Circles

Whoever decided to put Christmas right next to New Year's Day was a genius; must have been the same person who decided that dessert comes at the end of the meal. This year, the theme has been "life as a big circle", i.e., the ends of things smashed up against new beginnings. Life has provided more than it's share of circular happenings this year, it seems. Daughter M. graduated from college this month, and begins more school next year. Daughter K. graduated also, and begins the next phase of her life. Son E. now has a son of his own, the beginning of acute responsibility and the end of "laissez faire" - the same for daughter-in-law S.

Christmas Eve was on a Sunday this year, so I attended the morning worship service, then later attended the Christmas Eve service in the evening.

Christ Church, in Fairfield, is a melting pot of a church. Holy Communion there is different than most; we all stand in a big circle, old and young, rich and poor, red and yellow, black and white, while the priest makes his way around to each of us to give us the consecrated host. Sometimes the children, not able to stand still, will dance like they're at a party.

I like standing in that big circle, at the end of the week and - at the same time - the beginning of the week; remembering "the last supper", and realizing that it was just the beginning of a new thing that lasts forever, a celebration without end...

Birth

Today was a beautiful day; A bit warm for December, blue skies, a little breeze. This morning, I went back to the same hospital where K. died just two weeks ago, to be present for the birth of my first grandchild. Keller was born at 8:45 this morning, 8 lbs. 1 oz., 19 inches long, 26 days premature. He was having a little trouble breathing, so he was taken to the NICU, but on this quiet, clear night, he's sleeping peacefully. He's just about as perfect as he can be, and all of us who have hovered around waiting for this day are exceedingly thankful.

Words fail a fellow sometimes; this is one of those times. Some folks never seem to be at a loss for words, though, like the person who wrote this in the BCP, page 829:

Almighty God, heavenly Father, you have blessed us with the joy and care of children. Give us calm strength and patient wisdom as we bring them up, that we may teach them to love whatever is just and true and good, following the example of our Savior Jesus Christ.

Amen.

Faith

It's Advent season, a time of anticipation and preparation for that portion of believers who observe the church calendar. We hear sermons about the Old Testament prophets foretelling the arrival of the Messiah, John the Baptist telling us to get ready, and the need to prepare our hearts and minds for His coming. It's a challenging time, because we all know from past experience that He's coming, but He didn't exactly fit the image that the followers of old had in mind - They were expecting a warrior king, majestic and powerful, to lead them to greatness. He was a king, but He was born in a barn. He was a warrior, "mighty in battle", but he never led a conquering army. He was majestic and powerful, but also "a man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief". Come to think of it, He doesn't always fit our expectations, either: Every time we try to put Him in a category, He defies our expectations, leaving us scratching our heads, trying to understand...

In the end, when our expectations aren't met, we're left to stew, sometimes doubting and confused, sometimes angry and sullen, pining for answers before an inscrutable God. Our faith is tested. I mean, He was supposed to take care of us, make us happy, prosperous, full of vim and vigor, no?

Along those lines, I received this poem from a good friend. The author is, unfortunately, unknown.


BUTTPRINTS IN THE SAND

One night I had a wondrous dream
One set of footprints there was seen
The footprints of my precious Lord,
But mine were not along the shore.

But then some stranger prints appeared,
And I asked the Lord, What have we here?
Those prints are large and round and neat,
But Lord, they are too big for feet.

My child, He said in somber tones,
For miles I carried you alone.
I challenged you to walk in faith,
But you refused and made me wait.

You disobeyed, you would not grow,
The walk of faith, you would not know.
So I got tired, I got fed up,
And there I dropped you on your butt.

Because in life, there comes a time,
When one must fight and one must climb,
When one must rise and take a stand,
Or leave their buttprints in the sand.


And so, we are left to wonder... butts firmly planted in the sand.

Perhaps this is the essence of Faith - i.e., if we possessed a clear and certain understanding of Jesus - all that He was, and is, and ever will be, in our lives and in heaven above - If we could put Him in a box, then Faith would become Knowledge, and it would lose something very precious and essential in the process. Instead, Faith, when fully grown and matured, becomes Trust.

