Easter Sunday

St. Michael’s Episcopal Church is now fifty years old. Additions have transformed the little chapel to a church of some size with a new sanctuary, parish hall and education wing. Instead of an on-loan minister we now have a full time staff composed of a rector, an assistant and church clerk. The congregation had gathered to celebrate this occasion and my eyes wondered about the room taking in the people. Some I knew; some I didn’t. Some I recognized; some I did not. Although I had been here ten years myself, the church was large enough that there were still people whom I had not met, people who hung onto the periphery of the congregation. Then I spotted Lester Niles and his wife; she had her hand on his arm, her eyes aglow with a twinkle, as they always seemed to be. I laughed to myself thinking of that Easter Sunday when Lester first came to our congregation.
Lilies covered the church; they were in each window, beside the choir and down the aisles on each side of the sanctuary. Today was Easter Sunday and every table was draped in white, the minister wore white vestments, the choir... white robes. White gilded the whole church like an early morning snow, snow unspoiled by footsteps, smooth and glistening. I had taken my station on the left entrance, handing out programs, as each parishioner entered.
“Good morning Mrs. Tally, you certainly look festive today.” Mrs. Francis Tally was anything but festive, one hundred years old in action, but probably sixty chronologically. I had not heard her speak a word since her husband died some fifteen years ago without a complaint tacked on the end.
“All that white, I wonder how much it cost the church to put all those lilies around, couldn’t they have found some family that needed the money more. Why, when Albert was alive he would have found a better way to spend all that money, this church just hasn’t been the same since Albert died.”
Albert had died five years before I became a member so I had never met him, but if Albert was anything like Francis Tally I had no doubt that was true.
The Sunday I was initiated as an usher I greeted Mrs. Tally and politely walked down the isle to show her to her seat. She always sat in the second pew from the front on the left side of the church, the side closest to the podium. I turned, looking around for the first time; proud that I knew where to guide her when I was surprised to see she was still waiting at the rear of the church. I made my way back to her and this time offered my arm, which she took. I noticed a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth and I couldn’t quite decide whether that was a smirk, grin, or look of comtempt, so I proceeded with no comment.
No sooner than I had made my way back to the rear of the church than Ms. Mira Estes materialized, dressed to kill in bright vermilion from head to her foot. Her head was festooned with a floppy hat best described as a soufflé turned upside down and her feet with spiked heals that raised her height two or three inches. In between, her dress flowed, for there was no shape, just layer upon layer of shiny, translucent cloth that reminded me of flexible deck screening. Only five feet tall, she made up in dress what she lacked in height. Mira was the complete opposite of Mrs. Tally, always greeting you with a kind word, I was glad to give her my arm to guide her into the sanctuary.
“Good morning Paul, isn’t this a fine Easter morning to be alive. It does my old heart good to see you so involved in the church; helping us old ladies find our way. I never married you know, but if I had it would have been someone just like you.”
Many parishioners at St. Michael’s had their own pew, sitting in the same spot each and every Sunday. I remember hearing that tickets to the Super Bowl were so hotly contested once in a divorce they were the sole reason it ended up in court instead of being settled before hand. The judge was so angered he ordered the tickets shared on a rotating, every other year, basis. Pews were the same. Families inherited pews. When old man Wilson died his wife just moved over and his son moved up from three rows back. When Mrs. Johnson moved to be close to her daughter in Colorado her pew sat empty for two months, out of reverence for her absence. The Grayson family finally moved in as a result of being her neighbors for twenty odd years. Some were as animent about where they sat as to challenge a usurper after service, reminding them, “It was so good to see you sitting there in my pew that I couldn’t even think of asking you to move.” Ms. Mira’s was the fourth pew back on the left side of the center aisle.
The Lilly Christians were out in force today. That is what Father James called them, the ones who show up on Easter and aren’t seen again until Christmas, when they magically turn into Poinsettia Christians. Both varieties are numerous enough to cause a seating shortage on these two Sundays.
Reverend James, the choir, and other lay assistants followed the cross in procession down the right side of the aisle. Once past, Scott Bean, a new usher just like me, took his place in the center of the aisle to hold back the late comers, waiting until the procession was over to seat them. I never understood why some people are always late to church. Are they also late to work and school or is there a contest to see who can arrive the closest to 10:30 without being late, and these are the ones who loose? There are those whom I believe will be late to their own funeral.
