We spent the last week on Captiva Island, in the Gulf of Mexico off the Florida coast. It is a place of rustic beauty, largely overgrown by palms, sea grape and scrub pine. The weather somehow seems more "real" when not competing with traffic and neon and jet exhaust, so one can actually sense the subtle changes to light and wind and water each day. There are few people around during this "shoulder season" between the end of hurricane weather and the arrival of the snowbirds, most of them retirees from Minnesota and Wisconsin. It is not unusual to have a quarter-mile or more of shoreline completely to yourself, other than a bustling tide of sea birds who always seem to be working so busily that one feels almost enough guilt to reach for the corporate Blackberry. Almost.
"In one of the stars, I will be living. In one of them, I will be laughing. And so it will seem as if all the stars are laughing, when you look in the sky at night."
ANTOINE ST. EXUPERY
Thursday night, we made plans to watch the Geminid meteor shower from the beach. With very little artificial light, it's possible to see an amazing array of celestial detail on Captiva, and the coincidental new moon meant we should be able to take in the show with very little interference.
Alas, when the time came, a swiss-cheese blanket of clouds had spread across the island. Nevertheless, we took advantage of what gaps there were and glimpsed at least a handful of the quick darts of light the particles made as they zipped by.
Our last full day of vacation dawned warm and muggy, and the clouds cleared up by the time lunch was over, promising a solid beach afternoon to wrap up our week. The youngest member of our party was my companion on boogie boards in the gentle surf until he found a buddy his own age and left me to seek company with the grown-up types.
We learned the news of the school shootings in Connecticut from passers-by, and instinctively reached for smart phones to see what was happening. It was hard to reconcile the squeals of laughter from the kids at the water's edge with the nightmarish experience I knew other kids, very close to their age, had been through. As the details were pieced together, the predictable pattern of debate was playing out on Facebook walls and blog posts: gun control, mental health care, school prayer.... a kaleidoscope of speculation and rhetoric, all coming from a place of confusion and pain. Because of course nobody, regardless of politics, would wish the scene in that school on a sworn enemy, let alone a first-grader.
I have my own thoughts about guns, and health care, and school prayer, and I was not immune from the impulse to share them in the raw voice of someone trying to process the unthinkable, in what appears to be an arms race of ever-escalating unthinkables, because we can't seem as a nation to figure out what's driving people to such acts.
That night, after trying to stay out of earshot of TV gunfire, I hit the beach again with a longtime friend and the dad of my little surfing buddy. We didn't talk much as we scanned the much-clearer sky for laggard shooting stars we were told we might see. Staring up at the bejeweled blitz overhead, I remembered what the Little Prince told his pilot friend after meeting the snake whose bite he knew was his destiny: "In one of the
stars, I will be living. In one of them, I will be laughing. And so it
will seem as if all the stars are laughing, when you look in the sky at
night."
We saw one meteor each, and trudged home again with stiff necks for our trouble.
On a scrap of paper on my bulletin board at work are four words I scribbled to illustrate something to a co-worker who was coming to grips with a difficult family situation
HURT PEOPLE HURT PEOPLE.
People are calling for -- in addition to gun control -- stronger mental health systems which would ostensibly identify and separate the about-to-become-unhinged from our innocent kids. But -- to repeat an old adage I heard The Right Rev. Gene Robinson quote in a sermon -- it's not enough to keep pulling drowning people out of the water. We've got to head upstream and figure out who is throwing them in! I believe we should as a society take a closer look at how we treat each other, particularly how we treat those who don't fit the mold. Let's face it: we haven't exactly achieved the "kinder, gentler nation" we were promised back in 1988, right after I survived high school relatively unscathed. Instead it appears we have appointed Anne Robinson from The Weakest Link to determine who is smart, Simon Cowell to determine who is talented, and the Peter Pan chairman of Abercrombie & Fitch to determine who is attractive. In case you haven't noticed, these are not especially nice people, at least not the personas they wear for us. It's not especially cool to be nice, is it? We trade casual put-downs with our friends and cheer at TV shows whose purpose seems to be to determine who can be the meanest. And those who don't impress us or have anything to offer, we simply tune out.
If you are blessed with good looks, talent, and/or a good support system to constantly reassure you of your worth, you can survive the daily onslaught of unrealistic standards and "good-natured" barbs. But in the America of fractured homes and three-career families, where spend our days bumbling from one screen to another (I bought a week's worth of groceries today without interacting once with another human... is this really progress?), who's doing that for the people who aren't quite that strong? Who is noticing the misfit who eats his lunch alone? Whose job is it to compliment how well she draws on every surface that will take the marks of her pen?
