My unedited sermon for this morning

As many of you have noticed, I haven’t been out of seminary that long, maybe about 5 years. I’ve lost count. But my last year of school I got to go to a preaching seminar. Everyone attending had to write a sermon that was going to be preached, it couldn’t just be for the seminar. And of course, the next sermon I was slated to preach was on these texts, for Trinity Sunday, in a church I had never been to before. I was going there to spend a few weeks preaching every Sunday and basically getting some much needed ‘experience’. And of course, my hero in the preaching world, a priest out in Oregon, was at this seminar, and I was assigned to her group, and I had to preach to her about the Trinity. It was horrible. I didn’t sleep for about a month before hand, my palms sweated when I got up to talk, I nearly threw up. Horrible. I don’t recommend it as a fun thing to do, ever.

But I did ok. I preached ok, that is. And afterwards everyone gathered around to pick apart my sermon. My hero said, ‘well, Anne, that was very good. Some beautiful writing’, I had laid the scene of the upper room—the hot night, the enclosed space, the oil lamps adding more heat to an already breathless situation—it was almost like, she said, a beautifully painted canvas, except with a large piece of construction paper pasted on the middle. The construction paper was my careful theological explanation of the Trinity. I looked at my text and found the rough coarseness of the construction paper. It wasn’t even the same color—the painting was in muted and mellow and beautiful tones, and the construction paper was orange, or maybe hot pink. It just didn’t go.

But that’s usually what we end up with, any of us, when we try to wrap our minds and hearts around something like the Trinity. We have the canvas of our lives, in whatever state it’s in. Maybe some parts of it are beautifully worked out, symmetrical, it makes sense to the eye, it’s a pleasure to look at. And doubtless other parts of the canvass are a total mess, clearly under construction. You might have something sketched out but the final product is nowhere in view. And maybe the middle section is sort of clear, but the colors really need some perking up and the underlying sketch needs some redoing. But its you, you’re the canvas. And then, in an effort to be good and faithful, we apply various things to this canvas, trying to finish the picture—maybe a new routine, or some helpful book, or the advice of a friend, or a new relationship, OR, as is the case this morning, some theological or doctrinal point, like the dual natures of Christ (you know, that Jesus is fully God and fully Man, right? And that it has a practical application to your life? Well it does), or the locus of authority in the church (is it Scripture? Tradition? Both? How much of which?), or, in this case, The Trinity.

I have a lot of newly churched kids in my Sunday School Class. They’ve never heard of the Trinity before.
‘So,’ said one of my little girls, ‘Jesus is God.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘And the Father is God.’
‘HmmHmm,’ I said.
‘Then who is the Holy Spirit?’
‘God’ I said.
‘So there are three Gods.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘One. Hear O child, the Lord your God, the Lord is One, and you shall love the Lord your God with every fiber of your being.’
‘I love Jesus,’ she said.
‘Good, excellent, and he loves you.’

Our brains began to feel tight in our skulls, the room, hot, rather like the upper room with Jesus, as the disciples are all trying to make sense of what he is saying.

‘So,’ Jesus, ‘you’re going away.’
‘That’s right’
‘Can we go with you?’
‘No, but I will send someone to comfort you, an Advocate.’ says Jesus.
‘Well, than at least show us the Father’
‘If you see me, you see the Father’
A ‘yeah, but’ is on everyone’s lips.

The temptation is to take this wildly foreign and difficult concept and put it up in the corner of the picture and forget about it while you go on with the rest of your canvas. Yeah, I believe in the Trinity. It has no practical application to anything, but there it is, apparently relevant.

Well, it is, even though it is very hard.
It matters because it’s about the nature and form and being of God. And if anything matters in our lives, anything at all, it should be God, right? He made you. He formed you. He has a plan and a purpose for you. And so his Nature and Being matter to your Nature and Being.

To begin with, God is One. There is perfect unity in God. We can say this out loud but we don’t even really know what it means, because we don’t even have unity in our own beings. Our minds and bodies and hearts are constantly at war with themselves. Take me for example. I have a lot on my mind. I would like, I have the will, to get up every day and clean my house, and cook interesting things, and connect with various people on the telephone, and be available to my children. If it was just my mind, my will, there would be no problem. BUT, my body is also involved. And it is at war with my mind and my will. My body says, No. You’re not getting up. I’m very tired and this extra convectionizing heating element says that its better to lie here and stay cool. And then my body, even though my mind says NO, my body says, let’s make a large chocolate cake and eat it very quietly in the kitchen with no lights on after everyone has gone to bed. My body and my mind are at war with each other. Now, of course, I have an excuse, but I know from experience, that even without the excuse, my body and mind are at war with each other. Add in the element of my heart, and you’ve got a real mess. So already within the human person, before you bring in extra human people, in the form of relationships and even just running into people at random, you have division, disunity.

That’s not the case with God. God is completely at unity with himself. One. The Son doesn’t say to the Father, I want to do this today, and the Father doesn’t say to the Son, no I want to do this. They are unified.

They are unified first in love. The are bound together perfectly in love. They love each other so much that each holds nothing back from the others. The Father gives himself completely to the Son, the Son completely to the Father, the Holy Spirit completely to the Father and the Son, the love overflows.

They are unified in purpose. They purposed to create, and they did. They purposed to save and redeem, and they did. They purpose to judge, and they will.

And they are unified in Being. God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, is One Being.
Three persons, three distinct recognizable persons—we know the face of Jesus from the Scriptures, we know the moving and work of the Holy Spirit in our hearts, minds and bodies, and we know the face of the Father in creation, in the scriptures, in our conscience, One Being.

Why is this hard?
Because you’re one person in one being.
And you’re one person in one being.
And I’m one’ person in one being, albeit divided and disunified against myself.

So God is One. And because God is One in love, purpose and being, but distinct in person, God is close. This is where the rubber meets the road for your daily life.
When the Philip, two chapters back in John, says to Jesus, ‘show us the Father and that will be enough for us’ he doesn’t understand that he is looking at the perfection of God, in Christ. That when you look at Jesus, when you love Jesus, when you surrender to Jesus and accept the work he has done on your behalf—the work of dying on the cross, of rising again, of ascending into heaven—when you accept that and surrender your heart and mind to him, you are not just In Christ, you are In the Father. At that moment the Holy Spirit comes to live in you, to renew, restore, strengthen and forgive you. At that moment you have free clear access to the Father, to communicate, to relate, to love, to know him. When you look at Jesus, you see the fullness of God the Father. You’re not missing anything, you’re not being gypped. When you believe in and confess Jesus as your Savior and Lord, you are brought into the fullness of God’s own life. That love that I talked about before—the overflowing love of the Father, Son and Spirit for each other—that love now pours into you, completely.

Your canvas, your life, is now no longer yours to paint and sort out on your own. You are In Christ. He becomes the painter, the sorter out. And when Jesus is the one who organizes and directs, you don’t end up with any disunified, unsightly construction paper pasted in the middle of your life. When Jesus is painting, everything comes together as a unified and beautiful whole.

But you have to be in Christ.

Now, I know it’s a shocking thought, but its possible to sit all your life in church and never fully submit to Christ and accept his sacrifice and his love. Its possible to sit in your pew, Sunday after Sunday and still call the shots and be the arranger of your life. But if that’s you, than you’re not experiencing the fullness of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. So, if you haven’t committed yourself fully to Christ today, do so. Ask him to come into your heart and make you new and clean. Ask him to forgive you of your sins. Ask him to give you the Holy Spirit. Ask him to pour out his love on you and in you.

And if you do this now or this is a new thing for you, let me know now, or at the altar rail, and I will help you pray, or pray for you, that’s what I’m here for.
Jesus loves you, very much. And he wants to give you everything he has. All you have to do is ask him.
Amen.

Weekend Odds and Ends

Its a Saturday evening. And, as was yesterday, and the day before, it is very hot. Sultry. Just resign yourselves, I'm going to be providing exhaustive weather reports as the weather gets hotter. Was appalled to run into someone who felt that the temperature was 'just right'. There's no accounting for taste.

I'm going to try and get up and go pull some weeds in the front. And then try and finish a sermon for tomorrow. Matt and I both have to preach, him in one place, and me in another. If both our sermons are fabulous, I will post them. Matt is preaching on verse 2 of Acts 2 (he covered verse 1 last week), and I am going to muddle my way through the Trinity.

And just a couple thoughts from Emma:
"Aedan, that's not true. That's not my trueff."
My relativism radar flew up. But I think she meant to say that Aedan was not telling the truth and she was. Still, an interesting way to put it.

And then, in the store, trying on a swimsuit, yelling, as it were,
"Did God make this swimsuit to fit little girls?"
Me, whispering, "yes, and so did the manufacturer."
Emma, yelling, "WHY?"
Me, whispering, "because if it fits you, you'll buy it, and they'll make money."
Emma, yelling, "God?"
Me, whispering, "No, the manufacturer."
Emma, "Oh."

burning up

Its unpleasantly hot, for me. The kids are happily outside making mud pies but I can't go out with them because I will probably faint. And I'm trying to think of something for supper that will involve as of the stove as possible. I guess I will reheat Matt's BBQ chicken from last night, and put it in tortillas....

