The sacraments are outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace…
From “A Catechism,” The Book of Common Prayer 1979, p. 857
Dear Ones,
Let me begin by with a confession: I hate to fly. The English language does not possess words strong enough to describe how much I dislike the current mode of passenger air travel, which frankly has more in common with the sardine canning industry or factory cattle ranching than anything resembling a transaction between human beings.
Nevertheless, I recently found it necessary to engage the services of a commercial airline in order to get from here to there and back again quickly. After braving the traffic through midtown Newark (clogged even beyond its normal rush-hour gridlock by a complete shutdown of the McCarter Highway southbound) and passing through that most byzantine of modern communal experiences known as the security checkpoint, I was then subject to the last-minute indignity of being made to “gate check” my carry-on rolling bag. (Has anyone else thought that the phrase “gate check” puts one in mind of “body check” in hockey? I can think of some gates—and gate keepers—I would gladly “check” in just such a manner. But I digress…)
At length I found myself boarding the plane, in a truly foul humor. My happy place was far, far away at that moment. But as I walked onboard, through the first class cabin and back into the depths of the great Flying Toothpaste Tube, I noticed something very odd. People were glancing up and smiling at me. Even though I know I had a fierce scowl on my face (what one friend has shamefully referred to as my “wet poodle” look) I was provoking smiles and even an occasional chuckle from complete strangers.
What on earth?
Then I remembered. In an attempt to resist the general slobbery that passes for appropriate public dress nowadays, I had made a point of dressing up to travel. (Readers of this column will not be surprise to know that yes, I do watch the AMC series Mad Men for fashion advice.) Included among that day’s sartorial embellishments: a large, cheerfully bright yellow bow tie, sprinkled with a blue lozenge pattern. It was this—and definitely not my charming personal affect at the time—that was calling forth the amusement/enjoyment of my fellow travelers.
The people who know me in real time know that bows are my tie of choice, when professional responsibilities do not require the even more obvious neck adornment of my clerical collar—or, as I sometimes call it, the world’s tiniest movie screen. (You put it on and people immediately start projecting things on it—most of which have little or nothing to do with the wearer.) But all of this put me in mind of identifiers. How do our “outward and visible signs” speak to those who see us, telling them who we are?
On the second day of the trip, I checked into a new hotel in the mid-afternoon. The young woman behind the desk noticed the clerical collar I was now wearing, and asked about it. When I told her who I was and why I was visiting, she did a little happy hop and exclaimed “I’m an Episcopalian! I grew up at…” and named a local parish. “But I haven’t been going to church very much lately…” When she noticed my home address, she remarked “New Jersey? I didn’t know we had Episcopal churches up there—I thought it was a Southern thing.”
“Actually,” I said, repressing a giggle, “the Episcopal Church has branches all over the world. It’s called the Anglican Communion. “Oh yeah,” she said, “I’ve been hearing about that on the news a lot lately—what the heck is going on?” (This was days after the combined demotion of various Episcopal representatives to the Anglican ecumenical partnerships and the so-called “Mitregate” episode at Southwark Cathedral.) I explained as well as I could in the time available, what I believed was going on: that much of the uproar was about power (who’s in charge here) and control (who’s allowed to be part of the power structure) and that this really wasn’t anything new—only the most recent iteration of a long-running fight.
She got a thoughtful look on her face, and then said, “My best friend is a member of a very conservative church, and even though we’ve been friends all our lives, she’s always telling me that I’m going to Hell if I don’t believe everything she believes…but her brother is gay. And you know, when the people at that church found that out, they told him to get out and never come back. And he had grown up there—that was his home! I don’t think that was right.”
We talked more that day, and again the next day when I checked out of the hotel. And she told me “Maybe I’ll see you at St. Augustine's if you come here!” “I hope you do—and bring your friend and her brother with you!” I replied.
Sacraments: outward and visible signs of the inward and spiritual grace and gifts, which God offers to all people. God send us the opportunity to be bearers and signs of these gifts, and the good sense to recognize them when they appear!
See you on the porch!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Silver Bay Edition 2010
Dear Ones,
I am sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the Inn at Silver Bay near Hague, New York, on the western shore of Lake George looking out at the water glittering in the morning sunlight. A cool breeze blows across the porch, running the entire length of the old inn before it slides down the banister and crosses to the Auditorium, a heavy brown-shingled barn of a place that serves as the assembly hall and performing arts center for the campus. This is, without a doubt, one of my very favorite “views from the porch”.
