The Incomplete Restoration

by Robin Allan Jones

In a time when both sea levels and unemployment are rising, as we come to the end the church year and we are regaled by Luke with imagery of the End of Days, it is easy to turn one’s thoughts to the eventual demise of the human race, however that might come about. Recently, my wife and I watched a fascinating production of The History Channel titled Life After Humans. We saw it on NetFlix , and if you haven’t seen this yourself, you really ought to, because the folks at History Channel, through the magic of computer graphics, depict a marvelous world of replenished seas once again teaming with life, of lofty forests growing on the towering skeletons of skyscrapers, populated with songbirds and flying cats—something not improbable; actually there’s a lot of evidence flitting about the Internet that your common house cat contains genetic and evolutionary potential for, among other things, bipedalism, and gliding flight similar to that of flying squirrels. And of course, the rain forests and the redwoods and the chestnut trees reassert themselves, and in a few thousand years, planet earth seems to have healed itself from the short-term, self-limiting disease of infection by Homo sapiens. The air starts to clear of all the toxins and particulates, and above the skies now musical with the return of songbirds, the heavens, once again visible with stars so long masked by artificial light, sparkle in the night sky. It’s all heart-explodingly beautiful--except for one thing:

There are no humans to appreciate it.

Prologues

by Robin Allan Jones


I love prologues. “Two houses, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene . . .” “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York . . .” I love prologues so much that I wrote one for myself. In our recent production of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church’s Umbrella Theatre Company, Noah Way Out, the play begins with a prologue that tells of the nearness of heaven to the medieval imagination. And so, I enjoyed the exquisite pleasure of uttering the opening lines, savoring that surge of adrenaline that ignites the story: “The medieval era, the centuries in the wake of the fall of the Roman Empire . . .” It does seem awfully full of brass and tympany for what was purported to be a “screwball comedy,” but were it humanly possible, I’d make a career of reciting prologues. Because for a moment, I was cast a quarter of a century back into my youth as a college theatre student, reliving the ineluctable joy as the lights would fade up, the opening lines were declaimed, and the fluttering off-stage visceral nervousness would be pushed aside as I anticipated my first entrance.

Equally, I suppose, I love the beginnings of novels: “Call me Ishmael . . .” “It was the best of times and the worst of times . . .” The beginnings of novels and plays are like those magic words on old maps: Terra Incognita “Land Unknown.” “What country, friends, is this?”

Beginnings are always loaded with potential, with promise; beginnings are always the undiscovered country; beginnings always have implied ellipses trailing them because we keep close to our hearts the promises of the imagined what-could-be.

What’s not so hot are the words “The End.”

In the period that we rehearsed and launched Noah Way Out I, as one of St. Paul’s liturgical ministers, shared the honor and joy of serving at the baptism of possibly one of the most beautiful children I have ever seen. This child took to the baptismal water like a baby dolphin. One suspects a mermaid in the pedigree, and this baptism had all the thrill of “Once upon a time . . .” But in that same rehearsal course of time I also served as a liturgical minister, this time at the Cathedral, for the funeral of a friend. This was a thudding, sad, emptiness-leaving, too-soon “The End” for a woman loved by just about everyone who ever knew her, leaving a story of unfulfilled potential without a denouement. I am certain my own sorrow over this still bleeds along the courses of the cracks in the concrete floor of St. Mark’s.

Endings are like that. Rare is the movie that ends as well as it begins; common the novelist who will tell you that the book on which he tapped out “The End” was not the book he intended to write, and there is always a part of us that wishes Romeo and Juliet could live for eternity happily ever after.

But life in the Church is about funerals, not just baptisms, and it’s about everything in between. It is as much about “death do us part” as it is the delectable seduction that leads to “I do.” While I may find that endings make me ache with hollowness, the fact is, we as Episcopalians celebrate every minute of the human experience. We ceremonialize all the landmarks as we recapitulate the terrifying steps to the Cross, and by this celebration, this reliving of the ages of humankind, we honor those landmarks, and we warrior-like look our endings in the eye.