Never mind, it seems that Matt has eaten the chicken out from under my nose. Maybe the children don't really feel like food tonight. Or maybe they could just eat cookies. Wow its hot, even the keyboard is hot. This is going to be a long wretched summer.

Watermellon! That's it! They will have watermellon for supper, and I will eat butter, straight out of the package. And I don't want to hear any lecturing from any of you people who have it together. I'm only accepting comments from the totally disfunctional.

Counting

I was listening to NPR this morning, for a few frenzied minutes, and heard a story about the Mosque in NJ from whence came some of the terrorists who were planning to do irrevicobale harm to Fort Dix. I haven't followed the story much, other than the initial splash, but this morning someone or other was interviewing the Immam of this mosque and asking him about attendance and mood and so forth, and how things have been since these guys were scooped up. The Cleric/Immam (what are they called here in the US?) said that attendance had steeply fallen off, people are just too afraid to show up for fear they are being watched.

Politics (and religion) aside, my pastoral beating heart went out to this poor man. As I listened to him talk (we hope, he said, that once the summer is over, people will come back) I saw all these last 5 years of Sundays in a long stream, run together, me standing either in the choir loft, or in the narthex, or even sometimes sitting in my place on the altar, counting and counting, over and over, the people in the church.

This is not pure obsession.

In the first place, Matt likes an independant count from the ushers because sometimes whoever is scheduled doesn't remember the nursery, or the choir, or themselves. So I do my own count so Matt can verify after.

And second, I can't count just once myself because I really can't count. If I count five times, I will come up with a different number every time. Sad, but true. I'm terrible with numbers. Even when I use the little clicker thing, I get different numbers each time. So usually Matt takes my five numbers and compares it with the usher count and draws his own conclusions-because at least I count everybody, even if its more than once.

But really, at it's base point, I count because I really want the church to be full. I want the pews filled up. I want people to come, to church. The more people the better. And if, because of some awful catastrophe, 2/3 of the congregation stayed home because they were afraid, I would personally (even though I know its not about me personally) be devestated. Matt likes to pretend that he wouldn't be concerned if everyone didn't show up, he's just in it to glorify God. And I believe him, I really really really do believe him.

This fire in my belly for a full church has given me the stamina to sit through 2 years of meetings (and one year of providing minutes) preparing for the upcoming Franklin Graham Festival next week. Thinking over it the last few days I feel satisfied that I have done absolutely everything I can do to be fully involved in this process/event and have pulled as many people along with me as I can. As a result of it, I'm starting a new 'discipleship' class to teach individuals to walk beside and care for, spiritually, new Christians. The only way the church fills up is if people find Jesus and then stick to him, rather than finding him and then wandering off into the wilderness.

Which is why, after today, I feel like my obsessive counting is not such a bad thing. Our parish readings for this morning included Luke's account of the Found Sheep and the Found Coin.

What man, if having 99 sheep, finding that one sheep has wandered off, does not leave the 99 and go find the one, and when finding it, carries it home on his sholders, rejoicing? What man? Not Jesus. Not me. If someone is missing, I have to get all obsessive and start calling and checking up.

But the Found Sheep follows on the heels of the Cost of Discipleship. Those 100 sheep, in the pen, who belong to Jesus, those sheep are totally committed. They have left everything, forsaken everything, for the sake of the Gospel, the cross. They have counted the cost. And that's why there are really only 100, with thousands walking by outside, not coming in, not even being curious.

Which is why I head into this coming week, this enormous Event, on the one hand Fully Expecting the whole world to show up and want to believe in Jesus, and many of them afterwards to come to Good Shepherd, AND Also, am expecting that only a few people will come and having once heard, decide that the cost is too great, and go away.

But for the few or many who do come, and do stick, and do want to lay it all down and take up the cross, for them, I will be hanging over the rail of the choir loft counting, and counting, and counting.

Four Men in Some Boats

It was my intention to post on Sunday evening and Monday, about a number of things. But having traveled all the way to Cooperstown, NY, and checked into a hotel, we discovered that they were chincy about Internet access and we decided that we would be paying 10 dollars only once so Matt could get on. So I curled up in a very nice bed and went to sleep, so as to be able to get up at 4 am in order for Matt and Darrell (his canoe partner) to be in the water by 6:30am.

I did, in fact, manage to get up at 4am and we packed up the car and sat around in the lounge of the hotel waiting for the hotel person to put coffee and tea out and looked at the nice view. We waited and watched the sun rise.

Don and Darrell Dean are twin brothers and for many years they have raced each other in the Clinton General Canoe Regatta. For Darrell, this was his 20th year in the race, earning him the 1400 mile distinction. Last year Darrell cajoled (70 miles is not that far, it'll be fun) Matt into racing with him against Don and Don's son, Jake (these are all members of Church of the Good Shepherd). So we have four people in boats: Don and Jake against Matt and Darrell. And they're all wearing lime green so we can pick them out of all the other boaters. It should be noted that three other teams chose to wear this same color and they were all grouped together, so every time Matt looked round and saw green, he assumed Don and Jake were on his tail and pushed harder. But usually it was some other people in lime green, although once or twice it was Don and Jake, who, in fact, managed to pull up right along side and lear at Matt and Darrell, causing them to panic and row like maniacs.

And as, with any important event, the women provided back up support. Darrell's wife Carolyn and his two daughters, Kaitlin and Gabrielle, Me, Don's wife Linda and their daughter Jenna and her friend Morgan. It was actually a lot of people to pack up and race from Pit to Pit in order to chuck food and water into the river and hope the canoer's picked it up.

I took copious pictures of the men in the boats, but didn't take many of us pitting. The river was beautiful and it had rained the night before so the water was higher and moved a long much more helpfully than last year, shaving a full half hour off everyone's time. So, for those who are interested (and I know there are a few out there-Matt's mother, various church people etc), here are the laborious pictures I took, cut in half and then half again (I took almost a hundred).

Oh, and Matt and Darrell came in 45 minutes ahead of Jake and Don, but it should be noted that Don's canoe was twice as heavy as Darrell's and that Don had done something appalling to his elbow and was in considerable pain for the 70 miles.


Into the Water


At the Starting Line


The First Pit, Everyone still happy and thinking Rowing a Canoe is no Problem


Don and Jake Foregoing the First Pit


The First Time having to get out of the water and carry the canoe past a large dam. Really couldn't get a good shot of them through the trees and I was too far away.


The Copper Fox: Early into the Race pulled another guy out of the water who was stuck under a tree and starting to drown. Everyone cheered The Copper Fox all day at every stop. Many people tipped during the day. Darrell tipped Matt at one point and we're wondering if his severe rib pain this morning is due to possibly having hit a rock or having been whacked by the boat.


Back in the boat after the second land carry, avoiding this



Don and Jake Carrying their Very Heavy Boat


Linda lowering Tuna fish Sandwiches over a Very Tall Bridge to Don and Jake, Her aim was so good, she it Jake in the face with the bag and it landed in his lap. Tuna fish was the food of choice for everyone but Matt who ate Power bars and Drank some Sports Drink of a Vile Color.


Matt and Darrell Backwards through the Finish Line so Darrell Could Go Through First


Don and Jake Arrive, Don tips over the Side for a MUCH Needed Soak. Matt pretends to be All That and Help Jake with the Boat. First time he realizes How Much Heavier their boat is and regrets the offer of help.


Exhausted. "I don't understand the appeal of this activity" I said to Darrell, "What's the Best Part of the Race?"
"Getting out of the boat at the end" said Darrell.


And This Must Have Helped.

Ugh

Being pregnant, I dreamt a number of really terrible things last night. I dreamt first that my cat died, that she had some kind of surgery and didn't make it out. Which was really disturbing because I love my cat very much. She's enormously fat, with pastel spots and she doesn't have her claws and so she gets beat on by the other cats. So that was really upsetting.

And then I dreamt that our bishop came after us armed, with a posse. Matt and I were at some kind of camp, presumably being sad about the cat, and the bishop showed up with a whole lot of people and weapons, ready to do battle.

Then I woke up and read that Bishop Cavalcanti has not been invited to the Lambeth Conference and felt that there was no point being an Anglican any more. I'm prepared to be almost anything else at this point.

So now I am going to go scrub the bathroom, because that's how bad it is.

