Candle #lutheranadvent 2

(yeah, i should have taken one more shot . . . but you get it . . . )

Hope on World AIDS Day

It only just occurred to me that the first day of the season of Advent (the church calendar "new year") fell on World AIDS Day this year.

Advent has become known as the season of Hope and the last 20 years has seen much change in the world of AIDS treatment. There's always hopeful news coming at us about advances in treating HIV, but there is not yet any cure.

Too many people are acting like the miracle drugs we have today are a cure.

I don't want to get into moralizing about safer sex. That's too easy to do and there are statistics that show that doesn't prevent anyone from being reckless anyway.

But the subject of hope has been on my mind the last few weeks as I've found, read, and am re-reading a slim book called Mystical Hope by Cynthia Bourgeault. There are things in this book that are reminding me of things I've sort of forgot or let go or lost faith in. I can't say it's telling me anything that I didn't know before, but it is definitely reminding me.

And while the book doesn't explicitly go into this, it reminds me of something I've said a few times about hoping and wishing. We often wish for things and call it hope.

But the world is woefully short on a supply of genies in bottles and wishing---no matter how much you pray, plead, believe that something must happen---is of little use against some harsh realities.

You can wish all you want, even call it hope, but believing you can fly will not keep you from plummeting to your death if you step off the roof of a skyscraper. It feels like there is something similar going on with people who want to deny the wisdom of safer sex, wishing with all their might that they won't contract the virus or if they do, wishing with all their might that life on the miracle drugs will be just like life before, only with pills.

As I said, its too easy and of no use to moralize about it. There's something in our species that has a little bit of a death wish anyway. Cigarettes continue to be manufactured and purchased and smoked despite good data that says it's a bad idea. I continue to eat a few too many carbs despite my doctor assuring me that only a certain level of consumption is safe for me and above that level they are a slow acting poison.

Sugar or sex. Something's going to kill you and we seem willing to risk playing with things that will get us there faster.

But hope is something else. It is the assurance that we are held by something bigger than us, that we have identity and ultimate safety that cuts through the dehumanization and deadly danger of real life.

I think I'll leave that right there for tonight. I'm holding some choice personal saints in memory and in hope tonight and pondering what that might mean for this season just begun.

+ + + + +

On a lighter note, this was being passed around on Facebook: 

I'd been thinking about ways to observe the season and this struck me as just the thing, so I'll be doing this on Facebook and Twitter (where the hashtags work) and here as well. Will I get a picture posted here each day? We'll see, but I will be doing my very best to get 'em on FB and Twitter. (I don't do Instagram.) 

Here is my first entry for PREPARE:

The Day After Giving Thanks

Doesn't it seem a waste to be sick on a holiday? I mean, beside missing the chance to call out sick to work, I also had to call out of two thanksgiving dinner invitations.

On the bright side, other than a low-grad fever on Wednesday evening and coughing fits the last 3 days, I haven't really felt that bad, I just am not good company. No ones the green bean casserole passed to them by a phlegmy, hacking anyone.

So the cat and I had a quiet Thanksgiving Day together here in my cluttered apartment. Honestly? I think the cat likes me best when I'm sick and lying around a lot. He would also rather I not be coughing all the time and I understand. I wouldn't want to sleep on a convulsing bed, either.

Last night, I slept over 12 hours. I'm thankful for the opportunity to do that and I guess I needed it. Today, I didn't do much but I did get out for a walk. It was a beautiful day here in Houston, on the upswing from a few cold, rainy days. I'm thankful that was the most pressing thing on my agenda today, a walk.

Despite my better judgment, I decided to walk into the epicenter of Houston's Black Friday. I live a 30 minute walk from the Galleria and I was surprised to find it not nearly as crowded as I expected it to be. I suppose most of the nonsense happened earlier in the day and maybe the epicenter these days is really a Walmart or something. I honestly don't know. I'm thankful I have a life that doesn't require me to keep up on Black Friday deals. I don't know if anyone has a life that requires that, but apparently, some people find the crush of mad crowds somewhat . . . fulfilling? Exciting? What do people get out of it? Being an introvert, I can only assume most of these people are extreme extroverts, but maybe I'm being uncharitable to extroverts.

More and more, I find myself slipping out of mainline culture, if that's what it is. I find myself more and more looking around me and seeing extravagant luxury, wonders that just 3 or 4 generations ago would have been unthinkable, treated as necessities.

Or if they're recognized as not necessary things, we're told we're somehow deserving of it. And so I guess we advance bravely into the maelstrom of commerce, fighting for our right to . .  have.

