Friday Five: I Ask for Help

Thanks to Martha Spong over at RevGalBlog Pals, our instructions: 

So, for this Friday Five, please list four ways you have been helped when you didn't want to ask for it and one way you had a chance to help that meant a lot to you.


This one comes awfully close to the bone, for me.


1.  A little past midway in my seminary years (the MDiv was a three-year course but it took me seven years to complete, part-time), one of my faculty advisors gave me the task of setting my Learning Goals for the year ahead.  "EH?" I said.  "Learning Goals?  What means 'Learning Goals'?  Not understanding.  Passing courses, yes.  But YOU set Learning Goals, I meet them."  She wouldn't have it.  Finally she set one for me.  "I want you to LEARN how to ASK FOR HELP WHEN YOU NEED IT."  Further resistance on my part.  "But it's WRONG to ask for help.  I'm supposed to do MY OWN WORK. (Besides, who'd help me?  Ha.  Nobody, is who)..."  So I was helped in the first instance by being TOLD to learn to ask for help.


2.  In the meantime, I was struggling with my tax return.  Actually, staring paralyzed at it.  I had always filled out my own tax return.  But in that particular year, I had to report a Capital Gain, and I had NO idea how to do it...I knew I was owed a rebate, so there was no problem about late payment.  But the weeks rolled by...and about October, one night, lying awake fretting, I remembered that one of my seminary classmates was a Chartered Accountant.  "ah"  I said, "I'll bet HE knows what to do with a Capital Gain.  I shall ASK for HELP."  So expecting to be yelled at for Not Knowing How, I asked.  "Yes,"  he said.  "MMM-hmmm," he said.  "Give me your papers," he said.  And that was the end of the problem, right there.  No yelling.  No scorn.  Just "MMM-hmmmm" and a nice welcome rebate cheque in due course.  Amazing.


3.  Casting a lot farther back -- I remember the summer before I started university, at the lake with a group of other young folks, splashing around in the water just off the end of the dock, I -- non-swimmer -- stepped into a deep spot and couldn't find my footing again.  (I recall it now, vividly, when I see those information features about "Drowning Doesn't Look Like Drowning.")  I was struggling but not saying anything, when one of the girls about six feet away asked quietly, "Are you in trouble?"  I managed to nod my head, and without any fuss she had me into the shallow water in an instant...  "No problem," she said.


4.  This last week I was confronting a funeral in the parish where I'm doing interim ministry.  At one point it looked to me as though I was responsible not just for officiating and preaching and pastoral care but also for organizing (and possibly preparing!!!) the post-funeral lunch (70 people), and the funeral leaflet, which was complex (with reluctant, unfamiliar computers and unreliable internet)...and then all in one day the parish lunch-committee reported in (returned from vacation): "We're on it" -- and the funeral family announced, "We're making the leaflet, tell us what should be in it."  And there I was, free and clear to do what I DID know how to do.  The most wonderful feeling, when somebody else just comes and cheerfully TAKES AWAY a task you don't know how to tackle.


Times when I have been helpful.  Hmm---well, I was visiting an older parishioner whose divorce settlement had not been particularly generous although her (ex)husband was very affluent...she was expressing her worry about making ends meet on what she was allowed; and I enquired about a detail of the allocation of pension benefits...and encouraged her to consult her lawyer again -- it turned out he had missed a provision that was a matter of law, NOT negotiation; her income was substantially improved and she was also paid a big chunk of "back pay" -- she seemed to think that was pretty helpful!!!

something attempted, something done

Well, it's been kind of a fun day in the Interim Ministry department.  A lovely long confab with Marvelous Deacon filled the late morning hour...then Lunch and Lectionary with M Deacon and Fab Traveling Companion over Solomon, and the Temple, and the power of incense to knock clergy on their backs, and the status of "furriners'" prayers, and the whole armour of God, and the ever-lovin' bread of life YET AGAIN, and "Who you gonna call?" and all like that, all interspersed with munching on our own Desperately Healthy lunches.

Oh and during lunch -- phone calls.  St. Curious Too has more dang-nab phones -- land lines -- on the premises than any church I've ever entered.  So far I haven't found any phones in the washrooms, but EVERYWHERE else.  In consequence I had a fine conversation with a Victim Services lady in Herring-Choker Province, where they are fixing to incarcerate a young man found in possession of items stolen from the premises of St. Curious Too, back when (before my time).  Would we like to fill out a VICTIM IMPACT STATEMENT prior to his sentencing?  So that has come, by email.  And then a call from a young man in search of a baptismal certificate.

