On reading the Bible wrong: Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Amelia Bloomer, and Sojourner Truth, July 20

The Gospel assigned for Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Amelia Bloomer, and Sojourner Truth (on the Episcopal calendar of saints today, July 20)  is Luke 11:5-10, in which Jesus starts the story, not with “the kingdom of heaven is like” but rather “suppose one of you has a friend.”  And then the story goes on about going to that friend at midnight and begging them to get up and supply you with what you need to offer hospitality to someone else.  And although the initial response is basically “go away; what you request is really inconvenient for me right now” the person asking is persistent, and the one in bed finally gets up and gives him what is needed. 

I THINK I’VE READ THIS BACKWARDS ALL MY LIFE! I’ve usually read this (and probably had it interpreted to me) as an argument from the lesser to the greater: ‘be persistent in prayer because if even we ‘lesser’ humans can finally give up and answer a request, just think how much quicker (or more reliably?) God will answer.’  So just keep praying so that God will finally give you what you ask for.   Reading it this year, though, it hit me that maybe I had it all wrong.  What if  it is GOD who keeps asking US to provide, and WE keep answering “yes, I see/hear the need, but not now – it’s a bit inconvenient for me.  I have [all kinds of excuses] why I cannot possibly do that now.  Go away and come back and ask at a better time.” But God keeps asking, keeps calling to us to provide for the needs of this world.

Care for the orphan and the widow.  Feed the hungry.  Welcome the stranger.  Love your enemy. Do justice.  Heal the sick.  Give water to the thirsty.  These words, these calls, come to us again and again and again.  People get on our “Saints calendar” because they responded to God’s call.  But, in another way, they are also part of God’s repeated call to all of us. Elizabeth, Amelia, and Sojourner were all part of that persistent voice of God, persistently calling us to do justice. 

And too often, my response remains: “Not today Lord.  It’s just a bit too inconvenient at this moment to provide for your friends who are in need.”

 

Gilgal

I walk in through the front door of my little rental here in Happy Valley, and on the wall opposite the door hangs a picture.  Much of the art I have hanging throughout my house is original - whether paintings or pen and ink or needlework or photographs or stained glass.  But this one is a large framed print of something that hangs in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.  It came from my mother's home, and was the one thing I really wanted after she died last October.  None of my sisters were in the least way interested in it, so I got it.

Mom and I had a very difficult relationship.  It wasn't always as bad as it got in those final years, but facing her mortality as she aged made the questions of the afterlife even more acute for her.  To put it bluntly, she was convinced that I did not believe things about God and Jesus properly, and that as a result, I was headed to hell when I died. 

She was convinced that her mother and father were already there.  When working on some genealogy stuff at some point in the past, I had tried to get more information from her about her family.  She agreed to talk with me for a bit, but after a little while was quite clear that she did not want to talk about her parents any further.  It was simply too distressing for her to think about them now that she couldn't do anything for them, as they were "right this minute suffering in the fires of hell" (her exact words to me about them).  

That distress and anxiety played out between us in ways that were not conducive to a continued relationship.  She could not bear talking with me without trying to do something or say anything that might turn me around.  Something that might save me from the fire.  In the past, we had been able to find other things to talk about rather than our different approaches to our belief in God.  But as she aged, and she knew her time was short, she couldn't even talk about the weather with me.  

Mom was of the more conservative, fundamentalist, strain of Christianity.  Women were not to speak in church.  So, obviously, my being an Episcopal priest didn't fit in that world at all.  (Along with a whole host of other things I don't think God cares much about, and she thought were central.)  But being a priest is about me trying to be faithful to the God who created me with a particular set of skills and interests, faithful in seeking to follow where Jesus has led me, faithful to the stirrings of the Spirit within me.  She has always seen my journey as me turning my back on God.  

And yet, every time I'd go into her home, there hung this picture.  A young shepherd GIRL.  Mom's theology had no room for "the Lord is my shepherd" to be imaged by a female.  Mom's beliefs had no room for a woman to be 'shepherding the flock.'  And yet, there she hung in that picture above Mom's dining room table.

Mom was an artist.  She majored in art in college, and went on to become an art teacher.  Paintings were not just decoration for her.  They meant something.  There was one in her bedroom that had four young girls in it, out in a large field, with flowers and sunshine.  She once told me about how they always made her think of her four daughters - the girls in the painting did have some resemblances to us!  And the background of this painting even reminded her of our home area in Pennsylvania.  