I have a lot. I mentioned my apartment is cluttered. And really, I'm thankful for the opportunity to have a cluttered apartment. I also know . . .

I don't know what I know. I feel the world, or maybe just this country, or maybe just some aspects of this country's priorities are gravely out of balance. I don't know how to right it. It may not be my job. Maybe my job is, in part, to sit here quietly blogging about how unhealthy it all looks to someone on the outside of it.

Here's what it looks like: It looks like peer pressure of the worst kind. To be "normal" and "acceptable," one should have X, Y, and Z and the latest upgrade to them all. I was born late into my parents' generation, so I'm maybe among the youngest people on the planet who had Depression era parents, but I definitely grew up with an attitude of using things until they were worn out and not working. I gather not everyone with a flat screen TV got it because the old TV quit working. I'm guessing, but that's my general understanding of how this economy works.

And that's what's on my mind this Black Friday. I worry how our economy depends on people purchasing very few things they need and a whole lot on things that are, simply, new. And advances in technology come so quickly these days that my 5 year old cell phone---a marvel to people only 10 years ago---is obsolete. It was a discontinued model when I bought in in 2009. And it does what I need it to do, but it doesn't give me directions to the movie theater or restaurant. If I ever upgrade on it, the next iteration is going to be so advanced I'll need a class to use it.

Maybe. I probably exaggerate. But . . .

Yesterday, we all gave thanks. Today, businesses were counting on madness in their aisles to keep them open another year. Thankfulness and greed? Something is out of whack.

I see a lot of people on Facebook urging one another not to shop on Black Friday. Is that the answer? Maybe the start of one, but only if it's not a delay to eventual consumerist madness.

It's going to take a lot to change this culture. I find it a little scary to consider what could do it.

Need, want, entitlement. My place in it, my desire to get out of the cycle.

Not the usual Thanksgiving weekend thoughts, maybe. Maybe I wish more people had them.

Blame it on being sick . . .

Retreat and Devastation

Outdoor chapel at Camp Allen. 

I'm writing on a Sunday evening after a weekend retreat with people from my congregation (St. Stephen's Episcopal Church; Houston). They actually don't like to call it a "retreat," preferring to call it a "parish weekend." The term "retreat" has become so misused that instead of a time away for rest and rejuvenation, it has become a synonym for more work and busy-ness, only in a different location. That's worthy of a rant, but for another time.

This congregation knows how to retreat. The only things scheduled were meals, a couple of prayer/worship times, a craft time for the kids,  with optional activities offered by the camp itself. There were people tossing around footballs, folks sitting on decks just chatting, kids running around, fishing, wandering trails . . . I don't really know what all went on because I was one who wandered off on my own a few times, exercising my introvert muscles as much as possible.

We all took turns in the kitchen, preparing meals, cleaning up after meals, etc., but those were small burdens (the folks who actually planned and shopped for all the food---they maybe had some burden, so I will shout out kudos to them for the work they did to make the actual prep work easy). At the end, when we were cleaning up, plenty of people stayed around to make even that last round of cleaning fairly light work.

I came back feeling (1) that it was too short and (2) that I am nonetheless somewhat refreshed and decompressed.

Sunday morning, people make their way down to the outdoor chapel for Morning Prayer.

It has been ages since I've been on a retreat. I'm pretty sure well over 10 years. There were times I was near tears or actually wiping away a tear or two. If anyone noticed, they were kind enough to not mention it. What were the tears for? Hard to say, really. They're a little bit of a mystery to me. I think getting to go to this retreat, coupled by all the ways my life has changed, particularly ecclesiastically, in the last two years or so, and the general waves of gratitude I have about life right now . . . it's all mixed up in there. That there were connections---songs, conversations, sights, sounds, smells---between college retreats from 30 years ago and this weekend was also a part of it. A religious life, however bumpy, manages to lend some continuity to a person's existence. So much has changed and some things remain the same.

+ + + + +

Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, the Philippines are devastated. I disconnected myself from all media on the retreat, and while I knew that enormous storm was headed toward land before I went on retreat, I did not hear anything of it all weekend. Someone lifted up the Philippines during Morning Prayer, a reminder of the storm, but not news, exactly. 

I've read an article or two about it now. It is horrific. Reports of whole towns disappearing, human death toll estimated at 10,000+, just unimaginable loss . . . 

While we rested, played, rejuvenated, thousands were dying. 