Fortunately, I was able to tell him that it was on my desk and will be in the mail within 24 hours.  He and I had had previous conversations about the Catch-22 situation he was facing, and we with him: "We can't issue you a certificate because we do not have the baptismal register under our eye.  Nor can you be re-baptized, because we know you were baptized.  But we do not know that in a form or to a degree which permits us to issue a certificate.  But you can't be re-baptized, because" and a-la-main left, and around we go again.  

About the fourth circuit of the problem I bethought me of the old Book of Common Prayer, with its wise and pragmatic and pastoral provision for when the circumstances of a prior baptism are not clear enough to satisfy the priest.  Not its only liturgical recognition that STUFF HAPPENS, and the stuff that HAS happened, is quite likely to happen again, so let us have a nifty little ceremony, here, just to cover that eventuality.

The Book of Alternative Services sounds pretty raw by comparison -- coming out of an era when I guess we were still somewhat convinced that "nothing could go wrong go wrong go wrong go wrong go wrong"  because we were all so clever and right-minded...

As it turned out, the Archives of Prairie Province had the register in question, and produced us a splendid document attesting to what is in the record, so our young man should be able to stand up and godfather his Roman Catholic friend's baby, and all's well all around.

And then, finally, a home communion visit with healing prayer for the couple who are filling my life with vegetables, after the manner of retired Prairie farmers of Slavic heritage.

Tomorrow -- day off -- will be a perfect ORGY of sugar, salt, vinegar, and Mason jars.  About six kinds of pickles, and chili sauce.

whew

trying to put together the reading (I Corinthians 15, natch) for tomorrow's funeral with the reflection upon it -- I can do this, and have done it, with a small (very small!) group of hearers, but this is likely to be a big (monster big) funeral. And I'm feeling a bit...spooked by the prospect. Prayers would be welcome!

a pastoral/liturgical conundrum...

All right, fellow sufferers, here is the Question of the Day.

St. Curious parish church: Sunday morning: two services, eight a.m., ten a.m. Both, except in truly exceptional situations, services of the Eucharist. Attendance at 10 a.m., between forty and sixty most normal Sundays. Attendance at 8 a.m., anywhere between two and twelve, ENTIRELY unpredictably, although severe weather naturally lowers that number. Not always the same folks, either.

So last night we have a forecast of serious freezing rain through the whole area. A regular eight-o'clock person phones me to say he won't try to attend (he has mobility issues). Nor will he be bringing the lady who usually comes with him. A third regular attender entered into rest on Wednesday last. So I have reason to expect FEW.

But. Freezing rain does not materialize, TBTG. I arrive at church without incident. I set up the chapel space for the Eucharist, and I get the vestments on.

Now if NOBODY shows up, I have two, or perhaps three, options: to do nothing, or to perform the Liturgy of the Word and stop there, or to say Morning Prayer. These I can do all by myself, and put "1" in the appropriate columns in the Vestry Book.

But. At 7:55, the front door creaks open, and Ms. X appears. Ms. X comes quite often. She is East Asian. She almost never speaks. She absolutely never makes eye contact, with anyone. When the other usual folks are present, she allows them to shake her hand at the Peace, and gruffly mutters, "You too. You too." in response to their greeting. And she absolutely never receives communion.

Now a side-comment for non-Anglicans. The denomination is somewhat OCD about the celebration of the Eucharist...CANNOT take place if the priest is ALONE -- but the wording is: "There shall be no Celebration of the Lord's Supper, except there be at least one person present to communicate with the Priest."

OK! So what does A do in these circumstances? Cancel the service? Didn't seem right. Curtail the service to just readings and prayers? Seemed unkind and impolite.

I applied some sort of home-made clawhammer casuistry, in the sacristy, and decided I couldn't PRESUME that she wouldn't suddenly decide, this Sunday of all Sundays, to take communion. Nor could I presume that nobody would come in after the service began (not unheard of).

So I took a deep breath, and we launched into it. I did read just the Gospel, I abbreviated the prayers. In the parts where all the people are to respond together, I did hear just the ghost of a shadow of a whisper of an echo accompanying my own voice. And I was, eventually, the sole communicant.

Any thoughts?

the real edge.

further adventures of the Rambler being priest-in-charge, pro tem...

Went into the office at St. Curious this morning, did some paperwork, sorted out all the alternative first-readings for Wednesday eucharists from now until mid-March. Secretary very pleased to have that squared away.