My bedraggled cast and crew, beset by weather, desertion, and delay, eventually brought Noah to his rainbow ending—it would seem our Episcopalian God is not content to have us simply ride the flood; He insists we row and hoist a tattered sail. But as Carlos Castaneda has Don Juan Matus point out: “The warrior laughs and laughs.”

Robin Allan Jones wrote and directed the Umbrella Theatre Company’s Noah Way Out

On the eve of Lent..

by John Forman

I sat down to write this on Mardi Gras. Well, having spent the evening with my daughters watching an old Star Trek, I can’t really call it a “Fat” Tuesday…more of a chubby Tuesday or maybe a Tuesday who occasionally uses food as an emotional crutch…much like the excess of boyish enthusiasm spilling over my beltline these days.

I guess it came closer to a “carnival”, from the Latin “carne evil,” meaning “the meat’s gone off, so let’s not eat it for a month.” We now, of course, more generously translate the phrase to mean “goodbye to flesh,” in recognition of the traditional practices of dieting (although this Lent is so soon in the year that I haven’t even had time to finish procrastinating on my New Year’s resolution) or the omission of meat from one’s diet.

Now because we live in a largely Asian neighborhood, we’ve incorporated local customs into our own. So, for example, in recognition of the concurrent Chinese New Year – the Year of the Rat – we have sharply curtailed the consumption of all rodents for the entire Lenten season…a practice I have high hopes will stick with us substantially longer.

I grew up, like many people who survived childhood, thinking that Lent was primarily about giving up those things which brought you the greatest joy…chocolate, gin, jazz and hanging around with people of questionable moral fiber, such as clergy. Until, that is, I met a priest who shall remain nameless – although his initials are “Charles Ridge” – who taught me an entirely new way of thinking about Lent.

As we sat merrily doing our rosary with hot coals strung on barbed wire and trading fleas for our hair shirts, Charles also managed to introduce to me the deeper meaning and opportunity of Lent. In all seriousness, it has become a time of increasingly profound joy for me. What Chuck taught me over the course of several years was that it isn’t the things, events or people themselves so much as it’s the reshaping of our relationship to them that we undertake in Lent.

It’s a lightening of the load as we run toward God…a readjustment of our response to the first great commandment. Have we put God first among all our relationships? Do we love God with all our strength, all our minds, all our hearts and all our souls or are there one or two things that have slipped up the priority list for our time, attention and energy?

I was doing some reflection last week on our recent Foundations course on Forgiveness and preparing for Lent (as a Benedictine oblate, I am required to submit my intended Lenten practices to my Abbot each year for his approval). I found one or two encumbrances…situations with two people that I had not yet fully reconciled so that they could take their proper place as lesser than my relationship to God. To that end, I found and adopted a prayer, which I’ll be praying daily on their behalf (and for my own softening and growth) as a part of my Lenten practices. I’ve already sent it to Chalice, our prayer team, but I’ll share it here with you in the hopes that it may be useful to you as well:

“May you be happy
May you be free.
May you be loving.
May you be loved.
May God bring you to the fullest completion that God’s love calls you.
May every fiber of your being resonate to the glory to which God calls you.
May you experience the fullness of peace in body and soul.
May you know God in all God’s goodness.
May you forgive every transgression.
May I forgive you with all my heart and soul.
May you know what it means to be a child of God.
May you experience the glory of possessing the kingdom of God.
May you walk in peace and fellowship with all God’s creatures.
May every blessing be yours.
May goodness and love show themselves in everything that you do and in all that is done to you.

May you be one with all of God’s creation.
May you experience the blessings of God’s grace for all eternity.”

A blessed Lenten season to you all!

John Forman is a member of St Paul’s who serves at the altar, leads St. Paul’s intercessory prayer team and is a Eucharistic Visitor. Outside of St. Paul's he is a Benedictine oblate of Mt Angel Abbey and an organizational development consultant and executive counselor. John is the managing partner of Integral Development Associates.