Presence

I was standing on the front porch of a cabin in North Carolina last weekend, watching the sun come up over the mountains, and I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about "mountaintop experiences". They're intoxicating, he said - once you get to the top of some mountain, either literally or figuratively - you want the moment to last. My Cursillo weekend was like this - I wanted desperately to keep the "feeling" I had on the "mountaintop" so much, that I just willed myself to stay up there even after I got home. It lasted about 24 hours.

I'm not a mountain climber, but I have trekked to the top of some peaks in Colorado, and hiked up trails to the tops of some of the mountains of North Carolina. There is a moment - when you reach the summit, see the view, smell the cool air, wind in your face - when you want to stay, soaking it in, right before you realize that you have to come down, eventually. If you're lucky, there's somebody there at the top you can share it with; otherwise, it's a lonely place with a great view.

So, standing alone Sunday morning, watching the sun come up over the hills to the east, I got to thinking about Jesus and His mountiantop experiences. Especially His last one. I wonder what He thought about - not just what's written in the Gospels, but his private thoughts - as He climbed to the top of the low mountain where He was crucified. I wondered if He, upon reaching the summit, saw the view, smelled the cool air, felt the wind in His face. Beaten to within an inch of His life, weight of the world on His shoulders, surrounded by haters and thieves, gawked at by a meager audience of His followers, feeling forsaken...

I'm glad that wasn't the end. Maybe it's my Protestant upbringing, but I don't like to think about Jesus up there on the cross - crucifixes stop short of telling the whole story. I need him right here, off the mountain, sitting next to me while I'm driving, walking the halls at work, standing beside me, watching the sun come up over the mountains, on the front porch of a cabin in North Carolina...

Confession

The story goes that several years ago, the late Rev. Furman Stough, then bishop of Alabama, was speaking to a group of children in an local parish. To begin, he asked them if they knew who he was, thinking that he would have the opportunity to explain to them a little about the church hierarchy. One little boy, apparently well-versed in BCP language, blurted out "I know who you are - You are a miserable offender!"

A while back, I searched all over for the phrase "miserable offender". I started by looking in the Book of Common Prayer, but I couldn't find it there. I googled "miserable offender", and finally, I went to a BCP website and typed "miserable offender" into the search engine. The fact that the phrase was a bit challenging to find was, I believe, a symptom. I finally came across it - not in the current version of the BCP, but in the 1928 prayer book, on page 23, part of the service of Evening Prayer, under "A General Confession":

"...We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no health in us. But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare thou those, O God, who confess their faults..."

In my search, I ran across a fair number of comments both in websites and in blogs from people critical of the phrase, "miserable offender". Many feel that it's a bit harsh. I wondered if I could rewrite the confession so that it would be more palatable, something like this:

"...We have offended against thy holy laws on rare occassions. Sometimes, we have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done every now and then; but hey, nobody's perfect. Still, O Lord, even though we're generally OK, have mercy upon us, we're trying really hard. Spare those, O God, who can't quite get it right, and know that we're really sincere in our efforts..."

That said, another phrase comes to mind: "pussy footing".

I wonder how things would be different if we all truly and fully recognized our wretchedness - our offender status - before God. It's not necessary to embrace our faults in order to acknowledge them. It could very well be the best thing that could ever happen to us, to stand before God, with all our shortcomings to set before Him. How do you think He would respond?

Maybe then, we would see ourselves as we truly are - as sheep in need of a shepherd (Psalm 23).

The Amateur

Earlier this week, I posted a quote by Tom Arnold, via Donald Miller, about his reason for writing a book - "I wanted something out there so people would tell me they liked me. It's the reason behind almost everything I do."

I've been rolling that around in my head, and then this morning, I got an email from Reunion pal M. - It's way cool; these two kids dancing the boogie woogie with an ace band playing behind them, and I thought about what Tom Arnold said. I wonder: do those kids do this because they believe people will like them for it? You might want to ckeck it out for yourself and see what you think:

http://www.boogiegroove.ch/video/Dancin%20The%20Boogie.wmv

When you think about all the time and energy that went into just this few minutes of dancing, it makes you wonder: If it's all done so people will appreciate you and tell you they like you, it seems a pretty high price. I mean, hours spent practicing, preparing, keeping yourself fit enough to move like that, avoiding the pecan pie, not to mention the emotional energy spent getting along with your partner (they may not even like each other, you know). Sure, the crowd loves them, and if they're in this so that "people will tell them they like them", a la Tom Arnold, they've succeeded. But it looks to me like they're doing it because it's fun.

