When not immediately engaged in the "frank exchange of views" that characterizes the Anglican blogsphere these days, I do manage to reflect from time to time on what might be the meta-issues--i.e. not sex, and not integrity of the Anglican Communion. I still haven't identified the elusive Alpha Issue--an ideological Rosetta Stone that can unlock how anyone in particular will come down on a whole array of questions if you know their position on just one or two. It's fun work, though, and in my copious spare time, I shall keep on trying.
In the meanwhile, I interview an occasional suspect. One such candidate is a document known as the Millennium Development Goals. (Look here to see what they are.) General Convention has pretty much adopted them in toto as the sine qua non of the Church's missionary imperative. But over on the House of Bishops/Deputies listserv today, here comes the Very Revd Benjamin Shambaugh, dean of the cathedral church for the Diocese of Maine, responding to a thread on the success of non-denominational mega-churches:
Perhaps the success of the evangelical churches is related not to their moral strictness but to clarity about their product: A relationship with Jesus Christ.
Somehow we have forgotten that the baptismal covenant begins with the creed, not the five questions that follow. At the risk of sounding like a heretic, the MDGs and the radical inclusion and the incredible outreach to the poor of many of our congregations are not the mission of the church. Rather they are signs of it.
Unfortunately, we have not done a good job of saying why we do these things and making the connection back to -- and helping people connect to -- Jesus. Rather than being jealous or spiteful of other's success, we need, in deference to Star Trek, to remember our prime directive. If it is just helping others, I would put my support behind heifer project, habitat for humanity or United Way. These are good things but the church has so much more to offer, if we would only let people know...
(I quote with the permission of the author.)
Now, to my knowledge, Ben Shambaugh doesn't have a reputation as an ideologue of either stripe, which means that he is hardly a card-carrying "conservative" or "evangelical." So what he writes is especially significant. And he is entirely correct. The MDG's are good and worthwhile in an of themselves. I don't know any responsible Christian who could say otherwise. But they are not the mission of the Church.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Watching the Irish Not Smiling
I have never been a particular fan of college football (or pro football, for that matter--baseball is my bag). During the five years I lived in Baton Rouge (1989-1994) I attended two LSU games. Both times the Tigers got their clock cleaned, and they had five fully dismal seasons during my Louisiana sojourn. By that measure, the future does not look too bright for the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame, because, deo volente, I'm planning on being in the area for quite some time, along with my awesome powers to jinx athletic teams, both those to whom I have a passionate attachment (just ask the Cubs), and those in whom I merely have a passing interest (the Cleveland Indians of recently blessed memory).At any rate, one of the rites of passage for a new naturalized Hoosier is to experience Notre Dame football, so the Dragonfly and I were pleased to accept an invitation from a friend and his wife to attend last Saturday's contest between the Irish and the University of Southern California Trojans. The friend is a USC alum, so even though he lives in South Bend and controls four season tickets for Notre Dame home games, he was there in his "cardinal and gold" regalia. I attempted to be studiously neutral in my attire, and once in the stands (bleachers, actually, with seat number markings devised in an era when Americans were generally of substantially less girth than is the average today), I decided to root for whichever team had possession of the ball.
During the second quarter, however, I was forced to abandon that strategy, as Notre Dame never kept possession for very long, and their punter was given quite a few more chances to shine than a punter normally hopes for from one game, and his foot is probably still under ice. Late in the fourth quarter, trailing 38-0, the Irish offense (playing, no doubt, against the third-string Trojan defense) finally managed to string some first downs together and produce something resembling a scoring threat. Dragonfly earnestly cheered for Notre Dame, on behalf of "all the players' Moms." But with five seconds left on the clock, the quarterback threw the ball right at at member of the SC defense, and he was obliged to intercept it.
The detail in the experience that will long make me crack a smile, however, is the T-shirt I saw on a Notre Dame coed at one of the tailgate parties we crossed on our way into the stadium: "Catholics have no use for Trojans."
Sunday, October 21, 2007
A Sudden Burst of Fresh Air
This just in...from Lambeth Palace. I suppose there is a possibility it is not authentic, but I've now seen it (in the last ten minutes) from two different sources, and I'm going to assume its veracity. It is a letter from His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to the Bishop of Central Florida, John Howe, in whose diocese a handful of cardinal rectors have recently made clear their desire to move away from the Episcopal Church to the care of an offshore jurisdiction. Dr Williams offers his condolences to Bishop Howe, and speaks pointedly to both ends of the spectrum in American Anglicanism, and does so using the same language. Talk about "economy of means!"
Here's the first kicker:
...without forestalling what the Primates might say, I would repeat what I've said several times before - that any Diocese compliant with Windsor remains clearly in communion with Canterbury and the mainstream of the Communion, whatever may be the longer-term result for others in The Episcopal Church. The organ of union with the wider Church is the Bishop and the Diocese rather than the Provincial structure as such. Those who are rushing into separatist solutions are, I think, weakening that basic conviction of Catholic theology and in a sense treating the provincial structure of The Episcopal Church as if it were the most important thing.
And then he drives it home with this:
I should feel a great deal happier, I must say, if those who are most eloquent for a traditionalist view in the United States showed a fuller understanding of the need to regard the Bishop and the Diocese as the primary locus of ecclesial identity rather than the abstract reality of the 'national church'.
Now, the immediate objects of his remarks are the incipient separatists in Central Florida. (My former confrères in San Joaquin should also take serious note.) But his point about Catholic ecclesiology--that the diocese and bishop constitute the fundamental unit of the Church, is, I promise you, going to waken the sleeping hornets in the "progressive" General Convention supremacist camp--those who assert the "unitary" character of the Episcopal Church in distinction to any "free association of dioceses" theory.
This may be the clearest word that Rowan Williams has yet offered in this whole saga since he assumed office. I welcome it. It doesn't provide wiggle room to either extreme. It invites them to own their positions honestly, and consider the realistic consequences of those positions. What a breath of fresh air.
Here's the first kicker:
...without forestalling what the Primates might say, I would repeat what I've said several times before - that any Diocese compliant with Windsor remains clearly in communion with Canterbury and the mainstream of the Communion, whatever may be the longer-term result for others in The Episcopal Church. The organ of union with the wider Church is the Bishop and the Diocese rather than the Provincial structure as such. Those who are rushing into separatist solutions are, I think, weakening that basic conviction of Catholic theology and in a sense treating the provincial structure of The Episcopal Church as if it were the most important thing.
And then he drives it home with this:
I should feel a great deal happier, I must say, if those who are most eloquent for a traditionalist view in the United States showed a fuller understanding of the need to regard the Bishop and the Diocese as the primary locus of ecclesial identity rather than the abstract reality of the 'national church'.
Now, the immediate objects of his remarks are the incipient separatists in Central Florida. (My former confrères in San Joaquin should also take serious note.) But his point about Catholic ecclesiology--that the diocese and bishop constitute the fundamental unit of the Church, is, I promise you, going to waken the sleeping hornets in the "progressive" General Convention supremacist camp--those who assert the "unitary" character of the Episcopal Church in distinction to any "free association of dioceses" theory.
This may be the clearest word that Rowan Williams has yet offered in this whole saga since he assumed office. I welcome it. It doesn't provide wiggle room to either extreme. It invites them to own their positions honestly, and consider the realistic consequences of those positions. What a breath of fresh air.
New Hometown Pride
During the thirteen years we lived in Stockton, California (population about 325,000), one of the amenities Dearest Dragonfly and I grew to enjoy was the local music scene. We held season tickets to the Stockton Symphony, attended programs of the University of the Pacific Conservatory of Music, supported the Stockton Opera Association productions, and, of course, we both, in our own way, were "key players" in the development of the St John's Chamber Orchestra festival.
Consequently, when we were called to our new home of Warsaw, Indiana (population about 15,000), we took it for granted that we would have to get a periodic fix of live music by traveling either to Fort Wayne (38 miles SE), South Bend (50 miles NW), or Chicago (120 miles NW).
Not necessarily so! While we do hope to avail ourselves of opportunities in those venues, we have, to our astonishment, learned that there is a great deal to keep up culturally occupied right here in the Warsaw-Winona Lake area. The most recent such discovery came this past Friday night at the season opening concert of the Symphony of the Lakes. Yes, you read that correctly, a community of 15,000 (OK, a county population base of some 70,000--but still) able to put a full philharmonic complement of strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion on it own hometown stage (Grace College's Rodeheaver Auditorium, named for storied evangelist Billy Sunday's song leader, Homer Rodeheaver--do look at this link; the guy is a larger-than-life character).
A number of the musicians were no doubt "ringers" from some of the aforementioned larger cities. And there was a certain roughhewnness to the sound at times (getting a section of even quite good string players to play in tune and precisely together is the bugaboo of all orchestral conductors). Nonetheless, it is a remarkable achievement, and one we never expected to witness a mere ten minute drive from our pastoral pondside home.
Perhaps most remarkable of all, the program was free to the public. There was the usual section of reserved seats for sponsors and patrons, but there was no admission charged to walk-ins at the door. That represents some pretty savvy promotion and financial management. And it was a delightfully family-friendly event, with lots of children present, all of whom were exceptionally well-behaved, even in view of the fact that kazoos were distributed during the intermission!
The theme of the program was "Meet the Instruments." Before the concert, there was an "instrument petting zoo," which was exactly what it sounds like. After an opening number that showcased the entire orchestra (the prelude to Wagner's Die Meistersinger--which I could have conducted myself with barely any rehearsal, so etched is it my brain from high school band days), the brass family was represented by the opening movement of Mozart's 4th horn concerto, but not before a demonstration, using a length of ordinary garden hose, a plastic, funnel, and a trombone mouthpiece, of the french horn's rustic origins. Similarly, before the first movement of the Mozart flute concerto, there was a demonstration involving a six pack of root beer bottles filled with varying levels of water. While the purist in me winces, not at the demonstrations, but at the abridgment of three-movement concertos, I have to admit that, with the shrinking and graying audience for classical music in the U.S., some coloring outside the lines is probably a good thing.
After a percussion-dominated arrangement of Khachaturian's energetic Saber Dance, and the intermission, the program concluded with Bruch's violin concerto (all three movements this time), which was masterfully performed by Albanian-born Winona Lake resident Gert Kumi.
Our jaws are on the ground. Warsaw rocks!
Consequently, when we were called to our new home of Warsaw, Indiana (population about 15,000), we took it for granted that we would have to get a periodic fix of live music by traveling either to Fort Wayne (38 miles SE), South Bend (50 miles NW), or Chicago (120 miles NW).
Not necessarily so! While we do hope to avail ourselves of opportunities in those venues, we have, to our astonishment, learned that there is a great deal to keep up culturally occupied right here in the Warsaw-Winona Lake area. The most recent such discovery came this past Friday night at the season opening concert of the Symphony of the Lakes. Yes, you read that correctly, a community of 15,000 (OK, a county population base of some 70,000--but still) able to put a full philharmonic complement of strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion on it own hometown stage (Grace College's Rodeheaver Auditorium, named for storied evangelist Billy Sunday's song leader, Homer Rodeheaver--do look at this link; the guy is a larger-than-life character).
A number of the musicians were no doubt "ringers" from some of the aforementioned larger cities. And there was a certain roughhewnness to the sound at times (getting a section of even quite good string players to play in tune and precisely together is the bugaboo of all orchestral conductors). Nonetheless, it is a remarkable achievement, and one we never expected to witness a mere ten minute drive from our pastoral pondside home.
Perhaps most remarkable of all, the program was free to the public. There was the usual section of reserved seats for sponsors and patrons, but there was no admission charged to walk-ins at the door. That represents some pretty savvy promotion and financial management. And it was a delightfully family-friendly event, with lots of children present, all of whom were exceptionally well-behaved, even in view of the fact that kazoos were distributed during the intermission!
The theme of the program was "Meet the Instruments." Before the concert, there was an "instrument petting zoo," which was exactly what it sounds like. After an opening number that showcased the entire orchestra (the prelude to Wagner's Die Meistersinger--which I could have conducted myself with barely any rehearsal, so etched is it my brain from high school band days), the brass family was represented by the opening movement of Mozart's 4th horn concerto, but not before a demonstration, using a length of ordinary garden hose, a plastic, funnel, and a trombone mouthpiece, of the french horn's rustic origins. Similarly, before the first movement of the Mozart flute concerto, there was a demonstration involving a six pack of root beer bottles filled with varying levels of water. While the purist in me winces, not at the demonstrations, but at the abridgment of three-movement concertos, I have to admit that, with the shrinking and graying audience for classical music in the U.S., some coloring outside the lines is probably a good thing.
After a percussion-dominated arrangement of Khachaturian's energetic Saber Dance, and the intermission, the program concluded with Bruch's violin concerto (all three movements this time), which was masterfully performed by Albanian-born Winona Lake resident Gert Kumi.
Our jaws are on the ground. Warsaw rocks!
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Residual HOB Buckshot
I've already weighed in collaboratively on the work of the House of Bishops last week in New Orleans, and I continue to stand by that analysis. But it seems to be a bone that invites continual gnawing.