To Dust You Shall Return

by Stephen Crippen

I look at Ash Wednesday as a kind of self-absorbed Day of the Dead, or an All Souls Day that’s focused mostly on me. I’m dead, or at least I’m dying. And not just dead or dying in a spiritual way—dying to sin, or dying to a way of life that diminishes me or harms others. I have all of Lent to focus on those deaths. No, Ash Wednesday for me is a day to say, I am someday (2065? Next year? Tomorrow?) going to be dead. My body will cool, stiffen, soften, be consumed by Mother Earth or Father Fire, better get my will ready.

So my first book for Lent this year is “Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers,” by Mary Roach. She’s a journalist, and she approaches the topic with a great blend of thorough professionalism and funny irreverence. And right there in the first chapter is a great Ash Wednesday story. Roach is visiting a medical lab in which plastic-surgery students are practicing surgery techniques using the severed heads of cadavers. Roach is talking to one of the students, named Marilena:

“I ask Marilena if she plans to donate her remains. I have always assumed that a sense of reciprocity prompts doctors to donate—repayment for the generosity of the people they dissected in medical school. Marilena, for one, isn’t going to. She cites a lack of respect. It surprises me to hear her say this. As far as I can tell, the heads are being treated [by her classmates] with respect. I hear no joking or laughter or callous comments…”

Marilena tells the author that she objects to her colleagues’ assumption that it’s okay to photograph the cadavers for journals and research. Since the people who once inhabited these bodies are gone, they can’t sign a release for the photos to be taken, and this is what Marilena finds disrespectful. Roach continues:

“The seminar is nearly over. The video monitors are blank and the surgeons are cleaning up and filing out into the hallway. Marilena replaces the white cloth on her cadaver’s face; about half the surgeons do this. She is conscientiously respectful. When I asked her why the eyes of the dead woman had no pupils, she did not answer, but reached up and closed the eyelids. As she slides back her chair, she looks down at the benapkined form and says, ‘May she rest in peace.’ I hear it as ‘pieces,’ but that’s just me.”

The Irishman in me smiled at the author’s play on words, but I really like Marilena. I hope that when it’s my body’s turn to be a research subject, it will be handled by someone like her. And I hope that by keeping Ash Wednesday and walking through Lent each year, I can become more and more like her, more and more the kind of person who remembers to replace a white cloth over the sacred remains of another human being.


Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog on his website, here.

Seasons

by Ellen Hill

Seasons

I heard a little voice last Sunday.


It belonged to one of our many new toddlers. It was strong, clear, and confident. A comment made about something she found interesting.

Some Sundays, I sit amazed at this influx of little bodies, with strong sturdy legs investigating new spaces. A small face pressed against the glass to experience its rainbow qualities. The tiny hands reverently touching St. Francis. I am sure they are experiencing St. Paul’s in an organic, hands-on way that I am quite envious of.


I remember this journey with my own children, trying to find a path between exploration and adoration. Three little bodies squirming, reading, talking, but still trying to understand what was happening around them. Eventually they did. They followed the service, participated on the altar, read lessons, and served on committees. They grew up in a community where it was safe to be yourself. A community nurturing their spiritual education and growth. A place where difficult questions could be asked, and questions that have no answers could be discussed.


So, at this time in the life of our parish, children are present. We welcome their voices. We look forward with excitement at this new explosion of life. Like spring it holds the promise of unknown beauty.


And sometimes, it takes us back to our own childhood. Sunday in the pew between my own father and mother. My father, young and strong; my mother, unable to stay awake through any sermon no matter how short or long. We were always in our Sunday best complete with hat and gloves. The best part was just the feeling of happiness as we sat shoulder to shoulder. Oh, and of course the trip to the donut shop on the way home.


With all the lessons of Sunday service, perhaps this is the most lasting legacy -- that we can carry these moments of happiness throughout our lives as both the child and the parent.


I remember the beauty of a small hand in mine, tiny and warm, so infinitely beautiful.