Nothing...yup, Nothing

I've been trying to think of something to blog about all day, and here it is 9:30, and I have nothing to say at all. I commend to you Stand Firm-for news and analysis, and some little fights cropping up here and there on various comment threads. Instead of writing anything, I'm going fuss around with a possible different template. Too tired to think about anything real. See you tomorrow. Good Night.

odds and ends

I have a quiet moment as the kids are out in the back, enjoying the sun. We went and had an interview with the school we are considering for them for next year. Its a Baptist school, which carries all kinds of interesting thoughts for me, having grown up in some such environment. But I was impressed with the PreK and Kindergarten and people seem generally friendly. Aedan will have to be tested for PreK this week. I go into this with the firm conviction that I have not given up on my dream of a classical education for my kids, either at home or in a school, but that it is merely on hold for the time being. The main thing is for them to all learn to read and for me to have this next baby in safety and relative sanity.

But in between cutting hair, bathing, long lectures about not getting clothes dirty (all time for above mentioned interview) have been glued to Stand Firm and the news about who will and who will not be attending Lambeth. I wonder what all this looks like from God's perspective. I mean, it has to seem ridiculous. Ridiculous, but, I think, nevertheless worth all the hassle and heartbreak and anxiety and fuss. Not so that we humans can decide who's in and who's out, who gets to come to the party and who doesn't. But rather, that given the opportunity to stand up and say 'I believe in God and in Jesus Christ and in Scripture' and I'm willing to stake everything on it, even an invitation to Lambeth, that the oppotunity can be siezed upon with vigor and resolve.

I must say, I feel more sorry for VG Robinson this afternoon than for Bishop Minns. Minns has work to do, purpose and focus and ministry and he's in the battle for the long haul. Robinson, however, I think from all I've seen, would really like this invitation as an affirmation of who he is and what he's about. And the news that there will be no invitation is probably a personal blow. I hope he will be able to bear up under his afflictions.

And now, I am going to take one of those nice headache pills prescribed by my doctor and think about what Matt would like for supper.

More Saturday Procrastinations

Ok, I should always do my homework before post. A brief glance at Wikapedia shows that Sarkozy is either married or not married, having been divorced at least one time. I can only count up three children in the article but I could have sworn there were a lot more children like people milling around the inauguration. So obviously he wouldn't have his wife/non-wife driving around with him if he is not married to her. And if should be noted that Chirac left the Elycee palace alone.

Which just goes to show you that the French couldn't run for President of America, with the candidtates falling all over themselves to show their value of family by having family in tow.

All this would lead me to believe that women in America gain a good deal more power, in matrimony, than French women. An American woman expects to be the equal of her husband and has to work hard and be reminded often to 'submit'. But really, I should not be thinking about this. I have got to write a sermon (talk about equality in marriage).

Saturday Procrastinations

I'm supposed to be writing a sermon and just to help myself concentrate I'm watching Wednesday's French Inauguration on C-SPAN. Some very interesting things to note. First, it appears as though Sarkozy has upwards of 5 children. Couldn't get an exact count so I'm going to have to google it. And, then, Sarkozy walked Chirac all the way to his car, something Mitterand did not allow Chirac to do-a real, showing to the door of your car moment, you're the guest now as it were. But the real interesting bit (for me) is the total absence of women in the whole procedings. Sarkozy's wife stood off to the side with her children during his inauguration and speech, he didn't mention her at all in his remarks, and now he is doing his formal bits (ride down the Champs Elysees, lighting of the eternal flame etc) alone.

Of course, this would be totally unacceptable in the US. You can't leave your wife out of anything here, whether you like it or not. I presume that had Royal won she would have left her husband at home.

This absence of women is surprising to me now, having been in the US for almost 10 years (is it really that long?), but I don't think I would have noticed before. I remember being really genuinly surprised by the Clinton/Lewinsky scandle. I coudldn't understand why anyone would care. Just goes to show you how Americanised I've become.

Adult Content Calvanism

Matt told me he wanted to name the new baby Calvin, if its a boy.
'Really?' I said,'So you want me to never be in the presence of my family without them laughing at me behind my back?'
'Yes' he said.
Let it just be known that I'm a closeted Calvinist and unwilling to debate or argue or defend my position in anyway.
So, in honor of Matt's desire for our unborn child, here is an offering that has been making the rounds on various blogs.
And, lest any of you worry, I have by no means agreed to name the baby Calvin. But if any of you want to insure against that possible outcome, you can start praying fervently for a girl, NOW.

No More Excuses

I’m exhausted today. Matt mentioned on Stand Firm that Good Shepherd has hosted Christian Life and Witness Classes for the upcoming Franklin Graham NYPENN Festival in June. We’ve been involved in the planning and praying for this event for the last two years. Actually, there’s been a group of pastor’s praying for God to do something in Binghamton for about 20 years, faithfully every Thursday at something like 6 am. Matt went for a while but I haven’t been able to cope with the children on my own that early, so he’s stopped for the time being. Three years ago someone from the group was at the Billy Graham School of Evangelism (I think that’s what it’s called) for a weekend of something, and someone from Franklin’s team said, ‘Aren’t you from Binghamton? We’ve been praying about Binghamton’ to which this person replied, ‘great, we’ve been praying about you.’ So now, three years later, we’re on the verge of this real live festival.

We’d been seriously focused on Evangelism as a church since we arrived—a necessity given the size of the congregation and the state of the budget. If you want to survive as a church, new people have to come in. And we’ve focused on conversion growth, rather than trying to get Episcopalians from other churches. We’ve had this growth—many new believers, as many as we’ve been able to cope with, really. And now we’re desperately trying to grow these new believers up in the appalling thought that we might have a new influx come June.

I’ve allowed myself to be stressed by this. I’ve been at all the planning meetings since the beginning and I’ve been struggling along in Bible Study and with individuals, trying to help them keep on the right path. And a lot of other things have taken back seat to this work—my house, for instance, my MA program, even atrium life has been co-opted by practicing some kind of weird dances for the Children’s part of the festival (can’t wait to have atrium time back! That’s one reason I’m feeling so off kilter). And then, of course, after all this preparation and work, I manage to be pregnant again which saps my energy back down to zero.

Through all of this, bad moods included, I realized this morning that I really want people to come to know Jesus. I want Good Shepherd to grow. I want the pews to fill up and the Sunday School to actually reach capacity and require some other space. I want more people trained to teach Bible Studies and do some of the work of discipleship. But at the baseline, I would like people to be Christian. Not just in name, but seriously, willing to put everything on the line for the sake of the Gospel, willing to count everything a loss for the gain of Christ.

But the result of this desire, today, is complete and total fatigue. I’m tired. I’m tired of shoving and pleading and cajoling and reminding people that they need to invite their friends to church and to the festival, pleading with them that the most important thing for their children should be a profound and transformative knowledge of Christ, not soccer practice AND, most of all, I’m tired of being given excuses: ‘well, I’m praying for someone but I know they won’t come’ or ‘I don’t have any friends’ or ‘I don’t know if I’ll be free that weekend, I’m probably going to be out of town.’

And then, a few minutes ago, I read Matthew’s parable of the talents, and I realized that we’ve been given a rare and beautiful gift, The Gospel. And I will feel absolutely sick if we, as a church, and as individuals, go and hide it in the ground, bury it up and move on to the next thing. So, even though I’m tired and worn thin, I think I will get back on the phone and keep hassling people—are you praying? Have you invited your friends? Did you sign up to be a counselor? Will you be in church this Sunday? Are you planning to bring your children to Sunday School? And if not, Why? Because time’s a wasting, there’s work to be done, and you need to buckle down and do the work of the Kingdom.

waiting, waiting, waiting

Well, Titusonenine is down. Drell is down. I can see by my hit counter that many of you are circling through blogs waiting for news. Matt is trying to set up an interview so don't hang out here. Go back to Stand Firm and enter the frey. Or, you can take up the question here. What do you think? Is it a Good Thing to jump now, or a Bad Thing?

And if you don't know what we're talking about. It looks as though at least one Episcopal diocese, maybe more, is announcing its intention to leave the Episcopal church, taking cover under another province for the time being.

News

Vestry tonight so there's really no time to write. But do keep your eyes on Stand Firm and Ruth Gledhill, because big news is breaking today in the Anglican Communion. I'm not sure all it involves because Matt is so distracted he can't even speak to me.

Cake out of a Box

Made myself a cake for Mother's Day. Used a cake mix, since there was one in the cupboard and added peaches from a can and half and half instead of water. And then cooked some frozen raspberries with Lyle's Golden Syrup for a sauce.

Had a large piece and then, out of desperation (because it is, in fact, Mother's Day) said to Matt,
'Should I just have another piece of cake or are you going to pay attention to me?'
Matt put down his computer, looked deeply into my eyes and said,
'Let me get you a piece of cake.'

Fell about laughing. Am now having cake AND attention.