Made a couple of phone calls, caught a bite of lunch, and made a communion visit to one of our indomitable mothers-in-Zion who has been recuperating brilliantly from hip surgery, but now has A Pain that impedes her mobility rather a lot. Went on from there to visit her sister in palliative care at a not-too-distant auxiliary hospital. Another communion, and a lot of good conversation.

Back to church to tidy up and put stats in The Book. Altar Guild will have a fit when they see the number of little purificators soaking...

Home, some desultory supper, puddling about accomplishing not much of anything. And the phone rang. You ever have the phone ring, and you don't even have to pick it up? Yes. Lovely wife of a retired surgeon, he being a pillar of the "early service" -- and terminally ill -- and housebound after a fall on the ice before Christmas. I visited on Sunday and took them communion. He went to his rest earlier this evening. Now to help her plan the memorial next week. May he rest in peace and rise in glory -- a most engaging personality, a brilliant surgeon, and just perceptibly something of a rascal. Good to remember the insight of one of my favourite four-year-olds, that the Jacob Saga proves to us how much God loves rascals.

a quiet Tuesday

Not a very accomplishing day. I think if I can put my laundry in order and commence my packing, and get the kitchen tidy enough before bedtime, I'll have done all I needed to do. Tomorrow is also a day.

I'm away next weekend -- a foray to Wisconsin for an ordination...from Prairie Metropolis such excursions ideally begin with the hop to Minneapolis. There WAS an alternate route this time...Seattle, Denver, Chicago...I don't think so!!

Soon after I was ordained I found an extra-long garment bag, which I've used ever since for vestments: first my alb, and after I'd worn it threadbare, cassock, surplice, etc. For about the last five years it has been "non-zippered" and held sketchily closed with an array of safety pins. I want to take my vestments as carry-on baggage on this run, and the safety-pin expedient just doesn't cut it, I think.

So the other night I dug out a nail file and a pair of pliers and went to work on the zipper and managed (fingers crossed) to get the slider first opened up and then closed up again, so as to control MOST of the zipper (the remainder I have sewn together solidly). Happy sigh of accomplishment.

Oh yes! also riding in the vestment bag this trip will be a lighweight washable chasuble; it was a handed-down ordination gift from a Clergy Widow who had originally made it for her husband. Among the happy memories of my first year of ordination are a number of attempts by Clergy Widows to get "THAT cupboard" empty at last--as a result I was very well outfitted, far better than I could have afforded on my own. And now the chasuble is going to another new ordinand...and in HER baggage, to Jerusalem and the Holy Land. A comfortable thought.

And I have emptied three bags of books. Perhaps one more, this evening, in the intervals of laundry, ironing, and dish-washing?

As inspiration, I have printed the Puppy-Face seen above and posted it on the fridge...to remind myself of WHY I need to put the house in fit condition to harbour a big ol'dog.

Hoping upon my return to open up lines of communication with the nearest breeders of Gordon Setters. Most of the kennels I've looked up specify that they don't even arrange a breeding until they know they have takers for the hypothetical pups. I'm willing to wait, I think the breed is the better for this scrupulosity. It seems a bit odd, I guess, to set my heart on a dog I've never actually seen in the flesh...all I know is what I've read, and what I've been told about the Gordon my grandfather owned long before I was born! I don't want a dog to breed, or to show -- or to hunt!!! -- just a companion... and I love the setter shape and size...not sure I have the strength of character to tolerate the ditziness of an Irish.

I have friends with very well-behaved dogs who are a perfect joy, and friends with dogs which are Hysterical Monsters, so I'm approaching this project with some trepidation...must find my book about the monks of Skete and plumb its depths I guess!

Ash Wednesday

So last night I burned up some palm crosses -- about 16 of them amounted to maybe a tablespoon of ashes. Duly tamed ashes with about the same amount of olive oil from my pretty Cortona cruet. (Note to self: take care not to add balsamic vinegar from OTHER matching cruet by mistake. Not the same effect at all).

Shouldn't have started the process in the kitchen, though, the house still whiffs of smoke a bit. Finished up on the front porch.

We were ten for the morning service, followed by a lively and HIGHLY digressive Bible study, during which I attached the two dropped buttons to my cassock very successfully.

Then some collaborative office work, and a second draft of the sermon for Sunday. Unplugged toilet in women's washroom.

Cleaned up the last vestiges of the ash-imposing, hand-cleaning paraphernalia in readiness for this evening's service...drove home, had a nice cold sauerbraten sandwich for my lunch. Also salad (pauses to polish halo).

By the way I think I overdid it with the crushed gingersnaps to thicken the sauerbraten gravy. It was, well, rather FIRM. Think, "peanut butter." But tasty.

