Baptism

I sit in awe of the requests before me for 6 baptisms. We're a small church and sometimes have a couple of baptisms each year. But six! It looks like we'll start them the Sunday after Christmas and continue through the first Sunday after the Epiphany, with one still probably to come after that. The realities of modern life and our means of living so far from our home 'village' mean that baptismal dates are not only shaped by the church calendar, but also by our family travel possibilities. Christmas holiday time is good family travel time. But as I thought about it, what better time for baptisms? Christmas. The Feast of the Incarnation. Celebrating new birth. Celebrating God's love taking form in human flesh. Epiphany. Recognizing God's love among us. I'm really excited about it all, and deeply joyful about welcoming each one of them.

I'm also faced with a few, shall we call them . . . 'irregularities'? Things that are outside of the norms of how we have come to think about and experience baptism. But then, there was nothing "normal" about the first baptism I did 16 years ago. And I'm totally ok with that. After all, to paraphrase someone I know and love, "Baptism was made for humanity, not humanity for Baptism."

The first time I did a baptism I was a seminary student. It was the summer of my Clinical Pastoral Education unit (CPE) during which seminarians spend full time in a hospital or similar setting learning about pastoral ministry and learning about ourselves. I did my CPE at a trauma center in Maryland. It was the end of a long day, and I wasn't on-call for that night so was stopping by the chaplain's office to hand the pager off to the next on-call person so I could head home. Instead I found myself swept up into a crisis beyond my imagining. "All Chaplains to the Emergency Room!" came the call. And all 4 of us in training that summer headed over there.

One became security as he tried to physically hold back the drunk grandfather from attacking his daughter-in-law, screaming "You killed those babies!" We were told that the police were on the way. Several chaplains worked to calm and listen to the large extended family as they gathered. I ended up in a separate room with the daughter-in-law as she sobbed her story to me. She had walked down the road to the check cashing store to cash her support check. Then she had walked a littler further on to pick up some cigarettes and something to drink before she headed back home. She had left her two young children at home alone. And they had found one of her cigarette lighters. There was an awful home fire. Her five year old daughter was dead. Her two year old son was in the ER, fighting for his life. She was absolutely beside herself as she sobbed to me, "I never had them baptized! I never had them baptized!"

My own beliefs are deeply shaped by my more protestant background. I don't believe baptism to be something we do that forces God to do something that God isn't already wanting and willing and able to do! Baptism is our stepping into the love of God that is already operative for us. God had already loved that little girl so much, even though she wasn't baptized. That beloved little girl had already that day been welcomed into God's loving arms.

So I did the only thing I could do. I baptized that dead little girl. Brenda (the mom) and I went into the room where her daughter lay covered. I pulled back the sheet as her mother sobbed. And I said prayers thanking God for steadfast love that doesn't depend upon us getting everything 'right'. And I baptized that little girl, praying in my heart for Brenda as I knew she would have to deal with so many things anyway as she dealt with leaving her children home alone and the aftermath. She didn't need to wonder about God's love and welcome for her daughter.

Then I handed Brenda into the care of another chaplain and I headed to the ER room where the trauma team was prepping the two year old boy for a med-flight to a specialized children's burn unit in another city. The team found me some sterile water, a patch of skin that hadn't been burned, and I baptized Brenda's son. (He died two days later.)

It's not normal to baptize dead little girls. It's a little 'irregular', but it certainly was right. I helped Brenda carry her little girl into the light of God's love, and hopefully find herself there as well.

So, I've got a couple of other 'irregularities' coming up. Nothing of the crisis type that I've faced before, but I think that one has helped me truly connect with the love of God that runs under and through our act of baptizing. So I'll baptize an adult who has never come to worship with us, but who has found a place to belong and a welcome from God through being an active part of our main parish outreach - our thrift shop. He came to me, explaining how he has come to feel about belonging here. What it has meant to his life (not an easy journey he's been on). How he wants to 'officially' belong. God has reached out to him. We get to join in that welcome. How blessed we are to be able to be a part of that! (And how fitting to think of this as I begin to ponder the meaning of the parable we'll hear this coming Sunday - the one where some hear a welcome like this: "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you . . . for you gave me clothing.") And I'll baptize the children of a family that has connections with another church as well - - and will probably have those baptisms recorded there. But what a joy to be able to live beyond our own human definitions of "church membership" as we get this opportunity to celebrate the breadth of God's love, and the many ways and places that God uses in search of connecting with us. And I'll give such thanks with the families of the other two infants, as I rejoice in their ability to seek and find God's love in the everyday aspects of their journeys.

And I keep praying for Brenda, in her own journey. May God continue to be with her in her grief, and in her life.

Back to Work

It's been hard to find time to write - this being "back from sabbatical" life is busy!! My only other experience of parish life after a sabbatical was when I was the Associate, and the Rector had gone on sabbatical. I, the Associate, was around to make sure that things kept going and that we were ready for the Rector when he returned. Right now, I'm STILL trying to get the fall schedules done, and education running, and am sweating out getting an October newsletter put together.

But I do need to keep writing. I miss it! I don't do it quickly, or easily - but the discipline of reflecting on life and putting thoughts together into coherent sentences (as much as possible) actually helps me to sort life out. And I've still got so much to sort out from this summer.

So, tomorrow I'm going to try to move my 'sabbatical mode' (of being in the community and welcoming conversation) into my everyday life. I've got call forwarding added to our parish phone service. Our local coffee shop has free wi-fi internet access. So, I'm going to take my laptop, forward calls from the office to my cell phone, and sit at the coffee shop. I can start my sermon work, maybe write a blog entry or the cover article for the newsletter. But the point is to not do all that locked away from view in my office. At "The Met" I'll be generally visible and accessible to all. I think my real hope is to not actually get all that "work" done, but to make connections. To be available.

I guess if I'm going to sit at the coffee shop all morning . . . I'm going to have to switch to decaf?

Look Down AND Look Around

Tips from the Trail #3: Even when you need to watch your footing, don't forget to stop and look around.

There are trails (somewhere) where you don't need to look down constantly, but I've not met one here in the Whites like that. Rocks, roots, muddy spots. You name it. It's under your feet. And if you don't watch out for every footstep, you'll soon find yourself falling.

So as you hike up here, you look down. Constantly. It's a necessary part of hiking. You watch your feet. You could go for a long time without seeing anything other than your own feet and the rocks and roots and muddy spots.

It takes a conscious act to make yourself stop moving and look around. You have to actually stop to see the world - - the real reason you're out there anyway. I have found it so important to make sure I stop for a minute, quite often, to look around me. The woods are places of wonder. It's not just about being at the top of a mountain. There were spots this last week that were so richly green and lush that it took my breath away. But you'd miss it if you just kept walking. In fact, in many of those locations I even needed to touch the beauty - I would literally stoop down and get my hands onto the moss or into the lush moist undergrowth.

There were incredibly beautiful orange mushrooms. Ripe wild blueberries. Sweet little water cascades. The smell of the spruce. Things that don't measure up on any scale of grandeur, but which are wonders in and of themselves. But you have to stop moving your feet long enough to be able to look around you and soak in the wonders.

I suppose you could simply walk for the sake of walking. You could simply hike and see only your own feet and the rocks and roots and muddy spots. Some people enjoy hiking just for the walking's sake. But that really has nothing to do with why I'm out there. Don't get me wrong - - I enjoy the actual hiking. I've learned to enjoy the challenge and the pace and the satisfaction. But, at its heart, it's about being in a world so much bigger than myself. It's about being able to see and experience that world. Hiking is the means, rather than the end, for me.

I was sitting on top of West Bond at 8:30 in the morning one day last week. West Bond is one of the mountains in New Hampshire with the most incredible views imaginable. The early morning sunlight was incredible and the views seemed endless in every direction. A couple joined me around 9. He took two pictures. She just stood there and leaned on her hiking poles, looking more at the ground than anywhere else. They asked me to take their picture together. Then, in a matter of just a couple of minutes, they were gone - - off to 'bag' another 4000 footer (there are 48 mountains in New Hampshire on the official 4000 Footer list for "peak baggers" to hike to - - these are the mountains that are at least 4000 feet tall and have at least so many feet of vertical ascent between themselves and the other tall mountains around them (I forget what that figure actually is). I am a "peak bagger" and have now climbed 35 of these mountains, six of them just in the last week of my sabbatical.)

I sat for another half hour or so, taking in the views and considering the difference in those two 'peak baggers' and myself, who am also a 'peak bagger'.

You can be a peak bagger to simply climb all 48 of those mountains. Or . . .you can be a peak bagger in order to challenge yourself to explore mountains you might not otherwise have explored. To find places of wonder and beauty, and to enjoy them. (OK - sometimes, even in the midst of trying to focus on that, you do still simply 'bag a peak' - - Owl's Head was like that for me as I hiked that one in the driving rain. And I simply do not know what else was going on in that couple's life that day.)