A little something about my mother

When I was 13 or 14 (or maybe 15) I had a difficult moment in life. I was away at school (boarding school, about 8 hours drive south of our village) and I had weird dorm parents. They were constantly questioning my faith, my attitude (come on, I was 13 or 14 or maybe 15) and being borderline inappropriate (like coming down the hall unannounced, not cool if you're a man in a dorm full of young girls). I don't know who contacted my parents or how exactly it came about, life being a fog of unpleasantness at that point, but my mother showed up one day and took me off campus to the Mission Guest House down the road and provided some much needed tlc. I seem to remember reading, in a fabulous moment of self indulgence, some wretchedly written Grace Livingston Hill novel late into the night AND, most importantly, my mother cooking Easy Hamburger Gravy with Mushrooms and Noodles (see below). After weeks and weeks of disgusting dining hall fare, this rich emulsions of cream, hamburger, and mushrooms was balm on my wounded spirit.

I make this sauce periodically, when the moment seems good. I think of it as so special and important. Last time my mother was here, assisting, as it were, with the arrival of baby #3, I was madly thawing hamburger in a pan and boiling noodles, and my mother said, 'oh, Grandma's Easy Hamburger Gravy. It is best when you thaw the hamburger in the pan.' Turns out there are Landers (my mother is a Lander, oldest of 8 Lander children) all over the world busily thawing hamburger in pans, boiling noodles or cooking rice, throwing stuff in, seeking spiritual closeness to God and self through this important sauce.

So, as a tribute to my Mother, and her Mother, for when the moment seems right and all else is wrong, here is Easy Hamburger Gravy.

1 large chunk frozen hamburger, thawing in the pan
onion, if you feel like it, thrown in over the eventually browned hamburger
garlic, if you feel like it, the same way
mound of mushrooms, thrown in and wilting
salt and pepper
1 tablespoon of flour when the juices are flowing, thrown in to bind
large measure of cream (depending on the wound of the soul)
And, if you're me, another large measure of Sherry
Let it all simmer away while the Noodles (or Rice) cook.

You could make a salad, or some kind of vegetable, or you could just put out large bowls and let the noodles and hamburger gravy take you into bliss and comfort.
Happy Mother's Day!

a little something

Tomorrow is Mother's Day, in case any of you hadn't noticed. I would like to wish my own Mother, sometimes commenter on this blog,
A Big Huge Happy Mother's Day!
These flowers are for you

I hope you have a lovely day.

Jesus Loves Me

So I took all three kids to the grocery store this afternoon, something I generally try to avoid at all costs. I pushed them around in the cart that has a car on the front-Emma and Aedan in the car, Baby in the seat up front. And I was visibly pregnant. Found that I avoided making eye contact with anyone. There were lots of women there, all with one child, at most two, and then a lot of other women in suits, thin women in suits, pushing the little tiny carts around with only three items in.

And then in front of the milk and eggs section Aedan started singing 'Jesus loves me' really loud and kept singing, only stopping every now and then to whine or yell at his sister.

Felt more Christian, in a psychotic way, than ever before. It didn't fill me with a warm glow. Strangely, I felt a weighted cultural judgment, like I was violating every taboo-consuming too much, over populating the earth, heating up the environment, and raising wacko children.

So I came home and raked all the mowed grass up and made the children clean and clean and clean.

How Sweet

Very tired this evening. Merely wanted to observe that Emma has received her outfit/costume for her ballet/tap recital in June. Parents, of course, weren't given any opportunity to give their opinions before the ordering of these outfits. The result is very tight bright red velvet leotards with red tutus and arm bands and belts-or, to provide you with a mental graphic, a room full of three and four year old Moulin Rouge/Show Girl/Ladies of the night dancing vigorously to "Under the Sea".

Emma enjoys her weekly hour of dance very much and she has a lovely and beautiful young teacher and I'm happy for her to gain some coordination, confidence and grace. But I'm completely overwhelmed by these outfits. Pictures forth coming.

Technicalities

Matt announced at Morning Prayer that the Kennedy household was experiencing "Technical Difficulties" and everything would be helter skelter for the rest of the day as a result. That was really to put it mildly. After a full weekend of Rubbage/Chicken BBQ/Church/Christian Life and Witness Course hosting/writing/reviewing and other odd jobs, he woke up this morning to find our wireless hookup in the house on the blitz, three babies with colds and a lot of other annoying glitches to his morning routine. Not being able to get on the internet is like, well, really, its what we all imagine eternal separation from God to be like, isn't it?

I staggared out of bed hours later and sat in my regular stupor in front of my computer and clicked connect over and over before I remmebered (how Biblical is that) Matt shouting in my ear on his way out the door "The router is broken! I'm late! You won't be able to get online!" I really didn't know what to do with myself or how to wake up. I ended up making a vat cream of wheat and trying to read the Bible of all things. I read of Solomon's downfall, having so many women and all their gods and thought how stupid of him, not to pay attention to God. And then was embarrassed, of course. Imagine not being able to wake up without being online for at least an hour (usually more).

Overall in a bad mood having dreamt that I gave birth to twin boys. Tried to ellicit names from the children for the new baby. Boy names.
'Let's name him flower' said Emma.
'Let's name him Rowan' said Aedan
'Why don't I have beautiful middle names like Aeadn and Rowan?' asked Emma.
'You do have beautiful middle names'
'No I don't. What are my middle names?'
'Anne and Margaret for three of your great grandmothers.'
'Oh, well, let's name the baby Flower.'
'We're not naming the baby Flower and that's final. Go play.'

So now that I'm finally back online and the children are playing, I'm trying to catch up on French election gossip and Stand Firm (highly recommend Matt's article from today, or yesterday, or whenever it was) and dishes.

Interruption: A very nice person has come by to help me set up my scroll saw so I will have to get back to this later.

Get Up! Get Dressed!

We're off to church for the day. The ECW is doing a rummage sale and the men are doing a chicken BBQ.For my feelings about rummage, sift through the archives of this blog.

Of course, of course, I woke up with a splitting headache. I know my doctor said its probably hormonal/pregnancy related, but I have paid special attention this week and the days I had a headache where Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the three days I had to go to church. Tuesday and Thursday, when I was home quietly with the kids fending off their hysteria and screaming, I was headache free.

Many years ago, in boarding school, I used to get an awful headache every Sunday. It would begin when I woke up, last through the morning service, the awful 'formal family lunch' in the dining room, through siesta and all the way until the end of 'singsperation', the evening service, after which it would abruptly end. It did occur to me, Sunday after Sunday, that maybe God was using the headaches as a way of calling me to be an atheist. But there are so contradictions in that thought that I never carried through.

This morning I thought maybe God was calling me to avoid Rummage at all costs, but there's nothing in scripture about avoiding adversity, so I will pack up my kids and my headache and take several more Tylenol and be on my way. And God help me if anyone tries to sell me Rummage. Or rather, God help them.

French

I've been searching around online to see if I could find video of the French presidential debate from yesterday and haven't had any luck. I managed to see the much publicized clip of Royale getting steamed up about handicapped children being integrated into regular schools. I think I'll keep searching because it was a great exchange. I wish Americans could have as much verbal fabulousness as French people are allowed to have. The commentary on Brit tonight was very good. I imagine the Corner on NRO will have it posted tomorrow. It is true that women, for whatever reason, have greater hurdles to jump in french politics than in America or even in the rest of Western Europe. I don't know why this is, other than that French women have to be gorgeous and thin, whereas in England they're allowed to be frumpy and in Spain they're allowed to be full bodied and glorious. This is a crass generalization, based on no stats or facts whatsoever.

Anyway, based on politics and not gender (I promise) I really hope Sarkozy wins because, beautiful though she is, Segoline Royale will just make a bad situation worse.

the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord

Indulge me. Several weeks ago someone very nice came by the house and cleaned. For this I was profoundly grateful. That evening I searched around for my morning tea pot. I have three teapots for daily use--morning and two for the rest of the day. I generally put the pot on a tray with accoutrements, so that Matt can bring me tea in the morning before my feet hit the ground.
This is a picture of my morning teapot and the one mug remaining.



That evening I found the pot but found that the handle had been broken and there was a large enough crack in it to mean that it would never properly hold tea again, let alone any other liquid. I am still grieving. I managed to carry this pot back and forth to boarding school ever term for three years, to Europe and back, and have had it through college, seminary and now five years of marriage.
Here is the sensible pot I bought for 12 dollars to replace it.

Pie

As usual, I didn't intend to take a whole week off posting, but here I am now. I've been having horrid headaches for a couple of weeks and some fairly bad days since my last post. I ascribed it immediately to stress and implored God to do something, but my doctor told me this morning that probably its a hormonal issue, common in the second semester ('don't you read pregnancy books?' she asked, 'oh, I said, no, I haven't read one since the first baby. figured I knew everything by now) and gave me a nice fat prescription for a 'mild narcotic' to which I look forward very much. I hope Matt will run out and fill it for me this afternoon.

The headache, combined with two boys who have developed a new love or roaring like lions and bears at each other, and a dog who barks at anything that even looks at the house, and a curious child who wakes up and wants immediate feedback (did you know that I like pink and that's why you gave me the pink plate? did I eat a lot of breakfast? did you know that I like to go outside and that's why you told me to go in the backyard? etc) has meant that I haven't been able to think about anything in paticular.