This painting of the young female shepherd hung where she sat and ate.  Where she sat and studied.  You couldn't walk into her house and miss this one.  A female shepherd!  I always wondered about that picture, yet never asked her.  I preferred to stay in the unknown, the unspoken.  Fearing, I think, that asking her to try to put the tenderness of that female shepherd into words might break the spell of the mystery.  I hoped that somewhere in that unspoken mystery, she in some way understood me.  Or that at least, in some way there was still room for me, for who I was called to be, to have a place in her world.   I would walk into her home and smile, because I was there in the company of that female shepherd. 

The Old Testament reading for tomorrow (4th Sunday in Lent, Year C) comes from the 5th chapter of the book of Joshua.  I've been pondering it this week - - but not those exact 4 verses.  They reference the place, Gilgal, and then go on to talk about no longer eating manna.  But the place and the name have caught me this week - - Gilgal.  12 large stones carried out of the river bed.  12 large stones Joshua set up in a circle, that their children could look at and ask "What do these stones mean?"  They would see the stones, which would prompt the question, which would lead to remembrance and the telling of stories.  Remembrance of what God had done in leading them out of Egypt (crossing the Red Sea on dry land) and through the wilderness, and then crossing the River Jordan on dry land (where these stones had come from) and into the promised land. 

When we enter into church and pause at the baptismal font and anoint ourselves with the water, we are at Gilgal.  We see.  We touch.  We ask, "What does this water mean?" And, just like at Gilgal, we answer by remembering what God has done.  Telling ourselves the story once again of a love that has washed over us and claimed us.  We tell ourselves the story of a love that has set us free and made us a new people.  

When I enter my own home now, I see that picture: the female shepherd. And I am at Gilgal.  "What does it mean?"  And I tell myself the story of how I have always been in the shepherd's embrace, for that is where I am in that picture.  And I tell myself the story of being called to be a shepherd - to live into the image of the one I follow - for I am also the female shepherd in that picture.  

But I also tell myself the story of Mom, engulfed in so much fear, who was also never out of the shepherd's embrace.  In our final moments, as I sat with Mom while she died, there was a healing that I did not expect.  She even looked at me and named it: "This is healing."  And I watched as the shepherd carried her gently home.  Yes that, too, has become a part of the story I remember.    

We all need a Gilgal or two in our lives.

* The painting is by William Morris Hunt (American, 1824-1879) and is titled "The Belated Kid"

The story that goes with the painting says that the kid (yes, these are goats) had wandered, and the young shepherd girl has found it and is carrying it back home, looked upon by the worried mother goat.  

Getting to General Convention

Flying cross-country from Boston to California, I managed to get a window seat. I slept the first few hours, but we were pretty much above just clouds for that part. Then, somewhere mid-country, the cloud cover totally cleared and I simply ignored the fact that I had carried a book with me that I've been wanting to read for a long time. Instead, I pressed my face against the window and watched the amazing country 36,000 feet below. The airline had a GPS navigation map on the seat back for each of us, so I was able to follow the map along with the rivers and major road lines, keeping track as we passed into South Dakota and dropped south over Nebraska. What amazing patchwork of farmland our country is! I wasn't aware before of just how different the colors of the various crops could be. Some looked pink or even violet. The various greens were expected, but they were seemingly outnumbered by the golds and rusts. It was breathtaking.

Then across Colorado, with its flat eastern farmlands leading abruptly into amazing mountains. The snow up high caught my eye immediately. It was still fairly early morning in that time zone, and the slanted sunlight and stark shadows accentuated the wild youth of these western mountains. So different from the eastern ones that wrap me up with "home".

Then on over red rock and canyonland. Stark bare buttes and broad flat mountaintop plateaus. I was a bit overwhelmed with the amazing diversity of land that is part of the one whole we call the United States of America.

Then I spent a few days in San Francisco. We have our own versions of "diversity" in New Hampshire, but it is pretty White there! Not San Francisco. Chinatown. The Fillmore Jazz Festival. Everywhere I went there were varieties of colors and languages. What a treat to once again be reminded of the amazing diversity of peoples and experiences and backgrounds that are part of the one whole we call the people of the United States of America.

And then I arrived at General Convention - the once every three year gathering of those chosen by the Episcopal Church to lead by setting policy and envisioning program and making some very hard budget decisions. General Convention brings together people from many different nations, many different languages, many colors and backgrounds and life situations. Many different gospel passions. And I am struck by the wonder and beauty of the possibility held in the coming together of our differences. Of holding them side by side. Of the possibility of showing such a wonder of God's making to the world around us.

And now, to bed. It's been a long first day. Committee work began at 8 this morning. We had a half hour break for lunch, and because of our diocesan deputation gathering to share notes, only a short time for dinner, and ended at 9 tonight. This is not an easy job! But, I spend my first day full of hope. God is good. And I believe that Jesus will get what Jesus prays for. May we all be one, as Jesus and the Father are one.

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.