Have run one load of laundry.And had one nap, carefully restricted to one half-hour.

Time to do about an hour's blitz on the worst of the clutter with a view to freeing up space into which I can unpack books. And then, back to St. Curious for the second imposition of ashes, this time with hymns and all.

Also to infinite delight, first church pension cheque in today's mail -- w00t!

in which the Rambler comes out of retreat and revs up for Royalty...

Hello all.

It froze overnight, here in Prairie Metropolis. In Other Prairie Metropolis, 300 km. south, it's snowing.
"Oh what is so rare as a day in June,
Then, if ever, come perfect days."

Ha~!

I've been away at a Roman Catholic retreat centre in the suburbs (in the posh suburb, as a matter of fact), with three young men, well, younger than me, who will be ordained DV on Sunday night, one as a deacon and the other two to the priesthood.

I don't know how effective a preparation this was for them but we came away in a state of considerable charity with each other and that has to be good, right?

We had a good time and ate a lot and talked almost incessantly -- so much for silence -- and covered many topics such as the poetry (and prose!) of George Herbert and the regulations governing clerical weaponry (agreed that we should confine ourselves to inflicting BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA only in the proper mediaeval decorum)... the potentially mixed blessing of the clerical "assistant"... selected bons mots of the late Ed Friedman, and the dreadful lacunae in seminary training in the "choreography and legerdemain" aspects of Practical Liturgy. NONE of these men has had a "dry run" through the Eucharist. NONE. And it's not that they have graduated from Punkin Corners Seminary and School of Mines, not by any means.

IT IS A SCANDAL.

And it would appear that the Rambler will be doing hands-on tutorials next week...

And apparently nobody ever, ever, learns to sing any more, in preparation for liturgical leadership.

This isn't right, either.

We also went to the pub nearby on our final evening...


MEANTIME, "princess is comin'" and the cleaning up has been done and we are all in a tall state of furbishment,and have coped with the announcement that the Child Most Likely to present a nosegay--and all the child's siblings--were diagnosed on Wednesday with pediculosis...

I have a wedding at 1 p.m. today as well...good rehearsal yesterday afternoon, with a STELLAR ringbearer of maybe 8 or 9. Boys at that age are WONDERFUL. No irony. Pre-pubescent towers of strength, one and all.

reflections on teaching, and "Can you spell VOCATION?"

We are rejoicing -- or maybe just exhibiting reprehensible smugness -- at MH & U these days over our NINE, count'em, confirmands. Each provided with a mentor, too; and none of the mentors likely to cause harm of any sort to their charges.

This is all good! The young people are mostly boys, just a couple of girls, ranging in age from a very mature 9 to 16.

This means lots of adult males involved in the mentoring, also good.

I also have a handful of wee ones interested in first-communion instruction and/or baptismal instruction.

The issue here is that we welcome whole families with a range of ages and a range of theological backgrounds including the Anabaptist, so there are anomalies in the ages at which our children do things for the first time.

I thought I might economize on effort and energy by teaching the whole mob (the little ones are 6 or 7 years old) through the most basic "Life in the Eucharist" work and then get stuck into William Willimon's material on "Making Disciples" for the balance of the confirmation instruction.

And so on Sunday I found myself in the nave of the church with about 8 of the confirmands, and mentors according, and two bright-eyed church-oriented little girls, and a small crowd of parents, various.

We had spent some time last Sunday on the ante-communion part of the liturgy.

So I moved a small table to the head of the aisle, set it with my travelling communion kit, including wafers, wine, and water, and called the little girls to me, because I thought that doing the teaching "fishbowl" style might be best -- two participants and the rest observers... this seemed to be OK for the group.

I borrowed the two long white brocade bookmarks from the altar-book and put them on the little girls like stoles...and then encouraged them to see what happens at communion time from where the priest sees it...we counted out wafers, poured water, poured wine, washed little hands with the lavabo bowl...we recalled the story of the Last Supper which we tell every Good Friday as part of the children's Way of the Cross.

and I asked them to wonder how many of the roughly-a-dozen of young people there might find themselves doing this work as their life's work. (Actually, I said, "I'll just bet that at least one of you, someday...")

I had NO IDEA how that thought would go over, at all. But it did seem to me that a way to pull them through their confirmation instruction might be by applying the superior magnetic effect of ordination...I still don't know with any confidence whether that's legitimate, or inspired, or unscrupulously manipulative, or what.

But they were MIGHTY thoughtful. The little girls meanwhile were INTO IT...surreptitiously stroking their stoles, and -- one of them -- extending a very small forefinger to touch the wafers in the paten.