However, I did invent a recepie for Chicken Pot Pie which I will vouchsafe here because it turned out to be divine.

1 pkg chicken pieces (breast, thigh, whateve you like) diced finely
2 or 3 carrots diced small
handfull shallots diced, minced, whatever
2 cloves garlic minced
half bag frozen peas
half bag fozen corn
1 cup stock (I used goose stock from our Christmas goose)
1/2 cup cream
1 tablespoon flour
2 spriggs/stalks fresh rosemary
3 or 4 spriggs/stalks fresh tyme
olive oil
butter
salt/pepper
philo dough

sweat the onions, garlic and carrots until translucent in olive oil.
brown the chicken in butter (seasoned with salt and pepper)
add the peas and corn to the onions and bring back up to heat (I didn't bother to thaw them first), and then add the chicken (I drained off the chicken juice). Add in the stock, cream, flour, tyme, rosemary and season again.
Let it mellow together, covered, on medium heat while the oven heats and you cut out rounds of philo equal to the top of ramekins or whatever you proposed to bake the pies in. I did individual portions because I didn't want the philo to overcook before the filling was done.
Uncover the chicken filling and bring it to boil/simmer just to make sure its thick enough--not to soupy. Fill the ramekins. Cove with philo (I did about 6 pieces of philo per pie) and I didn't bother to baste each layer (although I could have). I only basted the top of each one with milk/cream.
Bake fo 15 minutes in a 400 degree oven.
Feed it to a man intending to watch his wasteline and defy him to resist your culinary powers.

Though He slay me, Yet will I praise Him

I would welcome and appreciate your prayers this evening. I'm very tired--physically, spiritually, probably in other ways that I haven't thought of.

The baby is cranky and teething. Aedan is trying to learn the use of the facilites, to put it delicately, and the house is continually wrecked. No matter how hard I work at it, the dirt never seems to actually go away. I've been making stock and bread and doing dishes and sorting clothes and laundry and calling lists of people and being short with me children who are tired also of my bad mood for the last four days, really without leaving the house. I'm tired.

But even more than that I'm weary of my sins, of rolling the big rock of Church Work up the mountain and having it flatten me again the next week, of not having the energy to be cheerful and joyful even.

We're hosting classes for an upcoming Franklin Graham Festival in June and the miriad of details and emails to sort out and parking to worry about and chairs to rearrange has stressed everyone, but also me. And then at the last minute we're going to do the annual vestry breakfast for Good Shepherd Sunday, even though no one rememberd until the last minute and it will mean getting to church at 6:30 in the morning to cook eggs and sausage and set up tables and chairs.

And every time I turn on the radio I hear another sermon about Job, because everyone seems to be preaching through the whole book, verse by verse. Which just makes it worse because I don't have it that bad. All my children are still alive. I'm not covered in boils. I have nice friends instead of awful ones. But I still feel like I am sitting in the dust.

And yet, from the dust, I will praise Him.

my sermon from this morning

For those of you who are highly routine oriented, I apologize for cutting out the New Testament, the Acts reading scheduled for today. I wanted to be able to work through the whole text of today’s Gospel but found, when I sat down to work, that the best part is left off. The only way we ever read John 21:15-17 is if it’s the feast of St. Peter which is 99.9 % of the time on a week day, And also, the Acts reading is such a wonderful story that it deserves a whole morning of its own, so I hope Matt will pick it up another time.

Easter Sunday I had a couple of lovely young ladies in Sunday School and we looked together at Mark’s account of the Empty Tomb. You see I have it right here. We read a section about the women coming to the tomb and finding it empty. And the young man who is there instead of Jesus says to them, “go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going before you to Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.”

We wondered about these words.
“I wonder why the man said to tell Peter especially that Jesus had risen.”
My young ladies were honest.
“I don’t know”, they said.

“Really?” “You don’t know what happened to Peter?”
“No,” they said, “who’s Peter?”

So let me ask you. First of all. Do you know who Peter is?
Right, one of the twelve disciples, or the 12 closest friends of Jesus.
So, let me ask you also,
“I wonder why the man said to tell Peter especially that Jesus is risen from the dead?”

Turn back a few chapters to John 18, beginning verse 15. I’m going to skim through it, so keep up
“Simon Peter followed Jesus and stood outside at the door. And a servant girl went out and brought Peter in. And the servant girl said to Peter, ‘are you not also one of this man’s disciples?’ and what did Peter say? “I am not” he said. And then a little later, verse 25, Peter is standing warming himself, and someone else said to him, ‘you are one of his disciples’ and Peter denied it again, ‘I am not’ and then one of the servants of the high priest, related to the person who had had their ear cut off by Peter earlier in the evening in the Garden of Gethsemane, when Peter was clearly with Jesus, defending him, said, ‘I saw you in the garden with him,’ and Peter said no a third time. And then a rooster crowed as Jesus had promised and in another gospel it says that Jesus turned and looked Peter square in the eyes.

“I wonder why Peter denied Jesus” I asked my ladies.
Because he was afraid.
That’s true, it’s a very scary time. What’s going on with Jesus while Peter is warming himself? Right, he’s on trial to be executed. It’s pretty clear that Jesus is not going to make it out alive at this point, and it would be a scary moment to be associated with him.

Someone else thought maybe Peter didn’t like Jesus that much, a good time to ditch an unwanted friend.

But we know that’s not the case.
Peter loved Jesus. Peter had left everything behind for Jesus. Peter had allowed himself to be rebuked by Jesus. Jesus had taken Peter up on the mount of the Transfiguration with James and John to show the three of them who he really was. Peter hadn’t want Jesus to wash his feet, and then wanted a whole bath when he found out what Jesus was doing. Peter loved Jesus.

And so, you can imagine how completely and utterly devastated he would have felt when Jesus was condemned to die and then executed and Peter was left with his denial of his friend and no way to apologize or fix it or do anything. From what we can tell, Peter had gone into hiding with the other disciples and was no where to be found the hours that Jesus hung on the cross. We only know that John and the Marys were with Jesus in his last moments.

I can imagine how he felt, I would have gone to hide as well. I would never have wanted to see the light of day again.

But there is a difference between the devastation of betrayal in love, and the despair of betrayal born out of anger and hatred. You may have wondered, as you read through the accounts of Jesus’ life why Peter, after betraying Jesus, didn’t kill himself, the way Judas did. Judas betrayed Jesus, sold his life off for a cheep 30 pieces of silver and then, when the magnitude of what he had done set in, threw himself off a cliff.

But Peter didn’t, he hid out, he stayed close, he remained with the other disciples.

What was the difference?
The difference was love.

The despair of indifference and hatred leads ultimately to death. If you dislike, or hate, or don’t really care, death already lives in you. If you don’t care about God, and live in your sins and dislike the people around you and harbor malice, you carry death in your body and in your heart.

But if, for just a moment, that indifference and malice and hate is pushed aside and you choose to love, to see God, to love Jesus, no amount of sin will keep you from clinging to him ultimately.

And the sin of betrayal, of denial. That’s a big one. Of looking at your Lord while he is going unto death and saying, ‘I don’t know him’. There are a thousand ways we do this in every day life. When, in the world, you let the demands and necessities and pressures of life draw you away from complete devotion to Jesus. When given the opportunity to stand up and say, ‘I believe in God, I believe in Jesus, I love him very much and try to do what he says’ but don’t say this because you know the person you’re talking to will lower their eyes and look at you in disdain.

When given the opportunity to shed the light of Christ on your children, to tell them how much God loves them and that he cares and that their behavior is out of line with his will and purpose and you don’t say anything because its embarrassing and you don’t want them to think you’re a spiritual freak.

Or when God has done something amazing in your life—lifted a great unbearable burden from you and given you power and freedom and joy and you don’t tell anyone because you know they’ll think you’re odd. These are small denials, small turnings away that we easily push aside and forget about.

But Peter, Peter said aloud with his lips the fear he had in his heart. Because ultimately its fear, isn’t it, that keeps us from announcing from the roof tops the work that God has done for us, the love he has poured out for us, the work he is doing here in this church.

Peter was afraid. And so he hung out in Jerusalem for days in hiding. When Jesus appeared to the disciples and let Thomas touch his side and his hands, Peter hung around in the back ground.
He couldn’t be anywhere else because he loved Jesus, more than anything, more than his sin, more than his shame, more than himself. But then, not seeing Jesus again, Peter becomes antsy. You can’t sit holed up in a dark room hiding all day. He goes fishing. The least he can do is work with his hands and maybe put to rest the anxiety and sorrow of a broken life and relationship.

Peter spends the night in a boat with his friends. They work hard and don’t catch anything. As the dawn is making the sky pink and glorious, a man appears, in the near distance, on the shore, and calls out to them. ‘So, not catching any fish huh?’

