Un mundo que cambia y sigue cambiándo

At St. Luke’s Cathedral in Portland, Maine, where I am the Canon for Liturgy & Music, I’ve been asked several times to teach more. To describe the theology behind my work. To preach the work of music. 

The last time I preached at CSL was 12 January, a date that we agreed to 8 weeks in advance. I’m always crafting mini-sermons… when I study scriptures for worship-planning, in real time while listening to others’ sermons and for hours—sometimes days—thereafter. But once I have a date and the requisite texts, my mind is suddenly switched on like the Vacuum Muppet in Muppet*Vision 3D, the sadly-soon-to-be-shuttered, beloved attraction at Walt Disney World (notably Jim Henson’s last Muppet project before his untimely death)—sucking up everything I see and hear and read and experience in search of connections, relevancies, illuminations to carry the message of the gospel to contemporary seekers. If there’s one thing that never stops, it’s the turning of wheels, the grinding of gears in my noggin, the processing, the connecting, the rationalizing, the inspiring, of words, of music, of the world.

Last night, as I drove home from Singing Meeting with the Shakers at Sabbathday Lake, I listened to the soundtrack of Disney’s Encanto, having had enough of the news of the day, and of the week, and of the month, and of the Regime. It’s head-spinning to think that the Encanto story, which is so beautifully, so lovingly set in Colombia, could become a cultural phenomenon in America, the same country in which today Colombians and people from dozens of other so-called “s***hole countries” are now so afraid. Although never perfectly, America used to embrace the sentiment in Emma Lazarus’s poem so long ago displayed at the feet of The New Colossus, professed to offer “world-wide welcome”. Encanto was embraced by countless millions of Americans, even some who would otherwise demean, exile, threaten this family for its brown skin or its Latin-inflected accent or its casual dropping of an occasional Spanish word or phrase. We have a friend who, a score of years ago, fled to the United States from Colombia after his father drove him out when he came out as gay. Even twenty-odd years ago in America, there was relative safety and acceptance. But what would happen to him today?

We live in a world that changes and continues changing, un mundo que cambia y sigue cambiándo, as Lin-Manuel Miranda—the brilliant and beloved Puerto Rican-Mexican-English-African American-American creator of and contributor to almost universally-beloved masterpieces as Hamilton, In the Heights, Moana, and Encanto—says in the Encanto song “Dos oruguitas”. Some of that change comes through discovery (the result of scientific experimentation and exploration), some of it comes from evolution, some of it comes from the work of the Holy Spirit. But some of it also comes from greed, corruption, and thirst for power.

Part of my work is to show the Church that the world changes, we change, but that the love of God is universal and unchangeable. It may be the one constant in the universe. In our worship, if we practice change, we learn to have figurative sea legs, allowing us to stay upright in our little boat as it sails on the currents of change. None of us can manage alone all the change that surrounds us, but let’s face it—we are part of the change. Every day, our bodies change: they grow or they shrink, they strengthen or they weaken; no matter what else, they age. And our thoughts change. We can embrace healthy change, nurture healthy change, grow through healthy change. Or, we can build walls around our fixed thoughts, our rote practices, our outdated theology. But the walls are like the chrysalis in the song “Dos oruguitas”: we continue to change inside, and the world changes and never stops changing around us. “Oh butterflies, don’t hold on anymore. You have to grow apart and come back. Forward you will continue. They are already miracles, breaking chrysalids. You have to fly, you have to find your own future.” Our change can only be healthy when it is in dialogue with the changes in the world around us. The eruptions we are witnessing now in our world are the expression of a brittleness that comes from keeping the walls up, refusing to change, refusing to accept change, refusing to accept that God’s love is all-encompassing… the love that is meant to be the model for our lives.

One of the greatest gifts I received in my professional growth was the lesson from Michael Ray, my Rector at St. Thomas, New Haven, that change, introduced gently and gradually yet constantly, makes the Church a vital, open, inclusive, relevant place. To be open and creative, to take chances, to learn from mistakes—these are gifts of wisdom the Church can give to a world that, even right outside our chrysalis, right outside our doors, never stops changing. 

We have been gifted a compelling gospel to guide our route on the sea. As Pope Francis recently wrote in response to some corrupt theology from the U.S. Vice President, “The true ordo amoris [order of love] that must be promoted is that which we discover by meditating constantly on the parable of the ‘Good Samaritan’ (cf. Lk 10.25-37), that is, by meditating on the love that builds a fraternity open to all, without exception.” You might recall that I preached a similar message on 12 January, recalling the same parable. As the world becomes ever smaller, ever more interconnected, our neighbor is no longer just the person on our street, or in our homogeneous town, or our falsely white, Christian nation. Our neighbor is everyone.

And so, I prayerfully seek to guide our liturgy, and our music particularly, to shape our believing and our living. A new hymn we’ll sing this Sunday is an ideal example of saying, singing, what we are called to profess and practice. We need to be constantly, repeatedly reminded of the world outside our chrysalides, and our calling to be a part of it, to respond to it, to heal it. It reads in part:

st. 2 Christ teaches us to bless the ones who curse and harm, to turn the other cheek when struck, attackers to disarm.

st. 3 Yet, we cannot excuse abuse in any form, for all are children of your care, and love must be our norm.

Words: Lavon Bayler (b. 1933), Copyright © 1988 The Pilgrim Press

May it be ever so.

— the Feast of Theodora, Empress, c. 867 (Wednesday 12 February 2025)

regrouping

A lot has happened since I last published, nearly 4 years ago. COVID has become part of the infectious landscape. I’ve taken a new job. Changed states. Reunited the bifurcated household. Bought a new house. Adopted a rescue dog.

