Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

As Christmas gets closer, I feel the weight of the season on my spirit. "Happiest time of the year?" not in my universe. I have seen too much death in December, buried too many people in snowy cemeteries. I'll pass. Except there's not really that option, is there? The family expects Christmas to arrive with all good cheer. My church expects the same. So I go along, even though I would rather be sitting on a sunny balcony in Mexico, looking out at a calm sea and reading a very long, fat, interesting book. But I went to two services this weekend that helped me a bit, that lifted that December weight for awhile. The first was a "Blue Christmas" service at a  nearby Episcopal Church. My own parish doesn't offer this, but I think it's a wonderful tradition to start. The few in attendance sat in the choir stalls, which were abundantly supplied with boxes of tissues. The readings were consolatory, referring to the brokenness of grief and disappointm

Yesterday we finally finished eradicating the chaos in our house that came about through having painting done and all the floors refinished. The last task was moving the two huge bookshelves out of my study and back to their home in the upper hallway. With my study restored, I should be able to get some serious work done. I don't do well outside of calm, orderly environments, which is why this autumn was a real challenge for me. In moving books back onto their shelves, I had to stop to reflect. As a medievalist, 35 years ago, I had to know a fair number of languages. Am I ever really going to open the Old French dictionary again? How about that fat Welsh dictionary -- am I going to read the Mabinogion  again? And my short detour into Russian -- what was that about? Do svidaniya! So I got out some reusable grocery bags and started filling them up. I kept all the gardening and craft books, figuring I would use them in retirement. But the dictionaries, language readers ... into th

Advent has begun in a muted fashion for me this year.  As it's a a quasi-penitential season of waiting, this may actually be an appropriate response. Yet I'm used to a bit more in the way of anticipation. At church, we lost the dear young man I spoke of in my last post, and his funeral was wrenching and painful.  In addition, our priest broke her ankle in the middle of a move to her new home, so we have had to deal with the question of whether we can stand to do only Morning and Evening Prayer in Advent, or whether we should seek the ever-more-elusive supply priest. At home, we have had to deal with a bit of Family Drama, but it has been resolved for the present (we hope). We erected the Christmas tree in the living room, but it stands there naked, waiting for us to have time to trim it. Perhaps this weekend.  I finally remembered I had not ordered a wreath for the front door, so belatedly did that yesterday. So Advent has begun with a series of half-gestures, offhandedly

I am thinking a lot today about life and death, love and longing, precious memories and memories that won't ever be made. I'm trying to negotiate some understanding out of something that can never be understood. To make sense out of the senseless. I want things to be OK that can never be OK. We lost a member of our congregation early this morning, and the hole he leaves in the fabric of the parish is huge and gaping. He was 31 years old and had been  married only a year. We lost him to a virulent cancer that took him only 5 months after diagnosis. The parish (not to mention his wife and the rest of his family) is devastated. I'm also angry. As a person with a lot of my life behind me, I want to ask God what he thinks he's doing, taking a young person in the prime of life. I feel like breaking a few things, stomping my feet, and having a good cry. Actually, I had the good cry already. Did I mention that I'm angry? Well, I am. Don't worry, God can take it. R

Our theme today, Gentle Reader, is the weather, as we apparently rush towards winter. We had rain for several days, leaving everything saturated and squishy, and the leaf-covered streets are perfect for accidents.. Not much raking has yet been done in my neighborhood, so the yards are also a carpet of no-longer-vibrant leaves. Some have curled into little dead cups, now filled with rainwater, tiny little ponds in the sun. Dark comes early now with the return to standard time. After a temporary time-change reprieve, we will soon be rising in the darkness again, as well as finishing work after the sun has set.  Doesn't one of our canticles name this the "enfolding dark"?  I don't feel enfolded. I feel benighted! And now, thanks to former-Typhoon Nuri, the weather folks are promising us a big shot of very cold air intruding behind a sagging jet stream. Thanks, it's just what I wanted! My body is already telling me, "Don't bother getting any exer