Well, clearly, they’re exhausting themselves to no purpose.
‘Try the other side of the boat’

And so they catch 153 fish—the kind of number that sticks in your mind for its oddity. Not 150, 153.
But before then John realizes it is Jesus. Who else would stand on the shore and laugh at them? John tells Peter, “It is the Lord.”
But Peter probably already knows.

And then Peter does what you do when you love someone so much you don’t care about becoming ridiculous. He jumps in the water and swims to shore. This is his chance. This is his moment. So far from death, from despair, Peter’s whole being clings to hope. We don’t know what Jesus says to him when he gets there, soaking wet, out of breath. But the other disciples pull up and get out of the boat. And they all eat breakfast together and then Jesus takes Peter aside.

Peter, he says, do you love me?
Well, yes, that’s the basis, that’s the rock, that’s the only thing that has held Peter together over the horror of the last few days.
Yes, says Peter, you know that I love you.
Then feed my lambs, says Jesus.
And then Jesus asks him again. Peter, do you love me.
Yes, says Peter, you know that I love you.
Then tend my sheep, says Jesus. And Jesus says again, Peter, do you love me.
And Peter is hurt. What can he do? What more can he say?
‘Yes, Jesus, you know that I love you’
Then feed my sheep, says Jesus.

Three times denied. Three times forgiven.
The hope that Peter had lived and breathed is made sure, is accomplished. And the same for you. If you love, if you hope, if you believe in Jesus, that he has the power to forgive you of all your sins, of every last lonely shameful thing you have ever done or said or thought, and you ask him to forgive you, than he will. The love that you have for Jesus is a tiny drop of the love he has for you, the forgiveness he has for you. Do not despair. Do not live in the death of indifference and sin and malice and hatred. Because that is not really living. The only way to live is to be with Jesus. The only way to live forever is to love Jesus. The only way to live now in freedom and courage and joy is to throw everything aside, and jump into the great sea of his love for you. Get out of the boat, this morning. Cling to him.
Because he is risen. Alleluia! Amen.

Procrastinating

I'm working on a sermon so I have no business being online at all, let alone blogging. However, I did just want to put down an interesting little exchange from yesterday.

Emma: 'Daddy, can we go camping? I will pick the spot and collect my favorite things to take with us.'
Aedan: 'I will be a spider man when I grow up and you can be one too daddy.'
Matt: 'OK'
Emma: 'Will there be bears when we go camping?'
Matt: 'I don't think so, we will go somewhere where there are no bears.'
Emma: 'Maybe you can kill the bears when we see them. Are they good to eat?' (Emma is always hungry)
Matt: 'Well, I don't think we will need to meet any bears and we can take some other food to eat.'
Emma: 'How bout owl, can we eat owl?'
Matt: 'I guess so. I guess owl could taste good. But we could probably just take food with us.'
Aedan: 'No, I will be a dinosaur when I grow up. And you can be a dinosaur too, Daddy.'
Emma: 'Its OK to eat bears and owls because they will rise again when Jesus comes back in the resurrection.'
Matt: 'That's right.'
Emma: 'How? Will they rise again in my tummy?'
Anne: 'Supper time!'
Matt: 'Oh thank God.'
later...
Matt: 'You hate beans, Anne. Why are we eating beans?'
Anne: 'I don't hate beans. I've always loved beans.'
Matt: 'That's a bald faced lie.'

Supper menu: black beans, red beans, avocado, corn, tortillas, hot sauce, sour cream, fish sticks, and sardines. Basically my whole family is repulsed by the things I want to eat right now. I've never had cravings before (other than for straight lime), but this time, there's something about beans and rice and sardines that I just can't get enough of.

Finally

I refuse to be a posting other people's news blogger, but I did just want to offer a prayer of thanksgiving today for the ruling of the Supreme Court regarding Partial Birth Abortion and draw your attention to it, if you haven't seen it yet. As many others are busy saying, its only a first step, but its a particularly necessary and happy one. Now, on to more prayer.

More Death

I found myself caught up in the blame and outrage half way through the day. I will admit to clicking on the tube and being glued to it. Of course, events like this are like Christmas for 24 hour news. You can see journalists struggling to maintain an appropriate balance of sorrow and thrill. It was fascinating to see the news being formed, created almost, in spite of the amazing dearth of facts and information.

Given that I was critized on some other blog last week for my comments about the Iran hostages (and given that I can't remember the name of the blog, how to find it, what they said or what I said), I welcome any discussion from you all about the use of force. More and more I'm pro (at least for the US) responsible gun ownership. Of course, I'm married to a Texan, so how can I be otherwise. On the other hand, I'm not for, say, the flooding of guns into Africa. Part of the horror in Liberia, Sierra Leone and finally Ivory Coast was the ready availability of guns and ammunition. But western fear of responsible gun ownership and use is looking more and more foolish. We have sensible laws. They could be implemented.

Anyway, I can't write more because Emma is begging for attention by asking the same question over and over.

The death of Maddening Spring

There are no cats in the window this morning. They are all trying to sit on me and each other to keep warm. God finally is dumping snow down as fast as possible. We waited long after those brilliant weather liars said it would snow, but eventually it did. And, mercifully, there's no school, which means that the neighbors are home and have taken all our kids to their house to play for the day, even the baby. So now I'm trying to will myself into standing up and going and tackling the appalling state of the children's room. What better, then, to just pause and blog for a moment. Since I utterly failed my promises of last week to write on many topics and be fascinating. Can't even remember what was going on last week.

Oh yes, Anna Nicole Smith's baby does have a father. That's a great relief. What particularly interested me, as I wasted time reading articles about this happy discovery and looked at pictures, was how hollow all the players seem to look--their eyes all have a sort of glazed over hollow look. Its rather disconcerting. Have decided to pray for this baby who is sure to have a wretched and unhappy life, far from the love and power of Christ. She is just about the age of my baby and so I feel rather sad, and wish that a sensible person would come along and tell them all about Jesus and encourage them to give all their money to the poor. Or something.

And of course, I'm sorry to say, I spent all the extra wasted moments reading about Imus and listening to various commentators on the radio. And talking to our neighbor who has listened to him every morning for 14 years. I had a lot of opinions about this catastrophe until I talked to our neighbor and found that he had a lot more than I did and most of them were more interesting. So I will move on and only recommend everything that NRO wrote about it last week.

And then, amazingly, I've seen three movies in the last week. I spent an outrageous amount of money to go out and see Blades of Glory in the theater and eat a large bucket of pop corn. I actually went mostly for the pop corn and because a very wonderful friend looked at me a few days ago and said, kindly and sadly, 'you really need to have an evening out'. So we went and it was ridiculous and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Actually more disturbing that Will Farrell and the other actor, whose name I completely forget, skating unhappily together, was the blatant and unveiled incestuousness of the rival skaters. Very funny. If, like me, you're looking to escape from reality, I highly recommend this flick. I you're more of a realism person and don't like comedy (like Matt) then you would probably be miserable the whole time.

Which brings me to Keeping Mum, which many of you have recommended to me. Excellent. Really well done. Really disturbing. Really almost too realistic, particuly the wretched flower committee. About a year ago a rumor began flying around Good Shepherd that Matt had made the unilateral decision to move the ECW (Episcopal Church Women) closet from the first floor, to the third floor, far away from everything and not accessible by elevator. He was planning to do this, obviously, because he didn't like the old ladies and he wanted them to be unhappy and possibly even fall on the stairs and break something. As all rumors, it led a fleeting and exciting life, flying all the way round town, through the other 9 Episcopal churches, so that every Episcopalian in town was able to nod slowly and say, 'oh yes, of course, Matt Kennedy, what an evil jerk'. If you visit Good Shepherd today you will find the ECW continues to reside on the first floor and that it is little children who have to climb the many stairs to go to Sunday School.

All right, I have more to say, but Matt is actually pulling the computer out of my tight grasp and we are about to start shouting at each other. Hopefully, hopefully, I'll have a chance to get back to this later.

Party Preparations

Everything chucked out of window, including blogging, for next 24 hours while I try desperately to create a bear out of cake for Aedan who will be THREE tomorrow. Too tired to do secret birthday shopping. Ended up taking him and Emma and Baby with me to buy necessary party items, including present.

Alright kiddo, I said, here are the trucks. Which one do you like?
Speechless, eyes enormous, he reached out his grubby little mit and pointed to a buldozer that actually bulldozes.
I want to hold it, he said.
No, it goes under the cart, I'm going to wrap it up and you can have it tomorrow.
I want to hold it, he said.
No.
I want to hold it.
No.
I want to hold it.
No.
I want to hold it.
No. Heavenly saints, Aedan, not until tomorrow.

You can see how the day has been.

Day wrecked. Nothing accomplished. Will blog tomorrow.

