Mercy and Roller Skates

In my second year at Seminary I got a pair of rollerblades for my birthday. I was thrilled to get the skates. I had big plans for them. I was going to exercise with them every day in the park. I was going to elegantly cruise down the sidewalk.

The first day, I put on my safety pads and headed out. I was wobbly and frightened, but I was exhilarated! I had a need for speed. The next day, after class, I headed out again, without my pads. As I cruised around the Seminary, over and over again I would run into classmates who would murmur: “you should be wearing pads, you are going to break something.” Wouldn’t you know it; I rolled down the sidewalk and bam! I fell down and broke my wrist.

It hurt so much! As I staggered back to my room, dragging my killer skates behind me with my one good hand, I saw my classmates. Some laughed. Some sighed. All said: “I told you so.” They offered neither help, nor sympathy.

Indeed, my classmates were right. I knew that they were right. I should have worn pads, but I took the risk. They were right, but right then I did not need them to be right. I needed someone to take me to the emergency room.

Thank God for Kate! Kate drove me to the emergency room when I was not sure how I would even get there. She sat with me until I saw the doctor and drove me home. The whole time she did not wag her finger or remind me at my stupidity. She just asked how she could help me.

At that time, I did not really know Kate that well. I saw her in class. I knew her from the church I attended there. We would talk every now and then. I asked her why she helped me as she drove me home. She told me: “I know what it feels like to do something stupid, but you need help, and no one will help you.” I knew then that I had a good friend.

From this experience I have learned three things. Number one, wear safety pads, even if you think you do not need them, just wear them anyway. Number two, being human means that we do really stupid things sometimes. Number three, sometimes we need mercy more than we need to know that we are wrong.

As humans, most of the time we know when we screw up and make mistakes. I am not sure we really need an “I told you so” or “I thought that would happen.” Maybe someone makes the same mistakes again and again, but shaming that person with "I told you so" does not make that person change. It might not be a matter of knowing that something is a bad idea, as much as one must accept that something is a bad idea for them.

Sure, we do not want others to suffer down the same road we have walked. We might be a fountain of valuable knowledge and know how. We may want to offer advice, and we hope that people will take our advice. We hope others will take our valuable gems to heart, but it is their right not to take our advice, nor have our advice forced upon them. We cannot force people to change.

I think change really happens when we receive mercy even when we should have known better. Maybe we have been told a thousand times to wear pads, but we still do not. We even know the consequences. We fall, and we know that we are broken and hurt. The question is not: did we know better? The question is: will you help me? Will we pass judgment or will we give mercy?

For those who have asked - the cheese straw recipe

First, the visit from Bishop Robinson was wonderful.  We're still waiting on pictures.  Check the DSM Facebook page - we'll post some there.

I called Albert after the event and simply said, "The Church got that call for Bishop right."

And, for those of you who sent lovely emails and asked in the comments, here is the recipe for Christine's Cheese Straws (because in the South, all recipes are named for a person.  Don't ask.  It's part of our Deep South Crazy.

2 cups of grated sharp cheese
1 stick of Parkay margarine or 1/2 cup of butter
1 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour
1 level teaspoon of baking powder
Dash (or much more) of red pepper to taste
Salt to taste

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Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grind or grate the cheese (personal advice - don't use pre-shredded; doesn't work as well for some unknown reason).  Add butter and cream together in a bowl.  Add flour, pepper, baking powder, and salt.

Make straws by pressing dough through a cookie press onto a greased baking sheet (personal aside - if you don't have a cookie press, but the end off of a zip-lock bag and pipe through.  You want straws that are about 1/2 to 3/4 of an inch wide and about 2-3 inches long).

Bake about 20 minutes.  Remove to cool.

Eat and enjoy.