One of my last posts included tips on how to advocate for the impeachment of a President. That person is back in office now. What will our world look like in a year? Two years? Four? Will our allies ever trust us again as reliable partners? Will we ever have free and fair elections again? Will our democracy hold? Will we be free to write and speak and worship? There’s so much to fear, so much hatred and intolerance.

I’ve got several pieces that I’ve written in recent years that haven’t yet appeared here. I’m going to share my catalog, starting with the most recent. (Can I change the post date to the writing date? I’ve got to see what’s possible.) I hope they give you some hope and some strength to stand firm against repression and hatred and intimidation. Thank you for tuning in.

Peace to you, reader.

Keeping Home Cool without Air Conditioning

Hi, readers!

Yesterday, my downstairs neighbor texted me that there was water on the floor of the closet in her apartment adjacent to the air conditioner. As all our AC units are stacked floor upon floor, she was concerned that the water might be coming from mine, so on a day that reached at least 94ºF here in Chicago, I kept my AC off, windows closed, fans blowing, and waited out the heat wave, opening things up to cool down overnight. Indoors, it only reached 81 or 82º, which was warm, but not intolerable, actually.

I’ve been mindful for years of the environmental damage caused by profligate and excessive air-conditioning, and have worked, since moving here to live alone, to minimize my use of it. My rule, when I’m alone at least, is not to turn it on until the sustained temperature indoor exceeds 84ºF. In most years, I’ve used my AC fewer than 10 days all year.

I’m not suggesting that everyone should adopt this admittedly rather outré threshold, but I encourage you to think about how cool your home must be to be safe, healthy, and comfortable, considering not just your own comfort, but the impact your and our carbon-heavy lives are having on the stability of the planet’s ecosystems and weather systems. Clearly, we cannot collectively continue as we have in recent decades, thinking only of ourselves. Almost every one of us could tolerate one… five… eight… degrees warmer?

I received a link today from National Geographic to this article in the Washington Post, and share it with you for your consideration. Perhaps, in addition to pushing for real climate action from our governments, you can also join me in making changes at home, and perhaps even influencing the policies of the businesses and institutions with which we engage in our daily lives.

Peace,
Christian

https://www.washingtonpost.com/climate-solutions/2021/07/23/passive-cooling-heat-wave/

Impeach President Trump—templates for your use to write to your representatives in Washington

Dear readers,

Our nation’s Capitol has been breached and violated by seditionists. If you would like to help protect the future of our representative democracy, but struggle with what to do and say, here are templates I invite you to use in contacting your Member of Congress and U.S. Senators. This is not our only option, but it is our patriotic responsibility to defend our nation against threats to its integrity and safety being promulgated and encouraged by our own President, who has repeatedly and shamelessly violated his oath of office. Though there are only two weeks left in his term, clearly, the damage he might still do is significant and perhaps even more violent and dangerous to the future of our country and our democratic processes and systems. I encourage you to act quickly and decisively to advocate for our future as a beacon of inclusion, justice, and respect for the rule of law.

Good new year wishes to you for safety, health, and peace.

As I watch the horrifying spectacle at the US Capitol right now, I feel called to write and encourage you and your fellow Members of Congress to Impeach President Donald J. Trump swiftly after business can resume. I don’t need to outline the case to you, but only write to add my voice to the calls of others to hold him accountable for his blatant violations of his oath of office, his incitement of violence, and his open threats to our democratic systems and structures, and thereby bar him from ever seeking public office again. Our democracy has only survived these four years by a hair’s breadth. Had Republicans held or gained a majority in the House, today there is no telling what destruction could have been wrought by greater complicity from his fawning minions.

I wish you safety and peace of mind in the days ahead, and thank you sincerely for your service. 

Kind regards

<your name here>

Dear Senator <Name>,

A good New Year wish to you.

I have just written to my Congresswoman/-man, N.N., encouraging her/him to join others in immediately impeaching President Donald J. Trump as soon as normal business can resume in the House.

I am writing to you to ask you to convict President Trump, if impeached.

I don’t need to outline the case to you, but only write to add my voice to the calls of others to hold him accountable for his blatant violations of his oath of office, his incitement of violence, and his open threats to our democratic systems and structures, and thereby bar him from ever seeking public office again. Our democracy has only survived these four years by a hair’s breadth. Had Republicans held or gained a majority in the House, today there is no telling what destruction could have been wrought by greater complicity from his fawning minions. 

I wish you safety and peace of mind in the days ahead, and thank you sincerely for your service. 

Kind regards

<your name here>

A Tribute to Putney

Putney May 2019

One year ago today, we bade our dear Putney farewell and entrusted him to the care of the angels.

Putney was amazingly blessed throughout his life by the companionship of many, many people, largely because I worked in churches where he was welcome. He was a “church dog”. Never was that more true than during his years at St. Paul & the Redeemer in Chicago.

I realized a couple of years ago that, during the seven years Putney and I lived in Chicago, he was my most constant companion. I don’t think there has been anyone with whom I have spent so many of my hours, waking and sleeping, since I first set off for Kindergarten and was no longer in the near-constant company of my mother. Putney was with me almost always. And, therefore, there has been a large hole in my life this last year.

But he was a good boy. A very good boy. Maybe not always the most effusive with affection, but constant and attentive. He meted out his strong will in small doses, and rarely broke the rules. He never stole food unless it was left at nose height. He ate the woody parts of the broccoli, and left me the florets. He didn’t destroy his own belongings, and only twice chewed on something that wasn’t his to chew: first, my copy of Christoph Wolff’s “Bach: Learned Musician”; his teeth marks on that biography will always be my testament to his having an academic’s curiosity. Second, Jesus’ mother Mary from my Krgyzstani wool felt yurt nativity set; he was definitely a church dog.