I cannot deny that the bishops did not do what I would have wished they would do. I wish they would have said, in effect, "We finally get it that the General Convention exceeded its competence by confirming the New Hampshire election and passing C051 ('within the bounds of our common life') back in 2003, and we have been fully complicit in that inappropriate behavior. We repent, and will do all in our power to influence the next General Convention to abide by the received teaching of the Anglican Communion with respect to human sexuality."
No, I don't see any pigs flying either. That's why I said "wish" rather than "hope."
And neither did they take an action that was very much within their grasp, had they been able to summon the will to hold onto it--to wit: Implementing a proposal floated by one of their own number, Bishop John Howe of Central Florida, and articulated in cyberspace by Dr Ephraim Radner of the Anglican Communion Institute, by which the majority of TEC's bishops would have voluntarily recused themselves from participation in the next Lambeth Conference and erected an infrastructure that would have put actual pressure (as distinguished from protracted nagging) on the Common Cause Partners and their offshore sponsors to cease and desist.
So, the bishops did not do what they should have done (in my opinion) nor what they might have done. Did they therefore fail in their endeavor? No, I do not think they did. I believe that, as a group, they accomplished exactly what was possible--no more and no less--for that precise group to accomplish. They did the best they could, and therefore deserve no censure. They are not bad people, nor are they disingenuous. (OK, one bishop's puzzled look when questioned about same-sex blessings going on in his diocese is a little...ahem...amusing.) Nor are they incompetent. It's just a rather impossible situation.
The Church will have to live with the ramifications of the work our bishops did, along with lots of other ramifications, as this ecclesial crisis continues to unfold. I do wish that all parties to the conflict could "seriously lay to heart the great dangers we are in" by reason of our "unhappy divisions." A lot less rhetorical and political posturing and a lot more willingness to give the benefit of the doubt might not bridge the gap, but would go a long way toward helping us carry this cross with a clear conscience.
I cannot deny that the bishops did not do what I would have wished they would do. I wish they would have said, in effect, "We finally get it that the General Convention exceeded its competence by confirming the New Hampshire election and passing C051 ('within the bounds of our common life') back in 2003, and we have been fully complicit in that inappropriate behavior. We repent, and will do all in our power to influence the next General Convention to abide by the received teaching of the Anglican Communion with respect to human sexuality."
No, I don't see any pigs flying either. That's why I said "wish" rather than "hope."
And neither did they take an action that was very much within their grasp, had they been able to summon the will to hold onto it--to wit: Implementing a proposal floated by one of their own number, Bishop John Howe of Central Florida, and articulated in cyberspace by Dr Ephraim Radner of the Anglican Communion Institute, by which the majority of TEC's bishops would have voluntarily recused themselves from participation in the next Lambeth Conference and erected an infrastructure that would have put actual pressure (as distinguished from protracted nagging) on the Common Cause Partners and their offshore sponsors to cease and desist.
So, the bishops did not do what they should have done (in my opinion) nor what they might have done. Did they therefore fail in their endeavor? No, I do not think they did. I believe that, as a group, they accomplished exactly what was possible--no more and no less--for that precise group to accomplish. They did the best they could, and therefore deserve no censure. They are not bad people, nor are they disingenuous. (OK, one bishop's puzzled look when questioned about same-sex blessings going on in his diocese is a little...ahem...amusing.) Nor are they incompetent. It's just a rather impossible situation.
The Church will have to live with the ramifications of the work our bishops did, along with lots of other ramifications, as this ecclesial crisis continues to unfold. I do wish that all parties to the conflict could "seriously lay to heart the great dangers we are in" by reason of our "unhappy divisions." A lot less rhetorical and political posturing and a lot more willingness to give the benefit of the doubt might not bridge the gap, but would go a long way toward helping us carry this cross with a clear conscience.
Monday, September 24, 2007
A Prayer for Today
One of the marvels of Holy Scripture--particularly, I have found, as I encounter it in the Daily Office--is the ability of an entirely familiar passage to suddenly leap off the page in an astonishing way.
Psalm 80 is appointed for this morning. It is a plea to Yahweh on behalf of Israel, and the Psalmist compares the nation to a vine--planted and tended by God himself, a beautiful thing. Yet, the vine has fallen on hard times:
Why have you broken down its wall, *
so that all who pass by pluck off its grapes?
The wild boar of the forest has ravaged it, *
and the beasts of the field have grazed upon it.
In what I hope is a faithful allegorical interpretation in the patristic tradition, my heart substituted Anglicanism for Israel, and the whole thing instantly became crushingly poignant in these days when the very survival of the Communion seems to depend on what a group of bishops in gathered in New Orleans decides to do. My own soul is so formed by the Anglican tradition that the sight of it on the verge of crumbling before my eyes is, frankly, terrifying. The announcement from the Bishop of the Rio Grande yesterday is just the most recent icon of that terror.
So my petition today is this:
Turn now, O God of hosts, look down from heaven;
behold and tend this vine; *
preserve what your right hand has planted.
Psalm 80 is appointed for this morning. It is a plea to Yahweh on behalf of Israel, and the Psalmist compares the nation to a vine--planted and tended by God himself, a beautiful thing. Yet, the vine has fallen on hard times:
Why have you broken down its wall, *
so that all who pass by pluck off its grapes?
The wild boar of the forest has ravaged it, *
and the beasts of the field have grazed upon it.
In what I hope is a faithful allegorical interpretation in the patristic tradition, my heart substituted Anglicanism for Israel, and the whole thing instantly became crushingly poignant in these days when the very survival of the Communion seems to depend on what a group of bishops in gathered in New Orleans decides to do. My own soul is so formed by the Anglican tradition that the sight of it on the verge of crumbling before my eyes is, frankly, terrifying. The announcement from the Bishop of the Rio Grande yesterday is just the most recent icon of that terror.
So my petition today is this:
Turn now, O God of hosts, look down from heaven;
behold and tend this vine; *
preserve what your right hand has planted.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
In the Eye of the Storm
Yes, it's a little risky using hurricane imagery to talk about a meeting that is taking place in New Orleans. I certainly don't want to trivialize the unspeakable suffering that continues to be endured by the people of that great city (which I love from firsthand experience) and the entire gulf coast. But the metaphor is simply too apt to pass up. The eye of a hurricane is a place of eerie stillness following the first onslaught of winds and preceding the arrival of the other side of the storm, with winds blowing in the opposite direction.
Last week, the House of Bishops convened and met for a day and a half with the Archbishop of Canterbury, along with some members of the Joint Standing Committee of the Primates' Meeting and the Anglican Consultative Council. Only the bishops, of course, are privy to the full substance of what was said in that encounter, but between official press briefings and unofficial leaks we have enough information to know that there was an element of storminess--if not in the demeanor and language of the participants, at least in the sheer inherent angst of the situation. The fate of the Anglicanism itself--the third largest "brand-name" of Christian in the world today--pretty much hangs in the balance.
Tomorrow the bishops--Archbishop Williams now having flown home to Lambeth Palace--will get back down to work, trying to craft a response--a response to the rest of the Anglican world, a response to whatever Dr Williams put before them, but, most specifically, a response to the message that came when the Primates met in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania some seven months ago. Will the House of Bishops agree to withhold consent to (we may as well put a real face on it) the election of Tracey Lind as Bishop of Chicago, should she indeed be elected by that diocese? Will they at least express a "mind of the house" that they will endeavor to suppress the practice of formal blessings of same-sex unions in their dioceses, and demonstrate a willingness to hold one another accountable to that endeavor?
And in the event that their response will not be either simply Yes or simply No (and it's a pretty safe bet, IMHO, that it won't), then what will their response be? A couple of proposals--both emanating from the "conservative" side of the Great Divide--are getting a lot of play in the blogsphere, and have met with some cautious approval even from some on the "left." I am particularly drawn to an idea put forth by John Howe, the Bishop of Central Florida, which is itself a refinement of a plan articulated by Archbishop Williams himself more than a year ago in the wake of the 2006 General Convention. Those bishops who cannot in good conscience acquiesce to the mind of the larger Communion on human sexual morality, articulated in Lambeth I.10 (1998), would voluntarily withdraw from the councils of the Communion for an indeterminate time. Those bishops and dioceses that are able to abide by the constraints of the Windsor Report would continue in unimpaired good standing, but (and this is critical) remain within the structures of the Episcopal Church, albeit in a "partitioned" manner, creating a layer of necessary insulation. Moreover (and this, too, is critically important), those clergy and congregations that have come under the authority of offshore provinces would step away from those relationships and unite themselves with a Communion-affiliated diocese. The foreign Primates would relinquish their oversight of any American congregations and clergy.
In the event that something like this fails (and, sadly, I think there is a pretty good chance of that), then Canon Kendall Harmon of South Carolina has proposed an even bolder stroke: All American bishops (presumably including those recently consecrated by African jurisdictions) would agree to stay home from the 2008 Lambeth Conference, as a sacrificial offering for the good of the larger Communion. Failing the adoption of the Howe proposal, I hope the bishops give the Harmon alternative serious consideration.
In the meantime, however, on this Sunday evening, all is quiet. We're in the eye of the storm. The bishops spent yesterday in manual labor, helping with the reconstruction effort in Louisiana and Mississippi. Today they worshiped in various congregations in those two dioceses. They are being prayed for mightily all across this land and all over the world. If Anglican Christianity itself is to survive, they will need to find a way to color outside the lines. The entrenched positions of neither side will bear the freight that needs to be carried.
Today the Chicago Cubs, God's own team, reduced their Magic Number for clinching the National League Central Division title to four--there are thirteen remaining chances for either the Cubs to win or the Milwaukee Brewers to lose. Any combination of those events that totals four and the Cubs have it. If the kind of startling news I and many others are praying for comes out of New Orleans in a couple of days, I believe the Cubs will go all the way to the World Series, and even win it. Conversely, if the Cubs win the World Series, I will be optimistic for the future of Anglicanism. Hey, everybody has to pick their own tokens of hope. Those are mind. What are yours?
Last week, the House of Bishops convened and met for a day and a half with the Archbishop of Canterbury, along with some members of the Joint Standing Committee of the Primates' Meeting and the Anglican Consultative Council. Only the bishops, of course, are privy to the full substance of what was said in that encounter, but between official press briefings and unofficial leaks we have enough information to know that there was an element of storminess--if not in the demeanor and language of the participants, at least in the sheer inherent angst of the situation. The fate of the Anglicanism itself--the third largest "brand-name" of Christian in the world today--pretty much hangs in the balance.
Tomorrow the bishops--Archbishop Williams now having flown home to Lambeth Palace--will get back down to work, trying to craft a response--a response to the rest of the Anglican world, a response to whatever Dr Williams put before them, but, most specifically, a response to the message that came when the Primates met in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania some seven months ago. Will the House of Bishops agree to withhold consent to (we may as well put a real face on it) the election of Tracey Lind as Bishop of Chicago, should she indeed be elected by that diocese? Will they at least express a "mind of the house" that they will endeavor to suppress the practice of formal blessings of same-sex unions in their dioceses, and demonstrate a willingness to hold one another accountable to that endeavor?
And in the event that their response will not be either simply Yes or simply No (and it's a pretty safe bet, IMHO, that it won't), then what will their response be? A couple of proposals--both emanating from the "conservative" side of the Great Divide--are getting a lot of play in the blogsphere, and have met with some cautious approval even from some on the "left." I am particularly drawn to an idea put forth by John Howe, the Bishop of Central Florida, which is itself a refinement of a plan articulated by Archbishop Williams himself more than a year ago in the wake of the 2006 General Convention. Those bishops who cannot in good conscience acquiesce to the mind of the larger Communion on human sexual morality, articulated in Lambeth I.10 (1998), would voluntarily withdraw from the councils of the Communion for an indeterminate time. Those bishops and dioceses that are able to abide by the constraints of the Windsor Report would continue in unimpaired good standing, but (and this is critical) remain within the structures of the Episcopal Church, albeit in a "partitioned" manner, creating a layer of necessary insulation. Moreover (and this, too, is critically important), those clergy and congregations that have come under the authority of offshore provinces would step away from those relationships and unite themselves with a Communion-affiliated diocese. The foreign Primates would relinquish their oversight of any American congregations and clergy.
In the event that something like this fails (and, sadly, I think there is a pretty good chance of that), then Canon Kendall Harmon of South Carolina has proposed an even bolder stroke: All American bishops (presumably including those recently consecrated by African jurisdictions) would agree to stay home from the 2008 Lambeth Conference, as a sacrificial offering for the good of the larger Communion. Failing the adoption of the Howe proposal, I hope the bishops give the Harmon alternative serious consideration.
In the meantime, however, on this Sunday evening, all is quiet. We're in the eye of the storm. The bishops spent yesterday in manual labor, helping with the reconstruction effort in Louisiana and Mississippi. Today they worshiped in various congregations in those two dioceses. They are being prayed for mightily all across this land and all over the world. If Anglican Christianity itself is to survive, they will need to find a way to color outside the lines. The entrenched positions of neither side will bear the freight that needs to be carried.
