mollie

mollie is eight weeks old, and for the moment, thank God is sleeping.

this should last for at least four minutes before she goes back to chewing something to pieces. chewing something is better than what she does when she is neither chewing or sleeping, which is generally trying to turn our cream colored carpet into mellow yellow, a task to which she seems utterly dedicated.

i think her urinary tract must be attached to her lungs. inhale, urinate, inhale, urinate. inhale, urinate.

ok, so that’s an exaggeration. not that i’m exaggerating about her frequency of urination, but about her frequency of inhaling.

captain’s log, stardate 0129.2005: mollie’s first day at home
    mollie arrives home
    mollie drinks 3 ounces of water
    mollie runs to the carpet and squats
    jeanne screams, grabs mollie, and bolts outside
    mollie dumps 6 gallons on the snow
    jeanne brings mollie inside
    mollie drinks 3 ounces of water
    crew stuck in infinitely looping quantum time warp

i have no idea how Jesus multiplied the loaves and fish, but after watching mollie multiply water, any doubts have been washed away.

it has become apparent to me that mollie is a potential solution to extended drought and creeping deserts. just send her to the sahara with a gallon of water strapped to her back – and she’ll have the place completely flooded within a few years. if they'd send her to arrakis before the spice is discovered, it would save frank herbert from having to write all those dune books.

oxford dictionary mollie: noun
   (1) a popular aquarium fish;
   (2) an efficient device for water production in epic proportions.

so why put up with all this drama? because of cassie, i think. because cassie lived with us for 14 years… until two weeks ago… and we had become hopelessly dogified.

two days before jeanne and liz found mollie, someone asked jeanne why we were seeking a new puppy. her immediate response: because we have a dog-shaped hole in our hearts.

losing cassie was harder than we’d ever imagined.

i am finding that deaths get harder for me as i get older. any death i experience brings back every other death. people that are close to me, and people that are close to other people. sometimes i officiate at funerals for people i've never met. so it's not my own personal grief that i feel. yet looking into the faces of those who loved that person is so hard. i feel drawn into that dark, empty space. the grief is so close, so raw, and i find myself falling into that abyss with them.

i used to wonder why Jesus wept at lazarus' tomb. he knew full well what He was about to do. he had already hinted to his disciples that something astonishing and incredible was about to occur. he knew full well that just ten minutes hence, lazarus would arise, walk among them, and join everyone in the typical post-funeral feasting on cassaroles and thinly sliced honey ham.

yet Jesus wept. even for people of hope, people of the resurrection, there is weeping at death. this is all so subjective, but i sometimes wonder whether being a person of faith and hope doesn't permit one to feel the grief that much stronger. the faith and hope might, perhaps, give one the freedom to let down the barriers, to look death full in the face, to experience all of the grief, down to the last drop. i have no idea whether that's true, but i do know this: being a person of faith and hope doesn't diminish the depths of the grief one whit. she had been part of our family for half our married life, and more than two-thirds of our daughters' lives, and losing cassie was harder than we’d ever imagined.

so it wasn't really all that surprising to discover that while we laughed at mollie playing in the snow today, we talked incessently about cassie. we may always miss her. so why all the drama about water production and chewing and carpets? because mollie is teaching our broken hearts that they can live and love again. and that's some drama we really need.

if we don’t drown first under all mollie’s relentless flooding.



the Lord be with you

SUNDAY'S SERMON - Jan 30

Matthew 5:1-12
When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
"Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
"Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
"Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

I don’t have a Top Ten list, but there are a few things I really, really hate hearing:

“Sir, would you please take out your license and registration?”
“Now this won’t really hurt, but you might feel a slight pinch.”
“Oh, NO!!!! Rick, you need to come in here! QUICK!!!!”
“Ok, I’ve looked it over, and we have a little problem here.”
“Oh, you can’t miss it.”
“Hello, Dad? Now don’t freak out…”

One of the things said to me from time to time that I really hate to hear is this:
“You know what your problem is?”

Don’t you really hate that question? “You know what your problem is?”

Maybe we do, and maybe we don’t. Maybe our problems are things we don’t know about. But often, perhaps more likely, we do know what our problem is, but are clueless about what to do about them. And we're fairly sure that the critic is just as clueless -- perhaps more so.

Maybe our problem is that we’re human beings, and we have more problems than we can list. Maybe our problem is that we have some enormous problems that nobody can really help us solve. Maybe our problem is that we have some enormous problems that others could help us solve, if only they would. But they won’t. We wish somebody would help us, we really do. But usually our problems are not only beyond us, but beyond anybody else’s ability. Maybe our problem is that usually we’re stuck with our problems, all by ourselves, and that we just have to live with them, or chip away at them piece by piece for years on end. Often our problems will stay with us all our lives, and we’re free of them only through death and resurrection.