Kinda like being a church goer. You can go to church . . . just to be someone who goes to church. You enjoy it, check it off, and move on. Or you can go to church in order to connect to things you wouldn't otherwise connect with. To touch and be touched by God. To have your life transformed into something it wouldn't otherwise be able to become. (And sometimes, even trying to allow church to be about that, you simply have to go because that is what you do.)

And . . . maybe it's a lot like my own struggles with how I had begun to go about being a priest. Fourteen years of the day to day needs of the institution had begun to shape my priesthood into being about maintaining the institution. I hope my sabbatical has helped me reconnect with what is at the heart of our churches. With what is at the heart of my faith. With what is at the heart of my calling as a priest.

Even when I need to carefully watch my footing, so to speak, I need to remember to stop and be in wonder with the whole reason for being. Even as I 'bag' another task that needs to be done, I need to remember that it's not about the task, but about where that task brings me or my parish. Being a priest is not about maintaining an institution, but about nurturing a church in ways that allow it to bear witness to the wonder and gift and transformation of God's love in our lives. I've gotta do what needs to be done to 'maintain the institution' - - but that is the means, not the end.

Tomorrow, I go back to work. May I not forget.

Hot Spots

Tips from the Trail #2: Pay attention to 'hot spots'.

This is the way it happens: I'm moving up the trail pretty well. I know I'll need to make a stop for one reason or another in a little while. Maybe the trail is steep and I know I'll soon need to stop and catch my breath, but not yet. Or, just the very beginnings of some hunger pangs are starting to make themselves known, and I know that I'll need to stop for lunch "in a little while". Or, I just recently had a break for one reason or another, and it seems silly/unproductive/not right to stop again already. So I ignore the 'hot spot' on my foot. The place where some kind of friction is taking place, and has called attention to itself. Not pain. Not a problem right now. Just a little warm spot. "Another 15 minutes won't matter!" seems to just naturally come forth in reaction. And I walk on.

It's how I started in Vermont this year. A hot spot on a part of my foot where I've never in my life (started backpacking at age 13!) had a hot spot before. Surely it wasn't really a problem, was it? And I ignored it, for a while.

By the time I couldn't ignore it anymore, it had become a full-out mega blister. Too late to prevent this next step in the foot problem progression, I now tried to handle the blister. The non-stop wet weather and muddy muddy trail meant constantly wet feet, and nothing would stay in place on my feet. I tried everything I knew - most of which I had learned second hand from the 'blister queen' (a title owned by my favorite hiking partner, Geode). But nothing, in those conditions, seemed to stay on, or protect, or keep it clean. Ignoring that initial hot spot, while it was still treatable, eventually led to a large open hole on the arch of my foot, and the infection that eventually hobbled me for a couple of weeks.

I sit now, looking back on the amazing amount of pain it caused me ("It's just a hole in my foot! It was just a blister, for goodness sake! Why does it hurt all the way up into my ankle, and down through my toes???") I could truly kick myself for ignoring that first hot spot. Yes, I've healed. I'm back hiking. But it could have been so different. I could have at least gotten in more of the Long Trail - more of my original plans. I could have avoided so much pain. I came out 'ok' . . . but it didn't have to be this way.

Thus it too often is in life. In parish ministry. In so many things. Pay attention to hot spots.

Back on foot

It has felt really good to put some miles under my feet these last few days. I realized that as long as I simply needed to sit around, foot up and healing (slowly) while I read and thought . . . I wasn't so good at being able to blog. A very different experience than the one I had in June, as I walked and talked and listened.

The foot is still a little tender, but the infection is gone and, with the help of duct tape holding the bandage in place, I'm now able to get a shoe on the foot, put weight on it, and then even put rocks under it! On Thursday, I took to the treadmill to test it all out (much easier simply hitting the "stop" button if it wasn't going well than it would be to turn around and get myself off a mountain). Things went well, so on Friday I took to the trail. I chose the shortest hike I still had left on my list of the "4000 footers of New Hampshire". Two and half miles up (2200 feet elevation gain in that) and then back. It challenged my lungs on the way up (the legs and feet seemed to be fine) but it did challenge the hole in my foot on the way down. I never realized how often, when walking over rock after rock after rock, you put your foot down on the arch rather than on the ball or heel. But it was a good day, and when I peeled the duct tape and bandage off at the end of the day, the foot looked pretty good! No extra damage done. yah!

Took a day off to rest the foot, then took to the hills again today. What an absolutely perfect weather day it was, too. Absolutely perfect for getting above treeline and taking in the very best of what hiking in the White Mountains can be. About 2 more miles today than I had started with two days ago, along with more elevation gain . . . but with no problems at all. Even going down wasn't as hard on my foot today. I definitely feel like I'm on the 'healed' side of this (although I still need to protect the new skin as well as the area that is still 'pre-new skin' - in other words, still in scab).

I've been making a list of "Tips from the Trail" for myself - - things I've learned about myself that are not just about the trail but are about my whole life. I'll blog those in the days ahead.

I guess my most pressing observation at this point, though, comes from observation of two separate families. One from two days ago - - the other from today. Two days ago: it's late morning. I'm in the parking lot, preparing myself for the hike ahead. Another car pulls up next to mine, and out spill a family of four. Mom and Dad. Two little kids (5 and 7?) Littlest is a girl. She's wearing Crocs. Dad looks at me and asks, "I understand there are some trails around here? We'd like to play around on the trails a bit." I think about the preparation I've made to 'play around on the trails a bit" - - lots of water. Good shoes. First aid kit (including the duct tape around my hiking poles, which would help me splint any broken bones). Rain pants and jacket (extra warmth as well as rain protection). Fire, light, extra 'energy' food. Toilet kit (TP, purell, as well as little 'snack' zip lock bags to "pack it out" for the TP). Map and compass. My inhaler (I'm asthmatic.) Bug stuff.

And then I look again at this family. "Why don't you guys look around in the woods for a walking stick?" the dad calls out to the two young ones.

I tell him about the only trail I know of at that site. It's rocky. It's steep. It goes up a 4000+' mountain! I look again at the Crocs on his little girl's feet. I suggest options for him, other than trying this site (like . . .driving over to North Conway the next day . . . hike Black Cap Mt in the morning (1 mile and 360 degree views) and then another easy hike in the afternoon to Diana's Baths (with swimsuits). He thanks me, and they take off up the trail anyway. They don't last long. I can hear the little girl crying in the distance as I head further up the trail.

Today, on my way back down the mountain, at 3:30 in the afternoon, I pass a family of four heading up the mountain. Two boys, a little older than the kids from the family I had met two days before, but . . . four people. Dad, Mom, two boys. Nobody, except the father is carrying anything. I think about the amount of water I had gone through that day . . . just for myself. Dad asks me if the hut is far ahead. I tell him he's not even half-way there yet. Inquire if they're planning on staying there for the night. "No. We're just planning on hiking there and back." It's not an easy hike. It took me 2 1/2 hours to get to the top of this mountain . . . and it gets darker much quicker here in the woods than you'd ever expect. I ask about flashlights. They have none. I warn that they're not really going to get there and back. (All this time, the "mom" is standing behind her husband, just shaking her head in disbelief that she's actually out doing this.) "Oh, I did this kind of thing back in college," the father says. They continue their trip up the mountain, while I continue my way down.

And it reminds me of how often I look at the maps. At how often I dream of the 'exploits' I can have. Of how often my "eyes are bigger than my stomach." Maybe this is my first "tip from the trail" - - don't overestimate my own ability, and don't underestimate the difficulties of the journey. Do my homework. Plan. Talk to those who have already been there. And be willing to change your plans!

It's not just about hiking.

Connections

While in New York City, I had to make a stop at the "mother church". The parish I now serve, Christ Church in North Conway, NH, was founded by Trinity Church, Wall Street, NYC. (The mountains of New Hampshire were a desirable place to spend part of the hot summers in the mid 1800's.) Most of our first vestry meetings were held on Wall Street! We have big city roots out there. I had never been to Trinity before, so made sure it was on my journeys around the city.

Trinity is a beautiful large stone gothic church - - nothing like the smaller scale we live and worship in here in North Conway. The white carved reredos was stunning, and it framed a wonderful set of stained glass windows.

And there, in the glass, I immediately recognized the connection.

Lined up across the front were St. Peter, the evangelists Matthew and Mark, then Christ in the center, then Luke and John, with St. Paul on the far right. The colors were vibrant reds and blues and greens and purples.

Someone had come from New York City, from their beloved home church, and brought that idea for stained glass with them to the mountains of New Hampshire. Our front wall isn't large enough to line all 7 people up across it, like they had done at Trinity - but they're all there. The four evangelists have place of visual focus directly behind the altar. Peter and Paul flank them on the side walls in the chancel area. And Christ is 'ascended' - being above the four evangelists in the peak of the roofline. And all in those same vivid colors.