Today the Chicago Cubs, God's own team, reduced their Magic Number for clinching the National League Central Division title to four--there are thirteen remaining chances for either the Cubs to win or the Milwaukee Brewers to lose. Any combination of those events that totals four and the Cubs have it. If the kind of startling news I and many others are praying for comes out of New Orleans in a couple of days, I believe the Cubs will go all the way to the World Series, and even win it. Conversely, if the Cubs win the World Series, I will be optimistic for the future of Anglicanism. Hey, everybody has to pick their own tokens of hope. Those are mind. What are yours?
Thursday, September 13, 2007
This Little Church of Mine
Please look here for the actual essay, which is my response on Covenant to the four-part series by the Rev. Tom Woodward that appeared on the Episcopal Majority website recently.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
A Belated Brazil Travelogue
Some people enjoy reading travelogues. If you're not one of them, just skip this post and take a look at the new cooperative blog effort I'm part of, Covenant.
Because our son Jordan and his wife Angela will be ending their Brazilian sojourn in December, and because we anticipated a modest financial windfall from the sale of our house in California (alas, still an eschatological hope), Brenda and I made another visit to the country of my birth this past July-leading-into-August, slightly less than a year on the heels of our prior visit.
July 24 (Tuesday)
We were on the road from Stockton just before 5 AM en route to San Francisco International Airport. Our itinerary called for us to catch a 10 AM flight to Los Angeles, then board a LAN fight to São Paulo (arriving at 7ish Wednesday morning) after a brief stop in Lima, and then catch a GOL (Brazilian domestic carrier--yes, named for that preciously rare event in soccer when a team actually scores a point) flight to Iguaçu Falls. In the inscrutable wisdom of the FAA, however, the aircraft we were going to be on was held in San Diego due to fog, forcing a series of delays. When it became evident that we were in danger of missing our connection in L.A., I hustled down to the United customer service desk, where they booked us on a flight that was technically a "later" one but was actually leaving earlier than our own. Go figure. While in the customer service line, I met another couple with the same issue, as they were bound for São Paulo to attend a wedding.
We landed in L.A. about 12:15, figuring it would be tight, but that we would make our 1:25 flight on LAN. We arrived at the Bradley International Terminal about ten minutes before 1:00, seeing the couple we had met on San Francisco, and who were on the same plane with us to L.A., rushing off to the gate with boarding passes. They evidently knew how to get from the United gates to the international gates, whereas we had to learn by doing. We also then learned that LAN closes their international check-ins one hour before flight time, and they have neither mercy nor flexibility.
I'll spare you the details (ah, did you think I was already giving you details?Not so!), but after consuming gobs of time from an extremely gracious United customer service agent who deserves to be named employee of the decade, we were on a shuttle to the local Motel 6 with two meal vouchers to be used at the adjacent Denny's. We had no choice but to cool our jets. And thank God for cells phones, by means of which we were able to connect with all sorts of people on two continents who were able to help us re-arrange our plans.
July 25 (Wednesday)
Back on the shuttle to LAX (wishing the driver would ax the Spanish-language mariachi station and turn on the A.C.) to catch a noonish flight to Houston on Continental. Everything goes smoothly. When we arrive at George Bush Intercontinental Airport (that's Bush the Elder, just in case you're interested), we find ourselves partially redeeming our misfortune at a wonderful eatery called Papadeaux's, within sight of the gate from which our new flight to São Paulo is scheduled to depart at 8 PM. I haven't eaten that well since leaving Louisiana in 1994--fried crawfish on one end of the plate, crawfish ettoufe on the other, and dirty rice in the middle, chased by sweet potato pecan pie. Mmmmm good.
For me, the overnight flight south was my most successful overseas flight yet, (Brenda has another opinion, but I'll let her share it), thanks to a glass of wine, a blindfold, ear plugs, and a little white pill called Ambien. The next thing I knew, they were waking me up for breakfast, with landing to follow shortly. The only way to fly.
July 26 (Thursday)
We entered Brazil without incident, I on my Brazilian passport and Brenda on her American one, landing not at the downtown airport that had been in the news the previous week due to a tragic crash, but at the international airport some distance from the center of the city. We immediately began scouting our now rescheduled connection on GOL to Iguaçu Falls. It was our first lesson, one that was reviewed several times during the trip, that in order to happily navigate the air transportation system in Brazil, one must be persistently proactive. Again, I won't give a play-by-play. Suffice it to say that delays are endemic, gate changes are unannounced more often than they are announced, and the same employee of the same airline can give conflicting information at different times for no apparent reason. Throw in the fact that Brenda's Portuguese is virtually non-existent, and mine is "weak" to put it generously, and you get some inkling of the level of our frustration.
Our scheduled 12:15 PM departure for Iguaçu Falls leaves about two hours late, and lasts about 75 minutes, putting us down at our destination late in the afternoon. A short taxi ride deposited us at our hotel, which was spacious, gracious, and surrounded by acres of lush subtropical vegetation around which strolled several peacocks. Just outside our room was a coffee tree--pretty exotic for a couple of North Americans. We were able to snap a few photos before the sun rapidly set.
Our original plans had called for us to take a tour of the actual falls that afternoon, but we were able to get that moved to the following morning, as we had plenty of time before our originally-scheduled flight back to São Paulo, which would put our entire itinerary back on the rails. We were, however, able to keep our plans for a churrasco (southern Brazil's version of barbecue) dinner and Latin American "ballet folklorico" sort of show. The dinner was not quite up to the standard we had experienced in Salvador on last year's trip, b
ut it was quite nice nonetheless. I especially enjoyed the chocolate flan on the dessert buffet. The show had its high points (an Argentinian dancer-performer armed with hard balls tethered to leather straps--she bounced the balls on the wood floor of the stage rhythmically, somewhat emulating the aural effect of a team of tap dancers, and probably praying all the while that none of the balls would come loose from its tether and take out a section of the audience) and its low points (pretty much the same cast of dancers and musicians changing costumes to be Bolivian one moment and A
rgentinian or Mexican or Peruvian or Chilean the next).
It is worth noting at this point that we were cold. Not (yet) insufferably so, but more or less constantly uncomfortable due to temperature. It was winter in South America, of course, and Iguaçu Falls is at a latitude comparable to northern Florida. We both were wearing long sleeves with the equivalent of light wrap, which would have been fine presuming access to heated indoor space. But the restaurant was not heated. We were glad to return to our room, which had a wall-mounted heating unit. We were followed back to our hotel by a multitude of party animal Argentinians who were on winter vacation and had bused up from Buenos Aires, about 1,000 miles.
July 27 (Friday)
Finally, the big event--our tour of the falls themselves and the surrounding national park. Iguaçu Falls is really a collection of 276 individual falls, some of which are dry part of the year. It is neither the highest nor does it carry the greatest volume of water, but it is the widest in the world. Eleanor Roosevelt is quoted as remarking, "Poor Niagara!" when she saw Iguaçu. In retrospect, we were glad that the change in our itinerary necessitated a change in our tour, and we were able to see the falls from the Brazilian side rather than from the Argentine side as per our original plan. Since most of the falls are actually in Argentina, the view is therefore more spectacular from Brazil.
The walking tour was magnificent enough, but there was also a boat tour on our schedule. On our trip in from the road to the water on some sort of safari vehicle, we were with a large group of Japanese tourists with their own Japanese-speaking guide. So we were assigned our own English-speaking guide, a very engaging young woman who was born and raised right in the area, but who spoke excellent English, but yet was grateful to learn from us the distinction between "bark" and "rind"--as in trees have bark and oranges have rind. In Portuguese, it's the same word for both! This was occassioned by her pointing out wild orange trees on our route. Alas, it was not the season for seeing any of the hundreds of species of butterfly that are native to the park, not the tens of species of snake (no "alas" there). We make a mental not to come back sometime in November, the optimal month for visiting that area.
Now...I was talking about a boat tour, right? Actually, it's an "inflatable"--a raft with rows of chairs and an outboard engine on one end. We were issued disposable rain gear and advised to leave our shoes and socks on the dock. Reluctantly, we complied. This was all because, as we were warned when we booked the tour, we were going to get wet. Very wet. All in a good cause, I told myself. If getting a good close look at the falls required tolerating a little incidental soaking, then so be it. Life is too short to complain about such things.
But I was misled. It was not incidental soaking. It was gratuitous soaking. There was no valid touristic (did I just invent an adjective?) reason for us to drench ourselves. It was purely, "Hey, we're here, right by a huge waterfall, let's get wet!" I would just as soon have foregone the thrill. Brenda's response? "This is fun! Can we go again?" Do you see why I love her?
At any rate, we were already packed, so we headed right for the airport and on to S.P. The weather in Iguaçu Falls was coolish--I would say low 60s farenheit--but bright and sunny. Quite pleasant. São Paulo was another story entirely--completely overcast (part clouds, part smog) all the time, reaching the upper 50s during the day and around 40 at night. Again, not intolerable weather, presuming that one is properly attired and that there is recourse to heated indoor space. We, however, were wearing every long-sleeved garment we brought with us, and had been for the last couple of days. And there was nary a heated building to be found--not our hotel, not any of my relatives' homes, not any the restaurants we ate in, and not the church I went to on Sunday. The only time I felt warm air was upon entering a metro subway station! Apparently, this was a bit of an unusual cold snap for them, and the need for heat is so rare than nobody invests in the infrastructure.
At any rate, as our taxi pulled up to the pousada where we were staying, my sister Nancy and her family (husband, three children, and one son-in-law) from Illinois walked up, along with Jordan and Angela, so it was great to see them. We dined at a very chic and trendy Japanese place (hey--they had outdoor heaters!), and strolled around for a while, dropping in at a two-story Haagen-Dazs store for dessert. (Were we crazy? I think so, but we didn't realize yet how unrelenting the cold would be.)
July 28 (Saturday)
Most of the day was spent at the home of my uncle Efrem and his wife Norma. We were joined by two of their three children (my cousins), along with their spouses and children, along with, of course, Nancy and her clan and Jordan and Angela. So it was quite a crowd, but we had a great time, despite language barriers. (Jordan and Angela are both completely fluent in Portuguese, so they lubricate any social situation.) My uncle and aunt have lived in that same house since the day they were married, more than fifty years ago. The city has grown up around them, but they have stayed put. This is remarkable, given the American predilection for "trading up" every few years. It's a modest house, but American middle-class standards. Yet, they employ a maid more or less full time, who cooks and cleans and does various other odd jobs. Labor is cheap in Brazil. Everybody has a maid. Even the maids have maids. So something that most Americans would consider an unthinkable luxury is taken for granted by Brazilians who live in homes that Americans would consider veritably Spartan. Interesting.
July 29 (Sunday)
In the spirit of the Christian discipline of participating in corporate worship on the Lord's Day "unless for good cause prevented" (per the canons of the Episcopal Church), I stretched my comfort zone and took a taxi alone to the only parish of the Igreja Episcopal Anglicana do Brasil that was in a neighborhood included on my map of São Paulo. Appropriately enough (given the dedication of the parish of which I was still at that time technically the rector), it was the Paroquia de São João--St John's. The early liturgy there is in Japanese. As you might have surmised there is a large Japanese population in southern Brazil. The Anglican bishop of São Paulo is named Hiroshi Ito. But I attended the 10:30 celebration, which was in Portuguese. This was the second IEAB parish I had visited, and it is quite evident that it is a spinoff from the Episcopal Church; the ethos is discernibly similar to what I have come to identify as plain-vanilla middle-of-the-road mainstream Episcopalianism. When I introduced myself to the rector as a priest, he invited me to concelebrate, which was incredibly gracious on his part. But since I felt inordinately grungy and was still wearing the same layered long-sleeve outfit that I had been wearing since what felt like time immemorial, and since I had to leave after communion in order to keep a family engagement, I declined. But I very much appreciated and enjoyed the opportunity to worship. I got to sing "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones" (ubiquitously familiar to Episcopalians) and "How Great Thou Art" (not so familiar to Episcopalians, but certainly well-known to other Christians) in Portuguese, which was great fun. The church was about half full at 50, but the acoustics were good and the music was accompanied by a decent electronic organ. I couldn't understand most of the sermon, but I know it had to do with the gospel reading of the day, and it was delivered with energy and skill.
I then rushed off by taxi and subway to meet Brenda and Jordan and Angela, and get in yet another taxi to, of all places, an Outback restaurant that is one of a half-dozen or so locations in the metro area overseen by my cousin Mauro, who hosted our meal. Did the Outback have central heat? (I actually had to take off one layer.) At least is was carpeted, which is rare in Brazil. Outback and the other American-style chains scrupulously try to emulate both the fare and the ambiance of their American counterparts. Actually, I thought the Bloomin' Onion was better than any I've had in the states.
After a long and leisurely lunch, we repaired to the eleventh floor apartment of my cousin Vania and her husband Eloy. Once again, it was great fun reconnecting with family. Everyone seemed to get a big kick out of the fact that I was born on Brazil's equivalent (roughly) of July 4th, and carry a Brazilian passport, but speak what, at best, can be described as "broken" Portuguese. And once again we were cold!