Maybe our problem is people who say, “You know what your problem is?”

Why do people do that to us?

Why do people, who likely have their own problems clinging to them like dog hair on a coat, feel free to say, so critically, so judgmentally, so infuriatingly, “You know what your problem is?”

Why do people, who obviously need fixing themselves, feel free to say, “Here, let me fix you.”

Perhaps it is because our society really prizes competency, skill, efficiency and effectiveness more than openness. We are a nation of fixers and problem solvers more than we are listeners. We prefer Yankee ingenuity more than Christian compassion. We want to fix the world. We can fix one another. But more than likely, it's so we don't have to face the reality of our own failures. If I can focus on fixing you, I won't notice the embarrassing reality of my own brokenness. “You know what your problem is? Here let me fix you.”

In stark contrast, Jesus declares, “Blessed are the meek… blessed are the peace makers.”

Instead of honoring the busybodies and the critics, Jesus honors the meek. Those who inherit the earth are not those who swagger, those who judge, but those who refrain from sticking their finger in your eye, knowing they have things in their own eye.

The Kingdom of God is not realized through self-righteousness, for unless our righteousness exceeds the righteousness of the self-righteous, we will never find our place in the Kingdom.

I can imagine James or John, the Sons of Thunder, swaggering up to Andrew or Peter, poking a rigid finger in his chest, jutting forward a chin, and challenging, “You know what your problem is? You’re not pure in heart.”

But the Sermon on the Mount must not be reduced to a new set of rules by which to judge others. We must not hang the Beatitudes over another person’s head like a new sword of Damocles, and think that the Kingdom is ours. If we do so, then we find that the Kingdom most certainly is not ours after all.

The Beatitudes are not a way of diagnosis, to end only in guilt or self-deception. Rather, they are a wild and bold declaration of a whole new way of being.

Jesus declares that the Kingdom has come near. And those who will be honored in the Kingdom, those who are the blessed, are not the ones our culture has encouraged us to be. In our world, we have been taught that the way to win is to look out for number one. The way to win is mount the best offence. The way to win is to dominate, overcome, overpower, win at all costs.

But this culture is bankrupt, imploding, disintegrating and collapsing. It is passing away. It has no future.

The Kingdom is coming. And the way of this coming Kingdom is most definitely not the way of the going-away Culture.

They way of the Kingdom is just the opposite of every way our culture urges us to go. If you want to really win, says Jesus, then let the other guy win. If you want to really live, then let having your own way die. If you want to be blessed, seek the blessing of others. If you want to have it all, you must let it all go.

That is why God became one of us. That is why Jesus let go of heaven. Let go of power. Let go of majesty. Let go of sovereignty and took on the form of a servant. Let go of life and embraced the cross. Because that is the way of the Kingdom. The only way to victory.

“You know what your problem is?”

Well, maybe. I sure know what SOME of my problems are. And frankly, I doubt very much that you can solve them. But, would you like to come join me as I embrace the Savior?

The Lord be with you.

At the Upward Bound Conference

When you read this, the Maryland winter sky will most likely be cold and gray. But as I write this, I’m not in Maryland. I’m with a gathering of 35 Episcopal clergy just west of Phoenix, in a place aptly named “Carefree, Arizona.” Many of us know one another. Four are people I know from Maryland, two I knew in Colorado, one I knew in seminary. One I had served with in another parish, one presently serves a parish I served in the past. Still others I have met in other settings. All of us gathered here this week to wrestle with a variety of issues and to pray, working hard to become better clergy, better Christians, and better people.

The work we’re doing is challenging and provocative, but the setting couldn’t be more congenial: Today the desert sky was so bright and blue it made me blink. The air was perfect: clean and warm. Tonight the sky was so black the stars shone brilliantly, and we pointed out our favorite constellations to one another. The last time I came to Phoenix for a gathering of clergy was a dozen years ago in July. The temperatures soared daily past 115, and it seemed that we were discovering first hand the reality of Hell. But not today. In a setting like today, and with such congenial colleagues, it seems so easy to believe in Heaven.

I’m not sure if it’s the setting, the issues we wrestled with today, or the particular people who have gathered here. But tonight as we gathered around picnic tables for dinner, we found ourselves drawn to conversations about faith. We told faith stories and laughed uproariously about human foolishness, especially our own. We marveled at the wonder of God’s gracious and relentless faithfulness toward us. Peace on earth; good will toward men.