I'm not sure why it moved me so deeply, but seeing those windows there in Trinity did. I guess it moved me in the same way that seeing my name connected with the names of my ancestors on our family tree moves me. Like seeing my adult face echoing my father's. It is important to recognize our family connections. The family likeness. Our roots. And in the midst of this large, overwhelmingly impressive beautiful stone church, in the midst of the overwhelmingly large city of New York . . .there was the family likeness. Our parish roots.

(pictures in this post are of the reredos with windows in Trinity, Wall Street along with a detail of Matthew and Mark from those windows. And then there is the detail of Matthew and Mark from the windows at Christ Church, North Conway.)

Hobbled

I'm home again . . . and off my feet.

Seems as if miles of mud and rock and wet feet and rock and . . . did I say mud? And uphills and downhills and rocks and, well, mud . . . and 'updated' insoles in hiking shoes that worked perfectly well for miles on flat roads in June but don't work so well in other conditions. The edge of the arch part of the insole began digging into my feet. I moleskinned. I patched. Did I mention that my feet stayed wet? And muddy? Nothing would stick to the foot to keep the blisters from getting worse. So I cut the insole apart - cut the arch part out of it. It was too late. I tried some more moleskin - did it correctly. I covered the blister area with something so that the moleskin wouldn't stick to the blister. Then I used athletic tape wrapped all the way around my foot to try to keep it all in place. Four hours of walking later and the pain getting worse . . . I stop and take the wet (and muddy) shoes and socks off and discover that it has all moved. And despite the fact that moleskin won't stick to wet skin . . . it will stick to wet blistered skin. And then tear that skin right off. Ouch! I lost a thick huge hunk of skin from the bottom of my right foot (at least 1 1/2 inches long . . . and half that wide). At least the skin stayed over the blister on the left one.

So, I cleaned it as well as I could (Purell on an open wound is such a rush! NOT) covered them with gauze, and turned to the big guns - the duct tape. Wrapped that around my foot. And it stayed in place! Despite the wet and the mud. And I kept walking.

But not for as long as I would have liked. It was really too late for that right foot. I worried about what was going on under the duct tape (did I get it clean enough?? would it hold for a few more days until I went home anyway for that wedding??) I finally sat down (in the rain - - have I mentioned that it was wet and muddy?) - and took stock of where I was, how slow I was moving, how much pain my foot was in . . . and called Rick to come get me at the nearest road crossing (about 4-5 miles away at that point).

So I'm home now. Clean and dry, but with an infected foot and feeling much hobbled. Faith afoot? Not at this point!

In the end, it will be all right. Right now I'm just trying to regroup and figure out a direction for this month. I did learn a few things from the beginning of the hike I did take:

1) Take stock of the reality of life and situations, rather than "the way things were".
The last time I put a full pack on and headed out for longer than two days I was 6 years younger and many pounds lighter. At this point in my life, I should have realized that I couldn't do as many miles as I used to do! (The second night out I was camping with a young couple - 20 somethings who were not overweight - who had taken two days to do the same stretch of trail I had done in one day - - their's was the smarter course!)
2) Don't try to do too many things at once.
I had brought "sabbatical work" with me to a long hike. At some point in the past it had sounded like a really good idea . . . but I discovered that instead I was too tired at the end of a long day of (hard) walking to spend time reading and/or writing (yep - you all notice how many blog entries I managed to post from the trail!! despite lugging the technology along to be able to do so. And I never opened that book I carried, either.)
3) Be willing to reassess, and change plans.
At least this is something I think I already knew how to do! Otherwise, I'd be still hobbling up there on that trail . . . and risking some kind of long term issue with this infected foot.

I'll leave it up to all of you to figure out what those three things have to do with being church in the 21st century!

Haze

We were having one of those hot and hazy summer days that the East Coast can so often swelter under. The humidity was up there. The air hung very heavy.

We got on the Staten Island Ferry in the morning (after dealing with a long story you're all not going to get about car problems and finding a mechanic here who could do the work and get the car back to us so that we don't worry about being able to leave here at the end of the week and continue our journey - - but if you're ever on Staten Island needing car repair - go to Tim's (AFTER finding him, I found out he was written up last week in the paper. See here).

Anyway . . . we got on the ferry to head to Manhattan. And realized that Manhattan was lost in the haze.

The day before it had sparkled in the morning light. Then coming back to Staten Island at sunset, as the lights twinkled in the twilight, the city was absolutely stunningly beautiful. Even this die-hard love-the-woods/don't-understand-the-city woman thought it was stunningly beautiful.

But on this day it was all different - - this hot and humid and hazy day. This day the city hid in the haze. The world looked ugly and shadowy and lost.

Haze - that awful deadening smoggy world blurring stuff, created when the natural heat and humidity that can challenge our world is combined with our own pollution - our over-consumption lack of concern for this world, pollution (yes, made by my car that I'm so happy to get back so that I can run some more miles on it! None of us are free from the challenges of our lives and our beliefs and our best instincts, all colliding.) Heat and humidity and pollution. Haze is an ugly thing.

Haze seems to have a lot in common with what I've been hearing about from outside the walls of our churches. There is natural heat and humidity - natural challenges that come from a life of faith. But there is also that pollution bit. That extra, human created piece that comes in to bring the haze. There are so many things that pollute, and create haze in our church life. And those outside try to see through it all, and find no sparkle. No beauty.

I KNOW that the faith that holds me can sparkle so magnificently. I've seen it. I've stood in awe before its wonder. God loves me beyond my wildest, my absolutely wildest, imaginings. What could be more stunning, more beautiful than that? And every now and then this world manages to get a glimpse of that beauty.

But then we just go on creating more pollution to mix with the heat and the haze. And they turn away, unable to see anything worth being in wonder over. Anything worthy of moving their hearts and their souls.

I know that in the physical world, often Global Warming seems so big, so overwhelming, that we think we can't do much about it. But I have become convinced that each one of us matters in the movement away from it. I cannot control others, but I can control what I do. How much I consume. I can make changes in my own life. And those changes will help change the world.

And that is where I need to move in my spiritual life as well - within the life of the community of faith. I cannot control what others do - the things that the world sees as pollution, as anger and hatred and having not much to do with Jesus. (And despite my strong desire to simply go weed all that 'badness' out, last Sunday's gospel stands in reminder to me that it is not my job to go weeding!) I'm not saying that there are not stands to be taken, and issues which need to be addressed. But I can do everything in my own corner of this life, in my own place in this world, in the ways I go about taking stands and addressing issues and proclaiming the gospel that create less Christian haze. Ways to live and preach and love and follow Jesus that create space for the wonder to sparkle through.

Ugly

It had been a hot day. Full of walking around town and 'seeing the sights'. A dip in the pool late in the evening sounded like a really good idea. So after getting back to our room, my sweetheart and I headed down.

It was a large pool - designed to swim laps (it is the "Y" after all). Over 6 feet deep at the one end, with a lane in front of me, I dove in to start swimming. Behind me I hear someone yelling. "No Diving!" Oops. I hadn't even looked for signs. Just made the assumption and took off. I pulled up and apologized to the lifeguard. Then continued swimming.

After a couple of laps he came over to the edge of the pool and told me how I could bend the rules - - just don't dive in when using the outside lanes as that overflowed water up onto the deck area. Stick to the middle lanes and I was welcome to dive in next time if I wanted to.

I did another lap as I thought. Hmm . . . . maybe he'd work with me to solve another problem that would involve bending a rule.

You see, as I had come in through the women's locker room, I was approached by a young woman. Dressed in hijab, her arms and legs fully covered too, this young muslim woman shyly looked up at me as she approached. "Excuse me?" she started. Hesitantly. "Excuse me. But could you tell me where the women's pool is?" I explained that there was only one pool. She had come into the Women's Pool Locker Room, but there was no Women's Pool. She looked so sad as she had thanked me, and turned away.

As I got into the pool, I had thought about her. My hubby and I were the only ones there. Other than the male lifeguard. My heart had sunk at that, since I had thought that if there was a female lifeguard I could ask my husband to leave for a while, and allow this young muslim woman the chance to swim.

But now, here was another possibility presenting itself. And maybe she was still hanging out in the locker room (she hadn't appeared to be leaving as I came on into the pool). So I swam across the lanes to where the lifeguard sat, hoping he'd allow me to be his eyes while he sat in the office and let this young woman swim. He seemed so willing to find a way to bend the rules to let me dive!