When I wrote about suicide a while back, I wondered if teachers have the bandwidth to understand the social dynamics of their classroom and keep anybody from falling through the cracks, but I don't think it can all fall on them. It's got to come from all of us. Nobody should be unworthy of a smile or an inquiry about their day. They may not respond in a way we would call grateful or even appropriate, but they were noticed, seen; they mattered, if even for a minute. Another Facebook poster railed that we should never mention these high-profile killers' names again, because recognition was all they were looking for. If that's true, if a tortured mind has been screaming to be heard to the point where it takes murder or suicide to get our attention, then shame on us. Maybe if they got it at age seven, we wouldn't be in this predicament. Maybe.
Clement - Bishop of Rome (100)
The hoopla about the comparative morality of shopping on Black Friday is largely a rhetorical debate for us. I have long tried to make gift purchases as the opportunity presented itself, complicated in recent years by the fiscally prudent decision by both my family and the Archwarden's to adopt a "secret Santa" scheme among the adults so one is only shopping for a single person (however one must know for whom one is shopping before any purchases take place and Thanksgiving was -- until this year -- the occasion on which the names were drawn. I'm working on easing that puppy back to Labor Day.
That said, not much retailing going on today in our house. We came home with an assortment of left-over goodies but -- paradoxically -- no turkey, so I concocted the following recipe for chicken, which the Archwarden complains I cook too much, so I am constantly challenged to disguise it in new ways:
Take out three cereal- or soup-sized bowls
In the first, put flour
In the second, mix up eggs, a little milk, and a few tablespoons of mustard (we experimented with a raspberry wasabi flavor this time, but you can use any kind)
In the third, a combination of cashews or almonds, crackers, pita chips (whatever you have open), and bread crumbs, bashed up in the food processor. For those who can't have what, ground-up nuts make a good substitute coating with some texture... unless you can't have nuts either.
Dip the chicken in each dish in the order above, making sure they are good and coated. Brush the remaining egg on any "bald spots" then sprinkle on the contents of bowl #3. Bake in an olive-oiled glass pan at 350° until the center of the meat is at least 165°. I usually make a pound of chicken and this takes about 45 minutes in my oven.
"No gifts have we to offer For all Thy love imparts But that which thou desirest Our humble, grateful hearts" FROM "WE PLOUGH THE FIELDS AND SCATTER" BY MATTHIUS CLAUDIUS, TRANSLATED BY JANE MONTGOMERY CAMPBELL
Hmmm, what am I grateful for:
1. My long-suffering partner: His Considerable Disapproval, the
Archwarden Emeritus. God grant him patience and wisdom to endure life
with the Chaos Muppet.
2. Family and friends of all stripes to celebrate with, grieve with, share food, drinks and stories with
3. Gainful employment, though I grouse about it. Often.
4. A church that is evolving into full inclusion and celebration of all
its people, and the guidance and direction of various folks therein
which have been a great comfort of late.
5. A home that kept us
safe in the crazy weather, and the fact that the hot water heater
magically keeps working without electricity. Don't ask questions.
6. Living close enough to an epicenter of culture, music and food to be
able to enjoy it, but also being able to hit the beach or the woods
within an hour or so.
7. Things like e-books, iFruit, on-line
bill pay, calendar-in-the-cloud, and dialing 5-1-1 for instant traffic
information, which were the stuff of science fiction when I was a kid.
The rate at which technology makes life easier almost keeps up with the
rate at which I become more befuddled.
8. Coffee, chocolate, vodka and raspberries, sometimes in combination.
What are you thankful for?
The lyrics above may be familiar to you from the cast album of the rock opera Godspell but I discovered from my adopted church that they were in fact purloined almost verbatim from the 18th-century German hymn "Wir pflügen und wir streuen" by Matthius Claudius, as translated by Jane Montgomery Campbell in 1861.
Here are the good people of St. John's Detroit, an Anglo-Catholic parish, celebrating Rogation (harvest) Sunday by singing this hymn.
This is the second of two posts about my experience at the 77th General Convention of the Episcopal Church. At this triennial meeting, all the active bishops, plus elected lay and ordained representatives from each diocese vote on legislation (called resolutions) which affects the operation and direction of the church. This convention addressed numerous resolutions around social justice, particularly for the LGBT community.
By Monday morning, we were very much in the General Convention groove. Members of the Legislative Team had assigned resolutions which they would follow from committee to house to vote, and one of our volunteers had created a "leaderboard" of sorts, so that the rest of us would know the status of a particular bill at any time. We also relayed this information to our booth in the Exhibits Hall, as people would frequently ask.