And what can we say? On any corner of the planet, at any time, there is suffering, there is rest, there is destruction, and there is new life. This can be flip and I don't mean it that way, of course. The point I hope to make is that while we took time for re-creation, the point of the new creation is to carry on the work of God. 

The work of God goes on. 

So we pray for comfort and the presence of God among those so devastated. We send money and aid workers to do what they can to bind up the open wounds. We do what we can in the face of such news. It will not be enough and it will multiply. 

May we all find times of rest, may we all find ways to work, may the Spirit of God move among the suffering and may our prayers, in whatever way prayer works, alleviate the pain of people we'll never know.

If we rest and rejuvenate on retreat, we should keep it ever before us that we are new creations for the work of God. That work goes on.

Lord have mercy and grant us strength.

50

The clock has already passed midnight, so I guess I have to refer to my birthday as yesterday.

So, yesterday, I turned 50.

I don't have much to say about it except that I am full of gratitude. I think I would have felt gratitude about turning 50 anyway---I've had enough friends who didn't make it to half a century to know it's not a given---but after the spring I had, when I spent a couple of weeks not knowing if I would see 50,  I think I have some obligation to extra gratitude.

Thank you, God.

Not only for reaching half a century, but also for friends who will meet me for lunch with accessories like this to wear during lunch:


If I had any more abundant life, I might break.

I will extol you, my God and King,
   and bless your name for ever and ever.
Every day I will bless you,
   and praise your name for ever and ever.
Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised;
  God's greatness is unsearchable.

One generation shall laud your works to another,
   and shall declare your mighty acts.
On the glorious splendour of your majesty,
   and on your wondrous works, I will meditate.
The might of your awesome deeds shall be proclaimed,
   and I will declare your greatness.
They shall celebrate the fame of your abundant goodness,
   and shall sing aloud of your righteousness. 

[Psalm 145:1-7]

Peace in the Silence

This morning, our adult formation class had a session on "silence" and it's place in our relationship with God. I got there late so missed about half of the discussion, so where I go here from there probably has little to do with this morning's session except to say that it got me thinking about this topic all day.

One thing that came to mind and has colored my thoughts is a story a friend told me years ago. I forget the details except to say there had been some ugly family stuff and in the midst of the resultant turmoil, a matriarch of the family cried, "Peace! Peace!" Someone answered her, "You don't want peace, you want silence."

Silence and peace. I've been thinking all day about the ways these are used interchangeably and the ways they are not the same. In this morning's discussion I heard people talk about how hard it is for them to keep silence---a silent retreat is torture for them. I heard other people talking about how they need peace and quiet. I heard Sting singing in my head, "you may win this coming battle, but could you tolerate the peace," realizing that it had only tangential relation to our conversation.

It did remind me that we speak of war and peace, not war and silence.

And how the phrase "peace and quiet" is either one of the most used redundancies in our language or they're two different things. We also don't say "peace and silence." Or "silence and quiet."

Also: John Cage did his best to tell us that there's no such thing as silence.

How easily my mind rambles and wanders.

For LGBT people of a certain age, "SILENCE = DEATH" stickers bring dark memories.

There is at least one story from the Desert Fathers that comes to mind wherein an Abba keeps silence to preserve a murderer's life.

If I have a point here, it's that silence and peace have subtle differences. People in the middle of chaos can speak of having peace, while some people keeping silence find no peace at all but turmoil.

Everything casts a shadow, it seems.

So I end with two related question, ones I hope to ponder (without hope of having all the answers) for some days to come:

Where do you find yourself in silence? And are you at peace with that silence?

Well, I'll add a third: Where is God in your silence and in your peace?

One Rainy Bus Ride

This post will be fairly free of God-stuff. Just a note at the end. So if you don't want God-stuff, you can read for the sake of a story and stop at the next to last paragraph.

I have to tell this story carefully, with as much compassion and sensitivity as I can, as I'm not here to make fun of or in any other way denigrate homeless people. This was just slightly funny and a piece of reality only people who use public transportation see.

Last night, I got out of a rehearsal for a play. Normally, I would have taken the MetroRail to a bus at Wheeler Station, but the trains were stopped this weekend, in anticipation of a building being imploded on the line. (For those who know downtown Houston, I'm referring to the destruction of the now-vacant Macy's [formerly Foley's] building.) They had buses scheduled to take up the slack of the trains, but I decided I'd just walk to a bus stop where I could pick up an 81 or 82 bus, which would take me to the Galleria area, close enough to walk home.

An 82 came along soon enough and I was glad. It was raining, but not hard.