July 30 (Monday)
After sleeping in our clothes under four layers of blanket, and no bothering to shower, and after wrestling with more delays and unannounced gate changes, we finally arrive in Salvador, in the state of Bahia, some 1,200 miles up the coast from São Paulo (about the latitude of Costa Rica). It was warm! We were met by Sergio, the cab driver that Jordan had arranged for us. He drove us to our hotel--the wonderful Hotel Catharina Paraguaçu in the Rio Vermehlo neighborhood. Not only was it where we stayed last year, but we were given the very same room, which we once again enjoyed immensely. After showering and changing, Sergio took us on an expedition to a church I had voiced a desire to visit. Unfortunately, it is closed on Mondays, so we only got to see the outside. It is the spiritual heart of the history of Salvador (an ancient city--the old colonial capital of Brazil), the Igreja Nossa Senhor Bomfin--Church of Our Lord of the Happy Ending (one plausible rough translation). I have never heard of any other such church dedication. First, this is the only instance I have encountered of a church being under the title of "Our Lord..." of anything. Our Lady, yes (and meetly so, of course). But not "Our Lord." And "happy ending," or "good outcome." Again, to my knowledge, this is unique. To Anglican ears, it is redolent of the Prayer Book petition for a "happy issue out of all our afflictions." It smacks of hope, eschatological hope, even. I love it.
After returning to our hotel, Brenda and walked up to a familiar-from-last-year and very classy pizza restaurant in a nicely re-habbed old building on an historic square on a perfect evening just a block from the crashing surf. It was good to be in tropical territory.
July 31 (Tuesday)
Nancy and her crew, as well as Jordan and Angela, had arrived in town late the previous night and early that morning. After a leisurely morning and lunch in the neighborhood at a "kilo" place, where you pay for your food based on its weight (a concept that has merit, IMHO), we journeyed by bus to the old city center and the touristy historical neighborhood of Pelorihno. We spent some money on trinkets and such, and in a luminous moment of serendipity just at sunset, chanced across a church that was full of people. At first we assumed there was a Mass in progress, but upon a closer look, it was Benediction. Though they were singing in Portuguese, I recognized the tune of the Tantum Ergo, so I knew that the high point was only moments away and was able to be on my knees in time for the blessing with the sacramental Body of Christ. Way cool.
After drinks in an old convent that is (sadly, but beautifully) now a hotel, we once again had pizza for dinner.
August 1 (Wednesday)
Jordan, my resourceful and entrepreneurial son, arranged for a van to take the nine of us about 100km away to the town of Cachoeira, some distance inland, on the Paraguaçu river a few miles upstream from where it drains into the western side of the great Bahia de Todos os Santos (All Saints' Bay). Cachoeira is nearly as old as Salvador, and figures prominently in Brazilian history as the place where the first shots were fired in the short-lived and half-hearted (from the Portuguese side) war for independence from Portugal. It is not yet a huge tourist destination, however, so we got to experience something of the relatively pristine near interior of Bahia. For lunch, we walked across the bridge over the river to the village of São Felipe and caught a taxi-van up a steep hillside to a ranch-cum-restaurant with a panoramic view now only of the twin towns but upstream to a huge dam and reservoir in the far distance. The grounds were strewn with all manner of exotic (to us) tropical flora, including a cacao tree, from whence cometh...chocolate. I felt like genuflecting.
Back in Salvador, we snacked late evening on acarajé, an Afro-Brazilian staple and a signature element of the Bahian ambiance.
August 2 (Thursday)
What else is worth remembering from this day except an hour spent in heaven itself--a full-body massage on the beach, with the sound of crashing surf in the background, and the sight of coconut palms swaying gently in the tropical breeze, all for the fortune of about $16 USD?
Oh, in the evening we went by the home of my cousin Nicia and her husband Helcio. Various other local relatives were also there. Once again, we had...you guessed it...pizza. Brazilians need a talkin' to about the way they eat pizza--that is, with a knife and fork, and with...I can barely bring myself to say it...ketchup. Yeah...I know.
August 3 (Friday)
More lazing around in the morning. Then a hammock-shopping expedition (we have gifts to bring home, after all, and hammocks can be had in Brazil for a fraction of what one would pay in the U.S.) and another visit to Pelorihno, where we witness a capoeira school in action. Capoeira is part martial art and part dance, and is woven into the fabric of Bahia's Afro-Brazilian culture. Sociologically, it's sort of like ballet or soccer for middle class American families. It's something that even wealthy and very non-African Bahian parents "put" their kids in.
August 4 (Saturday)
Realizing that our travel plans will constitute a "good cause" that will prevent from attending the one Anglican parish in Salvador the next day, I nonetheless want to at least see the joint, so I once again venture bravely on my own in a taxi (finding that I have enough Portuguese to actually make a little bit of small talk with the driver) to the neighborhood of Pituba and the Igreja do Bom Pastor (Church of the Good Shepherd). Now, Salvador is in the Diocese of Recife. In-the-know Anglicans will be asking, "Which Diocese of Recife?" The one under Bishop Robinson Cavalcanti and now under the primatial oversight of Bishop Venebles in Buenos Aires? Or the IEAB diocese reconstituted from what was left after Bishop Cavalcanti was deposed by the IEAB and fled with 90% of his clergy and laity to the oversight of Bishop Venebles? I don't know for sure, but I think it's the latter. Apparently, the IEAB built the building, but they now share it with some Prebyterians, and it was three or four Presbyterians whom I found aound the building on a Saturday morning.
While I'm somewhat on the subject, a note about Christianity in Brazil. It is, of course, historically a Roman Catholic country. Something like one in every three Roman Catholics in the world is Brazilian! Two other significant forces are at play, however. In regions like Bahia, there has historically been a great deal of syncretism, wherein the infrastructure of Catholic piety has been sort of hijacked by evolved form of indigenous African religion. On the surface, Catholic practice looks to be present, but if you scratch very deeply, you find something else entirely. But over the last few decades, and somewhat in response to the rampant syncretism, I think, evangelical Protestantism (along with cognate cults like Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses) has made astonishing inroads. All over Salvador, one can see evangelical churches inhabiting large buildings and displaying large signs. There is even one veritable "mega-church" in a gargantuan new structure right across the street from the primary shopping mall of the city. The Romans may have been slow to see this coming, but I have to say that I am impressed with what they are doing in response, even it it's on the late side. Their own preaching and teaching and P.R. has gotten much more...well, evangelical, but in a Catholic way. It is, from what I can glean, very Christo-centric, with comparatively less emphasis on Marian piety and devotion to the saints than one traditionally associates with Latin America. I am, of course, a big fan of Marian piety and devotion to the saints. But even a good thing can get out of hand, and what we are seeing in Brazil is a needed and appropriate mid-course correction. I wish our Roman friends well in their efforts.
We spent the afternoon at the high-rise apartment of Mabel, the widow of my uncle Evarado, who died in 1979 while in his 4os. It turned out to be one of those "Babette's Feast" sort of events, full of surprises in relationships discovered over the course of a meal. I was once again struck, as I was last year, with the blessing of reconnecting with my Brazilian family, particularly, perhaps, moreso in the wake of my father's passing two-and-a-half years ago.
In the evening, we got all dressed up (such as we could) and attended the party following the law school graduation of Nicia and Helcio's son Daniel. It was a very elegant event, held in, of all placed, a derelict water park (Wet & Wild).
August 5 (Sunday)
I got up on the early side, having done most of my packing, and strolled across the road behind the hotel, to the parish church (Roman) of...and how appropriate is this, having been to a St John's the previous week?...St Anne. I had tried the day before to find out the Mass times, but to no avail. I walked in during the Gospel Acclamation and stayed through the Lord's Prayer. The church was effectively full--not jam packed, but no empty pews (about 35o people, I would guess). The liturgy had integrity for its location and culture. The homily was no mere sermonette, but was of fairly considerable length and substance, and related to the readings. The piety of the congregation seemed heartfelt and genuine. I was impressed and blessed.
Then we headed for the airport--back to São Paulo (where it was still cold), then, finally on LAN (which Brenda greatly approved of) to Lima and Los Angeles, and American to San Francisco, arriving about noon on Monday the 6th.
Because our son Jordan and his wife Angela will be ending their Brazilian sojourn in December, and because we anticipated a modest financial windfall from the sale of our house in California (alas, still an eschatological hope), Brenda and I made another visit to the country of my birth this past July-leading-into-August, slightly less than a year on the heels of our prior visit.
July 24 (Tuesday)
We were on the road from Stockton just before 5 AM en route to San Francisco International Airport. Our itinerary called for us to catch a 10 AM flight to Los Angeles, then board a LAN fight to São Paulo (arriving at 7ish Wednesday morning) after a brief stop in Lima, and then catch a GOL (Brazilian domestic carrier--yes, named for that preciously rare event in soccer when a team actually scores a point) flight to Iguaçu Falls. In the inscrutable wisdom of the FAA, however, the aircraft we were going to be on was held in San Diego due to fog, forcing a series of delays. When it became evident that we were in danger of missing our connection in L.A., I hustled down to the United customer service desk, where they booked us on a flight that was technically a "later" one but was actually leaving earlier than our own. Go figure. While in the customer service line, I met another couple with the same issue, as they were bound for São Paulo to attend a wedding.
We landed in L.A. about 12:15, figuring it would be tight, but that we would make our 1:25 flight on LAN. We arrived at the Bradley International Terminal about ten minutes before 1:00, seeing the couple we had met on San Francisco, and who were on the same plane with us to L.A., rushing off to the gate with boarding passes. They evidently knew how to get from the United gates to the international gates, whereas we had to learn by doing. We also then learned that LAN closes their international check-ins one hour before flight time, and they have neither mercy nor flexibility.
I'll spare you the details (ah, did you think I was already giving you details?Not so!), but after consuming gobs of time from an extremely gracious United customer service agent who deserves to be named employee of the decade, we were on a shuttle to the local Motel 6 with two meal vouchers to be used at the adjacent Denny's. We had no choice but to cool our jets. And thank God for cells phones, by means of which we were able to connect with all sorts of people on two continents who were able to help us re-arrange our plans.
July 25 (Wednesday)
Back on the shuttle to LAX (wishing the driver would ax the Spanish-language mariachi station and turn on the A.C.) to catch a noonish flight to Houston on Continental. Everything goes smoothly. When we arrive at George Bush Intercontinental Airport (that's Bush the Elder, just in case you're interested), we find ourselves partially redeeming our misfortune at a wonderful eatery called Papadeaux's, within sight of the gate from which our new flight to São Paulo is scheduled to depart at 8 PM. I haven't eaten that well since leaving Louisiana in 1994--fried crawfish on one end of the plate, crawfish ettoufe on the other, and dirty rice in the middle, chased by sweet potato pecan pie. Mmmmm good.
For me, the overnight flight south was my most successful overseas flight yet, (Brenda has another opinion, but I'll let her share it), thanks to a glass of wine, a blindfold, ear plugs, and a little white pill called Ambien. The next thing I knew, they were waking me up for breakfast, with landing to follow shortly. The only way to fly.
July 26 (Thursday)
We entered Brazil without incident, I on my Brazilian passport and Brenda on her American one, landing not at the downtown airport that had been in the news the previous week due to a tragic crash, but at the international airport some distance from the center of the city. We immediately began scouting our now rescheduled connection on GOL to Iguaçu Falls. It was our first lesson, one that was reviewed several times during the trip, that in order to happily navigate the air transportation system in Brazil, one must be persistently proactive. Again, I won't give a play-by-play. Suffice it to say that delays are endemic, gate changes are unannounced more often than they are announced, and the same employee of the same airline can give conflicting information at different times for no apparent reason. Throw in the fact that Brenda's Portuguese is virtually non-existent, and mine is "weak" to put it generously, and you get some inkling of the level of our frustration.
Our scheduled 12:15 PM departure for Iguaçu Falls leaves about two hours late, and lasts about 75 minutes, putting us down at our destination late in the afternoon. A short taxi ride deposited us at our hotel, which was spacious, gracious, and surrounded by acres of lush subtropical vegetation around which strolled several peacocks. Just outside our room was a coffee tree--pretty exotic for a couple of North Americans. We were able to snap a few photos before the sun rapidly set.
Our original plans had called for us to take a tour of the actual falls that afternoon, but we were able to get that moved to the following morning, as we had plenty of time before our originally-scheduled flight back to São Paulo, which would put our entire itinerary back on the rails. We were, however, able to keep our plans for a churrasco (southern Brazil's version of barbecue) dinner and Latin American "ballet folklorico" sort of show. The dinner was not quite up to the standard we had experienced in Salvador on last year's trip, b
ut it was quite nice nonetheless. I especially enjoyed the chocolate flan on the dessert buffet. The show had its high points (an Argentinian dancer-performer armed with hard balls tethered to leather straps--she bounced the balls on the wood floor of the stage rhythmically, somewhat emulating the aural effect of a team of tap dancers, and probably praying all the while that none of the balls would come loose from its tether and take out a section of the audience) and its low points (pretty much the same cast of dancers and musicians changing costumes to be Bolivian one moment and A
rgentinian or Mexican or Peruvian or Chilean the next).It is worth noting at this point that we were cold. Not (yet) insufferably so, but more or less constantly uncomfortable due to temperature. It was winter in South America, of course, and Iguaçu Falls is at a latitude comparable to northern Florida. We both were wearing long sleeves with the equivalent of light wrap, which would have been fine presuming access to heated indoor space. But the restaurant was not heated. We were glad to return to our room, which had a wall-mounted heating unit. We were followed back to our hotel by a multitude of party animal Argentinians who were on winter vacation and had bused up from Buenos Aires, about 1,000 miles.
