If you click on the title of this post, you'll find yourself watching me on YouTube, in St. Paul's Chapel in NYC, doing what I like best: helping people to sing about the most important things. The video is from the Music That Makes Community Conference a few weeks ago, and shows about forty people in a chant called Open My Heart. It's the kind of chant that helps you to open your heart. I only know this because the tune was given to me in the middle of a very contentious meeting of the Episcopal Church, where I taught it to about a thousand people who were trying to decide whether or not to consecrate Gene Robinson a bishop. I felt the energy of that room completely shift to a better place in less than two minutes, and I'm not the only one. The video is 4 minutes long, and comes to us courtesy of the All Saints Company. Thanks Daniel.
Enjoy the weekend.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Seeing Beauty
Short blooming seasons for the finest and most fragrant flowers surely make my list of things to take up with God every spring. Luckily, this shortcoming creates a need for more beauty, and there are still many humans creatively filling it (some of us can't help ourselves). One of the coolest of these is my friend Toinette Lippe. She sees deeply into the nature of beauty and manages to communicate it with grace. For the times when the lilacs and sweet woodruff are over and gone (and all the other times, too), you can do no better than to have a stack of her Chinese brush paintings somewhere under the pile on your desk. Something happens to me when I sit down to write a note on one of her cards that reminds me to take care with whatever I write on the inside. People always thank me for these cards, but I thank Toinette.
There is much delicate strength in her work with flowers, fruit, vegetables, and birds, and we are invited in to really see. Some of the original paintings are available, also (at very reasonable prices). You are probably already acquainted with Toinette through her work in publishing. It's a safe bet she's edited some of the books on our shelves (Do any of these sound familiar: The Zen of Seeing, How Can I Help?, 100 Graces, A Year to Live, and Ten Poems to Change Your Life?. In 1989 she founded Bell Tower, and as editorial director, published so many good books I can't list them all. She is also the author of two fine books: Nothing Left Over: A Plain and Simple Life; and Caught in the Act: Reflections on Being, Knowing, and Doing.
Enjoy the lotus bud on the left, and then take the short trip to her website and you'll see what I mean. Click on the title at the top of this post and you're there. You'll be thrilled, and you'll be supporting one of the most creative people around. This is one trip that will fill you up.
Monday, May 19, 2008
No Turning Back: My Summer with Daddy King, by Gurdon Brewster
This week, I’ve been reading a book I found in the Episcopal Bookstore in Seattle (on my February trek out to Olympia to teach a workshop at St. John’s). I was surprised to see it there, and I hardly cracked it open until the day before yesterday, when I found it was stuck to my hand and wouldn’t let go (you'll see, and I won't even mention the recipes). I was surprised to see Gurdon's name on the book, because he was a mentor of mine when I lived in Ithaca, NY (1978-80). It seems he still is a mentor of mine. Gurdon was a chaplain at Cornell (for 35 years) and is an excellent sculptor. But this writer thing is something I didn’t know about him. I'll bet I can fill all the telephone books in the whole wide world with the things I don't know about people.
Daddy King was Martin Luther King, Sr., and was co-pastor (with his son Martin Luther King, Jr.) of the Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta. Gurdon spent a summer with Daddy and Mrs. King in 1961 and lived in their house. There are pages and pages I could quote, but here’s something that reminded me that the most important things in life are peach ice cream, the transformation of people’s hearts, and the protection of the gifts we are given:
“Daddy King came home about 9:30 one hot night, and when he heard the freezer grinding, a big smile broke out on his face. Mrs. King and I lifted the container carefully out of the ice water and brought it over to the sink to wipe it off… He stood nearby with a large bowl, at which point Mrs. King backed away and watched with delight as he plunged his spoon into the ice cream, loading his bowl with a generous heap mixed well with the peaches. “When I eat cream, I eat cream,” he said, as he moved toward his favorite chair.
Just as we turned on the TV, Coretta called on the telephone to ask Mrs. King where she might take the children to have their tonsils removed. Suddenly, Dr. King appeared on the screen. “He’s on the news,” Mrs. King told Coretta in a perfectly natural voice, as if she were describing an everyday occurrence in the home. She hung up the phone and returned to her seat to watch.
Dr. King had been speaking in Jackson. “Freedom is coming.” He said.