I began to describe the situation. And was stunned with what came out of his mouth! As soon as I mentioned that she was muslim, he became filled with anger and invective. "Those people" should go back where they came from. "Those people" should be made to leave the way they came. "Those people" have no right being here in our country. "So she wants to swim, does she? Let her go swim with Osama." I sputtered some. It took me so off guard. Then I tried to reason with him. With how I really view what it means to be an American. What it means to support religious freedom for everyone. What freedom is supposed to be about. As soon as I brought up religious freedom, the ugly american, right before my eyes, turned into the ugly Christian. The one I've been hearing about so much by all those people who have no problems with Jesus, but who can't stand Christians. He crossed himself as he spouted ugly stuff about those dirty muslims and the way they should all just be helped into hell quicker. He ended with "I make the rules here, and my rules go."

Then I got back to the room, and received that comment on my post from July 8 - "The Spirit of Love". I almost immediately deleted it. The ugly Christian strikes again. But I've left it up. Many people I know have never really experienced that kind of unloving, hate filled, ugly rhetoric. If you haven't, read the comment. (Just click on the "1 Comment" line under that particular blog entry.) Or just know that it goes on and on, and is all based on the basic premise that 'all the evil in the world is because of Woman.' I followed up a little, and discovered that the comment is actually a copying of a full post from this guy's own blog. It is ranting, wrapped up in biblical quoting. It is hatefilled and . . . pure and simple . . . non-Christ like. It is not the kind of thing that women get thrown at them so much these days (although it was more common in the past). But it is VERY much the kind of thing that our lgbt family and friends face way too often. (And for those readers who don't know that particular string of letters - it stands for lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgendered.)

The lifeguard. The blog commenter. These are the people who others think about when they hear "Christian." No wonder they don't want anything to do with Church. We have a lot of work to do!

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Today Faith 'Afoot' is taking to the road.

When I got home at the end of June and saw the doctor she pronounced herself officially "stumped" as to what was causing my breathing problems. It appears that the asthma issues were secondary to something else. So, she went after the 'something else' by attacking three different possibilities at once. At this point I don't know which of the three was the culprit, but one of the three treatments has obviously taken care of the problem, so I'm once again ready to head out. It has actually been quite nice to spend some time at home this summer. My original plans had me in and out a couple of times for a day or two at a time.

The other change of plans is where we (Rick and I both, for this segment of sabbatical travel) are headed. No Europe this summer! So, although July had planned on being 'planes, trains, and automobiles' it will actually end up being just the automobile. Today we head out for Boston, where we'll take part in the worship this week with The Crossing, an emergent expression of St. Paul's Cathedral. Then on to New York City, where my own parish has its roots (we were founded by Trinity Wall Street). And finally, I'm trying to add in a side trip to . . . .drum roll please . .. . Scranton, PA. I'll be trying to learn from each place about ministry in those settings, and how they're responding to a changing culture and changing world. Trinity Wall Street has a reputation of being in touch with the WHOLE world - not just their own neighborhood, and I look forward to finding out how they see things today, and how their mission has changed since the days it started Christ Church, North Conway (yep - all our first vestry meetings were held on Wall Street). And, of course, I plan on making a visit to "815" - the Episcopal Church Center - while in NYC.

Scranton has just happened on my radar screen, and although it's hard to connect with once a week worship in very many places over a couple of weeks, I'd really like to get to worship with them on the 26th. You'll find out more about them here.

Now . . . to go pack up the car and take the dog to 'doggie camp'! (He actually loves it there with the other dogs, so it's not a terrible thing.)

A Spirit of Love

I'm currently reading two different books (ah, the great luxury of time to read!). One is "They Like Jesus But Not The Church" by Dan Kimball. The other is "Finding Our Way Again: The Return of the Ancient Practices" by Brian McLaren. The first talks about what people perceive as being 'wrong' with the church (he tackles 6 perceptions that he has heard from people outside of the church, and I must admit that this past month I heard all 6 as well). The second takes on what is 'right' about the church - pulling the reader into an understanding of the beauty and gift and wonder found in the best of the 'traditional' practices of spirituality found in the church, as those practices help open us to the reality of God's presence and the joy of God's love.

They are wonderful to read, side by side. But I wonder about those that I met along the way last month, who had lost all interest in being a part of organized religion because of the wrongs and pains it had caused or they had perceived. What would it take to get them past that anger or indifference and welcome them into the joys of a life of ever deepening realization of God's love and presence.

As I was walking into Manchester, I found a sign lying in the grass by the side of the road. "REPENT" it proclaimed. I wondered about who it had been aimed at. What it had been used for. It's a very biblical message . . . but in my experience most often used in a spirit of self-righteousness rather than a spirit of love for the other. What pain had that sign caused?

In many ways, that sign represents all the negative views that we have all heard about the church. The self-righteous, judgmental, law focused, even arrogant attempt of a person or persons who believe themselves to have all the truth (and all the righteousness) to make a line in the sand between themselves and that evil awful world out there.

What if we picked that sign up, and carried it - turned around so that WE were the ones to read it? What if WE repented?

If we simply listened to people's pain, even when expressed in rantings about the church . . . and then acknowledged it. Said, "I know. Too often the church has acted that way." And even more so, what if we simply said, "I'm sorry" ? What if we repented of not loving the other enough so that our hearts break for the hurts of this world? And especially for the hurts that have been inflicted in the name of religion? (Yes, even when WE aren't the ones doing the inflicting!)

What if we practiced Truth and Reconciliation. By going out into the world, and loving it, rather than condemning it. (For God so loved the world SO MUCH that he sent his son into the world, not to condemn the world but to save it.)

In his book, Brian McLaren talks about practicing the faith like we practice learning a musical instrument. The practice is not the point, but the way of reaching the point where the music flows forth. And maybe, instead of telling others that they 'ought' to do these things . . . if I just practiced them myself enough, believing that God's grace and love will flow forth as my practice makes me open to such music . . . . maybe that will be the key to helping others hear the strains of God's love, rather than the cacophony of human pride.

I think I need to repent - to turn away from 'knowing' the answers, and turn to being an answer.

common ground

(Here begin more posts, based on my notes and experiences during June.)

I arrived in town in the early afternoon. It looked like it might rain later (which seems to be the weather report of every day, once I got past the extreme heat of the first few days). I decided to go to the park while it was still nice, and then find a place to get inside out of the rain later.

It was a lovely park. People were playing with their kids. Some were sitting and enjoying a little shade and a touch of a breeze. Others were busy setting up for an event that was to take place that evening.

I wandered into the park, only slightly self conscious anymore about the full pack on my back. (I had gotten used to the odd looks I often got, walking down busy sidewalks loaded as if I were in the woods somewhere.)

I headed across the park, looking for a likely place to put my pack down. I smiled at a couple as I passed them. She smiled back and commented, "Looks like you're out for a long walk."

They were sitting on the prime bench in the park - the place to see everything that was going on, and the one with the prettiest view as well. I stopped to chat. 45 minutes later, I was still standing there, chatting, with my pack still on my back. It was often thus - a good conversation starter, and then forgotten.

Ruth and Bill struck me as one of those easy, down-to-earth, couples. Maybe mid-60s. Ruth, with a twinkle in her eye. Bill with a quick smile, and a gentle laugh.

Although the conversation began with my pack and the fact of my walk, we easily moved into the 'why' of my walk.

I discovered that they are regular church-goers. They discovered that I was a pastor. For some reason, I kept the Episcopal church and the word "priest" out of the conversation. Instinct? I don't know. I just did, and instead listened and followed their lead in our conversation about our faith in God. Maybe there was something in the language cadences (especially from Ruth) that echoed my early church experiences. I discovered that they went to a Southern Baptist Church, and on that basis I continued to trust my instincts. I didn't want what issues might divide us to get in the way of a conversation about our shared faith.

So, instead of debating theological differences, we ended up talking about how hard it can be to let the world know that there is Good News. We talked about what that good news meant to each of us. We shared our experiences of how nice it is to gather with others in worship, and how dangerous it is to think that we have done our "God" thing when worship is over. I shared some stories from my journey. Some of the things I had heard and was thinking about. They wanted me to come and speak at their church. I pointed out to them that many Southern Baptist churches would have a real problem with a female pastor. They didn't seem to care. I declined, explaining that I wouldn't still be in town the next time their church gathered. We exchanged mailing addresses (they don't do email) because they wanted to try to get me back in town at another point. They really wanted me to come speak to their church.

I figured that after we had talked for quite a while, that maybe the time had come to connect the faith we shared with the denominations that so often seemed to keep us apart. They had already recognized the common ground we stood on in Jesus, to the point that they had wanted me to come to their church as evangelist. I wanted them to know that this was an Episcopalian who believed in Jesus. That Episcopalians aren't some crazy heretical bunch. That we had so much common ground.