So we wrapped up the lesson with some discussion of ways that communion is shared in different churches and in different situations, and they all went home.

But I had feedback...indirectly, from the parents of the little girl who isn't yet baptized. At home with her parents, she told them, "THAT WAS THE MOST MOST SPECIAL THING THAT I HAVE EVER DONE."

And I think that is, after all, what I wanted them to feel about the Eucharist.

a moment

Friday again...a robin is enjoying the sunshine in a tree out by the sidewalk, and telling the world.
It wasn't QUITE so cold this morning, and hasn't snowed today -- nor yesterday, in which we had enough sun to activate possible "weather lore" about the Feast of the Ascension as a predictor for the rest of the summer...I didn't realize it's in the same list as Groundhog (Lammas) Day and St. Swithun!
Two 'congregation' yesterday for the eucharist, a bit of a chat about the meaning of the Ascension one way and another, then a long, long pastoral conversation with one of the congregants contemplating a shift of membership...annoyed and fed up with clergy in her current parish.
The ethics and etiquette of "parish visiting"...the competing rationales for "the minister calls upon the sick, the shut-in, the elderly"...
Her priest doesn't visit. She has a nonagenarian father in the local veterans' hospital/residence...physically frail but cognitively present. A founding member of the parish (and then the note I dread hearing, "and after all the money he gave"...)...and the priest has not been to visit him.
The priest is heavily involved in a community-organization movement which is sound, practical, effective, strengthens community among those who take part and strengthens the communities they form within the larger political unit. (I know this, because he recruited me...but when I could not find an energy for this work within the parish I serve, I drew back...thinking this would have to be a lay-led endeavour or nothing at all, it couldn't be "another of the rector's Lead Balloons." I still don't know whether that was right or not.
Apparently there is little energy among my colleague's congregation for lay-organized pastoral visiting either...
And it may not matter very much once the expectation has crystallized in the form, "the minister/priest should visit more..."
I don't know how to be clear in my own mind about the standing, moral and theological, of that expectation.
What is the model that is really driving that demand? And what is the model behind the way it is answered?
Ambiguity everywhere.

request for input

Dear blogging pals and gals,

It turns out I am supposed to conduct a pre-ordination retreat here in about 3 weeks (48 hours in duration) for three men (two to be priested, one to be made deacon). I know one of them a little, the other two hardly at all.

I remember my own retreats fondly especially the first, in which I was one on one with the director.

But I have no assurance that what we did will be in any way suitable to these candidates.

If a pre-ordination retreat has been part of your experience, please, please tell me what went well, what worked, what was helpful -- and what WASN'T.

And you will greatly oblige...
the somewhat distraite Rambler.

of notebooks, and pens, and so forth...

As my family know only too well, I am a notebook addict. That is, "notebook" as in "journal" as in "diary" but not the kind with too little space per day and a non-brother-proof lock.

In fact for much of the last 25 years I have been unable to pass a stationery store without checking out what may be on offer in the shape of a nice journal.

And I'm fussy. No coil bindings, thank you; a sewn binding if possible. Paper with a surface that will accommodate a fountain-pen without getting all smudgy. Just the right spacing of lines, not too narrow, not too elementary-embarrassing wide. A nice but not too pictorial cover; black imitation morocco is ideal. Other colours if available. Between 150 and 200 pages, all firmly attached. and ideally about 6 inches by 9 inches, so that it can fit in the outside pocket of my travel-bag...no smaller really, and not too much larger.

IT SEEMS LITTLE ENOUGH TO ASK. There was a supplier in the former Czechoslovakia who got it exactly right ("Pragotrade" if you're interested). Seems to have disappeared. East Asian substitutes, not so satisfactory.

But in the last two weeks I have branched out,and purchased a new product from our Mega-Barn office supplies retailer. These notebooks are manufactured from sugarcane waste, apparently -- "bagasse" is the technical term.

And I am using one to write down EVERY COTTON-PICKING THING, in a DONE-DID list instead of a TO DO list. The effect on morale is...electric. I can see the top of my desk. There are no visible horrible pink phone slips. My vital signs are all happy and peaceful.

Even more gloriously, having scuttled all the horrible little bits of paper on my desk, I can find my PENS also! And ensure that they all have tops! and ink! (all the better to write in the Bagasse Notebook with)

So here I'll be, all skilled up and so forth, just in time to retire!