Well, I did it. My mother always called me the "mouth on legs." I make a snarky remark in response to a good friend's facebook post (because, you see, I am the Queen of Snark), and I knew my friend would understand my point of view. And she did. But a mutual friend didn't, and took it very (very very) personally.  She took it as a personal attack on herself and her family, which it wasn't. It was a general (though pointed) comment. The original post showed a young boy with a rare albino deer he had killed. I hate guns and I hate hunting, and I wish people wouldn't teach 7-year-olds to kill innocent creatures. I believe animals have souls. I love my dogs dearly, and I don't know where you draw that line between pets and animals it's OK to kill. So I don't draw it. And of course I commented on all this in my typical blunt fashion. Well, you can try to smooth things over, but you can't unsay them. You can apologize for the tone. You can

But the moon was extra big and bright last night as I arrived at a friend's house to work on a project. At this, my favorite time of year, early evenings can be quiet and bright, the air clear and free of the swirling .pollen that made me sneeze all simmer. The leaves are beginning to change -- just a hint of color, but the beginning of the end for them. I'm thinking a lot of beginnings and endings right now. We are having painting done at home; now J. has started getting estimates on having the hardwood floors redone as well, since the furniture is all emptied out anyway and the house is chaotic. I love home improvement, but it can temporarily exact a toll on my love of orderliness. Yet, even anticipating how satisfying the results will be,  I realize that this.may be the last time, or close to the last time, that I will undertake a major project like this. Every beginning is an ending too, of sorts Part of the reason we can start this home renovation, of course, i

At this very moment, at the Autumnal Equinox, we're getting our last equal dose of sunlight. for the year. night and day are in balance for the last time this year.Think of it: from now until nearly Christmas, the night hours will steadily overtake the daily round, until at the Winter Solstice it will seem that the darkness has won, leaving us a short, even miserly amount of daylight. So, how do we celebrate the Equinox? With a yawn, apparently. When I got up this morning, there was just a smidgen   of light to be seen, and my body, already thinking of hibernation, wanted to remain in bed. As to real celebration, forget it: I wanted to attend an Equinox observance, but have been unable to find one nearby. Why is this? The Autumnal Equinox comes and goes -- don't blink, or you'll miss it. Digging in for a new school year, kids are already thinking about Halloween (remember those pumpkins our kids made out of orange construction paper? I still have some of those somewhe

Nope, don't get hysterical, it's not the one at the left. That's the General Theological Seminary, which lots of my friends and acquaintances have attended. I am way, way, way past the age limit for GTS, and even if I weren't, going there would mean relocating to Manhattan and dragging my spouse with me. Some spouses are draggable. Not mine, and that's fine with me. Can you see me in Manhattan? The very thought makes me feel ... well ... shorter. And older! Anyway, I have a different focus in mind. Next weekend I will begin studying for my MTS (Master of Theological Studies) at the New Seminary for Interfaith Studies , at right. It's also in Manhattan (in fact it's loosely affiliated with the UN), but I get to stay in the provinces and study online most of the time. Intensives and retreats take place in the bucolic NY and MD countryside. And not only do I get to study all major faith traditions, I get to focus on Creation Spirituality. Anyone who knows m

St. Edith Stein is not included in the Episcopal calendar, but I wish she were. I got to know her on a retreat at a Redemptorist retreat center, where I had the run of the theological library (always a dangerous thing for me). Born in 1891, Edith Stein was a German Jewish philosopher. She earned her Ph.D. at the University of Gottingen in 1918, and was a teaching assistant at the University of Freiburg. Drawn by the writing of St. Teresa of Avila, Stein converted to Roman Catholicism in 1922, and began teaching at a Catholic school. Forced to give up her teaching position in 1933, as the Nazis began peeling away the civil rights of people who lacked an "Aryan certificate," Stein entered the Carmelite monastery in Cologne, taking as her name in religion "St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross." While in Cologne she wrote a book on Christian metaphysics entitled  Finite and Eternal Being. As the Nazi threat loomed ever larger, Stein was sent to a Carmelite monaster