At the same time, the Communications Team would not only share the news on our website, blogs and social networks, but interview various people who were playing a part in General Convention: volunteers, speakers and those whose lives and relationships to the church based on the outcome of decisions made there. These were also used for the daily IntegriTV videos posted to YouTube, which gave daily highlights of the Convention from an LGBT perspective.
Our videographer was a young woman who I learned secondhand was a combat veteran of the Iraq war. As a chaplain in Basra, her unit came under fire and several of her comrades were killed right in front of her.
Upon returning home, she had attempted to begin the discernment process, only to be told by her diocese that she was unsuitable for pastoral duty, because she is transgender. This is sadly not surprising; unemployment among transgender folk hovers around 70%. And yet, no bitterness came across in her gracious and engaging manner. On the contrary, she put her interviewees at ease and dashed uncomplainingly from place to place for upwards of 14 hours each day, a good reporter getting her story.
I had gotten up early to attend a committee hearing which would consider the resolution calling for trial adoption of a blessing rite for same-sex relationships. Not being a deputy to convention, I was not able to have "voice" (opinion) or vote in the session, but was graciously allowed to observe and -- as a "subject matter expert" -- my advice on how the LGBT community should be named was appreciated and adopted into the language of the resolution.
No-one spoke against the resolution in this session, unlike one on Saturday at which a priest stated that the LGBT community here should forgo recognition of our relationships because -- by doing so -- the church would be putting Christians in other countries at risk. As Marcia Ledford (who testified right before her in favor of the blessings) pointed out, there are already Christians being placed at risk by the church, including the LGBT ones. Perhaps seeing their Episcopal brothers and sisters embrace those in loving committed same-sex relationships will help counter the anti-gay rhetoric and misinformation spread by other religious leaders!
That done, I returned to the Integrity Nerve Center. We knew how much was at stake, but yet everyone remained calm and efficient, and the mood was pleasant, with people coming and going and sharing news. We had one ear on the live feed from the House of Bishops, because we knew they were planning to take up a resolution that was significant to us.
Then, just as the House was opened to observers, we got word that "something was going down." Several of us sprinted the length of the mammoth Indiana Convention Center like O.J. hoping to get the last rental car at the airport.
As we got there, the Right Rev. Gene Robinson, outgoing Bishop of New Hampshire, had asked for the floor for a "point of personal privilege" a parliamentary procedure used either when someone's physical needs are not being met or they have been personally misrepresented by another party in the meeting. In this case, I suspect both were true.
You can also read the full text if you need to, but I think if you can listen to Bishop Robinson's voice, you'll hear his frustration and sadness. Having followed his story with the church since his election in 2003 and arranged numerous screenings of For the Bible Tells Me So and Love Free or Die, I was well aware of the threats, harassment and disrespect that had been leveled at him, both from inside and outside the church. But it was still jarring to witness it first-hand. My heart went out to him, and I was pleased when one of the most outspoken opponents to our platform in the House of Bishops rose to call out the two "mystery bishops" on their behavior. At the behest of another bishop, Robinson received a standing ovation from many in the room for his call to actually try reconciliation rather than just talk about it.
There are more details about the shenanigans that led to Bishop Robinson's missive here, I find the back-biting and vitriol pretty much negates any claim of biblical or pastoral authority, and thus will neither comment nor reiterate what I had the misfortune to learn about it, but if you are unfamiliar with the back-story it may be helpful in understanding how we got to where we are.
Later that day, the House of Bishops voted to approve the blessings bill, by a wide margin. The House of Deputies affirmed a resolution the bishops had already cleared, making it official that being transgender was no longer a valid reason to be denied access to the discernment process for ordination. Once both houses agree on a resolution, it becomes "law" or -- as we say -- an Act of Convention.
Buoyant from that news, but still thinking about Bishop Gene, I did my second round-trip of the day to my hotel, about a half mile from the Convention Center, to get ready for the Integrity Eucharist that night, which would be preceded by a reception honoring Dr. Louie Crew, who founded the organization back in 1974.
But first,
my new friend Vivian invited me to accompany her to an event I hadn't heard about. A program within the church known as the New Community was sponsoring a festival on the grounds of the city's cathedral, which is conspicuously located on Monument Circle, right in the middle of town. Timed to be available for commuters returning home, the festival was representative of four ethnic/cultural communities that are focuses for mission and ministry of the church: Asian, black, Latino and Native American. Vivian promised me good food, and she wasn't lying. Empanadas shared a plate with colorful salads and spicy curries, washed down with a wonderful hibiscus juice or tea, as Rosebud Sioux drummers took turns at the mike with a mariachi band. People danced and sang and whooped, and curious strangers were lured into the warm and inviting atmosphere. Vivian and I ended up sharing a small table with a young local couple, who were Episcopalians but didn't know about the event and only stumbled on it by luck. We learned about their parish and shared news about the exciting developments we were seeing at Convention.
