the caffeinated priest

What's Not Left Behind

2011-05-22T17:48:00.003-05:00

Easter 5A
22 May, 2011

Well here we are. All of us. Safe and sound and on the ground. Did anyone have a family member or friend get raptured last night? I confess I’ve followed the rapture buzz online quite closely. I find the rapture culture fascinating. Having grown up in the land of “in the event of the rapture, this car will be unmanned” bumperstickers, the whole notion of a group of people suddenly disappearing into nowhere brings out my inner sci-fi geek. Did you know that there’s a place, where, in the event of the Raputre, for a mere $135, atheists will provide care and a home for your pets, including not only cats and dogs, but also donkeys and llamas. The buzz about the rapture is everywhere.

If you haven’t been following all the buzz here’s what you need to know: there’s a fundamentalist group that has, for sometime now, been reading the Bible as a time map, and has marked May 21 (that’d be yesterday) as the date of the rapture, the day when all faithful followers of Jesus are suddenly swept up into heaven, leaving a palpable void on the earth. And yet, here we sit.

The Rapture is an interesting enough concept, but one that is relatively new to the Church--just a couple of centuries old, cherry picked together from a few pieces of Scripture. The word “rapture” does not appear in the Bible and it’s a 19th Century invention. Based in part on a verse from First Thessalonians (4:17): Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up in the clouds together with them to meet the Lord in the air, the concept is that Jesus will have not one, but two second comings. In the first, the dead will be raised with Christ and then those of us who believe in Christ will be lifted up. There are many different camps and schools of thought on the details of how and when and why this will happen. Within recent memory, the Tim LaHaye books, the Left Behind Series, have brought our sacred text, the Revelation of St. John, into popular culture with the authors of this series playing with the text and taking it from a vision and turning it into a supposed literal prophecy. The Rapture is big business and good insurance to make sure we churches don’t go out of business anytime soon. For if you get left behind, not only are you not hanging out in the great bye and bye with Jesus, but those of us left behind (and by all accounts, I’ll likely be left behind--Episcopalians don’t rank real high on the “getting raptured” list), those of us left behind are in for a world in pain and tribulation.

If you hear a note (or two) of skepticism and annoyance in my voice, you’re picking up on my frustration with this concept. Beyond that it’s become a comic money maker for Atheists and a scare tactic for some fundamentalist preachers, the problem I have with the rapture and the way it has been presented to our society is that it is counter-intuitive to what Jesus himself has taught.

The famous monk and writer Thomas Merton once wrote: “For eschatology [conversation about the end things] is not finis and punishment, the winding up of accounts and the closing of books: it is the final beginning, the definitive birth into a new creation. It is not the last gasp of exhausted possibilities but the first taste of all that is beyond conceiving as actual.”

This marries right into the Gospel today where Jesus says: In my Father's house there are many dwelling places. Jesus speaks these words at the end of his life to the people he loves most. Words to teach them how to walk through this world once he is gone. The Gospel we hear today is a classic text that we use in funerals, words to comfort and remind the bereaved that Jesus has gone to prepare a place, that Jesus waits for us with joy and with love. A place, we are told, that is big, with many dwelling places, or in the King James translation, many mansions. We hear similar echoes in a different funeral reading where Jesus reminds his disciples that he is the Good Shepherd and that he, the Good Shepherd, has other sheep, too, that are not in this sheepfold.

At the risk of speaking heresy, Jesus is teaching that there’s more to God’s reign, more to God’s Kingdom than we can see in this mortal coil. We are so quick to try and understand the mind and the depth of God. Jesus seems to be telling the disciples and us to stop limiting ourselves, to stop trying to predict and set the boundaries of God. Thanks be to God, we can see the power and love of God, made manifest in Jesus, and, in the same breath, there are many dwelling places or mansions, many sheep outside our sheepfold, that probably don’t look like us or like what we’ve decided God looks like. As we walk this earth, we are just beginning to understand, beginning to see the wideness and wildness of God.

The problem with the rapture, is that it takes Jesus and tries to make Jesus, make God, so narrow, so scarce, that one must submit in perfect form and fear to be found acceptable. The motivator is fear, is being left behind. Lost in the hype of the Rapture is the generosity, the abundance, the irrational love that was, that is Jesus Christ. Notions like the rapture tell us that there isn’t enough--not enough time, not enough belief, not enough worship. Jesus, in contrast, tell us that there is plenty, there is more than enough. There is profound love, life-giving love. Jesus tells us not to worship him, but to follow him, out into the world, out into the places that need not the fear of death and destruction but the healing and balm that is the way of the Saviour of the World. Jesus says to his disciples: Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these. Jesus is in fact calling us to go out into the world, to be that love, to pour out hope and grace and kindness to a world that broken and weary and worn. Jesus calls us to out do him, to do greater works than the ones he has done. Pure and simple, we are called, as ones who follow, to love in that abundant and pure and life-changing way that Jesus loves us.

Beginning to understand the movement of love, the Sufi mystic Rumi wrote: Love is recklessness not reason. Reason seeks a profit. Love comes on strong, consuming herself, unabashed. Yet in the midst of suffering, Love proceeds like a millstone, hard-surfaced and straight forward. Having died to self-interest, she risks everything and asks for nothing.

While Rumi was not writing about Jesus, Rumi’s description of the recklessness of Love, so beautifully describes the way Jesus lived his life, the way Jesus died his death. Incarnate Love danced into the world with joy and abandon. Incarnate Love that walked and with every step offered hope and healing. And Incarnate Love poured itself out, fully and completely, without thought of consequence.