But before I could get us there, Ruth suddenly changed the direction of our conversation - - to a woman who was approaching. "Oh, there's that woman! She came to our church a few times." And she calls out a greeting, "Hello! Hello! How are you doing?" As the woman tried to navigate all her stuff and her bicycle over towards us, Ruth explained to me, "She's homeless, and has been having some real health problems."

Ruth introduced me to Lisa, and then the two of them began to talk. We heard about Lisa's difficulties in accessing and navigating medical care when she had no address or phone to give. How excited she was that she finally had a date (the next week) for surgery for her cancer. How she had even gotten approval for a motel room for a week after she was discharged so she wouldn't have to go straight back to the shelter and the streets. How hard it has been since she got sick and had to quit working, and lost everything.

Ruth kept trying to interject that she just had to have faith in God. Ruth repeated that over and over. "But don't you agree, that it will all be alright if you only have faith in God? You've got to have faith in God. He'll take care of you."

Each time Ruth would say that, Lisa would pause, visibly clench her teeth, close her eyes, and then take a deep breath. She would let the irritation/anger pass, her jaw would relax again, her eyes would open, and then she'd pick up her story as if Ruth had said nothing. Another few sentences, and Ruth would interrupt again with the 'faith in God' line, and the whole scene would repeat itself.

I felt the common ground sliding out from under my feet. I wanted to let Lisa talk about what the clenched teeth meant. "Faith in God, and he'll take care of you" was obviously something of pain for her. Repeating it over and over didn't help. It seemed such a simplistic line, with lots of cultural prosperity baggage, and it didn't speak to this woman with no home, no prosperity. 'Faith in God, and he'll take care of you' has such gift in it, but not as she was hearing it at that time. She was more in the place of the cross, where a similar line was used as a jeer to Jesus - "If you believe in God, why doesn't he help you?" Rather than hearing hope in those words, she was much closer to feeling "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"

After about 5 times of this happening, Ruth continued her 'faith in God' piece with, "But after all, that's why you came to our church isn't it?"

Lisa paused, and then pointed out to Ruth that she only came two times, and then never came back. It had been almost a year ago.

I expected this to be the end of this conversation. But it wasn't. Lisa talked about the arrangements for her surgery the next week. About the difficulties of finding a place to store her bicycle and her stuff while she was in there.

And then it happened. Ruth offered to visit her in the hospital.

Lisa jumped at this offer! "Oh, would you? Really??" She couldn't believe it. But I knew Ruth was serious. It was etched all over her face. "You've got to have someone at the hospital with you!"

And suddenly, we were back on common ground.

When I was sick, you visited me.

The bugs started getting bad, and Ruth and Bill got the details about when and where Lisa was going to be in the hospital, and then quickly departed to get away from the mosquitoes. Lisa and I talked some more (and yes, I asked about the clenched teeth, and we talked about how God understands, from the inside, that feeling of abandonment, even though the feeling is not the reality). I like to think that maybe I helped . . . but I know that the real help for Lisa came that day from a bumbling evangelist named Ruth who managed to get to Lisa's real hunger. "I'll come visit you."

Even if we really blow it when we try to be evangelists (like I stood there thinking Ruth was doing, and maybe she was doing it trying to impress me that she was an evangelist too?), God can still manage to step in and lead our hearts to a better place. Lisa will be visited this week. She will not be alone. That is truly good news to her at this time. And Ruth gets the opportunity to be the incarnation of good news.

Being the incarnation of good news is our common ground. Our common call. Our common gift.

back home

I've needed to end my walking a few days early. Rick had gotten me from Portsmouth and brought me back home before I was to head for a last few days in the northern end of the state (Woodsville to Lisbon to Littleton). Instead of heading north, I've decided that the better wisdom is to pay attention to the heaviness in my chest and the asthma issues it raises. I will take chances in this life, but as much as possible they will always be measured ones. I know myself and my asthma enough to know that this was a time to not be out walking.

So instead, I'm home early. I am sorry to be missing the northern loop of this journey. It is an area where life is so different than in the southern, larger towns.

But, I've still got lots of notes, lots of experiences, lots of thoughts, that I wasn't able to blog about earlier. You'll still hear more from the June walk, even as I move into the next period of this sabbatical.

what the walls say

One of the things I've been thinking about is our buildings.

What do our buildings say about us? I've walked by different churches. Stepped inside some. Peered in the windows of others. Tried to get inside, and couldn't.

"Open daily for prayer" the sign out front said. I couldn't find an open door. Someone from that church comments to me that they don't think it's left open for prayer anymore. I think about my own church, with the sign out front that is accurate MOST of the year. But what about those who come in the summer, looking for that 6:30 service? And they only find a locked building.

I think it says: doesn't matter what we say to the world . . . you really have to already be an 'insider' to know what's going on here. (I make a note to call the Jr Warden about finding a way to adjust our own sign.)

I walk up the street and see lovely modern arches and rounded roofs. A modern building that speaks "Greek Orthodox" to me (who spent some time worshiping with the Greeks when I first left the church of my upbringing). I come around the corner, and sure enough . . . the Greek Orthodox Cathedral. I walk up the front path to the large glass doors and peer in. A large icon sits in the front entrance, with candles lit before it. I can see colored light further in - the sunlight streaming through windows. There are more votive candles flickering in the darker interior of the church. I wish to enter and pray. The door is locked, although I can see people at the other end of a passageway connecting church with what must be classrooms and offices. They stand there and watch me. Nobody moves. I take my pack off and kneel to pray, outside the glass doors looking in. Pack back on, I walk back out to the sidewalk and continue my journey.

A beautiful, absolutely beautiful stone church, sitting at the far side of a grassy 'commons'. Very English looking. Very proper looking. Large rose window in the gothic stone building. They hold the 'family' service in the multi-purpose building across the street. Have they been listening to their own buildings?

My own church - we had to cut down the very very large pine trees that surrounded the property. They had reached the end of their lives, were getting diseased and presented an increasing danger of coming down on their own. Many people, even 6 years later, wonder about why we cut the trees down. But there's the other comment that has stuck with me: "It's like you all came out of hiding! You can be seen now."

The Boston Globe is on the table before me in the morning. The cover story is about the move that the Roman Catholic Archdiocese is having to make. They've had to sell their buildings and are moving into modern, cheaper, office space. The paper quotes Cardinal William H. O'Connell 80 years ago, talking about their location, surrounded by schools and seminaries. Sitting in their beautiful enclave, safely separated from the 'other' world, he says, "Every hilltop now for miles around gleams the sacred sign of our redemption." The paper comments on their new location: "Now their neighboring hilltops feature a multiplex, a sports club, and a lottery billboard."

I walk into a church built not too long ago. The worship space is large and open, 'multi-purpose' feeling, with wood beams and high ceilings. Chairs, rather than pews, are arranged facing an altar in the corner. Clear glass windows are behind the altar, allowing the outside world to be seen. Color and softness are provided by 'liturgical' quilts hanging on the walls. I, who love that English gothic stuff - stained glass and dark wood and stone walls- and who resonates with the Greek Orthodox love of image and icon and symbol, find myself drawn to this space. So different. Modern. Open. Clean. Looking out on the world. I wonder what difference it makes to the worshiping community - to the gathering of God's people.

What difference does it make - - when we open our doors and make every effort to communicate well with the world? When we no longer separate ourselves from the world but allow ourselves to both see and be seen?

the little children

Two images:

(1) I'm sitting at the bar. In front of me is a wall of sports pictures. You know the type - the great hockey moment; the pensive face of the coach in deep thought; the slam dunk. All signed, of course. This wall had, overall, a very refined look to it, compared to most.

Except.

Except for that one picture, right in the middle.

The beautiful blond haired boy. Probably about 5 years old. Maybe 6. But not older than that.

He's in the stands at a baseball game. Red Sox fan shirt very visible. I guess his picture was hanging there because someone thought it was cute.

Instead, it's a very sad picture. This beautiful little boy has that angry shouting sports fan face going. He's leaning forward. Mouth open in a growling shout. Right arm extended . . . giving the finger. To the ump? To the Yankees? Who knows.

But it was about the saddest thing I've seen. And maybe more so because it was hanging there because someone thinks it cute.

Second image (2) I stay with a young family. Three small children. The oldest is a boy about the same age as the one in the picture.

Going to church was still a pretty new thing to this young father, in his mid-30's. He hadn't grown up going to church. It wasn't out of 'habit'. I ask him what started it all - what had gotten him through the door in the first place?

His answer: "My son said to me, 'Dad, I'd like to go worship God with you.' "

*****
We can nurture the best, or the worst, in these children. What a gift to me to see some of the best being nurtured in these three young children. And through them, being nurtured in their parents. What a gift to be welcomed into that.

Pay attention

Durham is a quiet place in the summer. UNH does offer some summer classes, but I imagine the flavor of life is much changed from when the full school is in session.