July 27 (Friday)
Finally, the big event--our tour of the falls themselves and the surrounding national park. Iguaçu Falls is really a collection of 276 individual falls, some of which are dry part of the year. It is neither the highest nor does it carry the greatest volume of water, but it is the widest in the world. Eleanor Roosevelt is quoted as remarking, "Poor Niagara!" when she saw Iguaçu. In retrospect, we were glad that the change in our itinerary necessitated a change in our tour, and we were able to see the falls from the Brazilian side rather than from the Argentine side as per our original plan. Since most of the falls are actually in Argentina, the view is therefore more spectacular from Brazil.
The walking tour was magnificent enough, but there was also a boat tour on our schedule. On our trip in from the road to the water on some sort of safari vehicle, we were with a large group of Japanese tourists with their own Japanese-speaking guide. So we were assigned our own English-speaking guide, a very engaging young woman who was born and raised right in the area, but who spoke excellent English, but yet was grateful to learn from us the distinction between "bark" and "rind"--as in trees have bark and oranges have rind. In Portuguese, it's the same word for both! This was occassioned by her pointing out wild orange trees on our route. Alas, it was not the season for seeing any of the hundreds of species of butterfly that are native to the park, not the tens of species of snake (no "alas" there). We make a mental not to come back sometime in November, the optimal month for visiting that area.
Now...I was talking about a boat tour, right? Actually, it's an "inflatable"--a raft with rows of chairs and an outboard engine on one end. We were issued disposable rain gear and advised to leave our shoes and socks on the dock. Reluctantly, we complied. This was all because, as we were warned when we booked the tour, we were going to get wet. Very wet. All in a good cause, I told myself. If getting a good close look at the falls required tolerating a little incidental soaking, then so be it. Life is too short to complain about such things.But I was misled. It was not incidental soaking. It was gratuitous soaking. There was no valid touristic (did I just invent an adjective?) reason for us to drench ourselves. It was purely, "Hey, we're here, right by a huge waterfall, let's get wet!" I would just as soon have foregone the thrill. Brenda's response? "This is fun! Can we go again?" Do you see why I love her?
At any rate, we were already packed, so we headed right for the airport and on to S.P. The weather in Iguaçu Falls was coolish--I would say low 60s farenheit--but bright and sunny. Quite pleasant. São Paulo was another story entirely--completely overcast (part clouds, part smog) all the time, reaching the upper 50s during the day and around 40 at night. Again, not intolerable weather, presuming that one is properly attired and that there is recourse to heated indoor space. We, however, were wearing every long-sleeved garment we brought with us, and had been for the last couple of days. And there was nary a heated building to be found--not our hotel, not any of my relatives' homes, not any the restaurants we ate in, and not the church I went to on Sunday. The only time I felt warm air was upon entering a metro subway station! Apparently, this was a bit of an unusual cold snap for them, and the need for heat is so rare than nobody invests in the infrastructure.
At any rate, as our taxi pulled up to the pousada where we were staying, my sister Nancy and her family (husband, three children, and one son-in-law) from Illinois walked up, along with Jordan and Angela, so it was great to see them. We dined at a very chic and trendy Japanese place (hey--they had outdoor heaters!), and strolled around for a while, dropping in at a two-story Haagen-Dazs store for dessert. (Were we crazy? I think so, but we didn't realize yet how unrelenting the cold would be.)
July 28 (Saturday)
Most of the day was spent at the home of my uncle Efrem and his wife Norma. We were joined by two of their three children (my cousins), along with their spouses and children, along with, of course, Nancy and her clan and Jordan and Angela. So it was quite a crowd, but we had a great time, despite language barriers. (Jordan and Angela are both completely fluent in Portuguese, so they lubricate any social situation.) My uncle and aunt have lived in that same house since the day they were married, more than fifty years ago. The city has grown up around them, but they have stayed put. This is remarkable, given the American predilection for "trading up" every few years. It's a modest house, but American middle-class standards. Yet, they employ a maid more or less full time, who cooks and cleans and does various other odd jobs. Labor is cheap in Brazil. Everybody has a maid. Even the maids have maids. So something that most Americans would consider an unthinkable luxury is taken for granted by Brazilians who live in homes that Americans would consider veritably Spartan. Interesting.
July 29 (Sunday)
In the spirit of the Christian discipline of participating in corporate worship on the Lord's Day "unless for good cause prevented" (per the canons of the Episcopal Church), I stretched my comfort zone and took a taxi alone to the only parish of the Igreja Episcopal Anglicana do Brasil that was in a neighborhood included on my map of São Paulo. Appropriately enough (given the dedication of the parish of which I was still at that time technically the rector), it was the Paroquia de São João--St John's. The early liturgy there is in Japanese. As you might have surmised there is a large Japanese population in southern Brazil. The Anglican bishop of São Paulo is named Hiroshi Ito. But I attended the 10:30 celebration, which was in Portuguese. This was the second IEAB parish I had visited, and it is quite evident that it is a spinoff from the Episcopal Church; the ethos is discernibly similar to what I have come to identify as plain-vanilla middle-of-the-road mainstream Episcopalianism. When I introduced myself to the rector as a priest, he invited me to concelebrate, which was incredibly gracious on his part. But since I felt inordinately grungy and was still wearing the same layered long-sleeve outfit that I had been wearing since what felt like time immemorial, and since I had to leave after communion in order to keep a family engagement, I declined. But I very much appreciated and enjoyed the opportunity to worship. I got to sing "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones" (ubiquitously familiar to Episcopalians) and "How Great Thou Art" (not so familiar to Episcopalians, but certainly well-known to other Christians) in Portuguese, which was great fun. The church was about half full at 50, but the acoustics were good and the music was accompanied by a decent electronic organ. I couldn't understand most of the sermon, but I know it had to do with the gospel reading of the day, and it was delivered with energy and skill.
I then rushed off by taxi and subway to meet Brenda and Jordan and Angela, and get in yet another taxi to, of all places, an Outback restaurant that is one of a half-dozen or so locations in the metro area overseen by my cousin Mauro, who hosted our meal. Did the Outback have central heat? (I actually had to take off one layer.) At least is was carpeted, which is rare in Brazil. Outback and the other American-style chains scrupulously try to emulate both the fare and the ambiance of their American counterparts. Actually, I thought the Bloomin' Onion was better than any I've had in the states.
After a long and leisurely lunch, we repaired to the eleventh floor apartment of my cousin Vania and her husband Eloy. Once again, it was great fun reconnecting with family. Everyone seemed to get a big kick out of the fact that I was born on Brazil's equivalent (roughly) of July 4th, and carry a Brazilian passport, but speak what, at best, can be described as "broken" Portuguese. And once again we were cold!
July 30 (Monday)
After sleeping in our clothes under four layers of blanket, and no bothering to shower, and after wrestling with more delays and unannounced gate changes, we finally arrive in Salvador, in the state of Bahia, some 1,200 miles up the coast from São Paulo (about the latitude of Costa Rica). It was warm! We were met by Sergio, the cab driver that Jordan had arranged for us. He drove us to our hotel--the wonderful Hotel Catharina Paraguaçu in the Rio Vermehlo neighborhood. Not only was it where we stayed last year, but we were given the very same room, which we once again enjoyed immensely. After showering and changing, Sergio took us on an expedition to a church I had voiced a desire to visit. Unfortunately, it is closed on Mondays, so we only got to see the outside. It is the spiritual heart of the history of Salvador (an ancient city--the old colonial capital of Brazil), the Igreja Nossa Senhor Bomfin--Church of Our Lord of the Happy Ending (one plausible rough translation). I have never heard of any other such church dedication. First, this is the only instance I have encountered of a church being under the title of "Our Lord..." of anything. Our Lady, yes (and meetly so, of course). But not "Our Lord." And "happy ending," or "good outcome." Again, to my knowledge, this is unique. To Anglican ears, it is redolent of the Prayer Book petition for a "happy issue out of all our afflictions." It smacks of hope, eschatological hope, even. I love it.
After returning to our hotel, Brenda and walked up to a familiar-from-last-year and very classy pizza restaurant in a nicely re-habbed old building on an historic square on a perfect evening just a block from the crashing surf. It was good to be in tropical territory.
July 31 (Tuesday)
Nancy and her crew, as well as Jordan and Angela, had arrived in town late the previous night and early that morning. After a leisurely morning and lunch in the neighborhood at a "kilo" place, where you pay for your food based on its weight (a concept that has merit, IMHO), we journeyed by bus to the old city center and the touristy historical neighborhood of Pelorihno. We spent some money on trinkets and such, and in a luminous moment of serendipity just at sunset, chanced across a church that was full of people. At first we assumed there was a Mass in progress, but upon a closer look, it was Benediction. Though they were singing in Portuguese, I recognized the tune of the Tantum Ergo, so I knew that the high point was only moments away and was able to be on my knees in time for the blessing with the sacramental Body of Christ. Way cool.
After drinks in an old convent that is (sadly, but beautifully) now a hotel, we once again had pizza for dinner.
August 1 (Wednesday)
Jordan, my resourceful and entrepreneurial son, arranged for a van to take the nine of us about 100km away to the town of Cachoeira, some distance inland, on the Paraguaçu river a few miles upstream from where it drains into the western side of the great Bahia de Todos os Santos (All Saints' Bay). Cachoeira is nearly as old as Salvador, and figures prominently in Brazilian history as the place where the first shots were fired in the short-lived and half-hearted (from the Portuguese side) war for independence from Portugal. It is not yet a huge tourist destination, however, so we got to experience something of the relatively pristine near interior of Bahia. For lunch, we walked across the bridge over the river to the village of São Felipe and caught a taxi-van up a steep hillside to a ranch-cum-restaurant with a panoramic view now only of the twin towns but upstream to a huge dam and reservoir in the far distance. The grounds were strewn with all manner of exotic (to us) tropical flora, including a cacao tree, from whence cometh...chocolate. I felt like genuflecting.
Back in Salvador, we snacked late evening on acarajé, an Afro-Brazilian staple and a signature element of the Bahian ambiance.
August 2 (Thursday)
What else is worth remembering from this day except an hour spent in heaven itself--a full-body massage on the beach, with the sound of crashing surf in the background, and the sight of coconut palms swaying gently in the tropical breeze, all for the fortune of about $16 USD?
Oh, in the evening we went by the home of my cousin Nicia and her husband Helcio. Various other local relatives were also there. Once again, we had...you guessed it...pizza. Brazilians need a talkin' to about the way they eat pizza--that is, with a knife and fork, and with...I can barely bring myself to say it...ketchup. Yeah...I know.August 3 (Friday)
More lazing around in the morning. Then a hammock-shopping expedition (we have gifts to bring home, after all, and hammocks can be had in Brazil for a fraction of what one would pay in the U.S.) and another visit to Pelorihno, where we witness a capoeira school in action. Capoeira is part martial art and part dance, and is woven into the fabric of Bahia's Afro-Brazilian culture. Sociologically, it's sort of like ballet or soccer for middle class American families. It's something that even wealthy and very non-African Bahian parents "put" their kids in.
August 4 (Saturday)
Realizing that our travel plans will constitute a "good cause" that will prevent from attending the one Anglican parish in Salvador the next day, I nonetheless want to at least see the joint, so I once again venture bravely on my own in a taxi (finding that I have enough Portuguese to actually make a little bit of small talk with the driver) to the neighborhood of Pituba and the Igreja do Bom Pastor (Church of the Good Shepherd). Now, Salvador is in the Diocese of Recife. In-the-know Anglicans will be asking, "Which Diocese of Recife?" The one under Bishop Robinson Cavalcanti and now under the primatial oversight of Bishop Venebles in Buenos Aires? Or the IEAB diocese reconstituted from what was left after Bishop Cavalcanti was deposed by the IEAB and fled with 90% of his clergy and laity to the oversight of Bishop Venebles? I don't know for sure, but I think it's the latter. Apparently, the IEAB built the building, but they now share it with some Prebyterians, and it was three or four Presbyterians whom I found aound the building on a Saturday morning.
