April 30, 2007

Sloth

It is said that sloth in writers is always a symptom of an acute inner conflict, especially that kind of laziness which renders us incapable of doing the thing to which we are most looking forward. Not only are perfectionists notoriously lazy, but probably all artistic indolence is deeply neurotic, more a pain than a pleasure, or something of both.

If I heard “promise” once when I set sail for life, I heard it a zillion times. And glory me, I believed it all. Then its two close companions sloth and perfectionism frequently sidled up and said, “Promise? We’ll show you promise. Just you watch.”

Sloth comes from the Greek for negligence and indifference. After that, it came to convey sadness and spiritual torpor. It even made it to the Vatican’s Bottom Seven in late antiquity and the middle ages and was classically described as a state of restlessness and the inability to pray. Restless, I am, and, of course, never all that exemplary at prayer. But sadness at the corner of spiritual torpor? Now there’s a familiar intersect.

The writer Cynthia Ozick implies in her collection of essays, “Metaphors and Memory,” that writers write letters to avoid writing. “Letters (are) vessels of calculated permanence,” she says. I rather imagine letters that way. Writing has always come more fluidly for me when there’s somebody “out there” to receive — and read — them. Maybe I don’t need a response, just so that my imagination can imagine a somebody. I haven’t much of an idea what Ozick means by “calculated permanence,” but there is a kind of permanence in a reader’s mind once something is read, if memory can be thought to be all that enduring.

Torpor reminds me of the “permanent care” cemeteries claim to offer. If that’s the case with writing letters, then one might expect them to accumulate their own metaphorical versions of weeds and toppled concrete urns and generally just to suffer the wear and tear of time’s seasons all the while watching their original ground sink slightly and irregularly over their decomposing and prosaic remains.

Anyhow, whether one writes about it or not, there’s always Yogi Berra, who said you can observe a lot just by watching.

April 28, 2007

Laundry

It was a summer wedding at “Chigger Ridge,” an outdoor setting far lovelier than its quaint, Tennessee name might lead one to believe. The early-middle aged couple had been cohabiting long enough to know what they and their bright atypical teenage son were getting into. Just the kind of wedding I prefer after all these years of so-called premarital counseling and watching so many later come unglued.

The groom’s country R&B band had set up near the picnic area already. His father and a friend had prepared and cooked the wedding feast centered around two exotic kinds of barbecue brought all the way from Kentucky. There were a few Roman Catholics among family and friends. Several, seeing me in clericals, expressed their pleasure that the couple had not procured “just any preacher,” but had at least got a priest or, they seemed willing to imply, a reasonable facsimile.

When CP and I were unloading the dryer earlier that morning to get out a black clerical shirt for the occasion, we’d lost one of her black socks and run out of time looking for it. Soon, we’d packed off for the occasion with our map of Tennessee back-country roads in hand.

I didn’t recognize the R&B wedding “march,” but most of the others did, so we got underway and into position in the small tent-like “chancel” there on the wooded hillside. The couple’s teenager stood by attending and, in his turn, read the lessons quite well. A friend read the prayers.

As I was getting into the more critical parts of the covenant liturgy and everyone seemed attentive to the gravity of the moment, I felt a strange sensation inside my right shirt sleeve. I straightened my arm at my side as something slid down and out the cuff. I looked down and there, at my foot, was CP’s misbegotten black sock.

Apparently, our lector was the only other one to notice. His puzzled awe coupled with his remarkably well-restrained convulsions made for one of the more memorable distractions in my usually failed attempts at pontifical solemnity.

April 27, 2007

Faking

Jazz musicians use something called “fake books.” They’re not so much books like maybe we normally think of books, but collections of songs that show the title, the composers, the key signature, the melody, usually also the lyrics, and most importantly, the changes (aka the chord changes).

The contents are anything but fake. Though there’s even one called the Real Fake Book. The collection is altogether essential, especially for beginners who may not know very many songs. The old pros who know practically every song that’s ever been written (if you hum a few bars) hardly need them at all, but usually keep a few around just in case.

Ironically, the contents are not fake at all. The books get their name from the fact that musicians use them as a basis for improvising, ad libbing, that is, playing or “faking” another melody than the one that is written, but still follows pretty closely those important chord changes. It is rather like composing on the spot, in a sense, writing your own song as you go along.