We got back to the Convention Center just in time to hear Louie Crew be honored by Kim Byham, and the Rev. Elizabeth Kaeton, both stalwarts in the movement from the Diocese of Newark. Then, it was into the Eucharist.
After a few days in a convention center, the enormity of spaces starts to escape you, but the Sagamore Ballroom (and we weren't even using all of it) is simply colossal. There would have been no way to decorate all of it tastefully, so our team concentrated on the elevated platform that held the altar, and a small "chapel" of sorts at the entrance, from which the processions would depart.
The Integrity Eucharist, which used to be a prayer of a people literally in exile when we were not a recognized part of General Convention, is now a highlight for many attendees, LGBT or otherwise. I can't tell you how many people who are not involved in this work voiced their anticipation, and now -- having been to this one -- I can understand why.
I wrote already about details of the Eucharist and posted pictures here for those whoare interested. I will, however, include videos of Bishop Gene Robinson's sermon. He had recovered markedly from the morning's episode and was truly on his game.
Having worked with and learned from Louie and various current and former
members of Integrity and our diocesan ministry The OASIS for the better
part of ten years, knowing some of them have been fighting this fight for four
times that long, and looking around at the new friends I'd made and the little snippets of their stories I had gained. It was truly a gift to be among them as they celebrated
this moment in our history. I am not ashamed to say I had many a laughter-through-tears moment, watching their faces as they embraced and tried to comprehend that we'd moved forward as far as we had.
I saw the young transgender vet, who might now actually be allowed to answer her call to further ministry; the priest in her 70s, who waited decades for her church to recognize her love of her partner and was finally married by Bp. Robinson in 2010; the college student whose personal witness even managed to move those who disagreed with them. And in that moment I truly loved my church in a way that I don't think those who never leave their own congregations and attend one of these crazy events can ever appreciate. Breaking bread with 1,500 other people, all of whom are there on their own journey but celebrating this moment with you, is the closest I reckon I'll ever come to a "megachurch" experience, and -- even if it's once every three years -- I hope not to miss one. As the words of the consecration (from Prayers for an Inclusive Church by Steven Shakespeare) stated, it truly was "a meal that tasted of freedom."
This is the first of two posts discussing my participation in the 77th General Convention of the Episcopal Church, which took place in Indianapolis over the past two weeks.
On Saturday morning, a number of us were blessed to participate in an event we weren't planning for in the hubbub of activity of General Convention. A woman who has been a part of the church for long time had decided she was ready to solemnize her relationship with us. She wanted to be baptized. At her request, we're not sharing her name, but she did give us permission to tell her story. She and I recognized each other, but we weren't sure from where. At events like this, "small world syndrome" runs deep.
The Rev. Elizabeth Kaetonblogged about the request, so a number of us had heard about it by the time came. And so, accompanied by members of her family, four priests, two nuns and a handful of us who were swept up in the enthusiasm of the moment, she stepped out into the bright 105-degree sunshine outside the Convention Center complex and headed across the street into a quiet plaza with a fountain at its center, which was technically part of an office tower. Being from New York, I was watching over my shoulder the whole time waiting for the property management to come chase us away.
The Rev. Jon Richardson read from Matthew's gospel, and Elizabeth a sermon which touched on the life of Conrad Weiser, whose feast was yesterday. In it, she compared baptism to the transformation of Pinocchio, at which point the strings that bound him were cut, leaving him free and "real."
"It was the most meaningful baptism, other than my own and my son's, that I have ever been witness to," said Susan Pederson, a member of Integrity's convention team.
Elizabeth led us all to the edge of the fountain. After renewing our own vows and confirming our intention to help our sister live into hers, we watched as Elizabeth baptized and anointed her with the oil we were able to have blessed by one of the readily-available bishops.
The hotel provided the elements for Eucharist, and we proceeded into a merciful patch of shade and shared Communion, celebrated by The Rev. Michael Sniffen.
Afterward, Michael invited us into a time of silence. Our new sister's kids played quietly in the shade, tired of the grown-ups' talk. With the refreshing backdrop of the cooling water, and under the curious eyes of a busload of tourists, the Holy Spirit's power in that moment was more powerful than the sun.