I found myself wishing you were here, experiencing this with us. I know it is not always easy to think and talk about God. Where you work, the word “God” is more often than not reduced to a meaningless sound expressing surprise or alarm. Even when the Church gathers together on Sundays, when a focus on God is intended, conversation about God is not often easy. The liturgy centers on God, but our conversation does not. Listen to the conversations around you in the halls or at coffee hour, and discover whether we are sharing our faith stories with one another. The truth is, we don’t really know how or when to do that. So it seldom happens. That is why I wished you were here – to experience the profound joy and encouragement that comes from being in a group of people finding it easy to tell their own stories about their own longings and need for God – and about God’s breaking into our lives in unexpected new ways.

This, of course, is what we hope for in our parish. Our understanding of the word “church” is simply this: a people called into the fellowship of Christ: knowing Christ and making him known to others. A church is not an organization, it’s a community – a community of faith. God was in Christ reconciling the world. Now we gather together in Christ, becoming a people that knows and loves one another, a people with stories of faith that we tell to one another and to the world, a people gathered each week to wrestle with a variety of issues and to pray, working hard to become better Christians, and better people. Even under Maryland’s cold, winter skies!

Million Dollar Baby

i'm not sure there is another film director like clint eastwood to make me long for the Gospel.

if you loved bawling after Old Yeller and Shine, you'll really love Million Dollar Baby. i wasn't entirely sure i could make it out of the theatre in one piece, so wracked with sobs i could hardly move. (ok, so i'm a wimp. just give me a break and pass the kleenex, will ya?)

more than any other director i can think of, eastwood exposes the need for rescue. for redemption. for salvation. consider the stories of the aging, guilty and despairing gunman in Unforgiven... the estranged father, failed husband, aged thief in Absolute Power... the failed secret-service agent forever haunted by guilt for his inability to protect Kennedy from the assassin's bullet in In the Line of Fire... the ruined life following abduction and abuse culminating in even more injustice in Mystic River... and the unspeakable horror, grief, loss and despair in Million Dollar Baby.

what I deeply appreciate about eastwood's vision is his unflinching spotlight on human pain. he sees it, and tells it straight. eastwood knows pain. true pain. human pain. our pain. and his films are wonderfully adept at getting us to see that pain, to recognize it as the world's pain and ours. moreover, whether eastwood intends this or not, he always makes me see it as God's pain too. i leave an eastwood film knowing exactly why the Hound of Heaven relentlessly pursues us. and for this i am always grateful. this clear-eyed vision of reality, this splash of the cold icy water of what real humans experience and feel is something we all should see. the would-be contemplative (and i dare not call myself anything more than "would-be") must contemplate all the world -- the shadow as well as the light, the pain as well as the joy.

but what i do not love about eastwood's films is the absence of anything more. he has his finger absolutely on the pulse of the human need for redemption and hope. but there the film ends.

my soul cries out for rescue. for salvation. for some way out of the horror and despair. "Out of the depths, my soul cried to, O LORD..." (Ps 130.1)

but the film ends... and there has been no response to our cry.

this, by the way, is not a criticism. it may be a complaint, but it is not a criticism. Holy Scripture shares the same fault. Jonah ends on the downbeat, as do many of the Psalms, as do many of the stories. (who wants their stories of faith to end like Noah's, Lot's, or in the confusion of John the Baptist?)

perhaps it is enough to leave us gasping for breath, wracked with sobs, fully aware of our deep need, our voracious hunger for God -- and perhaps more importantly -- to know that this is universal? after all, didn't Jesus claim that those who truly hunger and thirst are blessed?

the Lord be with you

Quest

A long time ago in a state far, far away, i began the habit of a monthly spiritual reflection for the congregational newsletter.

my observation was that congregational newsletters tended by nature to be a collection of unrelated announcements, calendar items, and bad poems. it is a losing battle to get me to read them. but once in a while i would encounter a spiritual reflection that i found life giving and inspirational. to this i aspired as well.

this was long before i learned about journal keeping as a spiritual discipline. for that matter, it was before i ever heard of spiritual disciplines let along journal keeping as one of them. but i found the practice to be helpful for me and have continued the practice for about 20 years now.

eventually, when i began to learn about journal keeping and spiritual disciplines, i saw that this was what i was doing -- on a slow scale. serious journal keepers make daily entries, and serious journalists often publish weekly columns. since my reflection remained in the congregation's monthly newsletter, a monthly entry, one-page long, i'll happily admit that I make no claim to being serious!

but the blog has come of age. and my youngest daughter's blog has inspired me. so let's see what happens. at this point i am not making a commitment to writing more than once a month, in keeping with the parish newsletter schedule. but i think it would be good for me to write at least weekly. so, here we go. if you read this, i pray that your own quest for more of God will find encouragement here.

the Lord be with you