Life’s a lot like that. God provides the basics — the melody and the chord changes. You improvise, write your own tune. It’s just that simple. Of course, once in a while, God comes up with a new key signature and maybe fattens up the chord changes a bit. I suppose that’s one reason why Louis Armstrong said, “Jazz is played from the heart. You can even live by it. Always love it.”

April 26, 2007

Plainly

Easter 4C / Jn 10.22-30

John tells the story that the Jews were standing around there in the Temple marveling at this Jesus, and that they said to him, maybe even with a tinge of disdain, “If you are the Christ, tell us plainly.”

What I’d like to suggest is that this may be and probably is the question being asked of the church today by anyone who cares enough to ask it, consciously or unconsciously or both. It may not always be asked this way, but it seems it is always asked with that intent. Tell us plainly, and tell us without all the exclusive, judgmental religious gingerbread and internecine squabble.

Today, the Fourth Sunday after Easter, is also April 29th, a personally important day for me. April 29th gives me the pleasant opportunity of remembering and being grateful for two birthdays. One is for my son Scott, the other, for Duke Ellington. I think of the Duke whom I admire so deeply not only because he taught us all so much about creativity and jazz, but because I like to recall his famous parting greeting. It was almost a kind of blessing. He would say to all within earshot, briefly and plainly, “Love you madly. Love you madly.” And I think of one my fondest memories of my son. He was barely five or so, and when coming in from play, he would stand in the doorway, look about, and seeing no one, he would shout, “Hey, somebody, I love you.”

Plain words. Indiscriminate, unconditional, inclusive, no-strings-attached words. “I love you, madly… ” whoever you are. “Hey, somebody, I love you… ” wherever you are. The kind of plain words that not only communicate, but also nourish, especially in our time, those of us who starve for them.

The Jews were marveling at this Jesus, and they really wanted to know for whatever reason who he was. “If you are the Christ, tell us plainly.”

The trouble, their trouble and perhaps ours, was that they could not or would not see and hear the answer which was as plain as could be. It was too plain, too simple. Jesus’s answer to the Jews in John’s accounting was simply to point to the evidence that bore witness to him. It was in his stories and in his acts.

He suggested neither creed nor catechism. He told stories. “My sheep hear my voice… ” he said, and the sheep and I are instantly in business. It’s like this. “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish, and no one shall snatch them out of my hand.”

Listen and watch, pay attention, he said. Out of this pour the blessings. Unconditionally. Inclusively. How dearly does the world and the church need to be so assured in this way in these times. By the stories we tell. By the acts we do. By the attention we pay to the simple, the obvious, by how stewardly we are, for example, not only with our spiritual goods, but with our material goods, as well.

Perhaps it’s too simple. Like God’s living conditions for our forebears in the Garden of Eden, perhaps they just seemed too obvious to be taken seriously. Then, as now, for our human relations, for our own environmental stewardship, we just have to make things more complicated ever than necessary.

Simplicity is always simple, simply too simple, too plain to be true, to be respected. And besides, it just doesn’t look much like you’re doing anything. When people come to 12-step programs with any intention and enthusiasm at all, any will to confess and to recover from their addictions, the first thing they want to know is What to do. What must I do to recover from this malady? They want a formula, a mantra, a routine. And they want it immediately… a quick fix. Like the Jews confronting Jesus, they want to be, indeed, often demand to be told plainly.

Not altogether coincidentally, “Keep it simple” is the first and most frequent counsel for the newly-recovering addict, and “Keep it simple” is the second hardest thing to do after the initial abstinence, the last drink or whatever. It’s apparently so much easier to complicate life. And we addicts, like many of us who speak for the church, can complicate life — and even the simple 12-step program — with the very best of them.

A nun who was a recovering alcoholic spoke in a meeting about how difficult it was for her to take the Third Step. You know the one. It’s when we are asked to turn our will and our life over to the care of God as we understand God. But this Sister, with all her vows and her theological skills, her disciplined prayer life, her commitment, and her truly exemplary ministry, even with her currently successful abstinence, she simply could not do it, she could not “take” that Third Step.

