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!

Overhearing the Kingdom at Panera Bread Company

15 Bloomfield Avenue
Montclair, New Jersey
October 10, 2009
2:23 p.m. Eastern Time

I’m sitting by the windows, warm in the sun, expectant of a late lunch. A woman seated nearby is surrounded by papers and mail. Even from this distance, I see that she is reading a flyer from a nearby Unitarian-Universalist congregation announcing opportunities for ministry in and among the local community.

My order is ready, and I stand up to get it. Behind me, another woman is typing on her laptop. I glance down and see the computer screen. She’s writing an email to a friend. “You better believe that I’m praying for that commercial loan to come through for you…the prayers are going up, and the blessings are coming down.”

I return to my table. As I begin to eat, I notice a father and young son at another nearby table. The son, a chatty and excited five-year-old, reminds his father of a summer trip to the Jersey shore, apparently hoping to return as soon as possible. “They’re all closed down now,” the father says patiently. “The boardwalk and the stores, they’re only open in the spring and summer, when people are around. We’ll go again when the spring returns.”

I turn my attention to my chicken salad and corn chowder, only to hear the son exclaim moments later, as if to inform the entire restaurant: “But when you’re DEAD you’re really gone, right?”

“Right, that’s it.. You’re just…gone.” Dad seems a bit embarrassed, either by the subject or his son’s exuberance in sharing it with the general public. The son, however, is not quite finished on the topic.

“I heard a story once, about someone who had come alive again…” and then the story trails off in a volume insufficient for further eavesdropping. Once again I return attention to my chowder, now rapidly cooling in spite of the autumn sunshine pouring through the windows.

Soon father and son prepare to leave the restaurant. The father momentarily steps away from the table. The son holds up a clear plastic bag containing a large round loaf of bread, from which some has been torn—no doubt for their lunch. And in that exuberant voice and tone again: “Here, here—I’ll give this to you for your birthday!”

One season ends, and a new season begins; birthdays and death days are remembered and honored; opportunities for ministry, encouragement and intercessory prayer present themselves; we hear stories of good times in the past, and rumors of resurrection—and in the midst of it all, a little child. And a great big tasty loaf of bread, meant to be broken and shared so that many might be fed.

Do I really need to go to church tomorrow? Yes, I think so…I have something wondrous to share. Here, here…let me show you…

Liturgical Texts from the Gulf Coast

Introit: After Ike

By the waters of Bolivar we sat down and wept,
when we remembered you, O Gilchrist;
when we considered you, our House of Joy.

We hung up our thinking caps on a lonely scrub cedar;
on a single bare post in the midst of a empty sand flat;
and our hearts bowed down with grief.

We uncovered our heads in the sunlight and salt air;
and our hearts were heavy with sorrow.

How shall we play silly games (Trivial Pursuit, Pigmania, Train),
weak with laughter, late into the night,
on a red kitchen table, surrounded by watermelons,
when there is neither game board, nor table,
nor watermelons to cheer us on?

How shall joys be multiplied, and sorrows divided, in the breeze and afternoon shade,
if there is no place to sit down together, under your shadow?

How shall memories be made and shared and kept,
if there is no gathering place?

And now, O Lord of sea and sky, of waters and winds, hear us:
Give heed to our lament, Maker of starfish and sand dollars.

Lean down and listen to us, who mourn for what is no more;
Pay attention to us, who grieve for what has been lost.

From the morning sun, rising over the Gulf, come to us;
With the first stars at twilight, as cicadas play an evening hymn,
show yourself to us.

Surround us on every side, that we may not drown in despair or distress;
when the winds of loss and waves of grief howl and rage,
come quickly and rescue us.

Let this place, this empty and desolate sand flat, be again a holy place,
a place set apart, for those who will come here:
a sanctuary for birds, and sand crabs, and salt grasses;
a smooth and level ground for tents and campfires.

Let this small patch of earth know growth and greenness once more,
let this air ring with the laughter and life of your little ones.

Fill us with beloved memory, and show us the way forward,
and bring us up, to the shady front porch of your House of Joy;
for you are the God of the living,
in you all things live and move and have their being,
and in you nothing Loved is ever truly lost.

10/25/08




A Canticle of Praise
Written for the Blessing of a Crawfish Hatchery in Chambers County, TX in 2005

O give thanks to our God, who is good:
whose love endures for ever.

You sun and moon, and stars of the sky:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

Sunset and sunrise, night and day:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

All mountains and valleys, coastal plains and high plains:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

Mesquite and pine trees, magnolias and scrub cedars;
Bluebonnets and black-eyed Susans, Indian blanket and Indian paintbrush:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

All you creatures, great and small;
White tails and white wings, armadillos and hummingbirds:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

Oceans, swamps, rivers and creeks, worship the Lord:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

You who swim or slink or move in the waters;
Crawfish and crab, oysters and shrimp,
Redfish, bluefish, catfish and jellyfish:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

Let the people of God worship the Lord:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

Teachers and lawyers,
statesmen, students and scholars;
Farmers and fishermen, CEOs and janitors,
Homeowners and housekeepers, worship the Lord:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

You who seek after God in the silence of your hearts:
Mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers;
give to our God your thanks and praise.

In times of trouble and in times of gladness;
In plenty and in want, in sorrow and in joy:
give to our God your thanks and praise.

To God be glory and worship; Father, Son and Holy Spirit:
Let us give to our God our thanks and praise.

From the heights of the sky to the depths of the sea:
Let us give to our God our thanks and praise.

The Taste of Memory

“Bring the food that you eat, when you need to know you are loved.”