On a rainy Sunday we visited a grad school professor of mine, Diane Mitchell and her husband Marko Gosar at their studio in YOHO, a wonderful cooperative gallery space in a converted prewar factory building in Yonkers, N.Y. They work, sometimes collaboratively and other times on their own, in a variety of media. In this show, they featured a number of panoramic prints from their travels in Europe and the Chesapeake Bay area. Diane works predominately in digital art, and Marko is a photographer and printmaker, and also creates decorative textures for custom interior designs
After checking out some of the other art, we headed back into Manhattan for our first Girlyman concert in a while, at City Winery. This is a fun venue if you pick your seat carefully and don't mind sharing a table with strangers. You can have dinner during the show if you want to, but this time we hit Bubby's Pie Company beforehand instead.
The opener was new to us, a singer-songwriter named Edie Carey who is touring with Girlyman this time around. Her banter between tracks was light-hearted and self-effacing, contrasting with a somewhat melancholy set. A stand-out for me was "Lonely" off her 2006 collection Another Kind of Fire. She is definitely worth further exploration.
Girlyman also brought a few guests, including cellist Julia Biber and Ingrid Elizabeth from Coyote Grace, whom we "discovered" when they opened for Girlyman in this same room last year. Carey also joined them on a number of tracks. Rather than a typical box-format, the foursome-plus were set up in a line right at the front of the stage. I was happy because I love watching drummers ply their trade, and Girlyman's percussionist J.J. Jones was at our end of the stage, moving in a hypnotic dance with what seemed like eight limbs producing a wealth of sound. Jones joined the band in 2010 after they were well-established (percussion used to be a shared task with Ty Greenstein frequently playing the djembe) and I was a little bit concerned about the effect the shift would have in their sound. Luckily it was for naught; Jones complements the others without giving the band an outright rock feel. On this tour Nate Borofsky introduced a keyboard to the line-up, producing some effects that were previously only included in studio versions of their songs.
Maybe it was the weather but Girlyman's set was also a little downbeat, dipping heavily into their newest release Supernova. This offering was shaped in part by band member Doris Muramatsu's recent experience with leukemia (she's in remission, thankfully) which she relays in the title track. Towards the end they brightened things up a bit, including their tribute to the Andrews Sisters, "My Eyes Get Misty" and Greenstein's rallying cry to tomboys everywhere, "Young James Dean".
The band's rapport with its NYC audience remains strong despite moving from Brooklyn to Atlanta and signing with Indigo Girl Amy Ray's Daemon Records. The crowd hollered out requests and laughed knowingly at the inside jokes between songs. I was glad to see that they haven't forgotten about us amidst their success; after a stint in Europe they will be back for a show in Brooklyn in July. Check them out if you can.
Many of us, even those with little or no direct experience, are amused by the notion of nuns behaving badly. The idea that religious sisters, whom we associate with placid, regimented lives, might get up to all sorts of mischief has been a popular theme in entertainment for generations. From Julie Andrews' Maria and Sally Fields' airborne Sister Bertrille to the gaggle under the stern eye of Maggie Smith in Sister Act, we identify with the idea that these disciplined figures might have a frivolous or even wild side bubbling under the surface. A line of greeting cards and calendars featuring the habit-clad doing everything from riding motorcycles to skeet shooting pokes gentle fun at this concept. Listening to some rather timid hymnody in church, I couldn't help but
wish that Whoopie Goldberg's Sister Mary Clarence would appear and
encourage us to start singing so God might actually hear us. Even the feisty Sophia Petrillo gave religious life a go, but found difficulty adjusting to the point where the Mother Superior told her, "I'm going to go pray now. I won't tell you what I'll be praying for, as it would hurt your feelings." These are just a few of the dramatizations portraying nuns, in varying degrees of accuracy.
In fact, there are orders who shun all or most of the world's distractions, and being forced to partake of them can be extremely traumatic when one feels called to do live in seclusion. In 1988, while I was involved in a Catholic youth organization called Antioch, we learned that four Carmelite nuns at the cloistered convent nearby barricaded themselves for nine months in the infirmary in an attempt to shield themselves from what they viewed as an imposed modernization or diluting of their "rule of life". The changes, including eating candy, watching videos and leaving the facility for walks around the parking lot, were contrary to what the sisters and novitiates saw as their calling. The prioress and her supporters contested that these things were not new to the house, and it was a question of alliance to her predecessor and resistance to her authority vs. the acts themselves. As with most conflicts, I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between.
A community of brothers in Vermont, the Carthusians at the Charterhouse of the Transfiguration, live almost completely as hermits in solitary confinement. Each brother has a small apartment with a workshop, walled garden, and indoor space to eat and pray. Food and other necessities are received through a "turn", a pass-through of sorts that does not require interaction with the person delivering them. These brothers gather only for communal prayer and one weekly meal, eaten in silence, and they leave the monastery only a few times each year for a group walk in their wooded surroundings. Annual visits from their families are their only contact with the outside world.