And he was a good friend to so many: monks in Santa Barbara, parishioners in Washington & Chicago, and his extended family in New York, South Carolina, and Maine. Wherever we have lived, Putney always found friends willing to take him into their homes and be his friend. Their hospitality toward him allowed me to spend more time with Christopher and my other distant relatives and friends, especially since moving to Chicago, and for that generosity, we will always be more grateful than we can express.

Putney contributed many good ideas to staff conversations, kept the choirs company, and occasionally distracted from a sermon by wandering around the church.

In August 2014, Christopher and I spent a week on Lake St. Catherine in southwestern Vermont. From our guidebook, I learned of an artist in Shoreham, VT, Norton Latourelle, who creates whimsical wooden sculptures of animals (and some people), and asked Christopher if we could pay him a visit. He and his wife, Marlene, were absolutely delightful people, and we were definitely charmed by Norton’s creations. Later that year, we commissioned him to make a likeness of Putney, which we brought Putney along to pick up the next July. In the end, the likeness wasn’t quite right, so Norton offered to make another, which now wears one of Putney’s collars. The original was still in Norton’s gallery, last we knew. https://www.nortonsgallery.com

Putney loved popcorn, and it was always cheering to have him appear at my feet as I “popped a few kernels”. First, it was the noise that attracted him, but after he lost his hearing, the smell was still enough. He loved ice cream, too, and when we would stop for a soft-serve cone on one of our trips, I always shared with him. There’s a photo of him enjoying some of my Vermont maple creemie during his last summer with us, when he returned to Maine for the first time since he was 2 months old, and finally got to visit Putney, VT, for which we named him as we were preparing to leave the East Coast for Santa Barbara in 2003.

I think the greatest joy of his life was the chance to run the nature trail behind our family home in Hamilton, NY, the only place he visited regularly where it was safe to let him off leash. He learned the route quickly, and would run ahead, but never got so far that, when he turned back to check on us, we weren’t still visible. While he could hear, the simple question, “Nature trail?” would get him excited, and he would pull all the way down Payne Street to where we snuck alongside the Colgate Inn and through the apartment complex that bordered the conservation area. It was a little sad when, in his last year or two, his deafness and deteriorating vision meant we had to keep him on leash even there, as more than once, we had to chase him down when he set off on a scent trail.

He loved snow until his last couple years, and would vigorously roll around in it at length, apparently loving the feel of the bracing cold through his fur.

He had some difficulties in life. He required significant medical care on several occasions, from the neuroma that developed on the tip of his tail (where it had been docked before we adopted him) when he was a puppy; to surgery on both knees; several benign tumor removals; a vestibular incident (causing extreme vertigo) that terrified me, as he thrashed uncontrollably for what seemed like hours, driving him to the ER in the middle of the night; and finally, to another late-night emergency at the age of 14 that turned out to be his gall bladder (There’s a photo of him in the Doggy ICU), which was removed at great cost to him and us. But he always bounced back. In his last months, he was growing tired, and needed to be carried up the 42 stairs to our apartment. He was restless at night, and nearly blind. But he continued to greet choir members as they entered rehearsal. He became both cozier and more aloof at home. It was in early May 2019, when I took the wonderful photo of him with the tulips that it became clear that he was tired and weak: for the first time I could remember, he just laid down in the grass—he was never an outdoor lounger.

My friend Noelle, a veterinarian, had visited just a few days earlier, and advised that, if we wanted to have some control over how his life would end, we might want to make a plan. Christopher and I were heartbroken by the decision, and were washed over—drowned even—by sadness as the ensuing days and hours passed. Christopher came out to Chicago to spend time with our boy in his last days, and we treated him to his favorite walks, his favorite foods, and lots of farewell visits with friends and even shopkeepers in the neighborhood who had lavished him with affection and treats over the years.

Two nights before his death, the SPR choirs prayed for him during our weekly Compline service, and other friends came to say good-bye. It was heartbreakingly sad and sweet. This is a compilation of two prayers we used that night:

“Holy Creator, this we know: every living thing is yours and returns to you. Gentle God, fragile is your world, delicate are your creatures, and costly is your love which bears and redeems us all. Give us eyes to see and ears to hear how every living thing speaks to us of your love. Let us be awestruck at your creation and daily sing your praises. Especially, create within us a spirit of gratitude for the life of this beloved pet who has lived among us and given us freely of his love. Even in our sorrow we have cause for joy for we know that all creatures who died on earth shall live again in your new creation. Amen.”

And on Saturday 18 May, in the safety of our home, he went to sleep peacefully in our arms, and then on to eternal rest as we held his paws.

I miss him terribly. He was our dear, sweet Putney. The first and only pet I’ve so far made a mature commitment to raise and care for. From him, I learned many things, not all of which I have perfected: patience; a regard for the wants and needs of another person; respect for different perspectives and priorities; playfulness. He will always be exceptional for having filled that role with his own playful, loving generosity. Rest in peace, dear Putney. Keep the leash ready for our reunion. I’ll bring the popcorn.

Intermittent Fasting: a primer

I’ve been on the 8/16 intermittent fast for a few weeks now. I know many of you have been curious about it. I thought it might be helpful to your own considerations for me to share my schedule.