You hear this all the time in sports: Children play games because it's fun, games like soccer or basketball or tennis. Some become really good at what they do and play at the collegiate level, and then the very best become professionals, and get paid for "playing". Their "play" becomes their "work". They all ultimately retire, and if they're lucky enough to quit before they get injured, they hold a press conference and say "The game just wasn't fun anymore."

You might say that people also do what they do for the money. But that's not why children do what they do - It's not what starts the ball rolling. Do you think Bret Favre started playing football when he was a kid because of all the money he thought he would make? Children play football, or bang on drums, or cut out paper dolls, or dance, because it's fun. They are, by definition, amateurs, doing what they do for the sheer fun of it.

The late Rev. John Claypool once wrote a little book provocatively titled "God is an Amateur". In the titular essay, he posits that God does what He does not out of a sense of duty, or as Tom Arnold "so people will tell me they like me", but because He loves what He does. For example, He sent His only Son to earth, not because He had to, but because He loved us (John 3:16,17). That's why amateurs do what they do - because they love the "doing" of it.

So maybe we should be more like children, so that our motives can be closer to God's.

Last Rites

K.'s funeral is today. My Reunion group pals will be there, really to support me (they never met K.), and I love them for that - It's what Reunion groups do.

K.'s daughter has planned a "Celebration of Life" for K.'s big send-off - much more appropriate than a "funeral", which K. wouldn't have wanted. No dirges. I'm betting on hearing some stories about K.; like how she had this tendency to fall out of bed for no reason (thump!), get up, climb back in, and not remember a thing about it the next day.

Come to think of it, her life was like that in a way. Fall down, get back up, go back to business, forget about it...

I've had discussions about funeral plans, or celebratory send-offs, whatever you want to call them, with several people. My friend J. says he wants all his friends there, and a big gospel choir, lots of shouting, rolling in the aisles. M. says she just wants to slip away quietly. Most folks that talk about it don't want sentamentality and tears. K. and her daughter wanted a Celebration - 'nuff said. K. lingered long enough so that she and her daughter could plan things, like who would speak, what songs would be sung, the tone and tenor of the service, that sort of thing. They inspired me to plan mine, so that I don't leave that behind for my loved ones to worry and fret over.

Along those lines, here's a poem by Langston Hughes. I wish I could have been at his funeral, if it was anything like he wanted it to be.


As Befits a Man

I don't mind dying---
But I'd hate to die all alone!
I want a dozen pretty women
To holler, cry, and moan.

I don't mind dying
But I want my funeral to be fine:
A row of long tall mamas
Fainting, fanning, and crying.

I want a fish-tail hearse
And sixteen fish-tail cars,
A big brass band
And a whole truck load of flowers.

When they let me down,
Down into the clay,
I want the women to holler:
"Please don't take him away!
Ow-ooo-oo-o!
Don't take daddy away!"

Stuart Smalley vs. Tom Arnold

I like to watch reruns of Saturday Night Live on the Comedy Channel. And every now and then, there's a sketch by Al Franken, who plays Stuart Smalley ("a caring nurturer and a member of several twelve step programs, but not a licensed therapist"). His motto: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!" Stuart, for all his experience in self-help, continually falls into "stinkin' thinkin'", living from crisis to crisis, ultimately finding a shallow sense of self-worth in his own affirmation - his motto. Truth is, I really did like Stuart; I saw in him my own need for acceptance reflected back.

Donald Miller ("Blue Like Jazz", "Searching for God Knows What") writes about comedian Tom Arnold, he of 12 Step recovery also. When asked what led him (Tom) to write his recent book "How I Lost 5 Pounds in Six Years" he (Tom) replied that he "wanted something out there so people would tell me they liked me. It's the reason behind almost everything I do." (read Donald Miller, if you haven't already; this quote is from "Searching for God Knows What", chapter 8).

I identify with Tom on that one. I wonder how it would be, to live without that need for affirmation, that fleeting acceptance which, frankly, seems - no, actually is - quite superficial. Whether it comes from within ourselves ("...and doggone it, people like me!") or outside ourselves, as evidenced by our popularity, our status, our wealth, beauty, achievements, etc. - it's all made of straw, isn't it?