So what do we make of the great non-event of yesterday? Former President Jimmy Carter once said “We should live our lives as though Christ were coming this afternoon.” I think that’s pretty good advice. To live our lives, prepare our hearts and souls, to live into the promise and command of Jesus: Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these. And perhaps what we can take away from this event that never happened, perhaps what we need to remember most is what has truly been left behind: the reckless, transforming love of the Risen Christ, that flows for you and for me. Love that can not and will not be contained, but insists on pouring itself out, in heaven and right here on earth.

The best part of waking up?

2010-12-17T12:23:00.001-06:00

Wow. Just wow.

Snow and Santa

2010-12-03T12:02:00.001-06:00

How the heck did this Southern girl end up in Chicago? Don't get me wrong. I love this city, but I'm sitting by my window, trying to crank out a sermon, and my coffee has gone cold because the outside air is effecting the temperature inside. Oh well. At least the radiators are working.

Tomorrow I will don a Santa hat and beard (don't tell the Advent Police) and run my first 5K in over a decade in the Santa Hustle. I'm really excited, a little nervous about my ability to finish, delighted that 4 of my friends are also running and terrified about the fact that there will be snow falling as I run by the lake in this Windy City.

I've been using the C25K (Couch to 5K) app on my iPhone. A better app has never been created. I love, love, love it. I've gone from being able to run for 2 minutes to being able to run 25 in less than 6 weeks. Amazing. I never thought I'd get there again.

It seems appropriate that it falls in Advent--a time of rebirth, of expectation, the new liturgical year, for those of us who do liturgical cycles. I asked my congregation last week (in my sermon) what they were waiting for, watching for, expecting. I've been sitting with the question myself--still no real answer. Maybe there doesn't have to be something. I mean, it's good, I suppose, just to learn to wait. Especially for me (I'm a terrible wait-er). In the mean time, there are sermons to write and recipes to make (mango black beans and rice is simmering on the stove. Moroccan chicken a little bit later!) and Presiding Bishops to dine with later tonight (just me and the rest of the clergy of the Diocese).

At any rate, it's good to be writing a bit. It's good to have day off. And it's good, ready or not, for Santa hats in the snow!

Jesus and Puffy Cheeks

2010-04-11T15:17:00.002-05:00

We don't have a ton of kids at my church. Two who are regular. A few more (several babies!!) who come every couple of weeks. But one regular 5-year-old Sunday School participant, who, weekly, gets a lesson, a lot of stories and always arts and crafts (which, when I'm teaching, usually means Play-dough and Crayons).

Today we had a ball. We told the story of the disciples, hidden away and scared in the upper room, and Jesus coming and breathing on them and saying "Peace." The story went something like this:

Me: The disciples were very
5-Year-old: SCARED!
Me: But then someone came to see them. Who was it?
5-Year-old: Jesus.
Me: And what did Jesus do?
5-Year-old: [here you have to imagine the 5-Year-old and me both blowing with very exaggerated, very full, very puffy cheeks].
Me: And what did Jesus say to them?
5-Year-old: Peace be with you!
Me: And then were they still scared?
5-Year-old: No!

So we went into the church where the altar guild, the deacons, and the flower guild were all working and told the story to each of them. Then we found the treasurer and the Senior warden and told them. And then to the 5-Year-old's mom. And now I'm telling you. It was great fun. So if you're feeling scared and aren't sure what to do, just imagine Jesus, with big, puffy cheeks, blowing on you and saying Peace!

Here are some pictures of my play-dough renditions of the scene. Jesus is orange, in case you're wondering.

Clark

2010-04-07T22:02:00.004-05:00

I feel humbled. And sad. And wishing that I was a lottery winner or the inventor of something brilliant and money worthy.

I have a parishioner, who I'll call Clark. Clark is an older man, with a couple of illnesses. He moves from tenement to tenement, looking for places that are safe, drug free and affordable--an unlikely trinity in this city. He's currently homeless (for another 2 hours and 10 minutes). He came up for communion tonight and unlike his usual response after I commune him of "God Bless you, Sarah," tonight Clark stumbled. He took the bread from me. And the wine from the deacon. And then the deacon gave the wine back to me for me to finish. He walked back and said to me: "I didn't get a good sip," so I gave him the chalice again. And he sipped a small sip. And then he stumbled. "Are you okay?" I asked. "Yes, I'm okay. Good night, Sarah," he said.

I walked out of the church, down the side aisle and found him lying on the back pew. A few minutes later our deacon/nurse and I sat with him and began to sort out his life. He can't cash a check until midnight, so for 4 hours, he will ride the El until then to keep warm. Then he will rent a room at a less than lovely hotel, but he'll be off the streets tonight. Tomorrow he will get back on the meds he's been off for a month because he hasn't been able to afford the monthly CTA pass to get to the center where he gets his meds. I bought him dinner, so he has a full belly.

I can't do much for many with my limited means. But Clark is a long time member, who knows the liturgy better than most anybody. And a dear man. And as I sit at home, in my comfy PJs, having eaten some leftover steak, I find myself thinking about him. It's cold. And Christ is Risen. Here's the rub, we are an Easter people. Redemption has come and yet the work--the work remains.

Easter 1978

2010-04-03T23:56:00.000-05:00

Children who grow up in the Episcopal Church today probably don't remember their first communion. Our theology today is one that includes children at this family meal from the time of their baptism, which is frequently done when they are infants. And I love that children never remember a time when they weren't welcome, when communion was not part of what church and God and community mean. That said, I grew up at a time when first Communion was a big deal, and not done on the day of baptism, but when you were a bit older. There were classes of preparation, days, weeks, months of anticipation all for this tiny crumb of bread and sip of wine. I remember my own first communion and the excitement that went on around it. My mother took me shopping for a dress, I imagine, but most certainly for an Easter bonnet. She bought silk flowers for it and we wove them in and out of the holes in the straw hat in the week before Easter Sunday, the day that would mark my first communion.