• sometime between 5:40 & 8:10 AM—Wake up, ravenous.
• until 8:40 AM—Think obsessively about breakfast. Oh, and have a pot of green tea.
• between tea and 10:30 AM, drink water to help pretend I’m not hungry.
• 10:20 AM—start preparing breakfast.
• 10:30.000 AM—Eat breakfast.
• 10:37 AM—Start thinking about Elevensies.
• 10:54 AM—Prepare Elevensies.
• 11:00.000 AM—Elevensies.
• 11:07 AM—Start thinking about lunch.
• 11:08 AM—Start planning lunch menu.
• 1:00.000 PM—Eat lunch.
• 1:17 PM—Start thinking about Fika.
• 3:00.000 PM—Fika.
• 3:14 PM—Start dreading 6:30 PM.
• 3:15 PM—Start thinking about supper.
• 3:15.30 PM—Start planning supper.
• 3:48 PM—Start wondering if it’s Happy Hour yet; continue dreading 6:30 PM.
• 4:14–4:52 PM—Keep wondering if it’s Happy Hour yet.
• 4:36 PM—Start planning Happy Hour; continue dreading 6:30 PM
• 4:53 PM—Make cocktail for Happy Hour; simultaneously dreading 6:30 PM.
• 4:58 PM—Await Happy Hour, cocktail in hand.
• 5:00.000 PM—Happy Hour.
• 5:20 PM—Resume dreading 6:30 PM; anticipate cooking supper.
• 5:25 PM—Restlessly gather ingredients for supper.
• 5:28 PM—If supper = leftovers, resume dreading 6:30 PM. If supper = new dishes, begin cooking, dreading 6:30 PM in the back of my mind.
• 5:48 PM—If supper = leftovers, start reheating, dreading 6:30 PM
• 5:54 PM—Set up TV tray, pour bubbly water, turn on TV; mute sound; dread 6:30 PM
• 5:58 PM—Plate supper, dread for 6:30 PM a background emotion.
• 5:59 PM—Wait for 6 PM, unmute TV; dread 6:30 PM.
• 6:00.000 PM—Eat supper, PBS NewsHour providing distraction from dark thoughts about 6:30 PM.
• 6:20 PM—Realize only 10 minutes remain for dessert; fly to kitchen to dish up dessert.
• 6:23.000 PM—Eat dessert, 6:30 PM looming like vulture.
• 6:30 PM—Begin thinking about going to bed, sleep being the only escape from longing for 10:30 AM.
• Continue likewise until bedtime, hunger and dark thoughts increasing constantly.

“Star in the East”, a sermon for The Feast of the Epiphany

[Begin by reading T.S. Eliot’s poem, “The Journey of the Magi”]

I don’t think any part of the New Testament has received more extra-biblical adornment than the birth narratives in the second chapters of Luke and Matthew. The outpouring of creativity the birth narratives have inspired down the ages is astounding. T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Journey of the Magi” is among the more sober and introspective modern glosses on Jesus’ birth.

A fair amount of our fondness for Christmas and Epiphany is actually for accretions to these rather spare biblical narratives: “In the bleak midwinter…snow was falling snow on snow”, for example, or a candlelit singing of “Silent night, holy night”, more so than the story embedded in the experience.

Popular tradition has likewise dressed up the biblical account of the magi’s visit to the point of obscurity. Let’s peel away some of those later additions, such as:

• calling them “kings” (a practice that arose from early associations of this story with prophetic passages in the Hebrew Bible, such as we heard earlier in Psalm 72). Even “wise men” isn’t an exact translation. Perhaps “astrologer”, “priest”, or maybe “magician”…;
• setting them astride camels;
• specifying three of them (simply because there were three named gifts. I guess it’s expected that each visitor brings a hostess gift when calling.);
• assuming that they represented three distinct ethnic groups (often depicted as vaguely Arab, Asian, and African), or giving them names;
• thinking the star led them right to Jesus’ cribside;
• assigning metaphorical significance to each gift (gold acknowledging Jesus’ royalty, frankincense validating his divinity, and myrrh for embalming, presaging his death). In biblical times, all three were associated with royalty; these additional interpretations came later.

Here is a “cleaner” read of the text:

Essemtially: Astrologers somewhere east of Bethlehem see a new light in the sky and discern from it that a new King has been born to the Jews. Prompted by this discovery, they seek out the new king. Once found, they bow before and worship him, and present him three gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh—and then they leave.

Additionally: The star the astrologers follow doesn’t lead them directly to Jesus, at least not immediately. Having discerned that it indicates the birth of the king of the Jews, they go to Jerusalem, the capitol city, and ask around, in search of this new king. The reigning king, Herod, up to this point unaware of the birth of a supposed usurper, gets wind of their queries. At his bidding, the Jewish authorities deduce from biblical prophecies that Bethlehem would be the proper birthplace for a king. Herod informs the magi of the baby’s general whereabouts—secretly, presumably to prevent others from finding out about him and threatening Herod’s grip on power—and prepares immediately to eliminate him. The magi will return to Herod with the exact location of the babe. Finally, the star leads the magi right to Jesus.

I don’t read much fiction, maybe because I so often feel manipulated by the writers’ machinations to lead to their desired outcomes. Couldn’t things have gone differently? Who gave these people power to pull those narrative strings? (This probably says more about my desire for control than about fiction writing.) Our writer—let’s call him Matthew—pulls cosmic strings. He could have had the star lead the magi to Jesus. Instead, the star provides no guidance, so they stop off in Jerusalem, and stir up Herod’s jealous rage. Why this detour?

For our writer, this story needs to accomplish a few goals: to reveal Jesus to non-Jews, who made up part of his community; to adhere Jesus’ life to Jewish tradition, and fulfill biblical prophecy to legitimize Jesus in the eyes of Jews in Matthew’s community; and to put Jesus in conflict with the authorities, a theme that threads through the rest of his ministry.

Scholars have speculated that Matthew likely was active in a first-century Jewish-Christian community in Syria whose religious worldview permeates this gospel: straddling traditional and non-Jewish values, it is particularly concerned with Jesus’ divinity and with the Law, and reflects struggles between early Christians and their Jewish neighbors.

Jesus was born King of the Jews through his adoption by Joseph, whose Davidic lineage Matthew traces at the beginning of the gospel. Jesus’ life and ministry, as portrayed in Matthew’s gospel, echo the lives of Joseph in the Book of Genesis, and Moses. Joseph was forced into Egypt; Moses fled Egypt, leading the Hebrews from slavery under Pharaoh. By connecting Jesus’ story with those of pillars of Jewish faith, Matthew’s narrative lends legitimacy to Jesus’ right to the throne of David, and role as Savior of God’s people—persuasive information for his community.