Some Sundays it rests in my hand again. Now it rests fingertip to fingertip, palm to palm, all grown up yet still so infinitely beautiful.

Ellen Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's.

The Burden of Forgiveness

by John Gordon Hill

The Burden of Forgiveness

When the call came that he had been arrested, time stood still. The charges were indeed heinous, and utterly inconsistent with the man I thought I knew. So much so, that I was indignant on his behalf, and searched for alternate explanations. But the news that unspooled in the ensuing days was all bad. An undisclosed criminal history. Damning evidence. Slippery explanations instead of protestations of innocence.

It seemed clear that he had inflicted great psychological damage on his victims. But he had also inflicted grievous damage on himself. His life, as he knew it, was over. He lost his job and the custody of his daughter. He lost all respect and standing in the community. He may well lose his freedom. What could I say to a man I counted as a friend, but whose apparent actions represented such a massive betrayal of his family, his friends, his co-workers, and yes, of me?

As this was unfolding, the Federal Public Defender asked the production class I teach to make a video presenting mitigating evidence at the sentencing hearing of a crack dealer. The crack dealer was a gentle giant, beloved by his family and friends, but who had an enormous rap sheet stretching back 25 years. He was the product of every hyperbolic dysfunctional cliché you could imagine, but he refused to blame his background or community for his crimes. He clung to a few facts. He had steered his siblings and children away from drugs. He had not been violent. He had cooperated with the police.

The judge noted that while the drug dealer didn’t blame the terrible environment he came from for his actions, his drug selling contributed to that terrible environment every day. The defendant acknowledged that was true. Then he systematically took responsibility for his actions and all the people he had hurt. Admittedly, he was talking to a judge who held his fate in his hands, but there was a true contrition and humility in his demeanor. He seemed genuinely moved by the friends and family who had spoken from the heart on his behalf in the video.

I think about the difference between “inexcusable” and“unforgivable”. Actions may be inexcusable, but no one is beyond God’s forgiveness, no matter how difficult or unpalatable it may be for us mere humans. In the case of my friend, it will take me some time. And if forgiveness is hard to give, it is hard to receive. Being forgiven takes a radical repentance, true contrition, a sincere desire to make restitution, and acknowledgment of the burden of the sin.

The crack dealer seemed to exhibit all these. The judge showed mercy. He sentenced him to “only” ten years.

Stumbling toward Lent, I ponder the burden of forgiveness.

The heft of it.

Its cost.

Pray we find the grace to bestow it.

John Gordon Hill is a longtime member of St. Paul's. He is a director/cinematographer and currently teaches at Seattle Central Community College.

Resolutions of an Insomniac:

by Barb Levy

Resolutions* of an Insomniac
Blessed are we who can laugh at ourselves, for we shall never cease to be amused.

Mind and Body:

• Finish reading books about procrastination.
• Get bifocals.
• Get hearing tested.
• Get in bed by 10:00.
• Lose 10 lbs for good.
• Eat more vegetables.
• Ride my bike more than I drive.
• Obsess less, mute the inner critic, try not to should on myself so often.

Seek more moments of pure non-analytical awareness.

Spirit:

• Attend Thursday Eucharist 1x/mo.
• Walk the labyrinth.
• Light candles at home.
• Wear a cross in public.
• Keep a Holy Lent.
• Finish legal paperwork; plan funeral.

Take and receive O Lord, my entire liberty,
my memory, my understanding my will.
All that I am and have you have given to me.
and I give it all back to you to be disposed of according to your will.
Give me only support of your presence and the joy of your love;
with these I shall be more than rich,
and desire nothing more.

Relationships:

• Get in touch with old friends.
• Get to know my neighbors, then ask them to keep their dog from barking.
• Feed the poor, visit the sick, seek shelter from the wicked.
• Get the kid to face his issues.
• Turn the other cheek until head spins
• Detach from the insanity around me.
• Buy noise cancelling headphones.

Tell the truth but tell it slant.