That Easter morning, my father went, as was his custom, to the early church service to read. My mother and I ate a lazy breakfast and were getting dressed. I remember the distress in his voice as he entered the house, calling my mother's name. Calling her name, over and over, until we both came running. "The church," he said. "the church is on fire." Easter morning and the church was burning. (To be precise, it was the Christian Formation building, but still, the Church).

We arrived at the church, like so many others, a silent vigil, watching in horror as hoses full of water broke through windows, as orange and red flames spit out of that beloved space. As the fire began to die down, word came that we would have our Easter Day mass at the Baptist Church around the corner at one o'clock.

I imagine how strange all of it must have been for my parents. Not just not having Easter in the Church, not just the horror of watching helplessly as that sacred space burned, but the strangeness of watching their daughter take her first communion not in the familiar marble altar rail, but in a rather generic worship space, without the smells of incense and the colours of the stained glass windows, without the comfort of what was, at that time, home. And yet, even in the different space, it worked. It was Easter. The community of the faithful was gathered and fed. Hymns were sung and Alleluias proclaimed. And we returned to our home, gratefully, the next week.

As for me, of that day, I remember very little. Except for kneeling at a rail, filled with expectation, curious and excited all at once. My eyes fixed on Father Ferguson, and I stretched forth my hands to receive that funny piece of bread. And it was good.

Alleluia, Christ is Risen! Happy Easter.

A note for Mom & Papa

2010-04-02T22:53:00.001-05:00

New sermons up on the sermon site. I love y'all.
xoxo

Good Friday/Holy Saturday playlist

2010-04-02T21:30:00.000-05:00

Tunes to help survive the Triduum (in no particular order):

A long time favorite, set to the tune of "O Sacred Head Sore Wounded" is Paul Simon's "American Tune." Beautiful and haunting. Totally Good Friday.

This has become my Holy Saturday tune. I love it on a million different levels, but am always struck by the line "Now I'm walking again / To the beat of a drum / And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart./Only shadows ahead/barely clearing the roof/ get to know the feeling of liberation and release."

Crowded House: Don't dream it's over

And today, back and forth between the labor of the watch of Maundy Thursday, waiting in the Garden, preparing for Good Friday, writing an Easter sermon (talk about a time warp), I walked to an from work a couple of times. And this is what was on my iPod. Not sure exactly why, but it felt appropriate.

And then there's REM. I could list a whole bunch of them here that fit and work, but here's what I walked home to after Good Friday Mass.

Had I more time and energy, I'd add more, but that's it for now. Time to make dinner and then to bed. What's on your Triduum play list?

Good Friday

2010-04-02T16:08:00.000-05:00

"The Coming" by R.S. Thomas

And God held in his hand
A small globe. Look, he said.
The son looked. Far off,
As though through water, he saw
A scorched land of fierce
Colour. The light burned
There; crusted buildings
Cast their shadows; a bright
Serpent, a river
Uncoiled itself, radiant
With slime.

On a bare
Hill, a bare tree saddened
The sky. Many people
Held out their thin arms
To it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
Boughs. The son watched
Them. Let me go there, he said.

(Thanks to WMP+ over at I are a writer who posted this on her Facebook page earlier today)

playing

2010-04-01T00:18:00.000-05:00

i should so be in bed. but i'm playing with the new template. let me know what you think. i know the type is smaller (sorry papa!). but it's kind of fun. and, if you blog, and i've lost you in the transfer of blog lists (which was a giant PITA), let me know that too, okay?

goodnight!

Seven whole days, not one in seven

2010-03-31T13:59:00.003-05:00

Sad news has come forth this week about my seminary. General, like so many other Episcopal seminaries, is struggling. Heck, it, like so many churches, is struggling. I get the realities. We live in a post-Christendom world. A place where people are "spiritual but not religious." The church of the 1950s is dying and we're clinging to it as if it was/were/is our only way of life. So, of course, it makes sense that our institutions are struggling. Reimagining, rediscovering who the Church is, who the Church will become, is no longer optional--but all that is another post. This is a post about a place I love more than just about anywhere (if you asked me to rank Athens GA, Israel/Palestine and General Seminary--it'd be a tough job).

General Seminary is the first seminary of the Episcopal Church. Its beautiful campus is a respite in the concrete jungle of New York City. Its chapel, the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, is the place where so many priests (including me) have been shaped and formed and begun to understand what this vocation is all about. And now General finds itself in severe financial crisis. There are emails flying in and out of my box today--all filled with the details about a meeting that happened yesterday with the Board of Trustees. This press release puts a nice spin on it. I suspect the meeting was a bit more challenging. The thought of General not being General, of priests not being formed, of it not being that place of joy (and gossip and sometime pure annoyance--all the human condition is wrapped up in that place for me), it's just incomprehensible. A friend just posted on Facebook that he feels like he's been hit in the stomach. I get it. It's beyond understanding.

I sit and type this as Sojo looks out the window and Lucy is curled up beside me. My first day on the Close (the seminary campus), after the movers had left, after one of the smiling and wonderful maintenance men had installed my new air conditioner, I opened the closet door to let Lucy and Sojo finally run free in their new domain. Out came Sojo but Lucy was nowhere to be seen. I searched high and low for her. Everywhere I could imagine. She was gone. Someone called the front office to alert the staff to be on the lookout for a very lost cat from Georgia. My heart sank. One day out of Georgia and into NYC, and I had lost my beloved, declawed, defenseless cat. I sat there and questioned the decision to move to NYC, to start seminary, to become a priest at all. Somehow this seemed a horrid omen and all I wanted to do was pack up my Uhaul and head back home.