Easter Monday

Well. It was the best Triduum ever... and it got better and better as it went along. Good attendance at the Holy Week Eucharists. Good turn-out for the Agape supper and Pedilavium and stripping of the altar on Maundy Thursday; our new Honorary Assistant preached well and energetically and washed feet with comparable energy.

Small but focussed group for the Children's Way of the Cross on Friday morning.

To my very great joy, a couple of young parents from the congregation agreed to take responsibility for the walk next Good Friday. More about that, anon.

Then the Solemn Devotions at noon -- again, a good-sized congregation, the Reproaches were most beautifully sung. There. I've said it. That I am the mother of the soloist has nothing to do with it, I swear.

Peacefulness Friday night at home; then Saturday morning a "Benedictine Day" or half-day actually, of church cleaning with prayers on the hour, with the Sanctuary Guild. And a lovely potluck lunch to conclude.

Peacefulness Saturday afternoon, and the Vigil at 8. Brand new Paschal candle of impressive length. Honorary and I managed not to immolate ourselves in the Sacred Fire, although given the wind -- and it's always windy, at the Vigil -- it was rather too close for comfort at some moments.

Some have pointed out it's hard to light a taper, let alone the big candle, from a fire in a fire-box. What is needed is a "spill" -- a nice long sliver of wood, such as cedar, to do the lighting with.

Another year it would be good, perhaps, to hold off on the lighting-up part until after the Hebrew Scriptures are read...so that it really IS in the dark.

But it went well...and at the Gloria there was a mighty and glorious bell-ringing: the tower-bell, handbells, dinner bells, cowbells, bicycle bells, Tibetan singing bowls...most glorious. As an innovation this Vigil, the Psalms and Canticles after each reading were canted, with lovely tuneful refrains, easy for the congregation to join in on. Honorary A preached again, an absolute barn-burner. What a joy...not to have to re-write one's own Easter sermon to avoid the appearance of plagiarism -- NOR to have to get up and say, "ON THE OTHER HAND"...

And then Easter morning, with a choir of 28 or 29 at both services, the Gospel Acclamation was the Hallelujah Chorus, we had guest trumpeters to put the lovely edge on the Handel (and on the hymns)...and it was church as church should be, I really felt...everybody was there, from genuine card-carrying opera stars beefing up the bass section of the choir, to schizophrenic outpatients in the front pews...and it was ALL. JUST. FINE.

The children put daffodils on the "old rugged" cross...and nobody much minded that this year's daffodils were a pretty scruffy display. Such is life.

And everybody appeared gratified to receive an Easter egg at the door!

So home to scrape together some dinner for the family. I set my timer for 15 minute bursts of work and 5 minute "sits," all afternoon, and that way, got through it and got the meal on the table all more or less as planned. Number One Son cleaned like a madman...so the abode looked less like a landfill than usual.

And finally to bed, wondering why I felt a bit weird and my rings were tight, and ears ringing...and then remembered I hadn't taken the BP meds at breakfast time. NOT GOOD.

Okay now, though.

a breathless hush...

...before we go gurgling into the vortex of the Triduum.

It is a lovely sunny late afternoon...I ventured out for some lunch and then went to the Stupor-Store for last-minute groceries: hot cross buns and grape juice for the children tomorrow (WHITE grape juice, in consideration of the carpet) -- bought matzoth earlier in the week... also several pounds of small foil-wrapped solid chocolate Easter eggs. At the door, after the Vigil and after the two services Easter Sunday morning, I slip Easter eggs to folks as I shake hands with them. It is amusing to see how far some folks walk before it registers that they are now holding a small, solid object. (Children 'get it' instantly, of course.)

Also bought a package of knee-high stockings, our new Hon. Assistant having expressed his intention to wash the Rambler's feet tonight... there are too many funny stories in circulation already about church-ladies forgetting NOT to wear panty-hose or tights, and divesting themselves at the last minute, undercover of albs, cassocks, prayer-desks -- and, for all I know, dossal curtains too.

Our Holy Week eucharists have been well attended, within the parameters of that term...never fewer than a half-dozen since Monday...this is unusual and heartening.

There are masses of flowers ready for the decoration of the chancel on Saturday.

Two of my most reliable elderly gents in the parish decided they couldn't stand my office windows any longer (spring fever takes odd forms), and set themselves to clean them on the outside one afternoon this week (fortunately with long-handled squeegees rather than ladders etc.) -- they launched into this task complete with audible commentary on each other's performance, capacity, parentage, etc., while I was attempting to engross the attention of a drop-in couple looking for a July wedding venue.

The slip-slopping of the squeegees and the commentary were rather more than the young folks' attentiveness could cope with. Too funny.