(By the way, I really hope you're enjoying this new blogging adventure. I'm putting a lot of time and energy into it - a lot of myself - and it would mean a lot to me if you like it. If you like it, you'd probably like me, too!)

Someday, I hope that I'll actually believe the Gospel message that says that Jesus loves me, "Just As I Am", warts and all, period.

Wings

K. flew away home this morning (see eariler posts). She had lingered near death for too long, it seems; there's no way of knowing why she held on for as long as she did, but I am certain that she has blessed relief in passing from this life to the next. We who waited are relieved, too (1 Corinthians 15:55).

Reading Gerald May's "The Dark Night of the Soul", I'm learning about John of the Cross. John was a monk and a poet, and later wrote commentaries on his own poetry. Dr. May describes his poetry as "hymns of grandeur of human existence, full of passion, rich in yearning and joy, vibrant with the beauty of creation", and notes that John himself says that his commentaries at best can only shed "vague light" on his poems - "much less on the actual experiences that inspired them."

It's a funny thing, that where essays and commentaries fail, poems and hymns succeed in going deep, expressing the profound, the eternal, the essence of things. And then, we often find it necessary to explain - in much less interesting, much more superficial and cumbersome language, the "meaning". John had it right when he said that such activity only sheds a vague light on the original expression.

And so, we have room in the most serious settings for poetry and for song. This morning upon first awakening, just before we got the phone call telling us of her passing, I thought of K. and her wishes for a memorial service. She wanted this song sung at the service. You could write a book about her life - a commentary, let's say - and you wouldn't do her life justice. This old Albert E. Brumley hymn does, however:

Some glad morning, when this life is o'er, I'll fly away;
To a home on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, O glory, I'll fly away;
When I die, Hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away.

When the shadows of this life have gone, I'll fly away;
Like a bird from prison bars has flown, I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, O glory, I'll fly away;
When I die, Hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away.

Just a few more weary days and then, I'll fly away;
To a land where joys shall never end, I'll fly away.
I'll fly away, O glory, I'll fly away;
When I die, Hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away.

-To K., being fitted for wings.

Broken Things

Listening to my Reunion group pals today, I was reminded all over again that God doesn't turn away from us, ever. Especially when we are hurting. I believe that His compassion for us is greatest when we come to Him with our broken-ness out in the open, with humble and contrite hearts. There's a good example of this in Jesus' parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector, in Luke 18:9-14. I have always been moved by the image portrayed in verse 13: "And the publican, standing afar off, would not even lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me, a sinner."

This idea actually has practical implications. In 12 Step recovery programs, for instance, nothing begins until one realizes his or her own broken-ness - "We acknowledge that we are powerless over our addiction, and that our life has become unmanageable." I.e, when we acknowledge ourselves as we really are - confused, incomplete, wounded, hurt, insecure, and/or otherwise screwed up - that's when He can work with us.

I love Henri Nouwen's take on it: He explained that Christians are, in essence, a lot like the bread of the Eucharist - taken, blessed, broken, and given to the world (Luke 22:19: "And He took bread, gave thanks, and broke it, and gave it to them, saying "This is My body which is given for you, do this in remembrance of Me.") It's such a comfort to know that He Takes us, that we are Blessed. He knows that we are broken - and that we have been Broken ever since Adam and Eve's misadventures in the garden. And He sees fit to Give us to a similarly broken world. This is the highest honor - to be Taken by Him, Blessed, our Broken-ness acknowledged, and even so, Given just as we are to the world. It's been said that we are all cracked vessels - but when we have the Light inside us, the cracks are where the Light shines through.

So, here are the lyrics to a song by Julie Miller, who is apparently no stranger to this idea. It's the title track of her CD, "Broken Things" (thanks to my friend G. for turning me on to this song)

You can have my heart, though it isn't new,
It's been used and broken, and only comes in blue.
It's been down a long road, and it got dirty on the way,
If I give it to You, would you make it clean and wash the shame away?

You can have my heart, if You don't mind broken things;
You can have my life, if You don't mind these tears.
Well I heard that You make all things new,
So I give these pieces all to You,
If you want it You can have my heart.

So beyond repair, nothing I could do -
Tried to fix it myself, but it was only worse when I got through.
Then You walked into my darkness, and You speak words so sweet,
You hold me like a child, 'til my frozen tears fall at Your feet.