And then, on a lark, or perhaps out of sheer desperation, I got down on the floor, one last time and crawled under my bed. Lucy had always loved to hide in the box springs, and although I had already checked 4 times, I found myself looking again. She wasn't easy to see. In the move, more fabric must have come loose and she had taken her hiding place to a whole new level. But there she was. Hidden away from the chaos of boxes and packing tape. Not yet ready to come out, but safe and sound.

I don't really tend to believe in "signs," but that day stands as one of the markers in my memory of knowing it was going to be okay. In the days that followed, things happened. Strangers knocking on my door with a "hey, I'm new here too--let's go find the grocery store" suggestion, building-mates would share wine and bad reality television, study-mates would become life-long friends and classmates who always sat in the same seat at chapel, day-in-day-out, helped me grow into who I am.

I can not imagine my world or myself, who I would be, without the sacred ground of General Seminary. Here's hoping I don't have to.

King of glory, King of peace,
I will love Thee;
And that love may never cease,
I will move Thee.
Thou hast granted my request,
Thou hast heard me;
Thou didst note my working breast,
Thou hast spared me.

Wherefore with my utmost art
I will sing Thee,
And the cream of all my heart
I will bring Thee.
Though my sins against me cried,
Thou alone didst clear me;
And alone, when they replied,
Thou didst hear me.

Seven whole days, not one in seven,
I will praise Thee;
In my heart, though not in Heaven,
I can raise Thee.
Small it is, in this poor sort
To enroll Thee:
E’en eternity’s too short
To extol Thee.

Holy Week and disappearing blog posts

2010-03-30T18:48:00.001-05:00

Hi there. I'm still here, I've just been hiding a little bit. Lots going on and none of it terribly interesting. My last blog post was a story. A family story. And my mom ~~made me~~ politely asked me to remove it as it referenced family members who wear inappropriate swimwear (read: tiny Speedos on old men) and some of the more colourful characters in my family. The blog post will reappear (perhaps this week it would be more appropriate to say it will be resurrected) at a later date. With some edits.

Anyhow. It's Holy Week. This year I'm lucky because I have this totally amazing intern who preaches like a rock star. So she's got Good Friday covered, leaving me with Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday (I use St. John Chrysostom's Easter Sermon for the Great Vigil). And I think (just maybe) that I'm about done with Maundy Thursday.

Preaching Easter Sunday is hard. I mean, double the attendance and folks that you never see and you've got this one shot to "get it right." Of course, there is no perfect getting it right. There's only preaching the Gospel. There's only unpacking some tidbit of truth that is hidden or not-so-hidden in the Gospel. The truth is that no one comes for the preaching. They come for the music and the flowers and a whole lot of them come because their mom promises to take them out for brunch if they go with. And yet, we all know a good sermon when we hear it. We all know the power it can have to help re-frame a familiar story, taking it to a whole new level. So I play with words and wonder what that key nugget of truth is.

This week has been hard. I miss Jerusalem. Which always catches me off guard. Not that "oh, it'd be nice to get back" kind of missing, but an actual ache. Which sounds corny and silly. But there is something about that land, that soil, that air that I miss at a visceral level. So I find myself blubbering like an idiot that I'm stuck in Chicago and not in a war-torn country where my politics are not appreciated by the reigning government.

So...Tuesday in Holy Week. At the coffee shop. Shawn Colvin is singing "Steady On" on the jukebox. I was fed a delicious breakfast by my Bible Study group. My assistant is a copying fool and things are good there. And one sermon is (almost) done. So things are pretty good. Exhaustion is inevitable. But I'm well prepared (you should see my organized refrigerator!). More to come...

Blek

2010-03-17T09:49:00.000-05:00

Things have been a little wonky lately. Between Daylight Savings Time, my insane (for me) travel with my grandmother's funeral, negotiating stuff that at work that has to be negotiated, like tuck pointing and boiler maintenance and voicemail mailboxes and other less than Gospel-centric things, and oh, yeah, the season of Lent--I'm having trouble keeping up. I'm seriously tired, y'all. That kind of how-do-I-manage-my-life, how-do-I-keep-this-up tired. It's the tired that comes not from not getting enough sleep, but from not having enough whatever-it-is in me to do what needs to be done. I haven't been to the gym in forever. I am, on the bright side, doing pretty well in terms of eating and cooking, but the sort of basic self care? That's out the window.

It's a phase, a season, and it will pass, but right now, getting dressed and out the door is like the biggest task of the day.

On the bookshelf: By Grief Transformed

2010-03-12T21:29:00.000-06:00

So I'm knee deep into this book, By Grief Transformed: Dream and the Mourning Process. It's written by Jungian analyst (and one of my mom's BFF's) Susan Olson. The truth is that I'm not much of a reader--I have a gazillion books, but ever since I got out of seminary, save some trashy mysteries and the weekly need to read commentaries, my literary intake has been minimal. I listen to tons of books (thanks to Audible.com), but in terms of paper books, I'm just not that much of a reader. My mom sent me the book and I got it Wednesday afternoon. I peeked at it just before our Wednesday Night Forum began and got hooked. It's a strange book to be "hooked" on and yet I am having trouble putting it down. In it, Susan writes about the death of her daughter, Elizabeth, who was a vital and vibrant part of my childhood. Susan writes about dreams and archetypes and it is so captivating, that I've had a hard time putting the book down. It's not exactly a "feel good" book--I mean it's all about death, dying and grief. But it is, I think, a book about resurrection, although that's my terminology, not Susan's (at least to the point I've reached).