A plane carrying 300 souls is shot out of the sky over Ukraine. There's a  massacre of Christians going on in Iraq. Israel and Gaza are throwing missiles at each another. And, potentially, we might enter a new Cold War with Russia, while North Korea's Dear Leader shoots off some missiles just because he can. Folks, things are not good. In case you missed it, the world is going to hell in a handbasket. Even profit-driven airlines are considering new, longer routes in order to avoid "conflict areas."  These areas comprise a great deal of Africa and the Middle East. Oh, I nearly forgot ebola. Anyone see that movie Contagion ? No? Well, this is not a good time. Give it a pass for now. It's hard, even for someone who's rather genetically cheerful, to see how any of these world events is going to have hopeful outcomes.  I don't believe in that "End Times" crap, but I can (almost) see why a person might . Another thing I've noticed,

A new chapter of life has begun for J. and me. Our son, our older child, moved out over the weekend. The long hall in the picture leads to the room containing the few items he left behind. I thought I had great plans for this room. An enlargement of our library? A spot for yoga,  meditation, or even a good place to do group spiritual direction?  I intended to get right in there to pull up the nasty denim-blue rug which 16 years of life with our son has virtually destroyed. Those awful curtains he wanted? They're goners. I was going to blast through there like a small tornado. Instead, something blasted through me. I stood in the middle of my son's room, and felt as emptied out as the space. J. felt the same. Tears came off and on. We watched movies and ate comfort food. I ate ice cream three times yesterday. Today I feel better. Still empty, but with better balance. Grieving the change, but in proportion.What is parenthood but an emptying out, a kenosis ?  We do

The subway in Philadelphia has been my School of Life. I've learned more by riding the subway than from the thousands of books I have read, the multiple degrees I have earned, and all the religious communities where I've been a member. Ten times a week, I ride the subway from the end of my commuter train out to the University where I work. Some, like me, are going to their jobs on campus. Some are coming off third-shift jobs and heading for home. Lots of moms are taking their kids to day-care, before going to work themselves. Older people may be heading out to shop, or to a doctor's appointment. Catholic schoolgirls, in short uniform skirts and knee-socks, are riding reluctantly to school. In the winter, by the time February arrives, everyone looks gray and tired, huddled lumps of misery and winter-weariness in heavy coats and boots. In the summer, the tone is upbeat: lighter, colorful summer clothes and smiles. And this I have learned: there are all kinds of people

Canticle 12 in the Book of Common Prayer is called "A Song of Creation." On p. 89, we find the following text: Glorify the Lord, O nights and days, O shining light and enfolding dark... This canticle is my favorite, since it includes the cosmic order, the earth, and earth's peoples.All of these are to glorify the Lord, who made them. It also includes the night, my favorite time. I admit readily to being a "night person." I awaken reluctantly in the morning, and hit my stride after 9 PM. I'm especially happy out on the porch at night.  When I was a child, we had no air conditioning (yes, it was that long ago!), so our nights were cooled by a huge exhaust fan in the upstairs hallway, which pulled in the cooler outside air through every open window. Many of us have lost that gift of an open window, in our hermetically-sealed, air-cooled homes. My bed was against the wall, with the foot under my bedroom window. If I lay wrongside-round (with my head

I live in a town that I love in most respects. I have great neighbors, who can be counted on to help in a crisis. The town government is open and responsive, for the most part. The schools are great, and did well by my kids. But everyone seems to have a gardener. No one warned us of this before we moved in. For 16 years, we have been limping along on our own. Why all these gardeners? It's Great American Lawn fever, right in my town! Centuries from now, anthropologists will look back at the mid-twentieth century as the period when grass went mainstream. The wealthy always had nice lawns, of course. The word "greensward," meaning an area covered with green grass, was first used around the year 1600. After World War II, however, as home ownership became possible for many, lawn culture took off. My Dad loved his Great American Lawn. Every Saturday, out came the lawn mower, and my shirtless Dad would lovingly cut and groom his quarter-acre of green. In the early days o