Movement behind Scott caught my attention and I looked over just in time to see a large, gray headed man push by my fellow usher. Probably weighing 250 pounds he was not obese, just large with shoulders bearing witness to a life of labor not a desk job, his gray hair long but neatly combed fell in waves from front to back. He had apparently gotten the memo about dressing the church out in white, but missed the part about the starting time of the service. I stared, he was dressed completely in white, white shirt, white tie, white pants, and white coat and I had not seen a white suit in thirty years. The only part of his clothing not white, were his black suspenders and black shoes, paten leather and burnished so brightly they flashed with each step, reflecting light from the stained glass windows. He would have been comical if not so imposing a figure, I would have guessed his age to be mid sixties, but his physical condition was of a much younger man.
There was one, and only one, empty seat on the right side of the church near the front. He slid by the procession and headed straight for it with enough commotion to draw half of the congregation’s attention. He captured the other half when instead of excusing himself and waiting for everyone to move over to let him in, he stepped up in the seat walked down the pew behind Mr. and Mrs. Bob Jackson plopping down in the empty spot, a spot much smaller than his bullgous form needed, causing Bob’s wife to practically sit in his lap.
Trouble, it had arrived, but I still hoped for the best. I had not grown up Episcopalian, with its structured service and quite reverence. No, I had grown up in a church apparently like this man thought he was in. A church where people stood for prayer instead of kneeling, where if you were not on time you simply slid in as quickly as possible, where a shouted acknowledgement of what was said in the pulpit was common.
Things settled down however, and being wrong encouraged me. We made it through the Old and New Testament readings and almost through the gospel selection, when our visitor got religion and started shouting, “Praise the Lord, Christ is raised.”
At this point Bob and Sarah Jackson slid out of their seat and hurriedly made their way to the rear of the church while my counterpart headed for the visitor’s pew. He tried as discretely as possible to quiet our new friend down. But, our friend became louder upon his arrival; apparently thinking Scott had come to join his revelry. Scott, for his part, almost fell backward, saying, “It’s alright, it’s all right, please, please just sit down.” We all assumed he was nuts and hope was that he would stay seated for the rest of the service.
Once again things quieted down and we all breathed a sigh of relief. But when Father James began the sermon, upon the completion of each sentence he was met with the response, “Praise our Holy Lord, praise Jesus.”
This time with obvious caution Scott made his way back to our new friend in front. Once again the closer he got the louder our visitor became, but Scott didn’t back off this time and said, “Sir, we don’t want any trouble, but you are going to have to come with me.”
With no hesitation, our gentleman followed meekly to the rear of the church and headed out the door. We all gave a sigh of relief and tried to gather our wits to determine what we needed to do next.
We four ushers gathered in the back of the church and made our way forward to begin taking up the collection. I had come to the very end of my section when I saw him. There in the back row was our friend in the white suit. Sitting as calmly as possible with his eyes closed as if in meditation. Now he was my problem! I was not scared, well okay I was nervous. What would I do if he started disrupting the service? I ran through my mind what was left and could not think of anytime that would elicit a Hallelujah or Praise the Lord. I was wrong. Trouble came during the confession. While all others were repeating Lord have mercy, our friend cried, “Lord forgive me for I am the worst of sinners.” I slowly started toward him, not knowing what I was going to do. “I have sinned in every way possible.” I quickened my step. “I have stolen, lied and been in jail.” Scott started over from the other side of the church. “I have sinned against my brother by telling lies about them.” I was almost there. “I have fornicated with…”
Suddenly from out of nowhere, Ms. Mira Estes slid by me. She pulled me back, as she slid into the pew beside this man who was nearly three times her size. She gripped his arm and whispered in his ear. I could not hear what she said but for the first time that Easter Sunday our visitor was quite.
The rest of the service was uneventful. Our visitor took his lead from Mira and kneeled when she kneeled, spoke when she spoke, and took communion at her side.
That was nearly five years ago. Now on the first and third Sunday of every month I see Lester and Mira Niles sitting in the fourth pew on the left side. Lester has learned to conduct himself like a life long Episcopalian and from what I’ve heard on the second and fourth Sundays of every month, Mira can be found sitting beside Lester, shouting a few ‘Praise the Lord’s’ herself, down at the First Avenue Church of the Ascension.