One of these gentlemen is the artificer of our new aumbry (and much else both beautiful and useful); the other is the donor-elect of the Sanctuary Lamp. The latter helps out at the early Sunday service as acolyte and intercessor. He panicked over the prayer list on Palm Sunday and requested our prayers on behalf of "Verona-kwee"... in spite of coaching beforehand ("Vay-roe-NEEK, Vay-roe-NEEK")...ah well.

This week, by the way, we've used the Introit and Tract Psalm sections laid out in the old Book of Common Prayer rubrics for Holy Week. It was a fascinating experience; there's a real trajectory of feeling and insight and response if you lay them out all end to end, from "help help, they're going to hurt me" to "Let all the people praise thee..."

The Easter Letter...

The morning drive to Most Holy and Undivided is one of the more reflective parts of my day. I observe the shoals of vehicles pouring over the bridges and through the intersections…all those individual people in pursuit of dreams not yet dashed, in flight from despairs steadily closing the gap, or just on eco-threatening autopilot, one body to a vehicle. It always seems to me like an image of “life its ownself” (Dan Jenkins)…although T. S. Eliot, a hundred years ago, picturing the commuters (walking!) across London Bridge, saw something quite different: “I had not thought, “ he writes, “death had undone so many.”

All these people move together, yet alone, through a world that they see through very different frames of reference and of meaning: frames that include and shape as much of reality, as much awareness, as they think they can bear.

And what does it mean to proclaim into this world of intent, hurrying throngs, that Christ is Risen? Indeed, how would we, should we, can we even make that proclamation? Edgewise, perhaps, in the midst of life—or death? Because these are the words that, we try to think, are the frame through which we are to see our world, know all that we can, do all that we can. Christ is Risen…and Christ will come again. And in the meantime, what?

This year, I’m thinking that perhaps the strangeness, the absurdity, the dissonance of our proclamation of Resurrection with so much of what we see and do, hope for and fear day by day, may be the most hopeful starting place. Because we proclaim a mystery, a bottomless truth, an inexhaustible source of joy and hope. All mystery, Simone Weil said, hardens into belief; and that is tragic. Perhaps the sense of strangeness is simply the mystery of the Resurrection re-asserting its mysteriousness, and its entitlement to be our frame of meaning, ever expanding, never quite in focus, never fully explained.

So we’ll stand up in good heart, and sing again, “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today,” and get caught up again on all the “Hallelujahs” we missed during Lent, and try, again, to see all our doings, our goings-out and comings-in, through the frame of the Easter proclamation: “Christ is Risen!” “He is Risen, indeed!”
Easter joy to you and yours,
With much love
The Rambler+

Pausing...

...to contemplate the 13 services between right now and bedtime on Easter Sunday.

Listening, pretty much enraptured, to the rehearsings of the musicians in the nave just next door.

Palm Sunday Sermon is written.

I do deeply wish that total strangers would NOT call me on Saturday afternoon and demand over-the-phone impromptu exorcism. Especially not on the Saturday afternoon before Holy Week.

Working on expanding pastoral responses to a less dramatic set of challenges...posed by Estranged Family at funerals, or around funerals, or lurking offstage during funerals...

I'm part of a Spiritual Direction Peer Support Group for a friend who is training in spiritual direction...and on Wednesday I had nothing to present on, to this small group, fresher or of more interest than the just-concluded phone call from The Daughter Who Had Been Entirely Shut Out Of The Planning For Mom's Funeral.

"Mom" being in fact a total stranger to me, and The Other Daughter seeking our help only because she lives next door to one of our more forceful Mothers in Zion, who said, "You'd better talk to our minister."

This is not the first time in the past year that I've been confronted with the protests of an "off stage" family member. This time, at least, it was faintly comical...I asked what the complainant would have liked included in the service.

Complainant; "Well, I'd just like to think that the 23rd Psalm would be read at some point."
Rambler: "Done, and done. We're singing it as the first hymn."
Complainant, in tones reeking of disappointment: "Oh. I see."
Rambler: "and what else?"
Complainant: "Well, I'd like to be sure there was some mention of the Resurrection."
Rambler (thinks -- "oh sweet suffering saviour"): "Excuse me? Can you tell me, have you attended an Anglican funeral any time recently? Because the first words uttered are 'I am the Resurrection and the Life...'"
Complainant: "Oh."

So eventually I recommended that she lay hands on the Book of Common Prayer, page 591 and following, and read it over to herself at the time of the funeral (which, of course, she was Not Attending...)