I went to a small celtic pub around 7 last night. It was empty. Me and the bartender. Sometimes that is a good thing - bartenders in empty pubs can be good conversation! But she was so intent on the movie she had playing on the bar TV that it simply wasn't to be. The conversation would have to start something like: "Excuse me, I know that Tommy Lee Jones is just about to shoot at the bad guys . . . .but wouldn't you rather talk with me about God and church and faith???" Nope . . . It would have been silly to have even tried. I ate a few of their 25 cent wings, waiting in vain for anyone else to come in, paid my bill and headed on down the street.

Libby's Bar and Grill seemed to be more active, so that's where I headed next. It seemed to be a wider cross section of community life gathered there than would ever dream of hanging out at that first pub. I took a seat at the bar, ordered my Guinness, and scanned the menu. Greens. I needed greens. Got my order in for a chicken caesar and settled in.

A young man sits down, orders a beer and lets out a tired sounding sigh. "Long day?" I ask.

He's an MBA student - going part time and working still. Had just gotten out of class. "At least this pace is only for a few years," was his comment. There seems to be no room in his life to add another obligation, another thing to put on his calendar. No room for church. No room to pay attention to any of that.

An older man sits down on the other side of me. (Older is all relative here in a college town, although he did seem to be a little older than I am.) Someone else spots him and comes over to greet him. It ends up that neither live here . . . And both just happened to be here at the same time. They share family news. "My daughter is getting married! She wanted to get married in June, but couldn't get on the church calendar until August. I guess that's what happens in such a large church."

I see my opening, and charge right in.

"What church is that? Is it around here?" (This is where I learn that neither man is from here.) The church in question has 3800 members, and I assume it must be Roman Catholic.

I'm wrong. It's Lutheran - in Minnesota.

They ask about my church affiliation, and we talk a bit about the Episcopal church. Man from Minnesota has a nephew who just became an Episcopal priest. "I think he's probably the tallest priest in the country!" His nephew is 6'7". I tell him about a priest I know who is taller. He's going to get his nephew in touch with Peter. He enjoyed getting that contact, and then returned to his table where he had been eating with his wife.

The man at the bar continued the conversaton with me. He teaches Greek and Latin at a Boston high school, and is here in Durham for a conference of the American Classical League.

He taught college for a number of years, and then moved to the high school ages, and truly loves it. I listened to him talk about opening up this other world to these students through the gift of Greek.

He has students who come from so many difficult family situations. Many are being raised by their grandparents. Or a neighbor. He is obviously in pain for these students, and the challenges of their lives.

He told a story about one student who got hurt somehow and ended up on crutches. This teacher set it up with the student to meet him in the morning to borrow his elevator key for the day, so the student wouldn't have to navigate the stairs. Then the student would meet him at the end of each day to return the key.

The first day he was off the crutches, he still went and met his teacher in the morning. Not for the key, but to thank him. He threw a huge hug around the teacher, and almost cried his thanks.

The teacher was at first totally baffled by the response. He really hadn't done much at all, he felt. The response of the student seemd so out of proportion to the event. But as he thought about it, he realized that this was a student who very possibly didn't have anyone in his life simply paying attention. And here was someone who had paid attention to his needs, and stepped forward with a small gift to meet that need, and then stayed consistent in the giving.

He talked about what he has learned through his years of teaching, and the most important thing of all has simply been to pay attention. To respect the students enough to pay attention.

It continues to be the almost constant refrain of this time I've been gifted with: listen. Pay attention. Get out of myself and pay attention and listen to each one in front of me.

This teacher loves his job. Loves the opportunity to pay attention to these students and in turn, have them pay attention to what he is so passionate about: the beauty and world that the Greek language opens up for him.

I think about how Jesus paid attention to each one in front of him. Nicodemus and his questions. Zaccheus and his curiosity. The Samaritan woman at the well, and her hunger to be known.

And we are, each one of us, called to follow as disciples. Learning to pay attention.

Love God . . . Love your neighbor. You've got to pay attention in order to love. Love is such a powerful verb. But it doesn't have to be big powerful acts. Love can be done by simply paying attention.

********
Other stuff I'm mulling over from those conversations:
The young man with 'no time' for church, and another young man I know who has commented to me about what a deep deep need it is in his life to find those 'set aside' times and places. One who has discovered the real gift that Sabbath is, and how extra important it is in the midst of a hectic young life. How do we help those who have already decided that there simply isn't time?

And with the teacher: these are students who are 'forced' to go to school. And he is working within that to open up in them a passion for learning. How does this relate to 'forcing' our kids to go to church? How does it become sharing our own passion for journeying with God and with a community of faith, instead of it becoming "cramming it down their throats." Even this teacher talked about his own daughter and her reaction to church being one of it having been 'shoved down her throat'. (Interesting to hear those exact words come from him.) He and his wife were the first couple that the then Cardinal of the Archdiocese of Boston allowed to be married by a priest and a Congregational minister with the service being held at the congregational church (in the late 60s) and they tried to raise their one child with a foot in each.
*********
Conversation going on at the table next to me this morning and I sit here in this coffee shop and write: 6 guys, all in their work uniforms, on some kind of a coffee break . . . "Yeah, life is tough (older man to young 20-something). But church is a whole lot cheaper than drugs."
Evangelism going on in the work crew. Simple sharing.
******
I got my book blurb submitted yesterday. Me! Writing something in 25-50 words. Ha! I'm taking it out on you all today by writing lots and lots.

Choke hold

A few days ago I had a wonderful, but brief interlude at home- the transition from Concord to the Seacoast area needed a car ride. After picking me up from Concord (and bringing me home), Rick then brought me down to Rochester to begin this part of the journey, and we had to once again make our goodbyes. I think it's the hardest part of this entire sabbatical journey.

But the challenge to "find answers" is also hard. Not emotionally, like the goodbyes, but hard nonetheless. Early on in this month, another clergy had wistfully said to me, "I know it's probably too much to ask for, but I think it would be wonderful if you were able to come back from your sabbatical with a list of '5 Things We Should All Be Doing' to break through those barriers between the unchurched and the church community."

5 things. That suggestion has actually stuck with me, and I'm working on it. But as I travel and listen, I realize that it really isn't about discovering something new. Something we don't already know. Something we haven't already read about and thought about.

I'm not going to end up reinventing church. Or finding one amazing breakthrough 'thing' that will turn us instantly into the church of the 21st century.

But I will come home with new focus on old things. A renewed commitment to the important things, rather than the urgent ones.l And a new commitment to evangelism.

Yes, the E word. It's about sharing good news (which is what euangelion is all about in the greek anyway).

My first afternoon in Rochester had some major clouds piling up. The thunder and lightening began rolling, and I was desperate for a place to get in out of the rain. Slim's Tex Mex Saloon had a sign that said that they opened at 4, which was still 10 minutes away. But the neon open sign was lit, so I tried the front door and walked in out of the rain into an empty place.

Right on my heels two young men slipped in as well.

Within moments someone came out of the back, and we were assured that yes, we could come on in. I settled my pack into a corner, and took a seat at the bar. The other two left a bar seat open between us, and took seats as well.

Chips and salsa and a guinness before me, the rain no longer dripping out of my hair, I asked the bartender about what she knew about the Episcopal church here in Rochester. "I know it closed, but I was wondering if you knew where it was?"

She had no idea. I asked the two young men, even specifically asking about a church that I had seen that was now a bank. (Which I later found out was the former Episcopal church.) The only church they knew up in that area was Holy Rosary.

The one young man admitted that he never went to church anymore, and that he might even be an agnostic.

"Anymore? Did you used to go to church?"

He talked about having church crammed down his throat when he was a kid. Roman Catholic school even. He really used that term: "crammed down my throat."

It didn't sound as if it ever tasted like good news to him. It sounded more like he was still gagging on it instead.

We've got good news. I think he would respond to that. But how do we begin to help people who are already choking because of the way it's been given to them in the past? How do we overcome the gag reflex they've already developed?

From what I've been hearing, over and over again, that would be one of those "5 things".

Jesus is in the house

One thing I'm becoming more and more aware of as this journey continues is how 'in the moment' such a journey needs to be. I suspect the rest of my life should try to function more like that as well.

What I mean by this is that need to listen to the flavor of a moment, the flavor of a room, of a time. To not force an idea or agenda, but to be open to the needs at hand. I guess it goes back to how I see Jesus traveling - not bringing an agenda but listening and asking and responding to what is in front of him. Hungry people get fed. Blind people are healed. Those not even knowing their need of it, are forgiven. "Tax collectors and sinners" are hung out with. Are welcomed into relationship through an evening meal. A dinner party.

I have discovered that for me, 'one off' conversations happen best at quiet places. Even for an extravert like myself, the spirit of the place prevails. The quiet Irish pub. The bench along the street where you can stop and sit a spell. The shopkeeper in the small store.