Until one day, as she told her story, she realized that out of all the complicated creeds and catechisms, devotions and liturgies of her religious life which had served her so well to be where she was, she was letting them get in her way to taking the Third Step.

Naturally, she was trying to turn her will and her life over, like the step said, to God, to God as she understood God. What else? Who wouldn’t? One might say, in her case, that she had a pretty impressive understanding of God in anybody’s league. But the Step had never quite “worked” for her. And to hear her tell it, it sure wasn’t working now.

Then, in a very simple, but maybe not all that obvious turn of phrase, she realized why. She was pounding at the gates of her understanding of God, at her definitions, at her descriptions of God as they had come down to her through her long and devoted training, but all limited to how she understood them.

Yet, all the while, the gates of the God who transcended her understanding, but was not limited by it, the God who gave her and all else in her life meaning, who made all her skills and her freedom possible, these gates of this God were swung wide open. It was very simple and oh, so very profound. God, you might say, was standing there, waiting to say to her plainly and without condition…

“Hey, Somebody. I love you.” Or maybe, like the Duke, “Love you madly.”

April 25, 2007

Mortality

The hand surgeon said it can happen merely by flicking a crumb off a table cloth. Were I so fastidious.

I was unfolding my music stand for our band’s Monday night “show.” The tripod legs open to fit into sockets that hold them in place. When unsocketed, I keep them from flopping about by wrapping them with a large, industrial-strength, doubled rubber band. To remove the rubber band, I usually insert my hand inside, stretch it by extending my fingers, and slip it loose. Like the guy who worked in the department store in Chicago, I did, but I don’t anymore.

The motion ruptured the sagital (spelling varies, means arrow-shaped) band across the knuckles on my right hand at the middle finger (of course). This caused the attached tendon to flop over the knuckle and jerk my finger flush into the palm of my hand. It remains a memorable way to get my attention. My fellow musicians, sympathetic as ever, were not above making some notice of the digit involved.

The damage was repaired last Thursday, but not before the surgeon’s attendants in pre-Op could enjoy wondering out loud and in amazement, “And you did all this on a rubber band?” I don’t know about theirs, but my stitches were removed today. The surgeon seemed proud of his work, says it’s a minimum of three more weeks recovery and then possible therapy. He’ll do fine in the meantime. As for playing the Bb cornet, maybe I’ll try learning to do that with my left hand. Or stick to bugle calls. The doc didn’t seem all that concerned. Obviously, he’s never heard me play. I’ll keep index-typing per usual.

As for all the other continuing inconveniences becoming a right-handed person wrapped in a right-hand splint… like all good writers should, I’ll just leave those to your imagination.

And PS. Many thanks for all the emailed sympathy, even to those who could not resist a humorous jab or two. You’re indispensable.

April 20, 2007

Something

Easter 3C (Jn 21.1-14)

Comedian Mort Sahl once observed that fishing is the activity of doing something when you’re not doing anything.

As John tells it, he more or less leaves the impression the disciples weren’t doing much of anything, just standing around, maybe wondering what on earth they’d got themselves into. But then Peter broke the spell.

“I’m going fishing.” At least, I’m going to do something while I’m not doing anything, anyway. (By the by, this story’s a good source for some trivia question about the disciples’ names over in Jn 21.1-14.) So they all said, in effect, we’re not doing anything either, so “we’ll go with you.”

It’s amazing now to remember how simple was this little scene and how simple-minded were these fishers who, John records, couldn’t even recognize Jesus who stood there on the beach. It wasn’t all that long, remember, since the resurrection, an event, we might imagine that we could expect might just have caught their attention and set them in motion as much, maybe, as a tornado coming across the water.

But no, they’d had to do something when they weren’t doing anything. It’s easy to miss this turn, blinded by what’s probably the mother of all fish stories. And it seems easy enough to miss the big Easter surprise, itself.

I wonder how much of what followed on Easter Day and in the days and years to come could best be understood as a desperate attempt to explain the inexplicable, to get reality back under control? I am trying to understand why the disciples — and we who cherish so our succession with them — respond to the resurrection of Jesus by doing exactly the opposite of what he commanded.