Jumbles

I really have to get out of bed. This has been the most amazing week. I haven't slept past 6 o'clock, really, since being married, except maybe once or twice. And here, every morning this week, I've been late and lazy a bed. Anyway, I have a number of things I intend to post about today, and was going to write at this moment, however, Matt is planning to steal my computer so hopefully they will appear here, over the course of the day.
Expect brilliance on the following topics:

1. My fabulous night out at the movies to see Blades of Glory.
2. My response to someone or other's opinions about my opinions on their blog re the Iran hostage imbroglio
3. property hype and hysteria in the Episcopal church
4. My plans to rearrange furniture
5. Don Imus/Anna Nicole Smith/Rosy O'Donnell and other pop culture issues on which I have been wasting much valuable time

That's right. All that and more, coming up here! Now on to arguing with Matt about the use of my computer, his, unfortunately, being completely and totally dead.

Maddening Spring

Laundry

Instead of blogging today, I folded clothes. Matt has been doing laundry every night for the last month and I haven't folded any since Palm Sunday. So after reading a novel all morning and then taking a four hour nap this afternoon, I folded laundry. And as a result, I have absolutely nothing to say. I haven't thought any thoughts, I haven't read anything sensible, I've just folded laundry. So, there you are. Hopefully I will think something tomorrow and then I can write it down. Good Night!

Providence of the Most High

For about a year I’ve been feeling guilt over my food shopping habits. Part of what has made life in Binghamton bearable is my weekly trip to Wegmans, our local super market/grocery store, whatever you want to call it. Other options in town include Giant and something called, I think, Price Chopper (haven’t been) and of course Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart. But from day one I have steadfastly and indulgently gone to Wegmans.

Here are some of its finer features:
* Customer with child and stork parking
* Large/enormous produce/fresh food section including local produce and organic food (not that I’m willing to pay more, but its available)
* Perfect Bagels
* Large variety of good quality Wegman’s brand foods and products which are significantly cheaper than name brands. For example, I exclusively buy Wegman’s brand butter, coffee, meat, diapers, formula etc.
* Large bulk spice and health food section.
* Beautiful and convenient lay out.
* Several cart options—very small two tiered cart for quick shoppers, standard size, two tiered option with two child seating, large enormous SUV cart where children pretend to drive car
* Very good coffee and cart cup holders
* Restaurant section with very eatable sushi, subs, Chinese food, Italian and very interesting soups and salads

This is just a short list. I think about my Wegman’s trip all week. I dress up for it. And I enjoy it the whole time it’s going on.

However, we’re basically poor. There are 5 of us, soon to be 6 (including 2 in diapers) in this house and we’re really pinching to make it on Matt’s extravagant priest salary. If it weren’t for the rectory, utilities and health insurance provided by the church, we’d be on food stamps. But by God’s grace we’re eking by and learning to be frugal. And this necessary frugality has introduced, in the back of my mind, a nagging feeling that I ought to be shopping at Wal-Mart. Most people in our church shop there and Giant (our quick stop if we’ve run out of milk (half the selection, none of the savings) and look at me askance when I talk about running all the way to Wegmans (I mean! It’s a 15 minute drive). That’s so expensive, they say.

And so, in the power of our resurrected Lord, after sleeping until nearly 10 o’clock because Matt is so wonderful and didn’t wake me up, I decided to check it out—Wal-Mart that is. I ran a comb through my hair, warmed up the car and drove over there. I even parked and got a cart and went in and spent a whole hour, AND, just as much money as I normally spend at Wegmans WITHOUT getting everything on my list. I still have to get back in the car and go to Giant because I couldn’t find light bulbs, or decent chocolate and I gave up looking for frozen peas.

AND I came home shattered. I collapsed on the couch and had to be revived with tea and some child’s left over Easter bunny.

And, even though you may not care to read it, I have to put down what Wal-Mart was like, in comparison both to Wegmans and all the hype about Wal-Mart, just to process the experience.

Upon entering I was confronted with disorganized and badly presented bins of produce, some of them full of rotting vegetables and fruit. I’m not joking, at least three bins with much of the food rotting. No asparagus, mushrooms (I wandered around looking and gave up), zucchini, lettuce (unpackaged), seedless cucumbers, I could go on and on. I ended up with a bag of wimpy looking tomatoes, a bunch of bananas and a bag of spinach. Now, if I had wanted precut, pre-washed, pre-handled carrots, those were in a abundance. But really not much else. This was deeply frustrating because half my grocery cart, generally, is vegetables that I bring home and cut and chop and wash and cook myself. So I don’t know what we’re going to eat this week, except bananas.

From there I went to meat and poultry and found it all very expensive. I got half of what I normally get. Good thing we have leftovers from Easter dinner because otherwise we would be starving this week.

Milk was, admittedly cheaper, but not butter, eggs, cereal, OR diapers, amazingly. And then I wandered the entire store twice, including furniture and shoes, looking for shampoo and cat food, which turned out to be far away from everything, in the corner, so that I would be sure not to find it. Furthermore, I was constantly stumbling over people stocking the shelves, in the middle of the day (1pm in fact). Nearly every aisle was being stocked and there were whacking great obstacles everywhere. By the end I had a splitting headache and wanted to cry (but then, right now I want to cry all the time, so that’s not the best indication of anything).

So here are my general Thoughts:
If I wanted to buy pre-done cheep frozen food, I think Wal-Mart would actually be an excellent and economical choice. The frozen section is easily accessible and well marked, unlike Wegmans where the frozen section is at the back of the store, far from everything else.

Probably one of the reasons we’re all reasonably sized people is that we buy food uncooked and cook it ourselves. And one of the pleasures of cooking is beautiful ingredients. And Wegmans provides those beautiful ingredients, many local, many exotic at a very decent price in an attractive and easily accessible venue.

Wal-Mart must either by lying or going down hill. I’m not opposed to low prices, in general (I’m looking for them) and don’t think Wal-Mart is an evil gigantic corporation that is ruining the soul of America. I do think it’s really very unpleasant. The lighting is poor, the layout is poor, the checkout system is inefficient, AND the prices are not that great, at least in food. I have yet to check out all the other stuff—office supplies, furniture, other stuff I don’t need right now and hopefully won’t for a long long time. And so for all the people going there, at least to the one here in Binghamton, NY, I don’t at all agree that it’s the best deal. I’m going to assume Walmart is not lying because I have no proof, and am going to go with the theory that they’re going down hill. And by gum, they better do something about because I don’t see how they can compete against other stores with the product I just experienced.

Which leads to me to my final thought/realization. I am a consumer, I do have go out and buy stuff for us to survive. I don’t have time to dig up my bag yard and make it into a vegetable garden and then preserve all the produce to get through the winter. My time is better spent building up the church and looking after my family. (I do have time to make my own bread which, by the way, was made difficult by the expensive flour provided by Wal-Mart and the lack of choice.) And so, while I am a consumer, I am consumer with a spiritual soul and my experience of shopping should feed and nourish my soul, while drawing out of my pocket book. It should not deplete and exhaust me, unless it is really severely cheaper. And so I chalk this whole day up to the providence of God in his care for me. My guilt is laid aside. I don’t have to go somewhere unpleasant and am allowed instead to be sustained by my weekly outing out. Thank God! Happy Easter!

Alleluia! He is Risen!

I did not intend to take a whole week off from blogging. But I have basically been living here in the church office for the last 5 days, trying to get bulletins and liturgy and music and sermons sorted. And given my thick headedness, its taken me twice as long as usual to do the simplest things. However, here we are, in the home stretch. Matt is preaching vigorously to the 8 o'clockers. I'm about to head up to the atrium to sort out my empty tomb and have a much needed moment of quiet. This afternoon we will go home and absolutely collapse, hopefully to resume a much missed online life tomorrow. In the meantime, here is my sermon from last night. I post it with apologies to my mom and dad for my misrememberings and bad spellings. As most children, I have probably completely romantecized and over analayzed ordinary life. So, I hope they'll forgive me. And for everyone else, Happy Easter!

Sermon for the Great Vigil of Easter
We didn’t take ordinary holidays when I was a child. First of all, I was at school for three months at a time, and then, when I came home for a break, my parents were always busy—doing the pressing work of language learning, translation, and anthropological research. Plus the business of living took up a huge chunk of every day. We had to take the time to cook each meal, wash dishes, fill lamps for the evening, light them before dark, make sure the jars were full of water, the house swept free of dust and bugs. But we always had some kind of outing when I came home.

A favorite was a visit to Miserikoros, a huge ancient volcanic rock sticking out of the ground, some several hours from our house. We would pack up a picnic, and hats, and walking shoes, lots of water, binoculars and the dogs, and usually one or two village friends—Ali or Jai—and head out. The road was fine through town, but once we left the paved and then the dirt road it was a rough drive. Part of the journey was praying fervently that the car would make it all the way. We’d find a shady tree, park, pack up our gear and hike to the rock, with the goal, ultimately, of climbing all the way up to the top from which there was a fine view. It was a steep walk, and hot, and buggy. But once there you could see for miles, the greatness of Africa spread before you, dry, endless, vast. After a rest we would climb around down into the rock itself, a huge dark cave, surely filled with bats and other creatures, but most especially with bones and ashes.