It is strange, all these years later, to read about Elizabeth's death. I never knew my father's parents. And when my biological grandmother died (on my father's side), I was 7 years old. The funeral and the time around her death are vivid, but I didn't hurt, I didn't experience the loss that death brings with her death. I was, I think, for the most part, unmarked by the sting of death until that March 3rd of my Junior year in High School. My high school pal Dan and I had gone ice skating in Atlanta. It was long before the advent of cell phones. We stopped on the side of the road and watched a KKK rally, horrified and fascinated, hiding at a safe distance. And then we went back to his house, where my mother had been calling and calling, waiting for me to get from Atlanta, urgency in her voice. She wanted me back at home. The horror, the unexpectedness, the capture of death had shaken her, as news of Elizabeth's death moved throughout the town. I remember it as if it was yesterday. And so I read, all these years later, the story, the unimaginable heartbreak of a mother who has lost a child and yet has found, through dreams and myth and the strange weavings of God a place of life and goodness. It is captivating, I know, in part, for me because I knew Elizabeth. But more than the individual knowledge, this book opens a gateway, opens a lens, opens a door, for seeing the transformative power of both dreams and death. It's not an easy read--it is filled with emotion that is real and sometimes raw. But it's a good read. Okay. Enough writing. Back to reading....

Wednesday Afternoon Recipe Blogging

2010-03-10T16:23:00.001-06:00

Yesterday I wrote a whole long blog post only to erase it by accident. Grr. Argh! And I haven't had time to sit down and write a replacement. So instead, I'll offer this:

I'm working late tonight and had some space in my schedule to comehome a do a bit of cooking. In a Weight Watchers meeting last week, someone tried a recipe for Butternut Squash Ricotta Baked Pasta. It's a Weight Watchers recipe and I decided to give it a shot today.

The recipe lists the dish as one that takes "moderate" skills. It took a few pans, but was super easy to make (I think it's listed as "Moderate" because of the multiple pans).

Here are my thoughts--I love garlic, but I've made this sauce twice and somehow the garlic seems to clash a bit with the flavor of the faux rue. So I'd cut down, if not cut out, the garlic in this.

And...Trader Joe's now has canned butternut squash puree. I suspect this would work as well as doing the work of cutting, baking and mashing the squash.

For what it's worth--the walnuts and the ricotta make this dish very delicious! Enjoy!!

2 spray(s) cooking spray
20 oz butternut squash, fresh, peeled and cubed
1/8 tsp table salt, for cooking pasta
12 oz uncooked whole-wheat pasta, penne
1 1/4 cup(s) fat-free skim milk
2 Tbsp white all-purpose flour
2 tsp minced garlic
1/2 tsp table salt
1/4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground, or to taste
1 Tbsp thyme, fresh, chopped, divided
1/2 cup(s) part-skim ricotta cheese
1/3 cup(s) grated Parmesan cheese, Parmigiano-Reggiano recommended
1/4 cup(s) chopped walnuts, toasted

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Coat a baking sheet with cooking spray. Coat a 2 1/2- to 3-quart baking dish with cooking spray. Place squash on prepared baking sheet; roast until tender, about 20 to 30 minutes. Place in a large bowl and mash. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. After squash has been roasting for about 10 minutes, cook pasta according to package directions; drain and return to pot. In a medium saucepan, whisk together milk, flour, garlic, salt and pepper. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, whisking frequently; reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring often, until thickened, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat; stir in mashed squash and 2 1/2 teaspoons of thyme. Add sauce to pasta; toss to mix and coat. Transfer pasta mixture to prepared baking dish; dot with spoonfuls of ricotta and then sprinkle with Parmesan and walnuts. Bake until top is lightly browned in a few spots, about 15 to 20 minutes; remove from oven and sprinkle with remaining 1/2 teaspoon of thyme. Yields about 1 cup per serving.

Here

2010-03-04T19:13:00.002-06:00

I'm here. In Athens. Eulogy written. I'll post it under sermons sometime later this week. It's long by my standards. And not a sermon, but a eulogy. But I'll post it there anyway.

I'm drinking wine and eating pie. I don't need my coat on outside. I'll sleep well tonight.

The calm before the...

2010-03-03T15:28:00.000-06:00

I head back to Athens tomorrow. My uncle began texting me at 3:31 AM this morning (I know because I sleep with my phone beside my bed). 3:31, y'all. I think the family has officially gone insane. Like my grandmother dies, and no one knows how to function (yes, I'm being dramatic. No one is really that crazy. Yet.) I am up to my eyeballs in bulletins for the burial, sticky-notes with reminders to pick up the dry-cleaning and alterations, pastoral care meetings and oh, yes, the ever present need to do laundry. Sigh. I'll get home around 8:30 tonight and start on laundry, do the much over-due dishes in the sink, pack and try to write this damn eulogy.

I'm used to last minute writing. Most of my sermons are written on Saturday evenings. I do lots of reading during the week, some study, maybe even jot down an idea or two, but somehow the big writing part seems to wait until the very.last.minute. Always. I'm hoping the same is true here.

I don't often write about him here, but I'm overwhelmed by the goodness of my partner in crime. The guy I work with, who serves both as organist and parish administrator. Out of the sheer goodness of his heart, he's formatting and printing the burial office bulletins for me. And he--honest-to-God--he offered to fly down and play my grandmother's funeral. But more than all that, he can handle my moody frustration and laughs appropriately when I tell family stories and actually knows and (sort-of) likes the Church in the Wildwood (one of the more odd hymn choices that we're going with on Friday). It's good to have good people around.