While I'm somewhat on the subject, a note about Christianity in Brazil. It is, of course, historically a Roman Catholic country. Something like one in every three Roman Catholics in the world is Brazilian! Two other significant forces are at play, however. In regions like Bahia, there has historically been a great deal of syncretism, wherein the infrastructure of Catholic piety has been sort of hijacked by evolved form of indigenous African religion. On the surface, Catholic practice looks to be present, but if you scratch very deeply, you find something else entirely. But over the last few decades, and somewhat in response to the rampant syncretism, I think, evangelical Protestantism (along with cognate cults like Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses) has made astonishing inroads. All over Salvador, one can see evangelical churches inhabiting large buildings and displaying large signs. There is even one veritable "mega-church" in a gargantuan new structure right across the street from the primary shopping mall of the city. The Romans may have been slow to see this coming, but I have to say that I am impressed with what they are doing in response, even it it's on the late side. Their own preaching and teaching and P.R. has gotten much more...well, evangelical, but in a Catholic way. It is, from what I can glean, very Christo-centric, with comparatively less emphasis on Marian piety and devotion to the saints than one traditionally associates with Latin America. I am, of course, a big fan of Marian piety and devotion to the saints. But even a good thing can get out of hand, and what we are seeing in Brazil is a needed and appropriate mid-course correction. I wish our Roman friends well in their efforts.
We spent the afternoon at the high-rise apartment of Mabel, the widow of my uncle Evarado, who died in 1979 while in his 4os. It turned out to be one of those "Babette's Feast" sort of events, full of surprises in relationships discovered over the course of a meal. I was once again struck, as I was last year, with the blessing of reconnecting with my Brazilian family, particularly, perhaps, moreso in the wake of my father's passing two-and-a-half years ago.
In the evening, we got all dressed up (such as we could) and attended the party following the law school graduation of Nicia and Helcio's son Daniel. It was a very elegant event, held in, of all placed, a derelict water park (Wet & Wild).
August 5 (Sunday)
I got up on the early side, having done most of my packing, and strolled across the road behind the hotel, to the parish church (Roman) of...and how appropriate is this, having been to a St John's the previous week?...St Anne. I had tried the day before to find out the Mass times, but to no avail. I walked in during the Gospel Acclamation and stayed through the Lord's Prayer. The church was effectively full--not jam packed, but no empty pews (about 35o people, I would guess). The liturgy had integrity for its location and culture. The homily was no mere sermonette, but was of fairly considerable length and substance, and related to the readings. The piety of the congregation seemed heartfelt and genuine. I was impressed and blessed.
Then we headed for the airport--back to São Paulo (where it was still cold), then, finally on LAN (which Brenda greatly approved of) to Lima and Los Angeles, and American to San Francisco, arriving about noon on Monday the 6th.
Friday, September 07, 2007
An Attempt to Practice Hope
Hope is one of the "big three" Christian virtues (along with Faith and Love). To some extent, virtues are infused by grace. At the same time, virtues must be cultivated, they must be practiced, especially when they don't seem to come easily or naturally.
In the current Anglican churchscape, "wild" hope seems in short supply, so we need to look to the "farm-raised" variety in order to sustain our lives of...well, faith and love--the other virtues. To that end, I am pleased and honored to be associated with a new communal blog effort called Covenant. It has just gone public in the last few hours, and if you have even a passing interest in things Anglican, I invite you take a look. Then bookmark it and come back frequently.
Covenant is offered from a "communion conservative" perspective, even while attempting to build bridges (rather than burn them) toward Anglicans who may hold "liberal" positions on some controverted questions, but who are committed to an intact Anglican Communion living within the framework of the Windsor Report and the covenant process. I am privileged to have been invited to be one of the regular contributors, along with several minds much keener than my own--some of the best and brightest in Anglican cyberspace today, actually.
It is an act of hope. Intentional hope. Practiced hope. May God bless it.
In the current Anglican churchscape, "wild" hope seems in short supply, so we need to look to the "farm-raised" variety in order to sustain our lives of...well, faith and love--the other virtues. To that end, I am pleased and honored to be associated with a new communal blog effort called Covenant. It has just gone public in the last few hours, and if you have even a passing interest in things Anglican, I invite you take a look. Then bookmark it and come back frequently.
Covenant is offered from a "communion conservative" perspective, even while attempting to build bridges (rather than burn them) toward Anglicans who may hold "liberal" positions on some controverted questions, but who are committed to an intact Anglican Communion living within the framework of the Windsor Report and the covenant process. I am privileged to have been invited to be one of the regular contributors, along with several minds much keener than my own--some of the best and brightest in Anglican cyberspace today, actually.
It is an act of hope. Intentional hope. Practiced hope. May God bless it.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Cubs Win!
I'm not ashamed to admit it--one the things that has excited me about moving back to the midwest is the proximity of Chicago in general and Wrigley Field in particular. I know my experience is in no way unique, but my connection to the place is veritably spiritual--perhaps because it captured my imagination when I was a child, and I have returned there steadily, though at odd intervals, through all the phases of my life to date. It symbolizes continuity and steadiness in a larger environment of flux.So I jumped at the chance to attend last night's game when my former (Stockton) parishioner J.J. told me he would be flying in for the series; his son happens to be employed by the Milwaukee Brewers as an outfielder and left-handed power hitter. What a great night--it was fun to reconnect with J., to drink in the atmosphere, and to witness a fine game with a nail-biting ninth inning, with playoff implications abounding. (Sorry about the backlit photo--my Plutotian spouse is keeper of the digital camera and she wasn't there [Wrigley Field would be so wasted on her] to show me how to make the flash work.)
It meant, of course, that I had to sit in a section of Brewers fans, including many wives and girlfriends of players! That was bizarre. I've watched the Cubs play in other venues (Los Angeles, San Francisco, Atlanta) and always encountered a healthy number of Cubs fans. But I've never been surrounded by the opposition at Wrigley. I tried to behave circumspectly, particularly since the Cubs manage to avoid once again snatching defeat from
the jaws of victory. (Ryan Dempster does get the job done, but he makes it a little to "interesting" en route.)As you can see from the picture below, we had pretty good seats--about twenty rows up from home plate. This allowed an amazing view of Cubs reliever Carlos Marmol's curve balls, which are, from a hitter's perspective, beyond nasty. (Not Marmol in the picture--that's starter Ted Lilly.)
Living in Warsaw, yes, Chicago is accessible, but moreso for day trips than evening events. The time zone change really bites us when we leave the city late at night. I got home at 2:30 AM. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Friday, August 24, 2007
...and the "bureacracy run amok" award goes to...
... the Bureau of Motor Vehicles for the State of Indiana.
OK, so I'm trying to be a good citizen of my new home state and apply for an Indiana driver's license on a timely basis. (Plus, my California license expires in less than three weeks, so I have extra motivation.) I check out the BMV website and try to fulfill all righteousness. I study the manual online in preparation for my written test. I pay particular attention to the ID requirements:
This last one flummoxes me at first. In the four decades since I was issued a Social Security card, not once have I been asked to produce it, and can't remember when or where I saw it last. But I pat myself on the back for being able to find the original stub, still stapled to the same piece of card stock to which the card itself was stapled, clearly bearing my number and my signature (as it appeared when I was 16; there has been some...uh...evolutionary refinement since).
I am one happy Hoosier, ready to take my test.
Not.
The authentic, clearly original stub of my SS card is not included on the list of acceptable proofs of Social Security number, which the BMV clerk who was...uh..."assisting" me (and who is younger than any of my children) promptly causes to appear in the output tray of her printer and hands to me, highlighting the relevant text in yellow.
I completely keep my cool, realizing that I am in clericals and this is a small town. What are my options, I ask? Whereupon she presses "Print" one more time and out comes Mapquest directions to the nearest Social Security office, which is in Elkhart, about an hour's drive away. I can either apply for a duplicate card (which will take many months, no doubt--well past the time when I have an expired driver's license) or ask them (Elkhart SS, that is) for a letter attesting to the accuracy of my Social Security number.
Need I even put into words how ridiculous this all is?
I didn't think so.
I mean...a Social Security card, at least one of the vintage of my own, is a pretty low-tech, easily forgeable document. That probably has something to do with why it says "Not for Identification" right on it. Oh, yes, I asked whether it would help if I brought in a Social Security statement of the sort they send you every year around your birthday--it would have my name and number on it and be plenty official.
No way.
So the Plutotian and I will no doubt journey to Elkhart on Monday next, en route to Chicago to celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary, and apply for new SS cards. What ID will be need to produce? Just a driver's license! Then, if we're very nice, they'll give us a receipt that will somehow connect our names with our SS numbers, and be an official SS administration document.
Just like the stubs we both already have.
And if I continue to be very nice when I go back in, maybe they'll let me take the test. Stay tuned.
It's Miller time.
OK, so I'm trying to be a good citizen of my new home state and apply for an Indiana driver's license on a timely basis. (Plus, my California license expires in less than three weeks, so I have extra motivation.) I check out the BMV website and try to fulfill all righteousness. I study the manual online in preparation for my written test. I pay particular attention to the ID requirements:
- One primary document -- have birth certificate with me.
- One secondary document -- have valid U.S. passport with me.
- Proof of Indiana residence -- have the latest issue of The Living Church with me, addressed to my Indiana residence
- Proof of Social Security number
This last one flummoxes me at first. In the four decades since I was issued a Social Security card, not once have I been asked to produce it, and can't remember when or where I saw it last. But I pat myself on the back for being able to find the original stub, still stapled to the same piece of card stock to which the card itself was stapled, clearly bearing my number and my signature (as it appeared when I was 16; there has been some...uh...evolutionary refinement since).
I am one happy Hoosier, ready to take my test.
Not.
The authentic, clearly original stub of my SS card is not included on the list of acceptable proofs of Social Security number, which the BMV clerk who was...uh..."assisting" me (and who is younger than any of my children) promptly causes to appear in the output tray of her printer and hands to me, highlighting the relevant text in yellow.
I completely keep my cool, realizing that I am in clericals and this is a small town. What are my options, I ask? Whereupon she presses "Print" one more time and out comes Mapquest directions to the nearest Social Security office, which is in Elkhart, about an hour's drive away. I can either apply for a duplicate card (which will take many months, no doubt--well past the time when I have an expired driver's license) or ask them (Elkhart SS, that is) for a letter attesting to the accuracy of my Social Security number.
Need I even put into words how ridiculous this all is?
I didn't think so.
I mean...a Social Security card, at least one of the vintage of my own, is a pretty low-tech, easily forgeable document. That probably has something to do with why it says "Not for Identification" right on it. Oh, yes, I asked whether it would help if I brought in a Social Security statement of the sort they send you every year around your birthday--it would have my name and number on it and be plenty official.
No way.
So the Plutotian and I will no doubt journey to Elkhart on Monday next, en route to Chicago to celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary, and apply for new SS cards. What ID will be need to produce? Just a driver's license! Then, if we're very nice, they'll give us a receipt that will somehow connect our names with our SS numbers, and be an official SS administration document.
Just like the stubs we both already have.
And if I continue to be very nice when I go back in, maybe they'll let me take the test. Stay tuned.
It's Miller time.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Anyone seen my voice lying around?
About a month ago, "normal" life suddenly came to a halt. I knew it was going to happen. I was complicit in allowing it to happen. I was, as the saying goes, "shocked but not surprised."
My ministry in a particular parish came to an end. My ministry in a particular (some would say peculiar) diocese came to an end. I got on a plane and flew to an exotic far-off land for about ten days and had a bunch of exotic experiences. Then I came home, packed up the house, and moved 2,200 miles to a land where it seems to do very little but rain. At home I'm still treading water in a sea of cardboard and packing paper. In my daily work, I'm trying to learn a whole new cast of dramatis personae. I'm trying to take my familiar patterns of prayer and adapt them to new surroundings. I'm trying to hobble through life without an outdoor grill because I surrendered my New Braunfels grill-BBQ-smoker to the greater good of the move and haven't been able to replace it yet.
And in the meantime, I seem to have misplaced my "voice" as a blogger. Part of it is simply a matter of time. With a house still in chaos, it seems a little decadent to be spinning out erudite commentary on the arcane agonies of a boutique church. Besides, having kept up with little more than the headlines in the Anglican universe while I was vacationing and moving, I still feel out of the loop, and have really nothing new to add that hasn't been said better already by someone else (most recently, as is usually the case, by the ACI, this time by Craig Uffman). Yep, I'm still what the Stand Firm folks call a "communion conservative," in league with Radner and his ilk, and more and more wary of the ACN (which I can truthfully say I helped found).
But my blogger's malaise runs deeper than that. For the moment, at least, the passion just isn't there. I can't work up a decent froth over anything. I've been slipped an ecclesiastical sedative. I'm pretty excited about my new parish work--I'm passionate about that. But so far I haven't had the drive to join in the drumbeat leading up to the next HOB get-together. One possibility is that I'm just burned out on it all and will simply pretend that normalcy exists even in the face of a mountain of evidence to the contrary.
Another possibility is that my lack of passion is tied to my changed position within the system. I'm no longer in a "hot" diocese, with my ecclesiastical "life, fortune, and sacred honor" riding on every breaking news story. I had speculated that my departure from San Joaquin would make me and my views less interesting to others. Quite possibly, however, my translocation has made me less interesting to myself!