“Yes it is,” replied Daddy King, talking to his son as if he were in the chair right next to him. “Boy, they hate that,” he said in a strong voice. “They’d like to get at him, but they can’t because he’s right. They can’t say anything because he is right,” he said looking back at me. “He gets white people mad because he wins people. He can’t help winning. He has won people over since he was a boy.”
“Segregation is dead.” Dr. King went on. “The only question is how expensive will they make the funeral.”
Well, we’ve made the funeral pretty damn expensive so far, and Barack Obama is raising and spending money so fast it’s getting more expensive by the second. I pray every day that his story has a different ending, because it looks like he, too, is right, and can’t help winning people over.
Make sure No Turning Back is in your local library: No Turning Back: My Summer with Daddy King, by Gurdon Brewster (2007, Orbis Books).
Listen to an Interview with Gurdon on American Public Media. Here's the link:
http://thestory.org/archive/the_story_432_Summer_With_The_King_Family.mp3/view
Daddy King was Martin Luther King, Sr., and was co-pastor (with his son Martin Luther King, Jr.) of the Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta. Gurdon spent a summer with Daddy and Mrs. King in 1961 and lived in their house. There are pages and pages I could quote, but here’s something that reminded me that the most important things in life are peach ice cream, the transformation of people’s hearts, and the protection of the gifts we are given:
“Daddy King came home about 9:30 one hot night, and when he heard the freezer grinding, a big smile broke out on his face. Mrs. King and I lifted the container carefully out of the ice water and brought it over to the sink to wipe it off… He stood nearby with a large bowl, at which point Mrs. King backed away and watched with delight as he plunged his spoon into the ice cream, loading his bowl with a generous heap mixed well with the peaches. “When I eat cream, I eat cream,” he said, as he moved toward his favorite chair.
Just as we turned on the TV, Coretta called on the telephone to ask Mrs. King where she might take the children to have their tonsils removed. Suddenly, Dr. King appeared on the screen. “He’s on the news,” Mrs. King told Coretta in a perfectly natural voice, as if she were describing an everyday occurrence in the home. She hung up the phone and returned to her seat to watch.
Dr. King had been speaking in Jackson. “Freedom is coming.” He said.
“Yes it is,” replied Daddy King, talking to his son as if he were in the chair right next to him. “Boy, they hate that,” he said in a strong voice. “They’d like to get at him, but they can’t because he’s right. They can’t say anything because he is right,” he said looking back at me. “He gets white people mad because he wins people. He can’t help winning. He has won people over since he was a boy.”
“Segregation is dead.” Dr. King went on. “The only question is how expensive will they make the funeral.”
Well, we’ve made the funeral pretty damn expensive so far, and Barack Obama is raising and spending money so fast it’s getting more expensive by the second. I pray every day that his story has a different ending, because it looks like he, too, is right, and can’t help winning people over.
Make sure No Turning Back is in your local library: No Turning Back: My Summer with Daddy King, by Gurdon Brewster (2007, Orbis Books).
Listen to an Interview with Gurdon on American Public Media. Here's the link:
http://thestory.org/archive/the_story_432_Summer_With_The_King_Family.mp3/view
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A Prequel - "Where's the girl?!"
Greetings all,
This is a note about the not-so-recent past. Think of it as a prequel that doesn't require you to sit in a dark theater, or eat popcorn. Feel free to do those things, though, if you think it'll help. Feel free to skip this post and come back another time for something more to your liking... Hey, it could happen! Future posts will deal with life as I experience it (whoa!), and the beauty that is all around us, which lately means music, chanting workshops, recording sessions, 176 high school boys, how to bless one another and ourselves, hundreds of tiny baby apricots, and the peonies, which are now advertising for ants, to begin work immediately, to help meet the late May deadline.
But first, a word about where I've been hiding since early 2006, which past life regression was prompted by one email and two comments by former patrons just this week. It's been two years since I've heard from any of them. In January of 2006, I was dismissed from my former employment as chief bartender, spiritual director, and asst. manager of the Episcopal Book/Resource Center in the city of New York. For about 15 years, I toiled, wondered, laughed, cried, held my tongue with many people, and helped at least a few to find their way in to a deeper relationship with themselves, God and everyone else. I sought and bought the best books available on important topics related to the care and spiritual feeding of God's children on this fragile earth our island home. Then, I'd match up the books with the right people and vice versa. I loved the work, the people, and dealt with whomever God sent through the door. It's a deal I made with God a long time ago. It's made for an interesting life so far.