The other good news: I found my Coach purse. It's the only "dress" purse I have, the only purse I have that doesn't look like it came from a store that sells to drag-queens and hookers (that's where I usually buy my purses). So at least that's covered.

I hated Finding Nemo, but I'm singing the song today. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming....

Correction

2010-03-02T17:19:00.000-06:00

So my father informs me that the recipe I included in yesterday's blog entry is not for the slow cooker but to be cooked up in the skillet! Apologies!

As for me...I'm working on my grandmother's eulogy. Still. It's so damn hard. Going nowhere fast. I need to get over the idea that I'll cover all 90 of her years in one piece. Add to it some of the chaos of family and trying to include all of their stories in mine and I'm looking at a colossal mess. Blek. There's a reason I encourage family members not to do this!

A random blog entry on food

2010-03-01T09:17:00.001-06:00

I've been doing a lot of cooking lately. Less than what your average housewife or mom (of which I fall into neither category) does, but a lot more than I usually do. It's been for a multitude of reasons: to save money, because I'm doing Weight Watchers, because I'm eating less meat. But also, I like to cook. I'm not very good at it, but I enjoy it when I can. What I have trouble with is putting it all together. I mean, I can cook a dish, but I have more trouble creating a meal. Or a menu for the week. It feels like pulling teeth. And I am so jealous of my friends who seem to be able to pull it all together and make it seem effortless.

Growing up, both my parents did a fair amount of cooking. My father made this amazing and deliciously spicy pasta sauce (which, Papa, if you're reading this, would you email that recipe to me?). In fact, my father used to cook all kinds of amazing stuff. As a kid, I know I was a total a-hole about his food because it wasn't generic. I mean, I think I wanted what I now refer to as "middle America" food: bottled salad dressing, Mac & Cheese out of a box, hotdogs and hamburgers. I didn't grow up on that stuff. I grew up on big salads (my mom makes the most amazing salads on the planet. I can run a close second when I try, but nobody puts together salads like she does. And she always makes her own creative dressings.), very spicy food, usually with minimal meat. Or rather, meat not as the center. You know, meat and a veggie and a starch as the generic meal--ours never looked like that. Way more heavy on the veggies. I can remember being embarrassed when friends would come over because it wasn't food like you'd see advertised on TV, like Shake and Bake or Hamburger Helper (that would be added to the repertoire at my father's house when he married his third wife. That and breaking up the spaghetti so that it could no longer be twirled--the true scandal of my youth).

When my mom and my step-dad married, suddenly there were teen and pre-teen kids living in one house. So not only were they negotiating what married life meant, but we were an instant, not-well-mixed, kinda lumpy blended family. Food was a huge issue: my step-sister drank Coke in insane quantities. My step-brother only liked canned spinach. My primarily vegetarian mother and I ate a lot of funny looking food that didn't go over terribly well with the other half of the family. Food was a source of stress. And so we began to go out a lot. I think at least 3 nights out of the week, the "family dinner table" was at the local pizza joint. So in some ways, eating out feels more like the family dinner table than anywhere else.

So now I'm trying to return to the times of my youth--when food was eaten at a table, prepared by members of the family. It sounds kinda corny here, but there's something great about peeling a butternut squash and talking about your day. I'm also in love with slow cooker recipes. I'm making this bbq tofu chili weight watchers recipe and it's insane how good it is (and I'm not even that big of a tofu fan). And if you're curious about one of my father's insanely delicious and spicy recipes, here's an easy one, ~~fashioned for a crock pot~~, cook in a skillet, all together:

Picadilo:

1 pound ground beef

1 chopped green pepper

1 garlic clove, chopped

2 onions, chopped

1 large can of tomatoes

½ cup of raisins

1 cup of olives

1 tablespoon of capers

1 tablespoon of red wine vinegar

Cook it up and serve it over rice…++

home to home to home

2010-02-27T16:23:00.002-06:00

So dear readers...y'all will cut me a little slack on my "write everyday during Lent" promise, given the whole bit with my grandma dying, right? I have no brain at all right now, but here's what's been happening...

Flew out from Chicago to Athens. Flew back 41 hours later. Went flat out the entire time. That include what I'm affectionately referring to at the Fisher-Shoemaker Shopping Olympics. My step-dad is hands down the world's best shopping buddy. In under two hours we purchased a suit (originally $272, marked down to $79--gorgeous buttons and piping), a dress (originally $115, marked down to $38, with plenty o' wear left this season--it helps to buy clothes for Chicago in GA--spring comes sooner there!) and a shell for under the suit ($22, marked down to $11). Did I mention we did this in under 2 hours and that 5 stores were involved? Okay, three were at the mall, but still....

I digress. Although the relief I felt to have a non-clergy outfit, appropriate for the occasion, was palpable. I sat down in the car after our trip and felt massive amounts of tension leave my shoulders. This was after I spent the morning with the pastor from my uncle's Methodist church. Um...this woman? A-fricking-mazing. PhD from Harvard in Hebrew Scripture, taught at Duke, now at UGA, has twins, and in her spare time--manages to pastor a church. Yeah, a total rock-star pastor. More than that, she gave me lessons--true lessons--in the gift of flexibility and pastoral care. For all my rigidity about the liturgy, music, what is acceptable and what is not, this woman handed my family the gift of flow. Willing to use the Episcopal liturgy in the Methodist church, securing for us my grandmother's old church, the constant mantra of "whatever will mean the most for your family." It was a gift. It's not that I'll totally change my somewhat rigid ways, but I do think I can appreciate, at a deeper level, having been on the other side of the pastoral care desk, what a gift her willingness to move into the potential battlefield of our multi-denomination, politically and theologically...um..."diverse" family. Her flexibility allowed room for some grace and some common ground. Again, brain dead, so not sure if any of this is making any sense.