The Peace of Cheese Straws

Mention the General Convention of 2003 to most Episcopal clergy and laity, and they will know exactly where they were.  I was a fairly new priest in an old historic congregation in Mobile, Alabama that leaned a bit more right than I.  But they were a fine community, a place in which I learned (again) that loving one's neighbor has very little to do with whole-hearted agreement on all issues.  They were a community in which I took those first tentative steps into my official holy orders, even if some in the congregation were convinced I was a communist infiltrator or feminist.   I loved and love them, and I loved working with Albert, the rector, who also leaned a bit more to the right than I.  We were colleagues and are friends.  And the latter part of 2003 was traumatic for both of us.  Needless to say, when the 2003 General Convention confirmed the election of Gene Robinson to be the new bishop of New Hampshire, the number of us celebrating that decision at the parish and in my diocese could be counted on one hand.

The number sharpening their words like pitchforks and knives was considerably larger.  Because I thought the full inclusion of openly gay and lesbian people to the ministry was a quite fine idea, the next few months were about as much fun as a colonoscopy.  Without anesthesia.  To be fair, the rector, who did not think the consent was a fine idea, also had about as much fun as a colonoscopy, too.  Angry people don't care who they crucify, as long as they see blood flow.

Life went forward.  Bishop Robinson was consecrated.  Much like the ordination of women, the dire predictions of the bell towers of every Episcopal church imploding did not come to pass.  Some of our family could not eat at the table with us any more, so they left.  Time shared her gift of healing.  Some people who had acted hurtfully apologized.  Others did not.  Some relationships were mended.  Others were not.  Albert retired across the Bay.  I am now a rector, and I will be welcoming to the parish where I serve Bishop V. Gene Robinson.

I'm pretty darn excited about the whole event.  I even get to host Bishop Robinson and his partner at a small dinner party beforehand.  I'm making paella.  And cheese straws will be served.

Cheese straws, for those of you not in the know, are basically cheese cookies with a dash of Southern.  One cannot go to a cocktail party, luncheon, or dinner party in the Deep South and not find them in small crystal or china antique serving dishes.  I don't know that they particularly go with paella, but that's not why they will be served.

Albert is making them and mailing them from Alabama.  He is sending them as a gift, and one that will be on the table that evening.

I can make cheese straws.  Every Southern woman I know has a family recipe.  But these will be sent from a man who felt the lashes from those he'd called friends because, while he did not think openly gay men and lesbian women should be ordained, he also recognized they were beloved children of God and said so.   His brother-in-law Sammy, a gay man, had died of AIDS many years earlier.  He knew that "gays and lesbians" were not adjectives, but people - beloved people with beloved families.  When Albert retired from parish ministry, he took a part-time position at a parish that is inclusive and welcoming.  I believe he may still be of a generation that isn't as non-chalant about full inclusion as mine, but he is certainly not where he was.

I've always been impressed with those who could admit their journeys of faith, those who share their stories of, "I used to think this, but now I think this."  Admitting that where we were is not where we are takes courage.  Many people act like where they are is where they've always been, as if they have always been on the "right" side of things and never had to think, reflect, change, grow, or repent.

The fashion of the 70's and 80's alone prove otherwise.

Short of Jesus Christ, we've all been wrong.  We've all let our prejudices take over, allowed our desire for comfort overwhelm our hope for justice, and ignored the pleas of the least of these because they interrupted our own agendas.  One could argue that the whole episode with Jesus and the Syro-Phoenecian woman shows Jesus confronting his own assumptions and having them change.  Jesus himself models the holy practice of hearing the story of another and allowing their story to change us.

Change is not a sign of weakness, but of immense strength of character.  A willingness to be enticed on the journey by awareness and insight is an offering of the faithful.  As my friend Albert has said to me many times, our present is often not our future.  Even moreso, he lives it, even in retirement.