You can have my heart, if You don't mind broken things;
You can have my life, if You don't mind these tears.
Well I heard that you make all things new,
So I give these pieces all to You,
If you want it You can have my heart.

Why?

I met K. 14 years ago, at church. I barely got to know her, when I heard through the grapevine that she and her then-husband were going to prison(embezzlment or something like that - they divorced while he was in prison). She got sent off to Julia Tutwiler Prison for Women. A year or so later, I heard she was being released early because she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. After the mastectomy and several rounds of chemo, she came back to church sporting a crew cut. Now a breast cancer survivor and a single parent, she decided to work with the youth at church -"God has put me here for a reason", she would say. Kids loved her. She became the regional youth director, in charge of all the youth camps at Hargis Retreat, etc. But that job doesn't pay very well, and she never could manage money, so she ended up filing for bankruptcy. She lost her apartment, and needed a place to live, so she came to live with us (in our barn apartment - she had no pride). Twice after she moved into the barn, we had to go pick her up after she wrecked her car - she was a terrible driver. A while after she moved in, her neck started to ache, and she learned that she had developed cancer in her cervical spine. More chemo, but she survived that, too. Then her parents died - in the span of about two weeks, she lost her mother, then her father.

She moved into her parents home, but that didn't work out. She wanted to be independent, so she got an apartment in Cahaba Heights, and worked as a church secretary, barely able to pay her bills. Earlier this year, she started losing weight, and this past summer, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer; it's been downhill ever since.

I never heard her complain about any of it - prison, divorce, bankruptcy, losing her parents, or cancer (three times). When I last sat down to talk with her, before it got really bad, she still laughed at my lame jokes. Three weeks ago, she insisted on going back to work - for an hour a day, which was all she could do. As of last week, she was still paying rent on her apartment, hoping she would be able to move back in, although she's lived with her daughter and son-in-law since August.

So I guess you could say she was an ex-con who had bad luck with men, who couldn't balance a checkbook, who "caught" cancer like some people catch colds, beloved by kids she shepherded at camp, a wonderful mother and mother-in-law, and a dear friend. Oh yeah - and an awful driver.

Watching her disintegrate in her hospital bed, the question I keep wrestling with is "Why?". I think she knew the answer:

"God has put me here for a reason" is what she would say.

Matzah

If you search the news about the Episcopal Church ("ECUSA") these days, you will come across the phrase "There is a crisis in the Episcopal Church" far more often than phrases like "What a wonderful place, this Episcopal Church". There are wars and rumors of wars on every side, about homosexuality, the role of bishops, the future of the world wide Anglican Communion, declining numbers, money problems - you name it. It's a major distraction, to say the least, and many, many good Episcopalians are spending many, many hours thinking, writing, talking, traveling, meeting, arguing, and stewing over "issues". Our former rector spent the last year or two of his time with us in turmoil over these "issues", or so it seemed if you listened to his sermons. He was, and is, an incredibly talented, intelligent, gifted man - but it seemed that the "issues" got the best of him - i.e., each week, the liturgy seemed to point to some aspect of the "issues", and less and less to some aspect of our brokenness, our relationship with God, our day-to-day lives.

There is, however, much important work to do, if we could stop contemplating our own belly buttons long enough to do it. Close to home, my dear friend is still on her deathbed (see the earlier post), and to say her family is suffering right along with her is the understatement of the day. The oncology ward at Children's Hospital is full, too. There's a war on, and people on both sides are being maimed or killed with numbing regularity. There's this poverty thing, and this HIV/AIDS thing, and this international drug problem thing.

On the flip side, there's lots to be happy about - my buddy G. and his wife S. just had a beautiful baby boy, and my friend B. just came back to church after being on sabbatical for a few months; there's actually a whole heap of things to be joyful about.

It just seems like we spend a lot of time and energy on ourselves, and not enough time and energy sowing the seed of the Kingdom, rejoicing in our brother's and sister's blessings and happiness, and helping those who are "in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity" (BCP, p. 329).

When Jesus instituted the Lord's Supper, (aka the Eucharist, Holy Communion), it was during the Jewish feast of the Passover, commemorating God's protection of the Jewish people during the plagues. He served the traditional foods - unleavened bread and wine. The bread was unleavened because it was important for the Jews to be prepared to flee at a moments notice from Pharoah's henchmen - therefore, the dough didn't have time to rise. As a matter of fact, it wasn't supposed to have any yeast in it at all, only the simplest of ingredients, flour and water. So, it was called both "the bread of haste", since you didn't have to wait for it to rise, and "the bread of poverty", because it was so simple and cheap.

