. We learned nothing.

Our celebrant concluded: "The Christian message is not to be advanced by killing, but by dying." How many Americans are willing to die? How many Christians world-wide are willing to die? I see plenty willing to kill.

lines in the sand

"Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?" ~Matthew 9:11

Our celebrant this morning is not one of our Sunday "regulars". He's a Friday regular. In fact, he calls himself Fr. Friday and will celebrate every Friday he's in town if we let him. (We most always let him.) But since Sunday is unusual for him, I'd never actually heard him preach. His sermon focused on the upcoming Lambeth conference, and he interwove today's Gospel message with the unfortunate fact that many of the bishops are staying away for one reason or another... because they don't want to be associated with certain other bishops, or their constituents don't want them associating with them. At least one bishop wasn't even invited, so others who think that's just wrong are boycotting too. What a mess.

When I was a child my grandmother was worried I "would run with the wrong crowd" and thus "ruin my reputation". It was important to her to have a good reputation. "You should be polite, but don't mingle" was her general philosophy. So mostly I stuck with the right crowd.

When I arrived in college I met someone a bit like Jesus, who was good, honest, loving and quite undiscriminating about who he associated with. He could have cared less about his reputation. He was kind and open to everyone. I was in awe. You can do that? Wahoo! But I still played it pretty safe.

After my second divorce I spent a few years being with people who would be considered "sinners" by most standards. And I wasn't out to change them or heal them either. I was exploring sin, or rather... discovering for myself what really constitutes sin. I learned a lot. As Jesus said, it's not what you put into your mouth that defiles, it's what comes out of your mouth from your heart.

Our Anglican Communion is in a bind. Our bishops are in a bind. Bound by conflicting definitions of sin... and they have drawn their lines in the sand. Jesus drew in the sand, too, but not to condemn.