But in Matthew’s telling, Jesus’ birth and royalty were first revealed not to Jews, but to “the nations” (that is, non-Jews), represented by the magi. Now one sees why Matthew also traced Jesus’ lineage to Abraham, the father of many nations, not just the Jews. It was gentiles—the magi—who brought Jesus’ birth and birthright to the attention of the Jews.
Pharaoh’s animosity toward Moses is mirrored in Herod’s toward Jesus. Had the star been a more accurate navigational aid, the magi wouldn’t have stumble-bumbled around Jerusalem, raising Herod’s hackles. Herod might never have learned of Jesus’ birth. The magi would have had no reason to return to Herod to report the baby’s location. Herod’s plot is foiled only when they are told in a dream (presumably divinely inspired) to take another route home. An angel might not have had to warn Joseph in a dream that Herod intended to kill Jesus, and that Joseph must flee to Egypt with Mary and his infant son to protect the child; their return from Egypt fulfills the prophecy of Hosea, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.” Herod, avoided by the magi and thus still uninformed of the child’s digs, might not have fulminated so and ordered the massacre of all children in Bethlehem two years old and younger, recalling for Matthew and his hearers words from Jeremiah,

“A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”
further tying Jesus’ story to biblical precedent.

I won’t say that Matthew manipulates the story, but I will say that he constructs a narrative that advances certain theological claims about Jesus, not a historical account of his birth and infancy. This is backed up by conflicts of chronology between Matthew’s gospel and the events in Luke’s account. Neither story gives us just the facts, but each shares some of its truths.

Thus distilled, what might this story teach us?

It might be illuminating to try recasting the story as if it were happening here, tomorrow, on the Feast of the Epiphany.

Is Jesus a Mexican baby in the American Southwest, ruled over by Anglos who deny the historic legitimacy of Mexican claims to that land, who were themselves descended from immigrants, much as the Hebrews were when God gave them new lands after their flight from Egypt? Is Jesus’ royalty recognized by aboriginal sages from South America, who trace their lineage back before Spanish conquest? There are many possible scenarios.

Christendom is dead, many say, in a time of European secularism and cultural intermingling. But, if Christendom has a heartbeat anywhere, it is here in the United States, one of the most religious—and Christian—of western societies.

Jesus was a Jew, yet his message challenged official Judaism, and his ministry attracted and shaped a new community increasingly distant from their Jewish roots. If Jesus were born to us today, even if nothing about his message changed, he would attract and shape a new community increasingly removed from most of contemporary Christianity. That is how radical his love is, and how far from the status quo it remains, even in our so-called “Christian country”. America overflows with nominal Christians, we who profess an established faith, but who so often willfully ignore its most challenging tenets.

The citizenry of Jesus is one of hearts and minds. His true kingdom has never been defined by borders and governments and armies, but by extended hands and open doors. Jesus’ kingdom has not come into being because Jesus’ followers have not yet embraced and enacted the radical love for all that he demonstrated and mandated. If there is to be a reign of Christ, it must be a community that cares for all God’s creatures, that plants and fertilizes and cultivates a new Eden, one into which everyone is welcome, and whose bountiful harvest is available to all. This is the kingdom of the Jesus the magi knelt before. This is the world into which we must transform the broken one in which we live today.

Let’s conclude with a little of that extra-biblical adornment that helps us see biblical truth from different angles. These are the last verses of the Fifth Cantata from Johann Sebastian Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, written for the First Sunday after the Circumcision (which happens to be today):

My beloved reigns already.
A heart that loves his rule and gives itself wholly up to him is the throne of my Jesus.
Truly the chamber of such a heart is no princely dwelling, but a dark cell;
yet as soon as a gleam of thy grace shines therein, it is as if filled with sunlight.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Happy Twelfth Night. And a joyous Epiphany to you.

A Light Lunch for Late Christmas Loneliness

It doesn’t take me long to slip into a certain doleful loneliness after a long Christmas celebration with my family (This year I was at home for nine days, with parents, partner, pets, and siblings) in our Christmasy Victorian housein our beautiful hometown, Hamilton, NY. We may make each other a little crazy, but we have a great time cooking, feasting, playing games, visiting family and friends, walking the quiet village streets, and taking the occasional outing for fun and culture.

This year, the husband and I attended a Watch Night commemoration at the National Abolition Hall of Fame and Museum in tiny but historically important Peterboro, NY, celebrating the enactment of the Emancipation Proclamation on 1 Jan 1863 [https://www.nationalabolitionhalloffameandmuseum.org/events.html], then drove on to  Skaneateles [https://www.skaneateles.com] for a nice lunch and a little window shopping, and finally to Auburn, NY, [https://www.tripadvisor.com/Tourism-g29845-Auburn_Finger_Lakes_New_York-Vacations.html?fid=4d3f2804-bb12-4db4-8a8a-d0f8765a7afa] to visit Harriet Tubman’s home (a new National Historical Park, though still a work in progress [https://www.nps.gov/hart/index.htm] & William Seward’s home [http://www.sewardhouse.org]. Sadly, both were closed on New Year’s Eve afternoon, but we were enlightened at the Auburn Equal Rights Heritage Center [https://equalrightsheritage.com], and I bought some scrummy NYS foods from the delightful little shop therein. And, of course, the drive from Hamilton to Auburn on the US Route 20 Scenic Byway, AKA the historic Skaneateles Turnpike, [http://www.nyroute20.com] is stunning at any time of year, with some of New York’s most dramatic hills and vistas, [route_A.jpg] passing through apple orchards and beautiful towns. Falling snow slowed our progress, but finally gave us some of the winter wonderland [100_4178.JPG], otherwise lacking this Christmastide, that brightens everything. I never lack for opportunities for learning and delight in Central NY [https://www.visitcentralnewyork.com/about-the-region/]; one just has to look a little harder than in cities and touristy areas to find treasures.