But I was led to think that there must be something else I could be saying/doing for people in this particular kind of pickle, other than "mmm hmmmm" in a neutral encouraging tone, and "I'm so sorry" ad infinitum. It just seemed a little lacking in prophetic authority, somehow.

With the prayerful encouragement of the Spiritual Direction folks... I challenged the daughter who WAS present, after the service (over the coffee and Timbits), and laid it on her about making peace with her sister, no matter how long it took or how futile it seemed.

She didn't reject the idea out of hand.

We shall see. Or not.

in which the Rambler rejoices...

This is NOT actually the new aumbry at Most Holy & Undivided, but I wanted to post a picture of some sort.

The man who fixes stuff around and about, after some considerable persuading, launched the actual project last week by cutting a hole in the panelling near the credence table.

He has built a lovely box which just perfectly accommodates the big ciborium with its lid, and the big cruet for the consecrated wine. The box will have a door made of the cut-out piece of panelling, and a modest but authoritative ornamental cross. Also a lock.

And now we consider the purchase and installation of a suitably pompous-glorious Sanctuary Lamp.

*Rambler does Happy Dance*...

in which the Rambler observes Lent by falling short of perfection...

Our friend Diane at Faith in Community has a beautiful post about "imperfection."

With that as encouragement, I have a story to share.

A week ago I came drifting into the office about midday to check messages and make ready for the rest of the day -- an all afternoon session with some fans of Jane Austen, here in Prairie Metropolis, discussing the clergy in Austen's novels ("Henry Tilney ROCKS!" you heard it here first), and then joining the Rector's Warden, her husband and another couple for dinner.

Sunday also needed a bit of preparation: not only was it "Thinking Day," with rampant Baden-Powell-ish-ness everywhere, but The Lady in the Purple Shirt and Pointy Hat was making her first official visit to MH & U, preaching and presiding, bless her heart, at both services.

With all this in mind, I picked up the service leaflet.

And THERE, in the second line of the Psalm, was the typographical error of all time.

The gremlins had found an extra "t" and inserted it so that "Out of Zion, perfect in its beauty" had become ... "Out of Zion, perfect in tits beauty."

(pause for effect)

And when the screaming (mine) had died away..."action was taken." Should you ever find yourself in a parallel predicament, here is The Method:

I gathered all the leaflets AND three pristine new bottles of Liquid Paper into a nice clean cardboard "Banker's Box" and into Harriet's trunk, and when I arrived at my dinner engagement the hostess found me on the doorstep toting box, beaming brightly and saying, "Hi! We have a Little Project this evening!"

Picture us around the dining room table, replete with a wonderful dinner, giggling uncontrollably and dab-dab-dabbing over the offending letter in every single one of the bulletins EXCEPT the one I saved out for the Bishop's delectation. AFTER the services.

Blessings on all the good helpful folks; and on their butter-wouldn't-melt expressions next morning during the singing of the Psalm; and on these moments that convert disaster and chagrin into comfort and joy.

We do contrive to have a good time, one way and another...

in which the Rambler launches into Lent (parenthetically)...

...at 7:30 this morning, temperature dangling somewhere down below zero Fahrenheit, inches of new snow, treacherous slippery streets -- but it wasn't entirely dark!!!!!

And MH & U was warm (faintly miasmic of syrup and sausage, still), and the hangings were changed last night after pancakes and Christian Education (let us not ask by whom)(Alter-cation Guild seems to have suffered a brain cramp)(ah well, bless their hearts), and the ashes were sufficient...

And there were FIVE LIVING BREATHING CHRISTIAN SOULS at the service, two parishioners (although not for the entire ritual), two total strangers ("We found you on the Internet"), and the Rambler...

And we assured one another on the authority of Isaiah that the Lord would make our bones strong, thinking fondly of fractured friends at hand and elsewhere.

The lower level is "full of contractors" contemplating the remediation of the heating system. We have (hushed voices) "cavitation" in the pumps. Fine word, that.

We enjoyed a delightful morning with our Bishop last Sunday, and SHE, bless her heart, got to preach the Transfiguration...nicely too! This was her first visit to us since she, so to speak, assumed the purple...and the Scouts and Guides were in attendance and marched to and fro (using the term loosely)and put their flags in position and took them out again, and repeated their promises, and then provided us with all sorts of goodies for the post-service coffee time.

It was all extremely festive, and there was good feeling on all sides, thereby equipping the saints to deal more faithfully and joyfully in the ensuing week with things like cavitating pumps.

just a glimpse...

...of the Rambler doing one of the things that make her happiest!