My Facebook has Twittered into Outer Space

A close friend recently moved to our 50th state. A move I am jealous of but we will not go into that here. In the meantime we have stayed in touch by a number of methods, Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, text messaging, and even an old fashion phone call.

It has been very pleasing to remain in touch, at times almost instantly over an incredible distance and several time zones. I have watched as pictures are posted of outings and new apartments and as new friends have come into her life.

However, in reviewing the quality of our correspondence I have noted a remarked decline. We very seldom talk about how we are feeling, the text message does not reflect the inclination of the voice, and as much as I believe in the power of the written word, it has left me feeling that something is missing.

For all of our advances in communication, we are loosing our intimacy. There is not a Facebook application for wiping tears, there is a hug app, but does it really replace the feeling of a good squeeze now and then? You can't tell whether "doing fine" is a literal statement or an avoidance of letting feelings out when you can not hear the reflection of the voice.

There will never be a replacement for a good long sit on the porch steps, or a walk in the park, or a shared dinner. We can never replace the importance of human contact.

A Day of Hope

Today is a day of hope, as many who are watching the inauguration just as I, are feeling. For today we are watching as a man whom can only be described as a hero becomes our next president. It strikes me that we have been waiting for several years now for a reason to have hope and the events of the day and the last few months give us hope. It seems that there has been nothing but bad news for the last few years and then a man steps in who encourages change, even demands change, steps to the podium and asks us to believe.

I watched as my grammar school was integrated, I watched as the first black teachers came to my school, I watched as two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated and wondered what it meant. Today I watch as another square in the quilt of history is sewn and I do know what this means.

I remember a conversation with a friend earlier in the summer when we were discussing the presidential candidates and who we were going to support. The question was asked, “Can a black man be elected president?”

I replied, “I don’t know.”

But from that moment on a change came on me, a willingness to hope, that regardless of a man’s color, regardless of his religion, a person could be elected on his ideals. That day I became a believer. With that belief came hope.

It is my hope today that we remember it is up to us, the ones that put this man into office to continue to work, to continue to hope and to believe. It is a time for us to continue in action. The man we have elected has more responsibility than I can imagine. But we have a responsibility also, to continue to work; for a united America, for a world of peace, for a world that loves and believes.

I am overjoyed to be living in America on this day. It is fitting that the inauguration tomorrow follows today, Martin Luther King Day.

Today I had lunch with a group of people and our general topic of discussion was our joy at being able to experience this day in history. Several discussed their experience of seeing the schools integrated and what they felt then and now. One related the story of his father, who was a U.S. Marshal during the time of riots. His Father's neck was broken during one in Louisiana and he related how he regretted his Father had not lived to see this day. Another told of growing up in rural Tennessee and his father proudly predicting that during his son's lifetime he would see a black president. He went further and said he had not believed his Dad's prediction. The group was all white and I find it exhilarating that this group of white southerners would be celebrating the election of a black president.

We also talked about Martin Luther King, Jr. and his work. One made the statement that sometimes people have to die so that others might enjoy freedom. A saddening and grim fact, but true regardless.

We are living in an era that will go down in history and become as studied, as revered as any time in our history and I for one am honored to be a part of it.

In the Silence

Recently I was wondering why I feel so at home in the wilderness. At first I was attributing it to a deep engrained family thing, which I am sure is part of it. But, last night I was watching Legend and there is a line in which being able to hear God is attributed to the fact there is so little noise now that there are only three living humans in New York.

It stuck me, yes that is one reason the woods call me, the wide open spacies seem so peaceful. The noise is not man made. Many times while camping I have been highly annoided at a loud human intrusion. Something so out of place and yet so ordinary in the city.

I seek the wildness because it is only interuppted by the sound of nature. It is where I can here the voice of God.

Mentor

Through life I have had many mentors. The first I remember was a man some ten years my senior who took me fishing. I was not old enough to drive myself at the time, but I learned to recognize the sound of his car coming up the road. I didn't even have to look, I gathered my fishing equipment and stood at the ready in our driveway. He talked as we fihed and shared hios wisdom of the outdoors and life.

The next was a literature teacher in college who was kind enough to secure an interview for me with the head of the department when he was directing a play about which I was writing a paper. I did not realize at the time what an honor and privilege that was. I made an A on that paper and it was my first experience with true writing.

Today I recognize that I am mentored by many, but there is one who is always constant. I have learned to accept her wisdom even when it does not make me very happy. She is honest and that is the number one trait of a true mentor.