Today in Chicago, it’s dreary, cold (33ºF), and damp (66% humidity). I’d rather have snow. And I’d rather have my dear dog, Putney, who died in May, with me, or the husband, who returned to Chicago with me the two previous years for the dénouement of the twelve days of Christmas (Maybe he found our little apartment crowded after the arrival of the 11 pipers piping and 12 drummers drumming…).

This year, I’m alone, and haven’t been grocery shopping yet. What’s the comfort-food solution for a lonely lunch?

I find one last Maple Snack Stick (a slim pork sausage) from Quarry Brook Farms [my farmers in NY], about whom I wrote an early blog post [https://wp.me/pZIOO-W]. That’s been defrosted for a while and needs to be eaten, but with what? I find some local lavash bread (also past its prime, from [http://www.middleeastbakeryandgrocery.com]) in the back of the fridge, and a menu comes together.

I slice some Trader Joe’s Horseradish Cheddar Cheese [https://www.traderjoes.com/fearless-flyer/article/5179], lay it alongside the single pork stick on the lavash, dress it with some Sweet Maple Mustard from Vermont’s Butternut Mountain Farm [http://butternutmountainfarm.com], and roll it up like a taquito. Into the countertop convection oven it goes at 325ºF till the cheese is melty and the bread a little crackly. I’ll put a little dish of the maple mustard on my plate for dipping.

Meanwhile, for lack of fresh vegetables, I think seasonal and colorful. I remember that there’s a bag of fresh Wisconsin cranberries, and a quart of last season’s fresh apple cider (Don’t even TALK to me about supermarket cider with those nasty-tasting preservatives.) from my lifelong favorite cider mill [https://www.clintoncidermill.com] in the freezer. I remember visiting the Clinton Cider Mill as far back as my nursery school days. Sometimes, we were lucky enough to actually watch the press in action. The current owners still use the same vintage machine to make that lighter, slightly tarter cider I prefer to Dad’s favorite style (If you like your cider a little thicker and sweeter, then you should try Twin Orchards in New Hartford [http://www.twinorchardsapplefarm.com] or Fly Creek Cider Mill [https://www.flycreekcidermill.com], just a few scenic miles southwest of Cooperstown.). I cook the cranberries in some of the cider, along with a cinnamon stick, some NYS maple syrup, purchased at last summer’s Hamilton Farmer’s Market [https://www.thisishamiltonny.com/event-directory/farmers-market/], and some orange zest from the fruit on my plate. A little Wisconsin sauerkraut, a polish dill pickle, and a small glass of that Clinton cider round out this delish light lunch, and help soothe my homesickness.

 

Merry Christmas, everyone! Let me know what you do to celebrate Twelfth Night tomorrow!

Contending with My Carbon Pollution

Here in Chicago, it’s hot today. It’s the HHH trifecta, actually: hazy, hot, and humid. Not exactly what Ol’ Bing was referring to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMwZ6LvY7NM

As the climate news becomes ever more dire, people around the world, and the country, and the region, and the state, and the city where I live, are forced to confront the real impacts—and considerable costs in money, resources, time, health, enjoyment, etc.—of climate change, despite what the many ignoramuses in leadership say to the contrary. Climate change is a crisis, one that builds more rapidly and gets more severe with every year, it seems.

I have done some reading about ways in which to mitigate my carbon pollution, and I make decisions and take actions everyday to lessen my environmental impact. I buy only environmentally sustainable and cruelty-free cleaning supplies, sundries, etc. whenever possible (my under sink cabinet is full of Seventh Generation products (https://www.seventhgeneration.com/home). I’ve gone so far as to buy their most concentrated laundry detergent (https://www.seventhgeneration.com/easydose-ultra-concentrated-laundry-detergent-lavender_), which uses only 2 teaspoons per load. I wash my clothes in cold water in my high-efficiency washer. I almost never machine-dry my laundry (My mother, who rarely visits HATES my scratchy bath towels. My Nana and Poppa didn’t even own a clothes dryer. They hung all their laundry on a series of clotheslines suspended from the ceiling of the cellar in the East Utica home, and so Mom grew up with—and developed an aversion to—line-dried towels. My father has his own pet peeve: Grandma used to take the little stubs of bar soap that were too small to use, and press them together into soap Frankenbars. To this day, my father will not use a piece of soap too small to produce its own bubbles!). I use the air dry setting in my dishwasher. My air conditioner doesn’t come on until the temperature hits 84º inside, which, thankfully is rare here. If the night will be cooler than 84, I open all the windows in the evening. I walk and bike to as many appointments and errands in town as possible. You get the idea.

But I still pollute a lot.

For quality-of-life reasons, I’ve chosen to live in a neighborhood 16 miles from my work. Despite telecommuting at least one day a week, I still drive more for work now than I ever have. It’s too far to bike all the time, and too time-consuming to take public transportation most days—and, when I had a dog, I wanted to bring him with me to the office. I also live farther from my family—and my husband—than I have in a very long time, so I take more long-distance trips than I used to.

My carbon footprint is substantial.  I’ve read about purchasing carbon offsets, but the reviews of the merits of purchasing offsets are decidedly mixed (e.g., https://www.nrdc.org/stories/should-you-buy-carbon-offsets). Briefly, they’re not always effective or trustworthy. Read the linked article for more information.

I’m considering making annual donations to one or more land trusts equal to the value of my transportation-related carbon pollution. If my contribution can eliminate the risk of developing land that is wild or agricultural, it may be a good long-term solution.