Most religious, of course, live and work among -- and more or less like -- the rest of us, vows notwithstanding. I attended high school under the Sisters of Mercy and Brothers of the Sacred Heart, but by that time the ruler-wielding tyrants of my parent's generation were reduced to folklore (thank you, DYFS!) so my impression of those in religious life was generally a positive one. I mostly stayed on their good side, with the exception of the morning my friend Staci ran up to the school bus one morning with a made-up "emergency" that was in reality the desire to have me join her for a few minutes of new-found freedom, thanks to her newly-acquired driver's license. Needless to say the bus driver (who was also our science teacher and the wrestling coach... our school was so small, the jocks had to moonlight as drama geeks!) dutifully reported said "emergency" to Sister Pat. When we arrived a few minutes later (coffee and bagels in hand, such grownups!) she was waiting for us at the door, wearing an expression right out of the Book of Revelations. Generally though, she was a benevolent and fair leader, and an interview when she left a few years after my graduation revealed she had survived a difficult childhood, losing both parents at a young age.
My strongest association with a religious community, however, has been with the brothers at Weston Priory, a Benedictine monastery and working farm in the woods of Vermont (more on that next week!) that my family has been visiting for most of my life. My sister and I agree that the Priory would be our post-apocalypse "go-to place" assuming we could fight our way past the zombies on the New York Thruway. If anybody would know how to deal with whatever was coming next with zenlike grace, it would be the Weston brothers.
After moving to the Episcopal Church for other reasons, I discovered that religious orders exist for us as well, albeit on a smaller scale, like everything else. In our area is the mother house of the (Augustinian) Community of John the Baptist, and up the Hudson a bit is Holy Cross Monastery, a Benedictine community. Both host retreats and invite visitors to their historic grounds.
All of this means that I was, as were many, very disheartened by the idea that the Vatican's Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (the office of what used to be known as the Inquisition, and most recently led by the current Pope) this past week portrayed the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, which oversees some 57,000 American nuns, as an unruly gang of Pied Pipers who are leading the unwitting Catholic faithful away from its doctrines, particularly on its favorite subjects of late, abortion and homosexuality. It wasn't so much that the sisters were making statements contrary to church doctrine; but they were not using their influence with the people they serve to echo the party line about the dangers of same-sex marriage and the scourge of free condoms. It called elements of Sr. Laurie Brink's 2007 address to that body a "serious source of scandal." in that it suggested sisters might find a spiritual calling "beyond the church" or even possibly "beyond Christianity." The Congregation announced that Archbishop Peter Sartain of Seattle had been appointed to give the Conference a thorough going-over and knock them back into line.
The reaction was, predictably, swift and overwhelmingly on the side of the sisters. The Rev. James Martin, who writes for America,says, "More often than not, it is women religious who precede the men in
working with the poor, in giving voice to the powerless and in dying on
the fields of martyrdom. It is the women who do, do, do, and have done
so with little recognition and historically even less pay, and all in a
church where women's voices are often unheard, ignored or denied." Martin started a Twitter hashtag #WhatSistersMeanToMe, which has taken off with a life of its own. In her Washington Postblog, Melinda Henneberger says "The Vatican, of course, knows a lot about scandal — to the point that
the nuns are the only morally uncompromised leaders poor Holy Mother
Church has left." Sr. Joan Chittister, a well-known writer who once led the group facing the charges, said that a reformation from outside threatened the unique relationships sisters have with the people they serve, and that the questions this work causes them to ask must be answered if the church is to remain vibrant, relevant and respected. "When you set out to reform that kind of witness, remember when it's
over who doomed the church to another 400 years of darkness. It won't be
the people of the church who did it."
From my perspective, the nuns are the only participants in this quarrel who are dealing in reality at the moment. A person discovering an unplanned pregnancy or attraction to the same sex is less likely to be shunned by secular culture today than thirty years ago, so if the response is anything other than empathy and compassion, he or she is more likely to just walk away and seek help elsewhere. The sad reality is that Americans are abandoning organized
religion in droves, in part because they are no longer afraid of what
the church or society will do to them if they don't follow its rules. While the mainline Protestant denominations and reform Judaism are responding (admittedly in fits and starts) by wrestling with these issues and trying to put them into context, the Vatican and the U.S. Council of Bishops seem to be stepping backwards and snuffing out any room for conversation. Comparing gay activists to Nazis or the KKK and other extremist rhetoric from the pulpit will not draw the disaffected back into the fold; it will only cause them to tune the church out. Withdrawing from social services ministries to avoid complying with laws requiring equal treatment of everyone won't get the laws rescinded, it will just punish those who benefited from those worthwhile ministries. Unfortunately for us moderates, the increasing ranks of the unchurched seem to make little distinction between one group of Christians and another. In the end, we get lumped together as an anachronism from a another time, amusing at best and destructive at worst, and we all stand to lose.