Drop by most any Sunday at an Episcopal church and you'll see this kind of bread being used in the service of Holy Communion. It's a reminder that we better hurry up and get out there to do whatever it is He has called us to do, even if we don't know exactly what that is. The words of the priest - "The body of Christ, the bread of heaven" - don't really do it justice. Maybe if the priest said "Here, take this bread and eat it fast, 'cause there's trouble out there, and it's coming your way - We didn't have time to bake yeast rolls - Hurry up! - Get your butt out there and get to work - Now!", or maybe "Here, take this bread, it's not much - only flour and water - but God has made it into something incredibly important, just like he can make something truly amazing out of your screwed-up, sorry self". There is so much affirmation in the Eucharist - I've seen people weep with joy and great relief who "get it": There they stand or kneel, some in tears, "in the moment", as they hold out their hands to receive this little piece of unleavened bread. To see it up close, you'd think they were receiving something really, really special...

Did I mention that there's a crisis in the Episcopal church?

Thou shalt not worry

In the homily the other night, the priest explored the subject of anxiety. The scripture, from the book of Matthew, quoted Jesus:

"Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them." And later, "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."

(An aside: Rich Mullins, the late recording artist, wrote a song about these verses, and asked, "Does that mean we're supposed to eat like birds and dress like flowers?")

Hmmm... I wonder if Jesus really meant that we're forbidden to worry. In my New King James version of the Bible, it doesn't say "Thou shalt not worry", it only says "Do not worry...". I wonder if I would take this more seriously if He had said "Thou shalt not worry", and included this in the Old Testament as an 11th commandment, along with, say, a punishment: "Whosoever worries shalt be cast into the lake of fire, never to be seen or heard from again" or some other terrible fate.

As it is, I worry all the time, sometimes cloaking anxiety by calling it "pondering" or "planning". But if I'm honest, it's actually just old-fashioned fretting. I worry about whether or not people like me, about the broken things in my life, about losing the things that aren't yet broken, and on and on...

I heard today that the Pope is traveling in Turkey, and he's no longer riding in the "Popemobile", but in a bullet-proof armored car. I guess he's worried, too.

I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to stop worrying, any more than I'll be able to stop being greedy at times, or angry, or unloving. It would be a good thing, I guess, if we were able to keep all the "laws" - Love your neighbor as yourself, serve the Lord with gladness, don't covet, don't lust, be sober, fast, pray, tithe, etc. I can't do it, and I haven't ever met anyone who can. And on top of that, when I realize my shortcomings, I worry that I'm not "good enough" - and worrying is one of those things I'm not supposed to do. Sin is like a perpetual motion contraption sometimes.

In the Book of Common Prayer, there is a "Prayer of Humble Access", which is part of the service of Holy Communion. It contains these words: "We do not come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord whose property is always to have mercy...".

I'm really hanging onto the hope that His mercy is really that powerful; that His "property is always to have mercy", even on me; that His grace is really going to clean all the dirt, dust, mold, mildew, cobwebs, and cow patties out of my crazy life. Which means that when I just don't give a damn, He does. When I lust, He knows that I just want to know that I'm alive. When I get angry, He knows I'm passionate about something.

And when I worry, He knows that I'm just hoping He hasn't forsaken me (Mark 15:34).

A friend, near death...

Yesterday, I visited a friend now in the final stages of a battle with cancer. She is almost gone, with family and friends now at watch 'round the clock - the death vigil. All who gather offer support, make small talk, play with cute children so that grown-ups can discuss weighty matters. There is no denial left in this grieving process, only a little anger, some bargaining, lots of sadness, and a trend towards acceptance.

There is so very little to do when a friend is lying there, dying.

Standing at the bedside yesterday, I thought about what I knew of her life, and remembered good times and hard times - she's had cancer before, and has beaten the odds. She was no stranger to trouble - all kinds of trouble - but she was a tough as nails...

I imagined myself lying there. If I am dying, I thought, I want music around me - I grew up in a house filled with music; the quietness at times like this feels a little like darkness. So, in the silence, as we were standing there waiting for my friend to take another breath, this old hymn came to mind:

"Come thou fount of every blessing, Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy never ceasing, Call for songs of loudest praise.