Albert and his family cannot be in Lexington at St. Michael's on Saturday, but they wanted to be a part of this evening and share it with Bishop Robinson, Bishop Sauls, and me.  Not because it's a big deal, but because coming to the table with Bishop Robinson is a lovely moment of communion in its broadest sense for all of us.  Sharing food together is sharing our story, laughing at the past (even if the laughter still covers a few tears), and coming together in joy and thanksgiving.

"Hey, pull up a chair.  Have a Coke.  Isn't the weather unusually hot for this time of year?  Have a cheese straw.  Tell me your story.  Would you like to hear mine?  Sit with me in friendship."

I will serve cheese straws from his mother-in-law's recipe in my great-grandmother's china bowls.  I serve them and share the message that was enclosed with them:  "These are from Sammy's family who send thanks and respect to all who work to make the world less of the hell that he lived in."

We will sit that night in prayer and friendship, in community that has hurt and healed into something changed, different, and still faithful.  We will be together over the miles, my beloved friend in Alabama and my beloved community here, the past and the present, even with the whisperings of created faith yet to come.

And we will remember that God has an enchanting way of reminding us we are, indeed, all in this together.   Especially when we are sharing cheese straws and words of thanksgiving for how far we have come to make the world more welcoming to all.

Mission Projects

I spent last week in the mountains of Appalachia with a group of young people.  Not exactly a big trip, since Appalachia is pretty much my back yard.  We built porches for families whose back yards are rugged mountain rocks, so the porches give children a place to play and grown ups a place to relax.  We hiked through the Red River Gorge, one of the places of primal beauty inviting we humans to do nothing more than wander and walk and realize no matter how cool we are, most of us wouldn't last too long alone in the wilderness.  There is no toilet paper, among other things.

We spent part of the time at St. Timothy's Barnes Mountain (Kentucky).  It looks more like a storage building than a church, actually.  No historic stained glass or tall spire.  The Episcopal Shield sign is hand-painted (and peeling).  The sacristy is also the kitchen.  It's budget isn't the largest, and it's average Sunday attendance is probably about fifty, if that.

I wish more churches in our faith were like St. Timothy's.  Computers are along the same wall as the altar so children and adults can use them for entertainment and education in a region where most don't have access to computers or the internet.  Families from the region, among the poorest in the United States, gather for meals, for time together, and for worship.  The holy space is used almost seven days a week.  A chalice and paten sits among tool batteries recharging.  

Groups from outside Kentucky come in to serve and learn.  While they do construction projects for people in need, they also learn the story of Appalachia.  No one gets to come in and think the project is the only building happening that week; they are also the project, learning about the richness of a culture that is deep and lovely, learning that while their income level may be different from ours, they may not live in homes that look like ours, or whatever differences may be tangible, they have a story and something to share and teach us.  We all need constant reminding that dignity is an important part of relationship.

Mission is not something that is done well when we bring a sense of hierarchy, that we are going in to "save" someone, to help a person we see as beneath us in some way.  Mission is never assaultive, something done to another person or group.  Mission and ministry are acts of equality that respect the dignity of all involved.  Jesus, being the Son of God and all, could have easily held that I'm-Better-Than-You flag above the people he helped and healed.

He didn't.

He lived and ate and laughed with the people he helped.  Probably a clue for us, too, as we are serving our neighbors in need.  Remember that they are our neighbors, our equals in the eyes of God.  Remember that we have something to learn from them, perhaps about their lives and culture, perhaps about ourselves and our prejudices.

For the many things I love about St. Timothy's, one of my favorite is that they are a constant presence in the community on the mountain.  There are no glossy brochures extolling "an awesome mission experience."  Just a place where love abides and there is work to do.  When the summer mission season is over, St. Timothy's will still be a part of the mountain community.  When the snows come, the priest will still be checking on the people in the community.  When groups come in for spring break trips, they will hang siding and fix meals and eat with members - as equals.  They are a church, ever present in mission and ministry.

They are the church.  Period.

If you are interested in learning more about St. Timothy's or becoming part of that community in support and/or mission service, click here.