Environment: Personal and Political:

• Organize clutter.
• Frame artwork.
• Transfer cassettes to MP3.
• Sort stuff in closets and cabinets.
• Work on sewing projects.
• Clean garage.
• Get out into nature.
• Coordinate improved workplace recycling.
• Attend peace vigils
• Help elect Obama.

When all else fails, laugh and lower my standards.

Life’s too mysterious, don’t take it serious.

*resolution, from Latin resolvere, to loosen, release.

Barb Levy has been at St. Paul’s since about 1991, where she serves as thurifer and webmaster.

Why I say "Merry Christmas"

By Robin Allan Jones

I heard on the radio the other day—on NPR, as a matter of fact--that someone went to a school Christmas concert, and all the carols had to do with snowmen, and bells and what not, but utterly no mention of the birth of Jesus, because the school didn’t want to offend anyone by utterance of anything religious—and the very people who might think this was a good idea were wondering why it wasn’t really a very good concert.

Switch your radio to AM talk, and you can hear from the religious right: For them saying “Merry Christmas” or erecting a nativity scene is a political statement. “Jesus is the reason for the season,” they say.

When someone says “Jesus is the reason for the season,” it usually comes out with the kind of condescension that makes you want to go home and take a bath in culture. Generally speaking, however, the best Christmas carols are the ones that do mention or have to do with the birth of Jesus. They were written by accomplished composers, they’ve stood the test of time, and they seem to all contain a needed sense of hope. A concert that’s all winter imagery and jingle-bell rock is like a banquet of Big Macs: All bloat and no nourishment. And gee, I hate to be the one to break it to all the mavens of political correctness, but you can’t completely escape, expunge, or censor religious symbolism. Sleigh bells and silver bells hearken to church bells, and snowmen are ancient religious symbols. They’re pagan symbols, but much of our Christmas imagery is.

On the other hand, the baby Jesus as a political statement? Who needs it?

As Episcopalians, we honor and respect with compassion followers of other faiths and people who don’t profess faith or follow mainstream religion, but in attempting to put that ecumenism into practice, many of us fall in to the trap of uttering “Happy Holidays.” Saying “Happy Holidays” is about like saying “Have a nice day.” Silence would be preferable.

Here’s the good news: Jesus spoke to all humankind. He wasn’t speaking just to Jews, and Christians hadn’t been invented when he was around. Christmas isn’t just for Christians. Christmas is a joyous time for all of us to remember our humanity. It’s a time of special generosity, and for Christians it’s a time of hospitality. Around Christmas, people who otherwise don’t attend church often become curious about what goes on in churches; they become intrigued by the mysteries that have become commonplace for us, and the rich symbolism of Christmas is inviting—even tantalizing. And so Christmas is a time for us as Christians to throw our doors and our hearts open in welcome, not with the intent of conversion but in the spirit of brotherhood and in sharing the joys that we have found in faith.

When we say “Merry Christmas” we sincerely mean “Joy to the World.”


Robin Allan Jones is a stagehand, scenic artist, and theatrical designer in Seattle. A member of St. Paul’s since 2005, he serves the parish as a liturgical minister.

Lost and Found

By Martha Wakenshaw

Lost and Found

I lost my faith, but I'll have to check my back pocket
because I may have stuffed it there absentmindedly and
when no one was looking.

I may have put my faith in a file drawer
to be pulled out later or in the dog's bowl
by accident or the old leather messenger bag
hanging on the wall.

I feel faith trying to find me, tugging
at my sleeve like a small child.

I hear faith crying out in the wilderness in
that wild and wonderful place of unknowing.

I see faith shy and hiding in the shadows
afraid to look up.

I smell faith in the incense thrown all around
like a foggy autumn morning.

I can almost touch faith, brush my cheek
against it's warm body.

Faith plays hide and seek with me
now seeking me, now calling out
"you're it."

Martha Wakenshaw is a member of St. Paul's, a writer, and a psychotherapist. Her website can be found here.