It remains to be seen what the sisters will do. As described above, a calling is not something a person walks away from easily. This is not the first time a religious order has run afoul of the Vatican, and the response hasn't always exactly been timid. Sr. Sandra Schneiders, who teaches at the Jesuit School of Theology in Berkeley, California responded to a similar 2009 inquiry, "We can receive them, politely and kindly, for what they are, uninvited guests who should be received in the parlor, not given the run of the house. When people ask questions they shouldn’t ask, the questions should be answered accordingly."
If all else fails, they can always steal Archbishop Sartain's carburetor.
By now you are probably sick unto death of references to the R.M.S. Titanic as we approach the centennial of her sinking. Actress Kate Winslet reportedly cringes when she hears "My Heart Must Go On" and every time a cruise ship encounters any kind of mishap, breathless passengers insist "it was just like the Titanic!" Of course it was... except that it was 2,800 miles away, 90 years later, within sight of land and your inconvenience was limited to warm beer for an afternoon in the Anchors Aweigh Lounge til the lights came back on.
Simulated Size Comparison: Titanic vs. Oasis of the Seas(Caution: Contains Music)
For those with no other references, the Titanic remains the "go-to" vessel, to which every new passenger ship is compared. However, for ship geeks like me, the most interesting thing about her is that she almost immediately failed at her job: that is, to get her human cargo safely from one side of the Atlantic to the other. Her speed and size statistics were almost immediately eclipsed by other vessels, and few can name her two sisters, both of which also met with disaster in varying degrees. Since then, hundreds of liners -- ever larger, ever faster -- came and went, most of them long forgotten except by a nostalgic handful. Today's plodding cruise behemoths bear little resemblance to the ships of that time, yet passengers who -- when asked what ship they spent their vacation -- answer, "Um, Carnival?" know Titanic. People who have never seen the ocean know her name and remember her story.
To me the human dynamic of what happened that night, and what it says about the time in which it occurred, is far more interesting than the ship itself, or even the human errors and vices that made it happen. We recently started watching the British "costume drama" Downton Abbey, which is set in England in the same time period, and seeing the characters interact with those in their own and in different social strata is helping to understand a little more about the way events unfolded. Just as scullery maid Daisy knows that she is never to set foot in the family dining room, some in third class seemed to accept as normal that their station in life meant that it was more important that a wealthier person should live while they would die. Just as the Dowager Countess has no problem with the idea that the townspeople let her win the village rose competition every year regardless of merit, the mother of Winslet's fictitious character Rose is more concerned that nobody of lesser pedigree be seated next to her in the lifeboat than the fact that -- for the vast majority of souls on board -- there will be no seat at all. While that remark was fictitious, it was probably not especially unlikely.
Fast-forward a century, the lines of class -- while not erased -- are certainly blurrier than they once were. While it is taking an embarrassingly long time to get past the concept of race or ethnicity as a marker of your human worth, at least we've evolved to the point where making such crass remarks is considered bad manners in most circles. And if someone on the Costa Concordia tried to assert that a balcony suite meant he was entitled to evacuate the tilting cruise ship first, he would have likely been thrown overboard.
The Butt-Millet Memorial Fountain
Washington DC
My friend Julio mentioned in his new pop culture blog recently that a novelist used simple statistics and known cultural facts to surmise that "the love that dare not speak its name" was most certainly in bloom aboard the ill-fated ship, and that -- unlike the preposterous inter-class romance in The Movie -- males from from various passage grades and even the crew were free to roam past barriers and interact. While his assertions are mostly speculation, I learned recently that at least one pair of men on board were widely assumed to be a couple. Major Archibald Butt, who served as chief military aide and close friend to Presidents Roosevelt and Taft, shared a home in Washington DC with a painter named Francis Davis Millet, and the two were traveling together aboard Titanic after Millet got Taft to convince Butt he needed a recuperative vacation. Both died, and the fact that a fountain bearing both their names was constructed the following year near the White House signals that their relationship was both recognized and respected by the President is telling considering that -- 100 years later -- the Current Occupant is "still evolving" on the issue.
"Have you ever wanted to take a young person's face gently in your hands,
look into their eyes, and say, lovingly, 'Are you in there?'"
- JEANNE ROBERTSON
In the constant battle against encroaching clutter, I have endeavored in recent years to get myself removed from as many mailing lists as possible. The organizations I actually deal with have -- for the most part -- figured out how to interact with me electronically and limit the amount of paper they foist my way. With the exception of American Express, who are apparently required by law to send you a paper letter to tell you they sent you an electronic letter, they've been pretty good about it.