Which brings me to why this was an odd choice of an outing. Miserikoros is one of the many possible places one can go to make a sacrifice in that region. There are all kinds of reasons one might need to make a sacrifice. It may be a matter of routine—to ask for rain, or good health, or prosperity. But it may be because there’s a serious problem—someone is very sick, or you haven’t been able to get a wife, or someone has put a hex on you, or your wife has been unable to have a child. In which case, the sacrifice of a chicken, the spilling of its blood, its life force, on the ground, or, if the problem is really serious, the killing of a dog or a goat or sheep is the best option to gain the favor of those spirits and powers that have ultimate access to God, and also the ancestors, who continue to meddle in the affairs of the living. Because the Senufo people don’t have full access to God, as they see it. God, out of anger at them, has gone very far away into the sky, and left here humans and spirits to muck it out and make the best of it. And the best that the humans can do is to spill out blood on the ground and ask, to intercede, to request that those with power do something. The cave of Miserikoros is dark, the stench of blood thick in the air, the bones scattered liberally. ‘What are you sacrificing’, a man asked my father one time. ‘Oh, nothing, we’re just here to have lunch and see the view’. The man eyed our pudgy dogs and drew his own conclusions.

But we were really just there to see the view, the beauty of God’s creation and care. And I imagine Isaac, on his way up the mountain, at least the first part of the way, felt the same such freedom and security. After all, he was his father’s son, his only son, whom he loved, as much as any longed for, prayed for, delighted in child can feel secure and loved. But as they climb up the mountain, in the heat of the day, slapping away bugs, greater than the heat, is his father’s deafening silence. You can hear it in each line. They walk and walk and climb and nobody says anything. Finally, as the intense heat of noon begins to slack and the relief of the cooler afternoon approaches, Isaac puts words to a basic anxiety.
"My father!" He says
and Abraham says, "Here am I, my son."
And Isaac asks, "Behold, the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?"
And Abraham says, "God will provide for himself the lamb for a burnt offering, my son."
So they went both of them together.

As long as I have read this story, in the position of knowing the end even as I read the first line, I have always thought that Isaac must not believe Abraham. How could he believe him? There’s no lamb for the sacrifice. But that is ridiculous. Isaac doesn’t know the end of the story. And his father loves him. If his father, who loves him, says, ‘God himself will provide for the sacrifice’ than I am sure Isaac believed him and was relieved. Because they went both of them together. Isaac didn’t take off running back down the mountain. And look at the continued trust, the immense trust of Isaac who lets Abraham bind him, and place him, maybe even lays himself down on the altar, and watch Abraham raise the knife, and says nothing. Isaac is silent. Trusting. Willing, unimaginably, to die, because at this point he had to have understood.

But what of Abraham? When I hold my babies in the evening, wrapped up in a big furry blanket, I sometimes wonder if I really love God. Because I really love my babies. And if they were required of me, my own children, whom I love, I don’t know what I would do. Do I love God, that much? Enough to give them completely into God’s hands, enough that they might be taken from me? But Abraham did, he loved God that much, he bound his son, the thing, the person he loved most in the whole world, the person on whom all his hopes rested, and laid him on the altar and raised the knife, and said nothing. Abraham and Isaac silent before God together, utterly at God’s own mercy. Abraham loving God enough to trust him completely. Isaac loving his father enough to trust him completely.

This is the trust and love of a religious nut. I sat in this vast church yesterday, on Good Friday, at noon, the hour that Jesus hung, silent, on the cross, broken, bleeding, facing the full wrath and alienation of God, his father, I sat here with 5 other people. At first, as we sat silent together, I thought, why are there so few of us? Are we nuts? Everyone is driving by outside as if nothing is happening. Why are we here, alone with our Christ, remembering this brutal, appalling, merciful moment in history? Jesus himself was alone, on his cross, on the altar of the world’s sin, his mother and friend alone with him. Silent at his feet.

Because that is what we are really seeing. As you look at Abraham and Isaac high on the mountain, alone against the sky, the knife raised, perfect trust, perfect love, you are really seeing God, the Father and his Son, his only Son Jesus, whom he loves. Only where God staid Abraham’s hand, where God had mercy and provided a ram so that Isaac did not die, when it was his own son, Jesus, he did not stay his hand. Jesus himself was the sacrifice promised by Abraham to Isaac. God himself will provide a lamb for the sacrifice, Abraham said. And that sacrifice was Jesus.

In the cave, surrounded by bones and stench, its easy to wish that there was no need for a sacrifice. It’s easy to hold your nose and hope for the best. It’s easy to run through life keeping it together as best you can, hoping that your good will outweigh your bad, or that catastrophe won’t strike. But the Senufo know better. They know that things aren’t ok, that life doesn’t go the way you want, that there is sickness, malice, barrenness, evil, drought, they know that they need the power of something greater to help them with these problems. They are right. There does need to be a spilling of blood on the ground. There does need to be someone to come into the world to fix the mess that we have made, to atone for the sins of the world. What the Senufo don’t know, and so many of us here in America, and thousands around the world, is that high up on a mountain, on a stone, in the hottest part of the day, that blood was spilled. And that the blood spilled in that one hour was enough for the whole world. That Jesus, in his flesh, in his holy perfection as God and Man was enough. That no more blood needs to be spilled. We need only to have his blood written in our hearts, in our minds, in our souls and we are saved, we, like Isaac, are spared from death, eternal unending death. By his blood, with the power of his blood we can live forever.

But there’s another part the Senufo don’t know, and that many of us forget. That it wasn’t just that Jesus died. The blood spilled out and the atonement, the sacrifice was made. But that was only half. Jesus, his body, bereft of blood, was taken down from the mountain, laid in the cool desolation of a tomb and for three days it laid there. And if he had continued to lay there then everything he said would have been a lie, a sham. All the claims he made, all the promises, including the one to Abraham, would have been completely false. But on the third day, God, in his mercy and goodness and providence and perfect love, breathed life into that flesh once more and gave us back the body we had broken. Jesus, fully alive, fully restored walked out of the tomb and had breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, several of them, with his friends. He didn’t stay dead. He rose, the first of us who will rise with him when he comes again. He died and rose, so that we will never have to die. His blood is enough.

In the cool of the day we would climb down the rock and drive home as the sun would sink, orange and then red and then purple. The trees would become strange giants in the dark. Abraham and Isaac, at the end of their ordeal, climbed down the mountain and met up with their servants at the bottom, relieved to go home to the monotony of dinner preparations and the lighting of lamps. But they would never be the same again. The morning Jesus walked out of his grave and told Mary to stop crying, we have never been the same. We live in sure and certain promise and security of God’s perfect love. We can trust him, completely. Whatever it is that he asks of you to do, whatever sacrifice he requires of you, whatever promise he makes you, you can completely trust him to provide for you, to take care of you, to give you everything you need. Why? Because he loves you, perfectly, enough to die, enough to rise again.
Alleluia, he is Risen!
The Lord is risen Indeed. Alleluia!

some small moaning

I'm sorry to say I'm not up to writing anything this evening. For those of you commenters who would like justification for my intolerant, obviously evil theological positions, you'll have to wait till tomorrow. Hope you can be patient. And for everyone else, I'm trying to let thoughts ruminate into something interesting, but I'm surprising physically uncomfortable. I mean by that that I'm in pain, nausea, sore throat and general misery. I'm trying not to complain (although you can see its not working) and that this too will pass, but I just can't get beyond it at this moment.

In the meantime Matt has run around and done laundry, fed the children, put them to bed, made me a delicious supper, cleaned the kitchen and just generally been wonderful. This was supposed to be his one day off this week.

So, until tomorrow, may God sweep all the stones out of your path and give you peace.

Sunday Conversations

Anne in a sleep laden effort to sort out the implications of the Don Armstrong/Grace Church imbroglio (that's right, I've given up reading anything but PG Wodehouse): So, let me try and understand. If you commit tax fraud, its the IRA that would care and come after you. The bishop might care, but really, its the IRA that would prosecute? Is that right?
Matt: The IRA?
Anne: Yeah. And you would have to have intent to commit fraud, right? You would have to really be trying to embezzle money. Right?
Matt: The IRA?
Anne: Is that right?
Matt: The IRA? Do you mean the Irish Republican Army or the Internal Revenue Service?
Anne: Oh, I guess not the IRA. Although, that would make things even more interesting wouldn't it?
A: Why is mommy crying and laughing?

A: I waaant some meooook.
Anne: I waaant some meoook.
A: I don't like that sound.
Anne: Well, that's what you sound like.
A: I want to stop whining and say may I please have some meok.
Anne: That's a good idea. Why don't you do that?
A: Okay.
(All speech by A several pitches higher than the average human being can stand.)