When I entered "The Village Trestle" for an evening, it was obviously not going to be a quiet night. It was busy and noisy and happy. People joked with one another. Teased each other. Connected with each other in many different ways. Before smoking was banned in all restaurants, I suspect it was the premier smokers' hangout. It still seemed to be, as the steady stream of people moved in and out, "Coming outside with me?" There they'd stand or sit, continuing their connections as they smoked.

There were two of us there who were first timers at this place. Both of us were welcomed in and joked with. The other a soldier just back from Iraq, who had discovered the $1.50 draft beer for happy hour and decided this was the place to hang out at while he waited for his laundry to finish at the laundromat around the corner. Myself, not in clergy collar, trying to see which way conversation might go without its immediate recognition.

They taught me to play pool (well, I've played around with pool in the past, but never like this). They shared strategies and corrected my form. TC even lost a game on purpose to make sure I could play a second game (winner stays at the table and takes on the next person).

But a place like this was not the place for the quiet conversation. Not on a first visit. This was the kind of place to hang out in time and again. To build relationships in. To become friends in. To let the relationships be part of God's love and welcome.

They introduced me to Jesus. "Jesus is in the house!" came the loud exclamation as he came in through the door. I expressed my disbelief. Jesus claimed to have the ID to prove it, although he had no idea what his mother was thinking when she named him (they are not hispanic - the only group that I know of that still uses the name regularly).

Jesus took what was obviously his regular stool at the bar. He bantered easily with Renee, the bartender. Friends came and chatted with him. He was at home there.

I think the other Jesus would have been very comfortable there, too.

I wished, and not for the first time on this trip, that I had another night to come back. Another night to be in this particular gathering spot. With these particular people.

How did Jesus do it (our Jewish Jesus, rather than this American one at the bar) - always being on the road? Moving on from town to town. "The son of man has no place to lay his head." A wanderer, without home.

I'm glad I'm not called to be Jesus. I think I really really like the gift of being called to one place. To be able to know and to be known.

The trick though is to figure out how to know and be known better outside the normal boundaries of parish life. In our own towns. Where we have more than one evening.

Not a sparrow falls

Not sure why I did this, but when I came across the dead Indigo Bunting I was so sad .. . and took a picture. Then about a mile later was the Redstart. I took another picture, and my mind went to the gospel, which I realized later was the gospel for today: Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.

It was reassurance along the road, that God was there.

dog love

I've been carrying a book along with me on this trip. I had planned on carrying (and reading) one book or another about the emergent church . . . but instead I found myself first carrying (and reading) one about a dog.

From the introduction: a friend asks the author, "Is there any religion - has there ever been one - that speaks of a God who loves us as much as dog?" And she then quotes a student: "If I thought that God loved me as much as my dog, it would change everything."

The book is called "Dogspell: The Gospel According to Dog" (I can't figure out how to underline things on this blog, so please excuse the formatting here.) The author is Mary Ellen Ashcroft, and the book is due to be re-released this fall. I was asked to write a "blurb" for the back cover, and received the publisher's proof copy right before leaving for this trip, with the expectation that I'd have the blurb in by July 1.

So . . . I'm carry, and reading, "Dogspell".

It's a re-reading for me. I read this book when it first came out, and have given away many copies over the last few years. But it had been a long time since I've actually read it myself. So I'm re-reading it now.

"Dogspell" is a lengthy parable. Or maybe a series of parables. About God's love. About Mary Ellen's black lab, Cluny, who loved her so deeply, so thoroughly, so consistently. Who taught her about what God's love really looks like. Waiting to welcome her, no matter what. No matter.

Each short chapter of this book is a heart moving look at love. God's love. The love that dog offers. No strings. No conditions. Nothing held back. Ever.

What if??? What if we were able to really believe that God loves us as much as dog does? What if we were able to share that with the world around us?

Dogspell seems to be the perfect book for this journey of mine. God's love. God's faithfulness. God's welcome. Waiting for all. Eager and wagging and yearning to leap all over us and cover us with wet kisses.

Isn't that what we all need? Doggie love. Godly love. Love without bounds. Without reason. Without end.

It's what every one I've met yearns for. And somehow, we've missed telling them that God is yearning to welcome them home. Yearning to jump up on them and tell them that nobody else will do.

As the author says: "Despite years of prayer, religious seeking, theological training, and church involvement, I believed more fully in the steadfast love and faithfulness of dog than of God."

I think that this is what we each want to believe. And what the world wants to hear from us.

Waiting for you to come home, dog is waiting eagerly to bound across the floor and cover you with greeting and with love. No explanations needed. Just welcome. Waiting. Eagerly waiting. Not for excuses. Not for repentance. Not for penitence. Just waiting for YOU.

It is heartbreaking, heartmoving, heartwarming, just to move around the edges of such a possibility.

Can God really love me that much? That easily? That fully?

Can I possibly find a way to let the world know that God loves them that much, that easily, that fully, too?

My husband's black lab, Berry, has adopted me as his own. He waits at home while I travel. He sheds hair in his grief at missing me. The vacuum can't keep up with his love, poured out in hair all over the house.

God/dog loves me that much.

It is enough.

It is more than enough.

Riding along

Some towns seem easier to find conversation in than others.  Nashua was a good place.  Benches all along the main street invited people to 'sit a spell' - and we did.  Sometimes I started a conversation, sometimes someone else did. 
 
Manchester seems to group all the benches in the park areas.  Someone commented to me: "If they put in benches, people might sit on them!"  I went to the parks, but couldn't bring myself to wake those who were curled up, jacket pulled over their heads, catching a nap.  And there weren't too many others around.  No one just 'sitting a spell.'   The lunch cafe was bustling, but everyone was in such a hurry.  
 
So I got on the bus.
 
You've got to understand - that was foreign territory to me.   I've always been a 'car owner' and public transportation has not even been a viable option in most of the places I've ever lived.  At least, I don't think it was a viable option.  But who knows?  I never really tried, either.
 
I looked all around the bus stops, looking for maps or directions or routes.  What do you do to ride the bus?  I had a particular destination - the Mall of New Hampshire.  I wanted to pick up a light jacket as some evenings had gotten cool for all my shortsleeve stuff. 
 
I walked to the downtown bus hub, and still couldn't find a map or list of routes.  But there was a phone number on the signs - - so I called it.  On hold for quite a while, but then was very nicely told that I could get a route map from any stopped bus.  There was one right in front of me.
 
I ran over to the bus, climbed on and asked.  And discovered that it was even the bus I wanted.  $1.  Exact change only.  I settled into a seat. 
 
We wound our way through town, through parts of town that I had been warned about not walking through.  People got on and off.  The bus driver climbed down at one point and helped a woman with her bag, as she struggled with the stairs climbing into the bus.  She settled into a seat right up front.  I wondered how far she needed to carry that bag when she finally got off the bus. 
 
I wasn't alone in being a stranger to the public transportation.  Most of the people I spoke with later, who go to the larger Episcopal church in town, didn't know how to use the public transportation either.  They admitted, with genuine sadness tinged maybe even with a bit of shame, that there is a bit of prejudice or snobbery or whatever you want to call it - - those "other" people used the buses.   I know that in much larger cities there are many who don't own cars and that public transportation of one kind or another is part of the fabric of life that crosses all kinds of social boundaries.  But in our smaller cities, that doesn't seem to be the case, yet.

Many of those on the bus spoke other languages. A fascinating thing I learned about Manchester was that it is such an 'international' place. I went to the Millyard Museum to learn some of the city history, and learned that the entire history of Manchester is filled with people coming from other countries. In 1970 there was about 30% of the population that were either born in another country, or their parents were born in another country. It was a glimpse of New Hampshire that I hadn't had before (with most of my New Hampshire experience being up north).

I didn't have 'conversations' on the bus, but I found it an eye-opening experience as everyday people got on and off, in neighborhoods where they sought to create 'home' and speaking languages that connected them with 'home' in a different way than mine does. I take English for granted. I take it for granted that I understand what is being said around me.

I struggle with our 'church' language sometimes. It is such a comfort to hear the language and know that I am 'home'. But I am more and more aware of how foreign that language is to so many. How it speaks of being in a foreign land, so to speak, to those who don't understand what we say.

How do we love and live into our language, without it being a barrier to those who don't know it? Narthex. Eucharist. Rite I or Rite II. Service Music. Sanctus. Sacristy. Sexton. "Open your Bibles to . . . " The confusing array of books in the pews in front of a person. The music everyone else seems to know, but you don't, and you don't know where to find it (happened to me even this last week). All these things can make someone know or feel that they are the foreigner.

How badly do you need something to live in a foreign land? To learn a new language?