This was our final assignment in a doctoral seminar class on the Eucharist. We were to bring enough of whatever food it was, to share with the class—sixteen doctoral and advanced masters’ degree students.

I didn’t have to think very hard about what to bring. Of course it had to be the lemon wafers.

These cookies are simplicity itself, which undoubtedly recommended them to the ladies organizing the Vacation Bible School at the Methodist church in Liberty, Texas that summer in 1978. One lemon cake mix, one egg, one cup of vegetable oil, mix and drop and bake at 350 for ten minutes…even the very youngest children could help.

When my grandmother picked me up that day at noon, I carried a plastic sandwich bag with a few lemon cookies in it, and the recipe printed on a half-sheet of typing paper. We shared them on the short drive home—still warm and soft in the middle, thin and crumbling brown at the edges.

Thereafter, these little treats were always available at her house. Gram made them in huge batches (they make a lot anyway) and froze them, layered between waxed paper in large shallow tupperware containers. When guests came to visit, she would ask “Would you like a cookie?” and unfailingly produce a plate of the bright yellow-gold circles.

On June 22, 2000, less than a month after I graduated from the Episcopal Theological Seminary of the Southwest, my grandmother died at home, in her sleep. She had lived a long, rich, full life, and yet when the minister asked me if I wanted to have a role in the service, I answered, “Yes. I want to sit in the front row and cry. That is my role today.” And it was, and I did.

Nearly a year later I was ordained to the priesthood in St. Paul’s Church, Waco, Texas. At the reception which followed the service, on the long buffet table in the middle of the hall, was a large platter of lemon wafers. I had never seen these at any St. Paul’s coffee hour or gathering before, so I asked my friend who was coordinating the reception, “Where did these come from?” She didn’t know. She asked her friends who were helping, who had arranged all the food and drink for the gathering. They didn’t know. No one was able to identify the source or origin of the lemon wafers that night. Nor were such ever seen again at a St. Paul’s event, in the two consecutive years I served there.

A coincidence, no doubt. Somehow completely explainable to even the most rational mind. Yet for those of us who seek the patterns, the connections in this world, the wondrous moments when the magic sparkles in the corners of our eyes…much more than that.

“Bring the food that you eat, when you need to know you are loved.”
“I made this just for you.”
“Take, eat… do this in remembrance.”

A View From the Porch: A Retrospective

From my porch, I have seen…

· Four cycles of the maple tree in the front yard, from bright gold to barren gray branches, to palest green to deep emerald and back again;

· Does and their fawns crossing the street at midnight;

· The Seeing Eye: dogs and owners and trainers up and down the sidewalks, learning to walk together;

· Wedding guests rushing to find a parking spot before donning jackets and hats, on their way to Assumption Church on a Saturday afternoon;

· Mourners of all ages, dressed in everything from dark suits and ties to blue jeans and t-shirts, going to pay their last respects to a family member or beloved friend;

· Neighbors on their way to the grocery store, or the dry cleaners, or the library;

· Squirrels engaged in a thousand gymnastic activities, from fence rails and tree branches;

· Basil and parsley and rosemary growing in hanging pots, luxuriant under the summer sun.

I have watched the life of a town there: a busy, lively community that has been my home for a while. A bit of my heart will remain here; I will always be grateful for the lessons I learned in this place and with this group of people.

Vacation Edition: August 2009

Hello dear ones!

This edition comes to you from the “gazee-deck” (not quite gazebo, not quite deck…the best of both!) at Croft Alden, just south of Hague, New York. Directly to the east, Lake George is barely visible, screened by a tall stand of pine and cedar. I can almost hear the water lapping on the shore. The sun has risen on a cool and bright August morning, and the deranged songbird outside my window insisted that I should get up and see this daily miracle for myself. He was quite correct—it is a beautiful sight.

In my lexicon “going to the water” is synonymous with rest and restoration. Growing up I spent summers on the Texas Gulf Coast, at a house that no longer exists, save in blessed memory, getting sunburned, playing in the surf and digging in the sand, reading ancient comic books and listening to Waylon and Willie and the boys, and eating icy-cold watermelon and sweet corn from the farm stand down the road. The house had no air conditioning, but with windows in all the exterior walls and ceiling fans in every room, it didn’t need it. We heard the sound of the wind and waves; we felt the breeze off the water (so much so that you actually wanted a quilt at night, even in high summer), we smelled the salt air and cut grass, and occasionally the “ew-ick” of a fish that had been left on the shore to decompose.

This time apart—this Sabbath here at the lake in New York—has been much anticipated and welcomed. We will leave two days hence, returning to our new place at Jubilee House, where we will continue to unpack and “make ourselves at home.” School starts again very soon (and already has, for some of us) and I will be beavering away on my great project that leads to “The Rev. Dr.” on my business cards.

The last few months have been something of a rollercoaster ride, but we seem to have come through with only a few chips and scratches. To all of you (and you know who you are) who have helped us in this time of transition and uncertainty, through your prayers and good will, and through offers of assistance of all kinds—may the Almighty return to you double those things which you have shared with us. We have been “bathed in grace” in these days, and the waters of this glorious lake have reminded me of that truth. “I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help.”

See you on the porch!

A New View from a New Porch

Hello my dears!

I'm writing in haste, but wanted the friends to know that the Precentor household is now fully relocated to our new digs at Jubilee House. Boxes everywhere--who knew we has so much JUNK? Relieved at having it done; a bit sad at the closing of the previous chapter of our lives; excited to see where the Holy Spirit may be blowing us now!

Email to precentor69 at yahoo dot com for direct contact information :)

See you on the porch!