Therefore, choosing where the money goes could be as important as the donation itself, so that it is most likely to preserve land at high risk of development (rural CNY, where I grew up, may not be the most strategic choice, e.g.).

Surprisingly, the carbon cost of my driving 15,000 miles year is only about $150, based on current market rates for carbon (http://calcarbondash.org). I estimate that I average 25 MPG of gasoline, and each gallon generates about 14.3 kg of carbon dioxide. I haven’t calculated flights yet.

I share this to encourage you to find a way to help mitigate the effects of carbon pollution you may not be able to prevent. And also, to empower you to make choices to live more efficiently. I don’t know what your air conditioner’s thermostat is set for, but I bet you could bump it up at least a couple degrees.

What are your thoughts about my ideas? Any suggestions on where my land trust donations should go to spur the greatest positive impact?

I’d love to hear from you.

“Man in the Moon” a sermon for The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost, RCL Proper 10C (Track 1), 14 July 2019 for St. Paul & the Redeemer Episcopal Church, Chicago, Illinois

‘A man was crossing the bridge from Ciudad Juarez to El Paso, and fell into the hands of robbers, who threw him in the trunk of their car and smuggled him across the border. They stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead on a street in El Paso. Now by chance a priest was walking by; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a local pastor, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Unitarian while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having put antibiotic ointment on them. Then he flagged down a taxi, brought him to a hotel, and took care of him. The next day he took out two hundred dollars, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.” Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?’ He said, ‘The one who showed him mercy.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go and do likewise.’

This is my best attempt to recast Jesus’ parable, commonly called “The Good Samaritan”. There are many current troubles that could stand in for the man on the road to Jericho, but southern border crossings have, perhaps, the closest parallels of travel on foot, roving banditry, vulnerability, danger, and intercultural tension to mimic the situation Jesus describes.

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho was notoriously steep, dangerous and rugged. Bandits had many places to hide and sic themselves on nervous travelers. People knew it made for risky travel. This, too, sounds like what we hear about the lands straddling the U.S.-Mexico border. Whatever your purpose in passing through, whatever your background, you are vulnerable.

Jesus doesn’t reveal anything about the identity of the victim, and thus aims his critique not at how the priest, the Levite and the Samaritan each responds to a particular type of person (Samaritan, Gentile, or Jew, for example), but instead on how they react to the man’s condition: his helpless fragility.

If Jesus had identified the battered man as a Samaritan or a Gentile—a non-Jew—then the priest’s and Levite’s shunning might have been justifiable at least on religious grounds. 1st-century Judaism proscribed firm boundaries between different peoples. Judaism had rules governing the ways in which Jews should treat Gentiles and Samaritans, priests should treat Israelites, men should treat women, etc. To maintain order—and boundaries—was a religious duty, guarding the purity of the Jewish people. It was also understood that Samaritans could be unfriendly to Jews, refusing to extend hospitality.

There was probably no way for the priest and the Levite to know what the man was; he was naked. If he had been Jewish, presumably they would have cared for him, right? But to do so without knowing risked ritual self-contamination. Jesus gives no explanation. Neither does he describe their inner reactions to the man’s condition. Their adherence to the Law trumped any potential for compassion. Ironically, if the priest had found the man dead, he would have had a duty to bury the corpse, but he was permitted, nay mandated, by the Law to avoid his broken, but living, body.

“A priest, a minister and a rabbi enter a bar…” Most of us have heard one of these jokes. It’s always a priest, a minister, and a rabbi, right? One commentator on this parable points out that, in Jesus’ day, a story like this would have begun, “A priest, a Levite, and… an Israelite…” We can assume that the would have reacted differently from—less legalistically than—the priest and the Levite, and the story would have had an anticlerical punchline.

In contrast, Jesus tosses a curveball (Take note: Christian just used a baseball metaphor, and might never again.), and Person Number Three is… a Samaritan. The Samaritan shows no concern for who or what the man is, but “was moved with pity”, and cared for him, a fellow human being.

Jews regarded Samaritans as an unclean people. The reasons are complex, but in brief, Samaritans were understood to have descended from mixed marriages following settlement of people of other cultures in the lands of the fallen Northern Kingdom by Assyrian conquerors. Samaritans’ blood made them unclean, and their religious beliefs were not orthodox. Note that, even when the lawyer answers Jesus’ question, “Which of these three…was a neighbor to the man…”, he does not call him “Samaritan”, but only describes his behavior (itself both a confession and an indictment). Jesus goes beyond an indictment of the legalistic hard-heartedness of the religious and civic authorities, and condemns a longstanding enmity toward people outside the community.

Throughout Luke’s Gospel, the writer challenges contemporary distinctions that define, separate and oppose different groups of people. More so than the other gospel writers, Luke critiques the subservience of women, the inferiority of non-Jews, the exploitation of the poor by the rich and powerful, and so on. This parable is unique to Luke, and Jesus’ answer to the question “Who is my neighbor?” opens up borders, demolishes walls, and integrates communities.

I received an e-mail Friday, entitled, “Here’s what to know if ICE shows up at your door”. Chicago might be the target of terrorizing of immigrants this weekend by the government that acts on our behalf. Modern-day stand-ins for the priest and Levite are sending troops out to harass and terrorize peaceful people because they are different, foreign, in some sense “unclean”—brown-skinned, poor, uneducated, weak, hungry, bruised, scared, vulnerable. Yes, some of them are here illegally, but their crime against society pales in comparison to the wholesale immorality of corporate and government leaders whose actions and policies sicken, impoverish, and oppress millions of Americans, who are essentially helpless to defend their own interests.