When I sat in this spot about twelve months ago and wrote to you, I was in significant distress and anxiety. My life had been turned upside down, and I truly wondered how I would make it through the days ahead. Logically I knew that I would, somehow—but that didn’t change the fear and sense of freefall that gripped me all too often in those days.
It is certain that times of trial, in Paul’s words to the Galatians, can produce character. But what a process of formation this has been!
I learned how much I am loved, as words of support and concrete offers of material help came from all over the country. I have treasured a number of letters and emails I received in those days, some from friends I had not seen in years, that spoke with such eloquence and passion about the influence I had exercised in their lives without ever knowing it at the time.
I learned that although panic may be a good motivator, it is not a good strategy. And I learned that hate and the desire for vengeance are toxic to those who harbor them. “Have you forgiven…?” someone asked me some months ago. And I could truly say yes, and not because I particularly wanted to forgive (nor to forget—if nothing else, I have learned how not to treat others over whom I hold authority!) Rather, I had grown tired—tired of giving even one more drop of emotional energy to that particular bottomless pit. I had grown weary of my own soul being gunked up with the residual toxic sludge that was only as strong as I allowed it to be. I forgave for the sake of my own well-being, because I was tired of carrying that burden around with me.
I learned to trust my instincts. I am, and always have been, a strong intuitive personality (INFP, if you track that sort of thing) and it is all too easy for me to second-guess myself and think myself into a corner. But what I have discovered is that my gut (ample as it is) can indeed be a trustworthy source of wisdom, and deserves my attention in times of decision.
I’ve learned something about the gifts I have to offer, as a writer, as a priest, as a human being. And I’ve learned what I need to do to honor and cultivate those gifts, in order to share them with other people. I’ve learned how much I love being the pastor of a congregation—or, as my friend Karen Ward says, an “abbot”. That is, a leader charged with the spiritual development of a community so that all may come to the fullness of their respective identities in Christ.
And I’ve learned again, that sitting on the porch with a glass of iced tea, or a cup of coffee, alone or with friends, is as surely a holy place as any cathedral or shrine. It is good, Lord, to be here.
See you on the porch!
I am sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the Inn at Silver Bay near Hague, New York, on the western shore of Lake George looking out at the water glittering in the morning sunlight. A cool breeze blows across the porch, running the entire length of the old inn before it slides down the banister and crosses to the Auditorium, a heavy brown-shingled barn of a place that serves as the assembly hall and performing arts center for the campus. This is, without a doubt, one of my very favorite “views from the porch”.
When I sat in this spot about twelve months ago and wrote to you, I was in significant distress and anxiety. My life had been turned upside down, and I truly wondered how I would make it through the days ahead. Logically I knew that I would, somehow—but that didn’t change the fear and sense of freefall that gripped me all too often in those days.
It is certain that times of trial, in Paul’s words to the Galatians, can produce character. But what a process of formation this has been!
I learned how much I am loved, as words of support and concrete offers of material help came from all over the country. I have treasured a number of letters and emails I received in those days, some from friends I had not seen in years, that spoke with such eloquence and passion about the influence I had exercised in their lives without ever knowing it at the time.
I learned that although panic may be a good motivator, it is not a good strategy. And I learned that hate and the desire for vengeance are toxic to those who harbor them. “Have you forgiven…?” someone asked me some months ago. And I could truly say yes, and not because I particularly wanted to forgive (nor to forget—if nothing else, I have learned how not to treat others over whom I hold authority!) Rather, I had grown tired—tired of giving even one more drop of emotional energy to that particular bottomless pit. I had grown weary of my own soul being gunked up with the residual toxic sludge that was only as strong as I allowed it to be. I forgave for the sake of my own well-being, because I was tired of carrying that burden around with me.
I learned to trust my instincts. I am, and always have been, a strong intuitive personality (INFP, if you track that sort of thing) and it is all too easy for me to second-guess myself and think myself into a corner. But what I have discovered is that my gut (ample as it is) can indeed be a trustworthy source of wisdom, and deserves my attention in times of decision.
I’ve learned something about the gifts I have to offer, as a writer, as a priest, as a human being. And I’ve learned what I need to do to honor and cultivate those gifts, in order to share them with other people. I’ve learned how much I love being the pastor of a congregation—or, as my friend Karen Ward says, an “abbot”. That is, a leader charged with the spiritual development of a community so that all may come to the fullness of their respective identities in Christ.
And I’ve learned again, that sitting on the porch with a glass of iced tea, or a cup of coffee, alone or with friends, is as surely a holy place as any cathedral or shrine. It is good, Lord, to be here.
See you on the porch!
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