In the meantime, I'm going to keep my eyes peeled, in the hope that my blogger's voice might come strolling by. If you see it, tie it up securely and give me a holler.
My ministry in a particular parish came to an end. My ministry in a particular (some would say peculiar) diocese came to an end. I got on a plane and flew to an exotic far-off land for about ten days and had a bunch of exotic experiences. Then I came home, packed up the house, and moved 2,200 miles to a land where it seems to do very little but rain. At home I'm still treading water in a sea of cardboard and packing paper. In my daily work, I'm trying to learn a whole new cast of dramatis personae. I'm trying to take my familiar patterns of prayer and adapt them to new surroundings. I'm trying to hobble through life without an outdoor grill because I surrendered my New Braunfels grill-BBQ-smoker to the greater good of the move and haven't been able to replace it yet.
And in the meantime, I seem to have misplaced my "voice" as a blogger. Part of it is simply a matter of time. With a house still in chaos, it seems a little decadent to be spinning out erudite commentary on the arcane agonies of a boutique church. Besides, having kept up with little more than the headlines in the Anglican universe while I was vacationing and moving, I still feel out of the loop, and have really nothing new to add that hasn't been said better already by someone else (most recently, as is usually the case, by the ACI, this time by Craig Uffman). Yep, I'm still what the Stand Firm folks call a "communion conservative," in league with Radner and his ilk, and more and more wary of the ACN (which I can truthfully say I helped found).
But my blogger's malaise runs deeper than that. For the moment, at least, the passion just isn't there. I can't work up a decent froth over anything. I've been slipped an ecclesiastical sedative. I'm pretty excited about my new parish work--I'm passionate about that. But so far I haven't had the drive to join in the drumbeat leading up to the next HOB get-together. One possibility is that I'm just burned out on it all and will simply pretend that normalcy exists even in the face of a mountain of evidence to the contrary.
Another possibility is that my lack of passion is tied to my changed position within the system. I'm no longer in a "hot" diocese, with my ecclesiastical "life, fortune, and sacred honor" riding on every breaking news story. I had speculated that my departure from San Joaquin would make me and my views less interesting to others. Quite possibly, however, my translocation has made me less interesting to myself!
In the meantime, I'm going to keep my eyes peeled, in the hope that my blogger's voice might come strolling by. If you see it, tie it up securely and give me a holler.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
My Sermon Blog
Realizing that there are those who appreciate the opportunity to read sermon texts, but that more, perhaps, do not, rather than loading this blog with my homiletical efforts, I have established a separate blog for that purpose.
Given the transitional nature of my life at present, it seemed appropriate to begin with the homily for my final Sunday at St John's on July 15, so that is the "bottom" post. The top post will always be my most recent sermon, presently my first sermon at St Anne's.
Given the transitional nature of my life at present, it seemed appropriate to begin with the homily for my final Sunday at St John's on July 15, so that is the "bottom" post. The top post will always be my most recent sermon, presently my first sermon at St Anne's.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
...and we're back
After a month's hiatus from the blogsphere, life is showing signs of tilting toward the recovery of routine, which--for me, at least--is essential to this...now, what shall I call it? What exactly is blogging, anyway? A "practice"? A "discpline"? The medium is still so new that one hardly knows what it actually is. It's sort of like writing a newspaper column, but the vast majority of bloggers don't get paid for what they produce, and there are no deadlines other than those that are self-imposed. It bears some resemblance to journaling, and there is an illusion of privacy about it (and the consequences of trusting that illusion can be devastating), yet it is in fact quite public.
Anyway, I'm writing late on a Saturday night from the back room of a (walkout) basement, which is shared by the household computer and my exercise machine (a Bowflex ). We've been in the place all of six days and are only now making significant progress in digging ourselves out from under an avalanche of cardboard and packing paper. Tonight I finally found the speakers and power supply to the entertainment center and spent about 90 minutes hooking it all up, only to find, at the moment of truth, that the amplifier has no power. It's plugged in, but pressing the power button produces no result. My Favorite Plutotian tells me she has the toll-free number of our moving company, and that one of the options is a number to press for Claims. I shall be exercising that option come Monday. In the meantime, I still can't play a CD or watch a DVD.
All the while, I've been in my new ministry for four days, and tomorrow is the big day--my first Sunday. The whole experience is at the same time immensely gratifying and immensely intimidating. Parishioners have been over-the-top kind to us (tomorrow will be the first dinner we are responsible for ourselves) and the staff has bent over backwards to help me get comfortably settled. But there's a delicate dance involved when a parish priest takes over the reins. People want a sure hand at the helm, a calm and steady voice. They are looking for me to provide a sense of momentum and new energy in the life of the church community. But they also had an identity and a history before my arrival--an identity and history that deserve to be honored. So it can be tricky to discern where that fine line is between leadership that is too weak because it doesn't challenge or open new windows, and leadership that is foolhardy because it tries to change too much too fast and doesn't sufficiently honor the recent past. I pray for the wisdom to walk this line effectively.
I also pray for our house it Stockton to sell, and sell soon, and I covet your prayers toward that same end!
More soon on the Brazil trip. I know some who read this blog enjoy travelogues.
Anyway, I'm writing late on a Saturday night from the back room of a (walkout) basement, which is shared by the household computer and my exercise machine (a Bowflex ). We've been in the place all of six days and are only now making significant progress in digging ourselves out from under an avalanche of cardboard and packing paper. Tonight I finally found the speakers and power supply to the entertainment center and spent about 90 minutes hooking it all up, only to find, at the moment of truth, that the amplifier has no power. It's plugged in, but pressing the power button produces no result. My Favorite Plutotian tells me she has the toll-free number of our moving company, and that one of the options is a number to press for Claims. I shall be exercising that option come Monday. In the meantime, I still can't play a CD or watch a DVD.
All the while, I've been in my new ministry for four days, and tomorrow is the big day--my first Sunday. The whole experience is at the same time immensely gratifying and immensely intimidating. Parishioners have been over-the-top kind to us (tomorrow will be the first dinner we are responsible for ourselves) and the staff has bent over backwards to help me get comfortably settled. But there's a delicate dance involved when a parish priest takes over the reins. People want a sure hand at the helm, a calm and steady voice. They are looking for me to provide a sense of momentum and new energy in the life of the church community. But they also had an identity and a history before my arrival--an identity and history that deserve to be honored. So it can be tricky to discern where that fine line is between leadership that is too weak because it doesn't challenge or open new windows, and leadership that is foolhardy because it tries to change too much too fast and doesn't sufficiently honor the recent past. I pray for the wisdom to walk this line effectively.
I also pray for our house it Stockton to sell, and sell soon, and I covet your prayers toward that same end!
More soon on the Brazil trip. I know some who read this blog enjoy travelogues.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Ate logo...
...which is Portuguese for "hasta luego"--until then.
"Then" in this case is the middle of next month. In a few hours we board a plane for Brazil--Sao Paulo, to be specific (not the scary airport, but the other one)--then on to Iguassu Falls for a couple of nights, back to S.P. for the weekend, and a week in Salvador. When we return, we begin our trek to Indiana, where I begin my new ministry at St Anne's, Warsaw on the Feast of St Mary the Virgin.
So I will be incommunicado, blogwise. But, like the Governator, I'll be back.
"Then" in this case is the middle of next month. In a few hours we board a plane for Brazil--Sao Paulo, to be specific (not the scary airport, but the other one)--then on to Iguassu Falls for a couple of nights, back to S.P. for the weekend, and a week in Salvador. When we return, we begin our trek to Indiana, where I begin my new ministry at St Anne's, Warsaw on the Feast of St Mary the Virgin.
So I will be incommunicado, blogwise. But, like the Governator, I'll be back.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Sauce for the Gander?
When Father Mark Lawrence was elected (by an overwhelming majority on the first ballot) Bishop of South Carolina more than ten months ago, the required consents from Bishops and Standing Committees were abnormally slow in coming, for a number of reasons that are already familiar to most readers of this blog. When the deadline approached this past March, a concerted effort was made to push him over the top.
By all accounts, the effort was successful, albeit narrowly. However, the Presiding Bishop--into whose court balls of this sort are eventually thrown--determined that some of the Standing Committee consents were defective in form. Substantively, then, Fr Lawrence received the requisite number of consents. Technically, he did not. Bishop Jefferts Schori chose to be a strict constructionist in this case, abiding by the letter of the canonical law. She declared the South Carolina election null and void, allowing the technical to trump the substantive. South Carolina has been forced to call a new electing convention, in which the only nominee is, to no one's surprise, Mark Lawrence.
This decision was within her prerogative, and is not inherently questionable. Not technically, at any rate. I tend to be a strict constructionist sort of guy myself. Rules, after all, exist for a reason, and in the absence of compelling moral exigency to the contrary, they should be kept.
But they should be kept consistently, not applied selectively. With the permission of the Diocese of San Joaquin's Standing Committee (of which I am no longer a member), I am sharing here a letter from them to the Presiding Bishop expressing concern about apparent selective application of the canons with respect to the election of bishops--in particular, the election of the now-consecrated Bishop Coadjutor of Virginia, Shannon Johnston:
By all accounts, the effort was successful, albeit narrowly. However, the Presiding Bishop--into whose court balls of this sort are eventually thrown--determined that some of the Standing Committee consents were defective in form. Substantively, then, Fr Lawrence received the requisite number of consents. Technically, he did not. Bishop Jefferts Schori chose to be a strict constructionist in this case, abiding by the letter of the canonical law. She declared the South Carolina election null and void, allowing the technical to trump the substantive. South Carolina has been forced to call a new electing convention, in which the only nominee is, to no one's surprise, Mark Lawrence.
This decision was within her prerogative, and is not inherently questionable. Not technically, at any rate. I tend to be a strict constructionist sort of guy myself. Rules, after all, exist for a reason, and in the absence of compelling moral exigency to the contrary, they should be kept.
But they should be kept consistently, not applied selectively. With the permission of the Diocese of San Joaquin's Standing Committee (of which I am no longer a member), I am sharing here a letter from them to the Presiding Bishop expressing concern about apparent selective application of the canons with respect to the election of bishops--in particular, the election of the now-consecrated Bishop Coadjutor of Virginia, Shannon Johnston:
Standing Committee
Diocese of
4159 E. Dakota Ave.
Fresno, CA 93726-5227
July 20, 2007
The Most Rev. Katharine Jefferts Schori
Presiding Bishop of The Episcopal Church
815
Dear Presiding Bishop:
(b) Evidence of the consent of each Standing Committee shall be a testimonial in the following words, signed by a majority of all the members of the Committee:
We, being a majority of all the members of the Standing Committee of ______________, and having been duly convened at ______________, fully sensible how important it is that the Sacred Order and Office of a Bishop should not be unworthily conferred, and firmly persuaded that it is our duty to bear testimony on this solemn occasion without partiality, do, in the presence of Almighty God, testify that we know of no impediment on account of which the Reverend A.B. ought not to be ordained to that Holy Order. In witness whereof, we have hereunto set our hands this _____ day of _________in the year of our Lord _________.
(Signed) _______________
The testimonial from
Having been duly elected on January 26, 2007, at the Annual Council of the Diocese of Virginia.
We, being a majority of all the ____ members of the Standing Committee of the Diocese of ____, having been duly convened at ____, give our consent to the ordination and consecration of the Very Rev. Shannon S. Johnston as Bishop Coadjutor for the Diocese of Virginia.
In witness whereof, we have here unto set our hands this ___ day of ___, 2007.
How did you “proceed to take order for the ordination” without evidence of consent from the Standing Committees? If you do something that is not canonically permissible, isn’t that a violation of the canons? Should you not have declared the election null & void as required in III.11.5? If you fail to do something that is canonically required, isn’t that a violation of the canons? I believe you are familiar with the requirements of both canons III.11.4.b and III.11.5 as you used both to declare null & void the recent election in
Without your confirmation of receipt of proper consents, we have a very uneasy situation. First we have what appears to be your unequal application of the same canon in two separate cases within months of each other. Second we potentially have the irregular consecration of Bishop Johnston [without consents from Standing Committees], calling into question his Episcopal acts. Third we may have before us a Canon IV.1.c liability on your part for violation of the Constitution and Canons of the General Convention. Since you are the person to inform the review committee if there is sufficient reason to believe that a Bishop has committed an Offense [IV.3.23.b], how do you suggest others can clarify the conflicted situation within the Church?
President of the Standing Committee
Diocese of
cc: David Booth Beers
Diocese of Virginia Standing Committee
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
680 Sundays
...or thereabouts; I didn't do a precise count, but that's pretty close to the number of Sundays in thirteen years. And I didn't even do a rough count of the eucharistic celebrations over which I presided, though it has to be over 2000.
70 baptisms (mostly children), 56 candidates presented for Confirmation or Reception (mostly adults), 112 burials on my watch (86 of whom were active parishioners), 21 marriages (I don't run no stinkin' wedding chapel, apparently).
Oh...and around 150 vestry meetings, give or take. But who's counting?