I’m not saying that we don’t need to have our own prejudices continually revealed and challenged, but the question on my mind is: how can we help our more xenophobic leaders and neighbors see humanity in all those around us? Jesus showed that everyone is neighbor to us, no matter their faith, their culture, their gender, their class. We are all imperfect in compassion and inclusion, but there are people in power around this country who see the creatures on the other side of bars—bars that keep them outside our country and bars that keep them in cages within—as something less than human, something less than children of God. I believe our greatest challenge is to turn the hearts of those people. But, as with our work to expose and dismantle structural racism, there is a lot of resistance. Many of the people responsible for caging refugees at the southern border—people who metaphorically cross to the other side—proclaim to live by this same gospel.

Since long before recorded history, earthlings have been spellbound by the Moon. Only in recent centuries have we come to understand what the Moon is, and later what its effects are on our world and its life. The Man in the Moon, so to speak, is not just a metaphorical being, but a powerful neighbor—one who stirs the seas, and steadies the axial wobble of our planet [https://www.washingtonpost.com/national/health-science/our-moon–partner-protector-benefactor/2019/06/18/a5068866-7cbc-11e9-a5b3-34f3edf1351e_story.html?utm_term=.6766e3d47503].

Fifty years ago this coming Saturday, July 20th, I was baptized in Grace Church, Utica, NY, in a private, Sunday evening liturgy attended by my parents, grandparents, and godparents. There are photos of little me in a white baptismal gown, in front of the beautiful Victorian font: a marble shell cradled in the arms of a winged angel.

Following the service, my parents returned home and tuned in for one of the momentous events in human history, for throughout that week, beginning on the 16th of July, the world’s people—those who had access to mass communications anyway—were united and transfixed by the Apollo 11 mission to land human beings on another celestial body for the first time. I was baptized just hours before Man walked on the Moon. Though I have no memory of the Apollo program, the coincidence of my baptism connects me to those moments.

Astronaut Michael Collins was Command Module Pilot on that mission, orbiting the Moon as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on its surface. You may already know this, but Michael Collins’s daughter, Kate, is an SPR parishioner. Kate, who is currently traveling with Michael to many commemorations of that first manned lunar landing, sent me some of Michael’s reflections on space and humanity. The thoughts of a man who looked back at earth from a quarter million miles away might alter perspectives and turn hearts toward compassion.

CNN reporter Ashley Strickland wrote last month that Michael Collins describes that seeing the Moon up close was spectacular, but he recalls that the view of Earth kept snaring the astronauts’ attention:

“I said ‘hey, Houston, I’ve got the world in my window,’ and the world is about the size of your thumbnail if you hold it out arm’s length in front of you. The whole focus of your attention goes into this little thing out there. It’s in a black void, which makes its colors even more impressive. Primarily, you get the blue of the oceans, the white of the clouds, you get a little streak of tan that we call continents, but they’re not that noticeable. It just looks glorious.”

Collins noticed something unique about his perspective of our home planet:

“Strangely enough, it looks fragile somehow. You want to take care of it. You want to nurture it. You want to be good to it. All the beauty, it was wonderful, it was tiny, it’s our home, everything I knew, but fragile, strange.”

[https://www.cnn.com/2019/06/18/us/michael-collins-apollo-reflections-scn/index.html]

In an interview published in Time magazine last week, Michael Collins said,

“…After the flight of Apollo 11, Neil, Buzz and I were lucky. We made a round-the-world trip. I think 25 major cities… And I was flabbergasted. I thought that when we went someplace they’d say, ‘Well, congratulations. You Americans finally did it.’ And instead of that, unanimously the reaction was, ‘We did it. We humans finally left this planet and went past escape velocity.’ That’s not the terminology they used, but I thought that was wonderful. North, white, rich, poor, black, white, east, west — what other achievement can bring all of those disparate interests together? Nothing I can think of, except the first lunar landing did. Albeit very briefly. But it did.” —Time Magazine, 11 July 2019

And in a CNN interview, he said even more succinctly, “I can’t think of another instance in which humankind has been more united on a specific project or specific attitude or a specific venture than that one.” —CNN interview 18 June 2019

Has there ever been a day in human history when the whole Earth looked more like Jesus’ neighborhood than the day Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the Moon?

In his 1974 book, Carrying the Fire: An Astronaut’s Journeys, Collins later gave one of the best justifications for the Apollo program—an expensive, bureaucratic, political, dangerous, even deadly folly—writing,

“I really believe that if the political leaders of the world could see their planet from a distance of, let’s say 100,000 miles, their outlook would be fundamentally changed. The all-important border would be invisible, that noisy argument suddenly silenced. The tiny globe would continue to turn, serenely ignoring its subdivisions, presenting a unified facade that would cry out for unified understanding, for homogeneous treatment. The earth must become as it appears: blue and white, not capitalist or communist; blue and white, not rich or poor; blue and white, not envious or envied.”

It would be miraculous if the same energy and unity attached to the Apollo program could now be directed to uniting God’s creatures in one vast, safe, bountiful neighborhood, saving our world from climate catastrophe; its creatures from mass extinction; its people from oppression, violence and starvation.

Some of us already say, “Hi, neighbor!” to the Man in the Moon; and “Thank you, Mother!” to this fragile earth, our island home; and “Good morning, sweetie!” to our beloved dog. We chat comfortably with our Moroccan cab driver. We bring water to our thirsty neighbors in the Sonoran desert, as they walk north fleeing danger. We provide companionship and resources to a refugee family from the war-torn Middle East. We provide nutritious food to those who are hungry right down the street. Of course, none of us—myself first and foremost—gets it all right, but I wonder: how do we show the haters, the exploiters, the profiteers, and the Grim Reapers that God sees that the way they love “the least of these” is a reflection of the way they love God, even the way they love themselves? As Jesus challenged the lawyer, how do we convince them that if they “do this” they will live? And what more can we do to live?