******************
Most of this was written yesterday, while sitting in Goffstown, but there was 'maintenance' being done on the Blogger site and I couldn't post it then. Trying again this morning, while I sit at the laundromat and wait for my clothes to finish.

We should Dance

I took the scenic route into Manchester today. Meaning: I missed a turn and walked about 2-3 miles extra. It was not something the bottoms of my feet wanted. Today was tough on them as much of the walking didn't lend itself to slipping off the pavement and walking on unpaved ground. I was stuck instead mostly with pavement and sidewalks, and my feet could truly tell the difference.

The legs are fine, but the bottom of my feet are screaming at me. And, as a result, tonight I kinda hobble.

I went to a local Irish pub, figuring that if I didn't know much about any particular restaurant's food, at least I knew I could get a Guinness there. And I also figured that the "sports bar" would be no place for easy conversation on this night of the Celtics.

The Irish pub was a pretty quiet place tonight. But Chris was there. And we easily started up a conversation, neither one of us anxious to sit and eat totally alone.

We talked environment. Care of the earth. Our use of resources. I found out he has a Smart Car! (Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's Smart Car. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's Smart Car.) I kept repeating that to myself, but it really didn't do much good. I was coveting. I tried not to drool on the bar. That's just bad form, even for very very cool things like this. But I was impressed - here was someone willing to try to live what he believed . . . and had found a fun way to do it! Does it get any better than that?

I asked about how it was on the highway - - and found out that he had driven it on a road trip to Maine and then immediately down to Massachusetts, and found it to be a great car for the trip.

But in that 'car talk' I picked up that there was something else important in Chris' life. He's a contra dancer. And caller.

And he converted me tonight.

He talked about the contra dance community in ways that made my heart ache - I do so want to hear people talk about church community like that. With such deep affection. Joy. About it being a place where all are welcome, and newcomers who really don't know what they're doing are surrounded with help and care and - - dare I wish it for church? - - - fun!

I know that there are times and places when we do talk about our faith communities that way, because we have experienced it that way. But I'm also so sad that we don't experience that fullness often enough.

Chris talked about the community as not being perfect. As struggling to figure out how best to deal with problems that arise. How best to balance the needs of the various people who come. It sounded awfully familiar!

And he talked about being a caller -- about being gifted with the position of calling people into the dance . . . about what it means to him as his gifts and abilities create a place where others can dance into community and joy. He knows something about what I do, at its best.

The Greek Orthodox talk about the Trinity using the word perichoresis (um . . . someone want to look that up and see if I've got the "English" spelling right?) It's a greek work that means to dance together. It's an amazingly incredible way of seeing God. God as a community dancing together.

I wonder what might happen if we got rid of the pews, and made room for ourselves to be called into dance as well. It may not need to become physical reality in that way . . . but it does need to be the reality of our lives. Lives of dance that welcome and surround and create community. Lives of dance, with God calling the best out of our hearts, and dancing us deeper into joy.

I may be hobbling tonight . . . but I really just want to dance.

Chilly Monday

I'm glad I didn't end up spending an extra day here in Londonderry. Maybe if I wasn't on foot I'd figure out where people "hang out" in this area . . . But the picking has been pretty sparse along the road I've been walking. Maybe they all drive the few miles on into Manchester?

I walked into my lunch stop today at about the same time as a family who had just climbed out of their big new shiny Hummer. We were definitely a study in contrasts.

The contrasts at least led to some easy talk as we sat inside and ate our lunches. "Mom" couldn't get her conversation past the fact of my backpack and that I was out walking around New Hampshire. WHY I was walking wasn't of interest to her. THAT I was walking, was. How far was I planning on walking? Where was I staying? Was I really able to carry everything I needed in my backpack??? (I got the feeling that she never travels light.) The youngest son was totally fascinated by my little cell phone/keyboard combination as I sent off an email to my sweetie. But conversation didn't go any further or deeper than that. They weren't interested in pursuing what I tried to offer as gentle lead-ins to a conversation about faith or God.

It's a chilly day - such a difference from a week ago when I was overbaked by heat and the sun. And today was the first time I actually found myself walking in a downpour. Whereas a week ago the 'breeze' a large truck passing by brought with it was a welcome thing, today the upwash of dirty spray water following in the wake of a large truck has been not pleasant whatsoever.

I'll walk on a little further today, and hopefully find somewhere to be this afternoon. If not, I'll find a spot to sit down and 'blog' some more. There is much I have been mulling over in my mind, and many conversations that I haven't shared yet.

In out of the drizzle

I've slipped into the public library in Londonderry to get out of the chilly drizzle for a few minutes. I just wanted to take a quick moment to let people know that I do get the comments that you leave on this blog, even while I'm out here on the road. It's nice to stay in touch, and in conversation, that way. Thank you.

I've got my email problem solved (for now?) as well, and can now email out again from my phone.

This library, though, has only a 15 minute time limit for computer usage . . . so I'm needing to head back out!

Filled with good things

I woke this morning with a deep yearning to be in church.

I've actually been better this past week about reading the daily lessons and spending focused time in prayer than I normally am. I tend to be one who 'prays without ceasing' . . . living in a constant conversation with God, which is a really good thing (although it can feel funny to stop in the middle of a running conversation to try to have a more formal 'prayer' before a meal or other time)- but it has been nice to not always be running around during those conversations this week. It's been the difference between talking with a friend while running around doing errands as compared with being relaxed with a glass of wine in front of the fireplace, and having the whole evening ahead of you to share conversation.

So it surprised me a little this morning when I knew I simply had to be in church. I had thought that I'd be ok for a month, staying outside the walls of our churches. The way my month's plans had come together even originally meant that I'd be walking every Sunday!

So, instead of walking to Londonderry this morning, I went to church (I'll walk early tomorrow instead.)

It was a big morning there - the bishop's visitation. I balked at that - - I really wished it were a different week. Now don't get me wrong - I love my bishop, and am so grateful that he is my pastor and my friend. He's been very good at both. But the selfish part of me wanted to hear someone else preach. Pretty much these past years I've either had to listen to myself preach every week, or I have heard the bishop preach. There are three priests at this parish, and I had never heard any one of them preach.

And I still haven't.

But it was good. The bishop's sermon was gift to me. Sarah laughed - laughed at the ludicrous idea that God had about her and about what could be. And the disciples probably laughed too, as Jesus sent them out with the ludicrous idea that they could do what he'd been doing. And I've been laughing this week at the idea that God could use this journey for something positive, somewhere. Now that I'm actually out here "doing this" (whatever "this" really is) it has seemed absolutely ludicrous to me at times that "this" could BE something. That something could really be born from this. But the reassurance is there, in the midst of the skeptical laughter - all of this comes, is born, from God. Not from our own resources or abilities or planning. Not because we are able (Sarah certainly wasn't, and the disciples were a pretty unlikely "able" bunch as well!) but because God is able. And there's that extra bit of reassurance for me in Jesus' sending out his disciples as he warned them that they wouldn't find "success" everywhere.

It was a gift of a morning. I've listened to a week of people telling me why they're not in church, and I got to be there as an 18 year old chose to be IN the church. He was baptized this morning, and we cheered and clapped and welcomed. I've listened to people talk about how the church has failed them, and this morning I got to be there as we recommited ourselves in the baptismal covenant - to continue in ministry "with God's help." (Whenever we fail - whenever we fall into sin (not if, but whenever) that we'll repent and return to the Lord . . . with God's help.) I got to be there as person after person after person presented themselves to the bishop, "I wish to be confirmed." And I heard that prayer again and again from the bishop as he laid hands on each one: " . . . strengthen . . . empower . . . . sustain . . . "

I needed to be in church this morning. I needed to be surrounded by 'such a great cloud of witnesses'. To be fed by Word and sacrament. To kneel and to listen and to rejoice. And to be sent out.

And, I needed to be there to thank the woman with the shy smile, who wandered up and down the streets of Nashua yesterday. I was out there all day . . . and so was she. I do believe I was in her home, just as surely as I've been staying in JoAnne's home. Yesterday she wouldn't approach me, wouldn't speak to me. But each time she'd walk by (as far away from me and anyone else as the sidewalk would allow) she'd look at me a little longer. Smile that sweet shy smile. Even eventually giving me a little finger wave. I was a stranger on the streets of Nashua, and she was the one there to welcome me. And there she was in church (wearing the same clothes), shyly keeping her distance from others. I did approach her after the service this morning, and thanked her for welcoming me, a stranger to Nashua. She dropped her eyes and mumbled a "you're welcome" and then looked back up - straight at me, and smiled again. Then walked on toward the after service reception.

She sat on a chair along the side of the room at the reception, eating sandwiches. Still keeping her distance from others. We caught eyes once more before she left, and she smiled again.

She and I both needed to be in church this morning. We both managed to show up. And I think we both went away filled with good things.

Go in peace.