Perhaps the most gratifying statistic of all is that there were a third again more people present for my last service than there were for my first on August 13, 1994--and even more than showed up for my institution three weeks later. I'm not sure what that says, but it's probably something good.
How does one measure a ministry? With numbers like these? Partially, I suspect, though the numbers leave a lot unsaid. Yesterday it was measured with love and gratitude, cut with a good bit of grief and some fear and anxiety all around. But mostly love. Love from and toward those who have been my strongest supporters, love from and toward those whom I have known to be my detractors, and (most surprisingly), love from and toward a whole bunch of people whom I have not known to be either allies or antagonists, but just there. It was luminous, it was mystical, it was unlike anything I have ever experienced.
The choir--including several "alumni" from over the years--came back together from their summer hiatus to honor their director from Pluto, who is accompanying me on this Indiana odyssey. They sang John Rutter's setting of "The Lord bless you and keep you..." right before the post-communion prayer. Not a dry eye...at least not mine, and I don't ordinarily "do" crying.
In the evening, after a meal and a long nap, I came back alone to finish moving out of the Rector's office. With that task complete, and my small SUV loaded, before walking away, I let my memory race over the array of conversations and confessions and even some confrontations that had taken place in that room. Then I repaired to the dimly-lit church, fired up the organ, and slipped a disk into the digital sequencer containing the MIDI files from the dedicatory recital in 1999. The Barber Adagio seemed to strike the most appropriate note for the occasion.
I listened. I remembered. I wept some more. And I prayed. Lord, you know I love these people, and I know you love them, because the sufficiency of your love has compensated for the inadequacy of mine. Love them still, Father. Love them still. Supply their needs from the abundance of your grace. Prosper the ministry of this parish.
One last time, as I have done on countless Saturday afternoons, I stood in the crossing, right under the center of the lantern tower, and lifted my hands toward the altar, holding up before the eyes of the One from whom no secrets are hid the souls committed to my charge, and asked Him to take them and do for them more than I even know to ask for.
And having done that, I now stand relieved, ready to take up my new assignment.
70 baptisms (mostly children), 56 candidates presented for Confirmation or Reception (mostly adults), 112 burials on my watch (86 of whom were active parishioners), 21 marriages (I don't run no stinkin' wedding chapel, apparently).
Oh...and around 150 vestry meetings, give or take. But who's counting?
Perhaps the most gratifying statistic of all is that there were a third again more people present for my last service than there were for my first on August 13, 1994--and even more than showed up for my institution three weeks later. I'm not sure what that says, but it's probably something good.
How does one measure a ministry? With numbers like these? Partially, I suspect, though the numbers leave a lot unsaid. Yesterday it was measured with love and gratitude, cut with a good bit of grief and some fear and anxiety all around. But mostly love. Love from and toward those who have been my strongest supporters, love from and toward those whom I have known to be my detractors, and (most surprisingly), love from and toward a whole bunch of people whom I have not known to be either allies or antagonists, but just there. It was luminous, it was mystical, it was unlike anything I have ever experienced.
The choir--including several "alumni" from over the years--came back together from their summer hiatus to honor their director from Pluto, who is accompanying me on this Indiana odyssey. They sang John Rutter's setting of "The Lord bless you and keep you..." right before the post-communion prayer. Not a dry eye...at least not mine, and I don't ordinarily "do" crying.
In the evening, after a meal and a long nap, I came back alone to finish moving out of the Rector's office. With that task complete, and my small SUV loaded, before walking away, I let my memory race over the array of conversations and confessions and even some confrontations that had taken place in that room. Then I repaired to the dimly-lit church, fired up the organ, and slipped a disk into the digital sequencer containing the MIDI files from the dedicatory recital in 1999. The Barber Adagio seemed to strike the most appropriate note for the occasion.
I listened. I remembered. I wept some more. And I prayed. Lord, you know I love these people, and I know you love them, because the sufficiency of your love has compensated for the inadequacy of mine. Love them still, Father. Love them still. Supply their needs from the abundance of your grace. Prosper the ministry of this parish.
One last time, as I have done on countless Saturday afternoons, I stood in the crossing, right under the center of the lantern tower, and lifted my hands toward the altar, holding up before the eyes of the One from whom no secrets are hid the souls committed to my charge, and asked Him to take them and do for them more than I even know to ask for.
And having done that, I now stand relieved, ready to take up my new assignment.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Why I Do What I Do
Apropos of the post prior to this one, and in the category of bittersweetness:
After the principal Mass this morning there was a festive brunch in honor of my Plutotian spouse and me--the second part of a double whammy that began last Friday evening with a dinner. Today we were presented with a memory album that is too incredible to describe, expect to point out that it took two dedicated individuals more hours than they would want to document putting it together--truly a labor of love before which I stand humbled. On Friday, in addition to some extraordinarily thoughtful and generous gifts, they showed one of those slideshows with music that are vitually guaranteed to leave no dry eyes in the house--including mine.
What I share now, I choose not because it's the only instance of the sentiments it expresses, but because it summarizes those sentiments in a particularly moving and compelling way. Among the many cards we were presented with both this morning and on Friday, was this note:
Dear Fr Dan & Brenda:
The news of your resignation came as quite a blow to [my husband] and me. While we fully understand and appreciate the processes of church leadership and all its implications, we selfishly want you to stay. In fact, at different times over the course this past month (after hearing your news), we felt like begging you "Please don't go!" On the other side (those warring sides of our nature are ever evident) we pray that you have a tremendous ministry in Indiana.
Over the course of the past three years, we have come to realize the fullness of your ministry to us. We arrived at St John's back pew about three years ago on a whim. To be honest, our initial motivation was to get a peek at the inside of "that really cool old church by the theater" and check out a liturgical service. From the first Sunday, we both felt an overwhelming sense of safety. Looking back now, it is obvious that God directed us to you, Fr Dan and Brenda. Between the two of you, we have once again experienced the grace and comfort of our Father God through your messages, kindness, and music. Fr Dan, we'll never forget that you visited my dad in the hospital and prayed for him. That was the day you became our pastor. We also consider the service when you washed our feet as a hallmark event in our Christian lives. Brenda, your talents and leadership have restored our ability to truly worship, once again, in a church through music. You have the ability to point us to the cross, and keep the focus there.
We only have one regret, and that is that it took us so long to finally commit to the fellowship of St John's. Our only explanation is that we have needed these few years to get it right and figure it all out. We have never claimed to be a genius!
With much love and gratitude for your faithfulness,
I have my share of regrets about things I've done and things I've left undone in the ministry I am about to take my leave of. But those regrets pale into insignificance when I read something like this. To be able to touch lives in such a way is a privilege too precious to even speak about.
After the principal Mass this morning there was a festive brunch in honor of my Plutotian spouse and me--the second part of a double whammy that began last Friday evening with a dinner. Today we were presented with a memory album that is too incredible to describe, expect to point out that it took two dedicated individuals more hours than they would want to document putting it together--truly a labor of love before which I stand humbled. On Friday, in addition to some extraordinarily thoughtful and generous gifts, they showed one of those slideshows with music that are vitually guaranteed to leave no dry eyes in the house--including mine.
What I share now, I choose not because it's the only instance of the sentiments it expresses, but because it summarizes those sentiments in a particularly moving and compelling way. Among the many cards we were presented with both this morning and on Friday, was this note:
Dear Fr Dan & Brenda:
The news of your resignation came as quite a blow to [my husband] and me. While we fully understand and appreciate the processes of church leadership and all its implications, we selfishly want you to stay. In fact, at different times over the course this past month (after hearing your news), we felt like begging you "Please don't go!" On the other side (those warring sides of our nature are ever evident) we pray that you have a tremendous ministry in Indiana.
Over the course of the past three years, we have come to realize the fullness of your ministry to us. We arrived at St John's back pew about three years ago on a whim. To be honest, our initial motivation was to get a peek at the inside of "that really cool old church by the theater" and check out a liturgical service. From the first Sunday, we both felt an overwhelming sense of safety. Looking back now, it is obvious that God directed us to you, Fr Dan and Brenda. Between the two of you, we have once again experienced the grace and comfort of our Father God through your messages, kindness, and music. Fr Dan, we'll never forget that you visited my dad in the hospital and prayed for him. That was the day you became our pastor. We also consider the service when you washed our feet as a hallmark event in our Christian lives. Brenda, your talents and leadership have restored our ability to truly worship, once again, in a church through music. You have the ability to point us to the cross, and keep the focus there.
We only have one regret, and that is that it took us so long to finally commit to the fellowship of St John's. Our only explanation is that we have needed these few years to get it right and figure it all out. We have never claimed to be a genius!
With much love and gratitude for your faithfulness,
I have my share of regrets about things I've done and things I've left undone in the ministry I am about to take my leave of. But those regrets pale into insignificance when I read something like this. To be able to touch lives in such a way is a privilege too precious to even speak about.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Occupied (& Terrified)
There is a great deal going on in my life, much of which deserves to be written about. Some of it is so weighed down with meaning, so rare and precious, that it feels as though any attempt to capture and confine it in words (in prose, at any rate, and my poetic Muse is unreliable, tending to show up only under the most extreme conditions) would somehow dishonor it. Virtually all of it has to do in some way with the impending relocation of my household and ministry from Stockton, California to Warsaw, Indiana. Suffice it to say that I am experiencing new dimensions of bittersweetness--bitterness that is nearly unbearable, mingled with sweetness that actually is unbearable. In time, I may be able to give more verbal substance to this experience.
There are also many items that cross my personal radar screen on a daily basis that make me think, "I should blog on that." The Anglican soap opera continues to play out, with all new episodes regularly hitting cyberspace even during the dog days of summer. There's a lot of stuff I would like to weigh in on.
But here's the reality: In eight days, I conclude a thirteen year ministry at St John's, Stockton. It is--what shall I say?--a rich emotional atmosphere. Nine days later, on 24 July, we board a plane to Brazil--two days at the majestic Iguaçu Falls, a long weekend in the megalopolis of São Paulo, and a week or so in the old colonial capital of Salvador--hopefully all a nice balance of touring, resting, and visiting with family. We arrive back in Stockton on 6 August. On the 7th, the professional packers do their thing. On the 8th, they load the moving van. On the 9th, the four of us--Brenda and me and her two quadrapeds that I can't talk her into leaving behind--head out in my Ford Escape hybrid for a scenic tour of Interstate 80. Sometime on the 12th we expect to pull into Warsaw. If the moving gods smile on us (I wouldn't attribute such caprice to the actual God), our household goods will arrive the next day. On Wednesday the 15th I expect to show up at St Anne's and occupy the Rector's study.
But before we can get on that plane to Brazil, we need to examine, sort, and cull all our worldly goods. Until we started this task, I had no idea we possessed so many worldly goods. I have reached a stage in my life when I am no longer interested in being a collector, no longer interesting in acquiring stuff just to have it ... and eventually move it. And, all along, our house also has to be ready to put on the market--and what a market it is! My, how things have changed in the past two years. It's too depressing for me to talk about. Think about it: Getting ready to move and getting a house ready to show are not compatible projects. They work against each other. Yet, we are Anglicans, so we will no doubt find the via media...or, failing that, somehow muddle through.
Grace abounds. But I'm not sure it is so abundant as to allow for the level of regular blogging to which I aspire. I'm sure you understand.
There are also many items that cross my personal radar screen on a daily basis that make me think, "I should blog on that." The Anglican soap opera continues to play out, with all new episodes regularly hitting cyberspace even during the dog days of summer. There's a lot of stuff I would like to weigh in on.
But here's the reality: In eight days, I conclude a thirteen year ministry at St John's, Stockton. It is--what shall I say?--a rich emotional atmosphere. Nine days later, on 24 July, we board a plane to Brazil--two days at the majestic Iguaçu Falls, a long weekend in the megalopolis of São Paulo, and a week or so in the old colonial capital of Salvador--hopefully all a nice balance of touring, resting, and visiting with family. We arrive back in Stockton on 6 August. On the 7th, the professional packers do their thing. On the 8th, they load the moving van. On the 9th, the four of us--Brenda and me and her two quadrapeds that I can't talk her into leaving behind--head out in my Ford Escape hybrid for a scenic tour of Interstate 80. Sometime on the 12th we expect to pull into Warsaw. If the moving gods smile on us (I wouldn't attribute such caprice to the actual God), our household goods will arrive the next day. On Wednesday the 15th I expect to show up at St Anne's and occupy the Rector's study.
But before we can get on that plane to Brazil, we need to examine, sort, and cull all our worldly goods. Until we started this task, I had no idea we possessed so many worldly goods. I have reached a stage in my life when I am no longer interested in being a collector, no longer interesting in acquiring stuff just to have it ... and eventually move it. And, all along, our house also has to be ready to put on the market--and what a market it is! My, how things have changed in the past two years. It's too depressing for me to talk about. Think about it: Getting ready to move and getting a house ready to show are not compatible projects. They work against each other. Yet, we are Anglicans, so we will no doubt find the via media...or, failing that, somehow muddle through.
Grace abounds. But I'm not sure it is so abundant as to allow for the level of regular blogging to which I aspire. I'm sure you understand.
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