To the left is my dining room table, which I have not seen in 13 years. OK, I should explain. I have not seen the top of it in 13 years. We never had a dining room in our old house. When we moved into the current house, presto! There was the dining room. We had nothing to put in it. It sat naked for a few years, though we finally did see our way to buying a room-sized rug for the spot. Finally we went to a furniture sale, and bought the table you see to the left. It's a gorgeous dark cherry, which we both love. The minute it was delivered, we stuck the table pad and a cloth on top of it.  Bye-bye, table. My mother also had a cherry dining table, and was very proud of it. Her table also lived in seclusion beneath the customary pad and cloth. I suppose she thought I might want it, and she wanted to preserve it for me. After she died, as we cleaned out the house, I knew I had to make a decision about whether to take the table. I pulled off the cloth and pads. There it was

Earth Day, April 22, was so close to Easter this year that we weren't able to properly acknowledge it in church. So on Saturday, May 3, we're going to have "Earth Day Morning Prayer," incorporating some of the resources on offer from Earth Ministry . Then we'll proceed outside (weather permitting) to plant the bulbs used to adorn our altars for Easter. This year's Earth Day got me thinking back again, one of my favorite pastimes.  To the left is an undated picture of the Edge Moor Power Plant, located near Wilmington, Delaware, right on the Delaware River. I grew up in the 1950s and 1960s about a mile or so from this bad boy, back in the days when it was coal-fired (in the interest of truth, I should tell you that the parent company announced in 2010 that the plant was converting to natural gas). Practically next-door to it was the Edge Moor Plant, a DuPont facility that made pigment for white paint. That whole part of the riverbank was just industrial hea

This is not Jesus! Holy Wednesday.  Many churches will hold Tenebrae services this evening, as it grows dark, to commemorate the encroaching shadow of Good Friday. In my own halting way, I am limping after Jesus towards Jerusalem and the cross. Jesus is the most real for me during Holy Week. I understand pain and loss. I have a notion of what betrayal feels like. Gethsemane might look familiar to me, were I there. Most people have suffered. Most of us have had our Gethsemane moments.Pain and loneliness are known to most of us. We have seen them written on each others' faces. To the left, in contrast, is a photo of Ted Neeley, who played Jesus in the movie version of  Jesus Christ, Superstar.  My grandmother had on her dining room wall a painting of Jesus that greatly resembled Mr. Neeley, except that her Jesus's eyes were blue.  This is the image of Jesus I grew up with -- Blond, Gentle Jesus. Jesus who loved the little children. A Jesus who would look perfectly comfort

That's a magnolia tree there, to the left. Not one that I know personally, because we're a little far north here for magnolias. They're a real southern phenomenon -- think Steel Magnolias -- but one of my favorites. My grandmother, who lived with us when I was little, planted a magnolia tree in the front yard. Why she would do this is anybody's guess. She wasn't from the south, but she did love flowering shrubs. And Granny could be a little ... stubborn. So there was the poor magnolia, in the center of the front yard, on an east-facing slope in Delaware, about a mile from the Delaware river, exposed to the cold easterly winds blowing in from the river. In those days, April frosts and snow were nothing unusual. I lived at home for my first twenty years, and I think I saw the magnolia bloom a whole  two or three times. Most years, the buds would bravely appear and begin to swell in early spring, hoping the warn sunshine would last. Then, on a cold night, th

I'm thinking a lot about the past during these days of Lent ("That's a typical old-person statement!" my son would say). But it's true that the older we get. the more the past sometimes comes into focus: it's not just a muddy river of flowing time that has washed us up in the present. Memories begin to stand out in sharper relief. Eddies and whirlpools appear in the current. Rocks peek above the flow. Patterns emerge Our bodies, of course, carry some of our patterns. One of the readings in my book of reflections for Lent,  Lent Is Not Rocket Science , discusses genetic patterns. The writer notes that, although the many different types of cells comprising our bodies die and are replaced at varying rates, our most essential physical patterns, encoded in our DNA, remain pretty much the same, preserving our uniqueness. I am short and have gray eyes; these patterns will not change, though the cells in my skeleton and in my eyes will be renewed over time. P