After meeting with Pastor Beth, I went to Lord and Stephens, the funeral home. I've known Tom Lord, one of the owners, for years. He used to work out at the gym where my massage practice was first housed. Such a good man. They buried my grandfather and my aunt. And I always knew they were good. And then I moved to Chicago and started dealing with funeral homes up here. Lord have mercy...y'all...there is just no place like home or like Lord and Stephens. I never thought I'd feel "spoiled" by a funeral home (probably a poor choice of words), but they, like Pastor Beth, offer some of the best pastoral care out there. Anyhoo...we spend for-fricking-ever going over every possible detail, from where our cars would be parked at the chuch to what music would be on the DVD "memorial" (NB: When I die, or when I turn 40, please do not make one of these for me. And if you do, please do not include "Love can build a bridge" by the Judds. I know my grandma loved it, but lawsy...the Judds? Really? Y'all can pray for me that my Southern graciousness--it's in there somewhere--will come out while the video is on.)

The best part of my whirl wind trip was, of course, last night with the family. My cousins, my auntie Lynn and my uncle Bill, mom & step-daddy. All good. Max, my cousin, is now driving. And is obsessed with Failblog. So in the midst of conversations and remembrances of my grandmother, was the much needed comic relief of that. And that he wouldn't let my Mom or his mom see some of them, but that I was "cool enough" to see, despite my priestly and older status, was kinda great.

Step-daddy and I got up at 3:30 and left for the airport. I always love the still of that time of day. Had coffee and breakfast with him before I left through security. And I sat between two women going to a conference on a sardine packed plane. They were a riot. I was too. So it was all good.

Today has been about alterations to the new suit and finding the perfect scarf to go with said suit. Sitting down for the first time, I find myself lost. I'm writing her "eulogy." I don't quite know how to do that. And while I suspect the Gospel text will frame it some, it feels so overwhelming. Do I include the part about her favorite dumb joke, the monkey joke? Do I leave out the fact that her carrot cake is the closest thing to heaven you'll ever taste? Do I talk about the family or her work? How do I weave in all those stories? The story I want to tell--for that's what it is--me, trying and failing, but trying none the less, to weave together one strand of the story of her life--the story I want to tell is too big. And I suspect, at some level, I spent the rest of my life trying to write it down, to etch it on me. So...where to go from here? And how to get there?

I have until Thursday morning, when I pick up and head back to the airport for round two. Stay tuned....

Emily Carol Callaway McDonald

2010-02-24T23:04:00.000-06:00

Grandmother

Mother

Wife

Beloved of God

Rest Eternal Grant unto her and let light perpetual shine upon her.

May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God

Rest in peace.

waiting

2010-02-23T11:48:00.000-06:00

I'm away at a clergy day, at the Morton Arboretum. It is beyond beautiful. Like those Christmas Card images of snow on trees and vast amounts of space. A winter wonderland, untouched by the city stains that turn snow to sludge to mush to gross. We spent the morning singing and in prayer, and, ever the skeptic, I expected to be annoyed by the singing. To my shock and delight, it was actually pretty great. And moments of stillness filtered in and space opened and coffee made its way to me and all was right with the world.

When I saw my mother had left a voice mail on my cellphone, my heart instantly leapt to my grandmother. Lent seems to be her dying season. This time last year we got the "she's dying tomorrow, get your ass home" rally cry. Not only did she not die, but she got, if not better, she got stable. She has remained under hospice care.

The hospice nurse called my mom, who is understandably in shock. She thinks my grandmother has maybe a day or two left. I am looking at plane fares. Debating between church responsibilities and questions of the needs of my soul, my heart to see that face just once more.

She has let go of me, in her memory. But I have not let go of her. Bloated and changed, helpless and different as she looks in a hospital bed, she is still the face that showed me what joy looks like, that etched on me my belovedness. Hers is still the face of heartbreak and wondering what could've been done differently, of wondering how to fix a person who is broken. Hers is the face of love, of patience, of despair and of hope. Hers is the face of a grandmother.

Spiritual Exercises for the 40 Days (Part III)

2010-02-22T19:59:00.017-06:00

Day Twenty Six: Remember your baptism. Remember the promises you made in baptism, or the promises made on your behalf. Write them down. Carry them in your pocket. Figure out which ones you struggle with and which ones give you life. Remember who you are.

Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?

I will, with God’s help.

Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?

I will, with God’s help.

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?

I will, with God’s help.

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

I will, with God’s help.

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

I will, with God’s help.

Day Twenty-Seven: Write a prayer. One relatively easy was is to write a collect, which follows pretty simple formula: 1. Address to God with an attribute (Blessed are you, all Holy God, source of Life and giver of good thing). 2. Name your need or thanksgiving (Grant to your people peace in a time of war, joy in a time of sorrow, comfort in the midst of struggle) 3. A statement of intention or result of the need or thanksgiving (that we might show forth your glory in all the world) 4. Closing (All this we ask through your Son Jesus Christ, the light of the world and the hope of our salvation Amen).

N.B.: I write this having spent a good part of the day crafting a liturgy and adapting post-communion prayer from the St.Basil (which now looks remarkably un-like St. Basil's original intent!). Anyway...this exercise, at least for me, helps me get in touch with my own deeper needs.

Day Twenty-Eight: Watch a movie in your PJs. Or something like this. The point is Sabbath. It's a huge part of the Jewish tradition and theoretically of the Christian faith as well, but somehow we seem to miss the mark. So take make dinner the night before in the crock pot, turn off your cell phone, pour a glass of wine and snuggle up with your honey. Rest and be restored.