In 2004, there was a building renovation planned, and we were told that we'd have to move the store to the basement for a while, but that my job was safe. My partner had a brain aneurysm right before Thanksgiving 2005 and had been home from the hospital for less than a month when I was asked to come upstairs and told that my job was no longer my job. This seems to be the way of the world for many, especially lately, but one might expect an institution like a church to hold its people to a higher standard. I seem to recall something about not bearing false witness in my studies, but it doesn't seem to apply to people in the fulfillment of their institutional roles. It took a while to get over the pain of losing that particular job, and for months afterward, I heard there was a big fuss over the decision, which helped my morale, until the health insurance ran out four months later...
There are some patrons I still hear from, and some I miss running into: clergy and DRE's who bought books for their flock for book groups and Bible studies on a regular basis; folks who lived in the congregational development section because they wanted to improve their communities; the ones who lived in the spirituality section because they wanted to give people as much practical knowledge as they could about God and neighbor; the people who lived in the pastoral care section because they needed to take care of the fragile in their midst and/or the fragile in themselves; and all the the other broken, arrogant, certain, mean, sweet, clueless, overwhelmed, tired, happy just to be there, and entirely holy humans (some of you radiate beauty). Heschel said: Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy." Amen.
I also truly/madly/deeply miss all of the precious jewels who helped to further my compassion practice, some by lying to my face, and to store patrons about my job status and future plans for the store. Then there was the bishop who asked "If you were a woman, what color Bible would you like?" I was so taken aback that I looked him straight in the eye and said "First of all, I am a woman, and second of all, not all women like the same color! It wasn't my finest hour, but we became friends. He saw me a couple of weeks ago at St. Paul's Chapel in NYC, came over and gave me a big hug. He looks a lot more relaxed since he retired. There was a woman for whom I opened the door after hours so she could prove the old adage "No good deed goes unpunished."
I am a calmer person, and much more patient; you were my teachers, and I thank you all.
One of the people who forced me to realize the depth of service often required (and mostly overlooked) was the loud, half blind and partially deaf old man who came in every other month or so for at least five years to look at Bibles; he monopolized my time, energy and patience, and the patience of everyone in the store because he was SO LOUD. He always took an hour, and never bought a thing, until the last time I saw him, when his shoes were so holey it was a wonder they stayed on his feet. He asked for me by yelling "Where's the girl?! She can help me! My colleague, Constancio De Jesus (and he is) told me "That one will get you your wings." I'd have settled for a new pair of shoes for the guy. He wanted a Bible to leave to his daughter when he died. I sold him one. I still think about him, looking down, yelling "Hey, I want a Bible!"
There was an endless stream of people for whom I know my presence in that store made a difference, and about whom I wonder and still pray for: the woman who came in on her first day back to work after having had a miscarriage, looking for a book on how to deal with it. We cried through the entire transaction. There were people who came in to find books, either for themselves or their loved ones, to deal with the death or impending death of a parent, child, sibling, or friend. There were some who just thought it was a good bookstore. There were people who came in to calm down after they'd been treated badly by their bosses; that's when I felt like a bartender, serving up good books and therapeutic music.
Nowadays I spend a great deal of time listening for that still, small voice to tell me what's needed for the task at hand. This month, I'm doing it in the recording studio. Who knows how anything will turn out? Our God is a very quirky God. I'll let you know what I know as soon as I can articulate it (which is not nearly as soon as I know it, usually). Thanks for reading, and enjoy your week.
This is a note about the not-so-recent past. Think of it as a prequel that doesn't require you to sit in a dark theater, or eat popcorn. Feel free to do those things, though, if you think it'll help. Feel free to skip this post and come back another time for something more to your liking... Hey, it could happen! Future posts will deal with life as I experience it (whoa!), and the beauty that is all around us, which lately means music, chanting workshops, recording sessions, 176 high school boys, how to bless one another and ourselves, hundreds of tiny baby apricots, and the peonies, which are now advertising for ants, to begin work immediately, to help meet the late May deadline.