As winter fades into spring, I am attempting to do some (more) inner work on myself. It's actually a plan without an end. Once I get a bit of control over one fault, another bubbles up to laugh at me. Haha! Yes, you're sober now, but you're still a bitch at home! Tee hee! And hypercritical? Yeah, that's you! Also, did I mention lazy?  What's bubbling right now is that ol' tendency I have to be judgmental, when I encounter something, or someone, that I don't like. This falls within a wide range, and covers everything from bemoaning others' right-wing political opinions to laughing at those Walmart pictures of chubby women in stretch pants and skinny tops. Equal-opportunity condemnation! And it takes place mostly in my head, which is undoubtedly a bad thing. It means that I avoid situations I don't like, but I condemn them secretly. A few posts ago, I recounted my speechless, liberal shock-and-horror when a relatively new person in our congregation

It's been a very long winter. The hymn, "In the Bleak Midwinter" says it well. We've had "snow on snow" here in the middle-Atlantic states. I feel as if we have had snow on the ground most of the time since the second Sunday in Advent, when our first snow fell. That first snow was just a tease. We were thrilled -- it's relatively unusual for us to have snow before Christmas. This was light snow, fluffy and beautiful. Newly-installed Christmas lights looked even more brilliant and twinkly than usual. Travel was not much affected. Light snow is the best possible harbinger of the Christmas quickly approaching. It's a seasonal enhancement. After Christmas, however, the snows kept coming, accompanied by some of the coldest air we have had here in decades. The "Polar Vortex" settled over us, freezing the earth "hard as iron" (more hymn lyrics). My hardy fern on the porch shriveled up in mute protest. The heat pump could bare

Every year, our local ministerium celebrates the International Week of Prayer for Christian Unity  with an ecumenical service featuring separate musical offerings by four local church choirs, followed by two anthems performed as a massed choir. This year, St. John's choir dedicated our performance to Mr. Rodger Maro, who had been our organist and choir director for the last 15 years, until his death on June 23, 2013. We love and miss Rodger, and our last year with him was a time of great sadness but also of great closeness. Our wonderful new organist and choir director, Trish Fronczek, was key in helping us to prepare this musical tribute. The MP3 file that Trish recorded is at the link below. The first anthem is entitled, "Simple Song of Peace," and the second is "Night of Silence," which we sang a cappella. Preceding the performance, you will hear Phyllis Sowers, head of the choir, announcing the dedication. Click here!  You might also have to click &q

I can't promise a sing-along every week, but I've been listening to a lot of Peter Mayer's music lately, so here's a sample (see YouTube at end of post).  This is one of my favorite songs, "Church of the Earth," and it's a rehearsal tape. The singing stops at about 4 minutes. Lyrics are below, video follows. Enjoy! The ceiling is high To let your soul rise Up to the angels who teach you to fly And when you're weary of clouds It helps you back down And welcomes you home To this hallowed ground Chorus: It's gilded in gold, gilded in rust For heaven below and heaven above The heaven we know here in this world Here in our holy church of the earth The windows are wide So darkness and light Mystery and Beauty meet you inside And there's room enough To hold all of us Who gather in friendship Gather in love [Chorus] Church of life Ancient and bright Life that inside us shines Life that we share This is our prayer That we

On this little spiritual journey called life, I sometimes surprise myself ... and not in a good way. All my life I have floated along in my little liberal, progressive bubble. I proudly attend a liberal church. I work at a university, where all my colleagues share my opinions. I allow myself the luxury of thinking that most people agree with me. Because, why not? All the crazies are on Fox, right? Or in the red states (forming a long list of places where I can't retire). Well, today I learned differently, and it wasn't a lesson that went down easily.  At the end of the service this morning, a woman in our congregation rose to make an announcement. She is relatively new; we have chatted a few times, but I don't really know her. I'm embarrassed to admit that I can't remember her name. She proceeded to exhort all of us to eat all three meals at Chick-fil-A on January 21st, to show our support for their refusal to do business on Sundays. As my three constant read