Teach me some melodious sonnet, Sung by flaming tongues above;
Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it, Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I'll raise my Ebenezer, Hither by Thy help I'll come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger, Wand'ring from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger, Interposed his precious blood.

Oh, to grace how great a debtor, Daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, Bind my wand'ring heart to Thee:

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, O take and seal it, Seal it for Thy courts above."

Aside from the beautiful poetry here, written by Robert Robinson, this song contains a reference to something called an "Ebenezer". In the Old Testament, the Israelites had great battles with the Phillistines. Once, after defeating the Phillistines, Samuel marked the victory by erecting a stone monument, which he called the Stone of Help (in Hebrew, "Even Ezer"). It was a way of giving thanks to God for the help that could only come from Him. So, an "Ebenezer" is a commemorative of this fact: Although we have been through a great battle, with troubles, trials, and tribulations, we have had a helper, an advocate, a friend.

This is for K., ever faithful, right to the end. These words are my "Ebenezer", erected in memory of her battle with cancer. It is a reminder to all of us she leaves behind, that although the battle is long and at times the rewards are few, there is a Help in times of trouble, there is a Song in the silence, there is a Light in the darkness.

Cursillo

I had my Cursillo experience in September 2001. For those who have never heard of Cursillo, it is one of several renewal movements in Christianity, akin to Emmaus Walk, Tres Dias, and others. It consists of a long weekend (Thursday evening through Sunday) of silence, singing, fellowship, listening, worship, and prayer interspersed with welcome surprises, all of which lead one to consider God's deep, abiding, unconditional love for you, yourself - something you may have forgotten.

My Cursillo weekend changed my life, in an elemental, basic way, because I had never realized that God's love for me was, indeed, unconditional, until that weekend. I also became connected to thousands of others who had attended similar weekends, and became active in the movement itself through my local parish. Most improtant, however, was the small group of individuals who came to form my "reunion" group, who have become dear and abiding friends, as close (if not closer) than family. We meet once a week, but touch base almost daily.

Soon after I returned from Cursillo, I had this dream. I was attending a church party - it was at my own house, situated on the patio and around the pool. Most of us stood around with drinks in our hands, around the pool. Suddenly, people started jumping in the pool - like little children would do, at a pool party. I jumped in, too, and realized that the people who had actually jumped in were my new Cursillo friends. Renewal was, and is, like that for me: It felt like I had been invited to the pool party, and instead of merely attending ("making an appearance"), I actually jumped into the pool.

Like most people, I started my pool experience in the shallow end, where my feet could actually touch the bottom. Eventually, though, one either gets out of the pool, or goes to the deep water at the other end. There's danger in deep water. But that's exactly where my reunion group meets - in the deep. We spend enough time as it is in the shallow end of life, with all it's noise and distraction. But once a week, we go to the deep end together and focus on the moments in our lives when we have felt closest to Christ - as the two who walked with Jesus on the road to Emmaus did when He was made known to them in the breaking of the bread (Luke 24:13-31).

I realize that one doesn't have to attend a Cursillo weekend to become "renewed"; as a matter of fact, some don't need renewal at all. But I did - and I continue to be "renewed" by the ongoing experience, known as "the fourth day".

And every day that goes by, is better than the day before...

Beginning

Leafing through the Book of Common Prayer, waiting for a web page to load, I came across The Great Litany (pg. 148). The preface reads "To be said or sung, kneeling, standing, or in procession..."; in other words, most any time you feel like it. The BCP contains some of the most elegant, powerful language this side of the Holy Bible, but I had never read through this particular portion in the quiet of early morning. I noticed the words and phrases which were capitalized for emphasis - "thy Word...", "thy holy Incarnation...", "thine Agony and Bloody Sweat...", "our only Mediator and Advocate...". The Agnus Dei. The Kyrie.

I came across this: "That it may please thee to inspire us, in our several callings, to do the work which thou givest us to do with singleness of heart as thy servants, and for the common good."

That's where this blog begins.

Just as in The Great Litany, which begins with adoration, proceeds through confession to prayers of praise, and thanksgiving, and mystery, and supplication, this will not be all about anything in particular. It's just one man's walk, through darkness to light. Or, as Cranmer would put it, "to Light".