Day Twenty-Nine: Read. I'm reading Brian McClaren's Finding Our Way Again: The Return of the Ancient Practices. It's all about returning to the ancient practices that have been part of our faith since the time of Abraham and discovering how they can still shape and form us.

Day Thirty: Light a candle. Watch the flame. For those of us who move a lot and find it hard to meditate, focusing on the flame is a wonderful way to slow down and be still.

Day Thirty-One: Give. Stewardship is one of the most basic parts of the Christian life but the church has lost sight of the transformative power of true stewardship. What do you give? Why do you give? How has your giving changed you and the way you look at the world? Do you live in the fear of scarcity or the joy of abundance? More from me on stewardship later, because it's a topic near and dear to my heart, but for now, from the 26th chapter of Deuteronomy: The LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O LORD, have given me.

Oh, and this: TENS, the Episcopal Network for Stewardship. Their conference changed my life and the way I see giving.

Day Thirty-Two: Engage in body prayer--yoga or swimming or simply walking. Create sacred space in yourself.

Day Thirty-Three: Read the psalms. They contain so much of the human experience, from rejoicing to lamenting. Ever wonder if it's okay to get mad with God? Look no further than the psalms. I love the first part of psalm 139. I'm working towards memorizing it by Easter. What psalm speaks to your heart?

Day Thirty-Four: Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Or, plan for the future and get your affairs in order. I was sitting in a hospital room with a woman on life support. They expected her to be dead by 10:00 AM. At 4:00 in the afternoon, she was still alive, but only because her daughter had no idea what to do. She was a vegetable, for all intensive purposes, breathing only by machine, growing more bloated by the minute as her organs shut down. I've seen it now more times than I'd like.

This week, my father sent me a request to be listed as one of the people who will make decisions about his health care if he or his beloved are unable to do so. He gave me about 25 ways to say "no I don't want to do this." And the truth is, I don't want to do it, but I am grateful that I have the option to oversee his care, to ensure that, if that time comes, he will be treated compassionately and in accordance to his wishes, which are clearly spelled out.

Likewise, I laugh at my mom every time she comes to visit. She brings addendums to this HUGE notebook. But in that notebook, which sits nicely on my bookshelf, is every last thing I could ever need to know about how to care for her, should she be unable to care for herself, and what kind of burial she wants. Codes to the safe, keys to the safety deposit box, health records for the dogs and hymns to be sung--all are listed.

I say all this because it's helpful to know not only what you want, but to make sure those who love you know what you want. Because we are dust and to dust we shall return.

Day Thirty Five: Find the sacred in the secular. It's all around us. Anyone who knows me or has heard me preach knows that I think Buffy has some of the best theology as well as imagery of the divine in our ordinary lives. But there are a million other places too. At the risk of sounding like a religious nut, there are times when I've turned on the radio and I could swear it was the voice of God singing to me (usually through Michael Stipe). Music, books, television, movies. Find the places where God hides in our world and recognize those places for who they really are.

Day Thirty Six: Tell stories. We are a people of the Book, which is to say, we are a people of stories. Long before The Bible was tucked away in cheap motels as a gift from the Gideons, long before St. Jerome translated the Bible into Latin, long before it was written down, it was told. Stories passed from generation to generation. Tell stories. Stories of who you are. Listen to stories, stories of where you came from.

Day Thirty-Seven: Blessed are those whose strength is in You. They have set their hearts on pilgrimage (Psalm 84:5). Make a pilgrimage. More than a trip, a pilgrimage is a journey, one with significance, one that informs our faith. There are pilgrimages that are about exploring the destination, like Jerusalem or Rome. And there are pilgrimages that are more about the journey itself, like the Camino de Santiago. Pilgrimage is both internal and external and somewhere in that mix, God steps in and moves us in a unexpected ways.

Day Thirty-Eight: Find Jesus at the Wal-Greens. Or at Starbucks. Or sitting alone on the steps of the church. All these people, created in the image of God, walking past us, noticed and unnoticed, day in, day out. Can you see the light of Christ radiating from them?

Day Thirty- Nine: Recycle. Save water. Carpool. Walk to work. Take care of God's creation and remember those who will live come after us.

Day Forty: Look for resurrection. We are a resurrection people. All that we do, especially in this season of Lent, can really only be understood through the lens of resurrection. So look for it. And dance with joy when it is found.

Coffee is Sexy

2010-02-21T14:16:00.000-06:00

Before he was Buffy's watcher, he was just a sexy, coffee drinking man. Here's the first in the famous series of coffee adverts. Enjoy!

Saturday Night

2010-02-20T23:14:00.000-06:00

I'm still recovering from Ash Wednesday. Three services (the first starting at 7:00 AM--gah), constantly reminding people of their mortality, just gets exhausting. I slept in on Friday and felt like I never fully woke up. And then today hit: Eucharist, followed by leading a sort-of "how to" writing workshop for folks who are writing mediations for our Easter booklet, followed by a funeral, followed by a hospital visit to the former rector who's about to undergo heart surgery, followed by writing a sermon. I'm beat. But I've also just had 3 cups of coffee, so I'm not ready to sleep yet. So I'm watching Buffy. And tweaking my sermon. And hoping that within the hour I'll be asleep.

Someday I'll figure out how to pace this whole priestly life thing. But right now I'm feeling swamped and ineffective. The good news is that I'm not alone. Tonight my friend Kevin & I spent the evening at the coffee shop working on our sermons. Life is better when it's not done in isolation. Tomorrow I'll get up and my congregation will teach me something. And the snow will fall (boo!!!) and the week will come and somehow the things that need to happen will happen and the things that can wait will wait. One day at a time, even when they're really long days like today.