A couple of stops later, a homeless woman got on with another passenger. Suddenly, the bus was filled with a smell like a dead animal. It was putrid and strong, and because the other passenger had come to the back of the bus, where I was, I wondered if it was her, even though she had no outward appearance of someone who might smell like this. As other passengers got on, particularly ones who sat closer to the front made it clear where the smell came from. They all moved to the back. One noted, "Man, you can't get away from it!"

Let me clear. This was not like any homeless person smell. Any public transit rider is familiar with that smell. This was the sort of smell I recognized from dead armadillos or possums or any number of dead animals I might have encountered growing up on a farm. It's even different from spoiled meat. I suspect part of the stench is the smell of rotting entrails as well as muscle, but I digress. The point is, this was a distinct, unique smell.

I should also note that I recognized the homeless woman. She used to spend some times in the chairs at the Barnes & Noble where I used to work. I'd had to wake her up a time or two and send her out into the night as we were closing the store. She never smelled like this then.

So, anyway, there's a dozen or so of us on this smelly bus, and I'm really kind of happy with how everyone's taking it. They're being sensitive enough to not make loud, outward responses to the smell. A couple of men in t-shirts had pulled the top of their shirts up and over their noses (making them look a little bit like bandits, I though), but for a late night bus ride, I thought everyone behaved relatively compassionately.

Then the skies opened up and barrels of rain came down. This being Houston, that means there's pretty immediate flooding. Our bus came to a complete stop in a storm, all of us trapped in the smell, 2-3 feet of water swirling around outside our windows. We couldn't go forward. We couldn't go backward. No to the sides. We had to wait out the storm and the hopefully quick recession of the flood waters.

Meanwhile, the homeless woman slept.

I chewed some spearmint gum, which seemed to help with putting another scent in my nose. At times, I even thought I might have gotten used to it as it seemed to bother me less. Then I'd catch a fresh whiff (no pun intended) of the stench. There was no escape from it.

Other cars went past us, most of them turning around and going back the way they came. A wrecker went by. Then a firetruck. This seemed ominous.

More ominously, I saw one woman, talking low to another woman, make the universal gesture for "throwing up." This concerned me more than a little. I was managing okay with the dead animal smell, but I know from experience that the smell of vomit is a strong trigger for me. I was certain that if anyone threw up in that enclosed place, I would surely follow, particularly mixed with the original stench.

Even as I started to get a headache,  I couldn't help but chuckle at all this. It seemed like the stuff of a sitcom episode. People were going up to the front of the bus to talk to the bus driver. Some stayed up there, others came back to the back of the bus. Some would make an occasional sudden move like a trapped animal looking for an escape. One woman took a picture of the flood waters. It looked like she was posting to Facebook or Twitter or something. Glances were shared, but other than the people talking to the bus driver, no one really talked.

The homeless woman slept on.

This is non-fiction, so all the foreshadowing for worse things to come didn't get fulfilled. Eventually, the rain let up. It seldom rains hard for long in Houston. The waters receded enough for us to start moving forward and before long, we were going at regular speed down Westheimer toward the Galleria.

I do wonder what created that particular smell with this woman. If it was in (from?) her body, perhaps she didn't smell it. If was something in the cart she dragged onto the bus, well, I hope she cleaned it out somewhere. That it was different from the usual homeless person smells made me worry about her. Did she have some place on her body that was putrefying? I hope not. What a misery that would be.

Of course, we picked up drenched people along the way, new faces to react to the stench, new people to try to get away from that which could not be escaped. The bus was filling up and as we passed the Galleria, I gave my seat to a man, telling him I was getting off in a few stops. I stood by the back door.

Then, two stops before mine, there was a person on a motorized scooter who had to get on. Again, the people on the bus behaved as well as could be expected---we were all quite ready to get to where we were going and off that bus, and the bus driver seemed to have more trouble than usual trying to strap the scooter with the safety straps. I began to wonder if I should get off the bus and walk the extra 4 or 5 blocks.

I hoped the guy on the scooter had a strong stomach, because he was absolutely trapped to sit next to the homeless woman.

Finally, we were on our way again. After 90 minutes or more on that bus, I exited into the light rain, my umbrella up. I watched the bus go buy, full of people holding their noses, a handicapped man strapped in next to a sleeping, unfortunate woman.

* * * * * * * * * *

As for God-stuff: Several years ago, in another situation with another homeless person on a bus, this thought came to me: 

When Mary, the Mother of God, comes near, we smell roses. Her Son, on the other hand, smells like this.