But first, a word about where I've been hiding since early 2006, which past life regression was prompted by one email and two comments by former patrons just this week. It's been two years since I've heard from any of them. In January of 2006, I was dismissed from my former employment as chief bartender, spiritual director, and asst. manager of the Episcopal Book/Resource Center in the city of New York. For about 15 years, I toiled, wondered, laughed, cried, held my tongue with many people, and helped at least a few to find their way in to a deeper relationship with themselves, God and everyone else. I sought and bought the best books available on important topics related to the care and spiritual feeding of God's children on this fragile earth our island home. Then, I'd match up the books with the right people and vice versa. I loved the work, the people, and dealt with whomever God sent through the door. It's a deal I made with God a long time ago. It's made for an interesting life so far.
In 2004, there was a building renovation planned, and we were told that we'd have to move the store to the basement for a while, but that my job was safe. My partner had a brain aneurysm right before Thanksgiving 2005 and had been home from the hospital for less than a month when I was asked to come upstairs and told that my job was no longer my job. This seems to be the way of the world for many, especially lately, but one might expect an institution like a church to hold its people to a higher standard. I seem to recall something about not bearing false witness in my studies, but it doesn't seem to apply to people in the fulfillment of their institutional roles. It took a while to get over the pain of losing that particular job, and for months afterward, I heard there was a big fuss over the decision, which helped my morale, until the health insurance ran out four months later...
There are some patrons I still hear from, and some I miss running into: clergy and DRE's who bought books for their flock for book groups and Bible studies on a regular basis; folks who lived in the congregational development section because they wanted to improve their communities; the ones who lived in the spirituality section because they wanted to give people as much practical knowledge as they could about God and neighbor; the people who lived in the pastoral care section because they needed to take care of the fragile in their midst and/or the fragile in themselves; and all the the other broken, arrogant, certain, mean, sweet, clueless, overwhelmed, tired, happy just to be there, and entirely holy humans (some of you radiate beauty). Heschel said: Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy." Amen.
I also truly/madly/deeply miss all of the precious jewels who helped to further my compassion practice, some by lying to my face, and to store patrons about my job status and future plans for the store. Then there was the bishop who asked "If you were a woman, what color Bible would you like?" I was so taken aback that I looked him straight in the eye and said "First of all, I am a woman, and second of all, not all women like the same color! It wasn't my finest hour, but we became friends. He saw me a couple of weeks ago at St. Paul's Chapel in NYC, came over and gave me a big hug. He looks a lot more relaxed since he retired. There was a woman for whom I opened the door after hours so she could prove the old adage "No good deed goes unpunished."
I am a calmer person, and much more patient; you were my teachers, and I thank you all.
One of the people who forced me to realize the depth of service often required (and mostly overlooked) was the loud, half blind and partially deaf old man who came in every other month or so for at least five years to look at Bibles; he monopolized my time, energy and patience, and the patience of everyone in the store because he was SO LOUD. He always took an hour, and never bought a thing, until the last time I saw him, when his shoes were so holey it was a wonder they stayed on his feet. He asked for me by yelling "Where's the girl?! She can help me! My colleague, Constancio De Jesus (and he is) told me "That one will get you your wings." I'd have settled for a new pair of shoes for the guy. He wanted a Bible to leave to his daughter when he died. I sold him one. I still think about him, looking down, yelling "Hey, I want a Bible!"
There was an endless stream of people for whom I know my presence in that store made a difference, and about whom I wonder and still pray for: the woman who came in on her first day back to work after having had a miscarriage, looking for a book on how to deal with it. We cried through the entire transaction. There were people who came in to find books, either for themselves or their loved ones, to deal with the death or impending death of a parent, child, sibling, or friend. There were some who just thought it was a good bookstore. There were people who came in to calm down after they'd been treated badly by their bosses; that's when I felt like a bartender, serving up good books and therapeutic music.
Nowadays I spend a great deal of time listening for that still, small voice to tell me what's needed for the task at hand. This month, I'm doing it in the recording studio. Who knows how anything will turn out? Our God is a very quirky God. I'll let you know what I know as soon as I can articulate it (which is not nearly as soon as I know it, usually). Thanks for reading, and enjoy your week.
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