Why did they — and we — move quickly to define in precise words a Messiah who spoke in ironically ambiguous (aka imprecise) parables? Why did they — and we — create hierarchies to serve one who clearly rejected hierarchies? Why did they — and we — marginalize women in the name of one who welcomed women to his inner circle and who appeared first to them in such a way that they became the apostles to the apostles?

Why did they — and we — create standards of admission to see and be with a Savior who gladly welcomed and ate with sinners? Why did they — and we — become advocates for war, privilege, wealth, hatred, and pride in the name of one who gave his life to defeat such darkness?

Of course, it was good to catch those fish. Maybe they should just have stayed with it, remained unsurprised, not recognized Jesus, and just let it be. Not try to explain it. Not try to get reality back under control. Not dive under the covers of intellect. Not domesticate surprise. Instead of all that, just savor the moment, allow God to keep on speaking in his surprising ways, and then… start listening.

I wonder if God had more to say on Easter Day, and nobody had the courage to wait and hear what it might be. Me? I’m going fishing. It’s a lot safer.

April 19, 2007

Demise

Colleagues: I am having surgery on my right hand today and am uncertain about when I may resume writing. SOoN, I hope. Please don’t go away.

April 16, 2007

Infinitive

The parish where I more or less work sponsors the Hope Exchange for five summer weeks. The idea is a kind of school that garners fifty or so young ghetto kids together with skilled and thoughtful mentors to practice reading and social skills and to develop some self-esteem. Tuition and a couple of meals a day are on the house. Families, as well, get into the action.

One of the ways we finance this is with an annual wine-tasting and silent auction. One of the less silent parts of that evening is my jazz band playing for the event. Local wine distributors donate their wares and their time as attendants. All this took place again last Friday evening. It was well-attended and garnered some $14,000 gross.

To watch the Exchange move and grow each summer is to discover that “to church” is really the infinitive of a verb meaning to catch and unfurl one’s spirit into the human being God imagines it to be.

April 14, 2007

Czar

I suppose “war president” didn’t suggest enough power and control, so now we’re talking about a “war czar.” Four retired generals have already turned down the job. There’s surely plenty on their resumé, no more room for campaign ribbons, and anyway, “czar” mightn’t seem all that red, white, and blue. As well, it seemed rather impotent in dealing with drugs.

I don’t know about you, but for me, the term “czar” has always had some connection with Russia and lots of power and maybe an opera or two. If anybody would want to resurrect that title it might be Vladimir Putin, though he seems content with just being “president.” There must be some reason. Do you suppose it’s because it sounds more democratic?

That’s the way it is with titles and names. Take Jesus. He never even wanted to be called “good,” lest folk might forget that God alone is good. When we first started rattling sabres after 9/11 and talking about regime-change and crusades and mission accomplished, we soon realized that riding those tigers risked losing a leg or two. “Department of Homeland Defense” and “FEMA” sound all resourceful and comforting, but as it turns out, haven’t done an awful lot to make us feel more secure or to manage our crises all that well. And then there’s always “No Child Left Behind” and “compassionate conservatism” except, of course, among those 45 million without health insurance.

And take the “surge.” That, if anything, has been mostly an increase in deaths and collateral damage and now the brown-thumbing of the Green Zone.

Might all this be just to get us used to the idea so that one day before it’s too late “war czar” could all the sudden show up replacing “commander in chief”?

April 13, 2007

Episcopalians

Garrison Keillor writes somewhere that…

“Our clear picture of Episcopalians was of wealthy people, Yale graduates, worshipping God in extremely good taste. Episcopalian was the church in wingtips, the church of Scotch and soda.

“So, when I moved to New York and walked into Holy Apostles, I was surprised to see no one in suits. Nobody was well dressed. A congregation of a hundred souls on lower Ninth Avenue, a church with no parking lot, which was in need of paint, and the sanctuary ceiling showed water damage but which managed (I learned next week) to support and operate a soup kitchen that fed a thousand New Yorkers every day, more than a million to date.

“Black faces in the sanctuary, old people, exiles from the Midwest, the lame and the halt, divorced ladies, gay couples — a real good anthology of the faith. I felt glad to be there. When we stood for prayers, bringing slowly to mind the goodness and the poverty of our lives, the lives of others, the life to come, it brought tears to your eyes, the simple way the Episcopalians pray.”