The same goes for shopping. If I don't actually go look at something and carry it home, I'm most likely to buy it on-line. I do not need a miniature paper version of your store sent to my house. Even the supermarket now sends the weekly specials to my phone and lets me add them to a virtual shopping list I can look at as I traipse the aisles. When I see something I want, I can zap it with my scanner gun, bag it right away, pay and lug the lot home, usually without talking to anybody. Whether or not this is progress, I realize, depends on your perspective, but I prefer not to prolong the experience any longer than needed.
Key in the fight against the postal onslaught has been Catalog Choice. This handy service makes it easy to opt out of catalogs, phone books, and other paper detritus. Even some non-addressed services like those envelopes of coupons that seem like such a great thing until you go to use them can be held at bay.
There are only two hold-outs that neither I nor Catalog Choice have been able to subdue, and a surreal interaction with one of them led me to write about my travails today.
Due to my ongoing, mutually-satisfactory relationship with Blue Phone Company, I have absolutely no interest in Red Phone Company. I will never be their customer. Even if -- for some reason -- Blue and I were to part company, I would not run -- weeping -- into the arms of Red. I've tried to tell them it just won't happen "It's not you, it's me... okay, it's you." but they remained unconvinced, and tried to woo me with offer after offer in my mailbox. I half expected the "can you hear me now?" guy to show up in my driveway one night with Peter Gabriel blaring on a giant boombox held over his head.
Shortly after I argued my way all the way to some V.P. of Marketing in their labyrinthine headquarters (popularly known as the Death Star) and she actually got my name removed from their files, we started getting mail for someone named Verizon Resident. Mr. Resident apparently once occupied our home (along with his wife, Current) but moved away to parts unknown, and never told his telephone carrier. They continue to send the pleas and sonnets I've managed to escape, and I must admit I feel a little bit miffed that they were able to transfer their unrequited love so easily.
If it was not a federal offense, and I was not the kind of person who would likely be arrested for re-using an uncanceled postage stamp, I'd give in to my temptation to fill out a change-of-address form for the Resident family and redirect all their correspondence to that woman's office aboard the Death Star. However, I know that I'd be thrown in the back of an unmarked van with a bucket over my head and hauled off to Washington for a Very Uncomfortable Audience with Wilford Brimley.
Today's misanthropic rant, however, has to do with Sears, Roebuck and Company and their slightly downtrodden relation, K-Mart. The fact that K-Mart bought Sears and not the other way around should tell you something, I'm just not sure what.
Against my better judgment, I purchased a solar motion light from kmart.com solely because they were part of my favorite airline's shopping portal and promised more points per dollar than their competition. The light arrived in a battered box covered in tape. It resembled the "suspicious package" you should run away from if you ever see it unattended on a bus. When I opened it, it was missing directions and some of the hardware. After arguing with either a non-native English speaker or a particularly poor customer-response bot for several weeks via email, I was told they would neither replace the light nor refund my money. As this was not my first terrible Sears/K-Mart shopping experience, I concluded it would be my last, and told them so in no uncertain terms.
So today, I got a catalog in the mail from K-Mart, addressed to me (or Current Resident. Has she been reading my mail?). I promptly called their 800 number and was greeted by a perky, confident female voice, which was quickly deflated when I told the poor child on the other end that I wanted to be removed from their records. Nonplussed, said she could help with that right away.
After disappearing for several minutes, she came back and asked me for my e-mail address. I told her no; I wasn't calling about e-mail, and I didn't want to start getting e-mail. She had to think about that for several minutes, and then had me repeat my name postal address again. I did so. Then she asked for a phone number. I said no, I really didn't want to hear from or think about her employer ever again, so I certainly wasn't expecting them to call. She apologized, and then claimed it would be taken care of. I remained unconvinced, especially when her next question was if she could help me get started on my spring shopping. What part of "I will never buy anything from your store ever again" wasn't clear? I took a deep breath and remained calm, and repeated that it was not my intention to trade with them further. There was a pause, and I knew she was reading the queue card that said she should ask for my e-mail for a customer satisfaction survey. Bless her heart, she caught herself, and told me to have a nice day.
I sure will, Honey. We're playing golf with the Brimleys.
She was going to be there at his end--
she who had been there with God at his beginning.
She was his mother.
She had fed him and cradled him
and watched over his growing.
Whatever he had said and done,
he was still her son
and she would not desert him now.
Whatever pain of his she could embrace, she would.
And in the meeting of their eyes,
there was love,
suffering and shining.
"JESUS MEETS HIS MOTHER" BY RUTH BURGESS & CHRIS POLHILL
