Celebrating a return

I am sitting on the upper deck of the M/V Grande Mariner in the Oswego Harbor looking out at Lake Ontario.  My perch is one of two spaces that jut out slightly behind the pilothouse on either side of the ship.  This morning I have chosen the port side (think left; both words having four letter is how I came to remember it) since the lighthouse, a small double structure of dwelling and light, both white and roofed in red, is on this side.  It sits on a long breakwater which curves into the mouth of the Oswego River from the west.  Its right side will be illuminated soon as dawn gives way to daylight and the sun rises.  It is 5:30; we are departing at 6:00.  Our destination today is Rochester.

Since we left home last Sunday, I have been keeping the journal as usual and camera use has been high.  No surprise there.  Computer time has been another thing all together.  The choice made itself.  The rivers we have sailed – the East, the Hudson, the Mohawk and the Oswego—and the canals we have navigated – the Erie and the Oswego – have claimed my near complete attention.  The weather over these days has been variable: wet to dry, cold to hot, overcast to sunny.  With foul weather gear I have been able to be out in most of it, drinking in the landscape along the rivers and marveling at the rise and fall of the ship in the locks.  There simply hasn't been time for computers.

In both sets of locks we have been something of a spectacle, being the first cruise ship to use the New York State Canal System this season.  At almost every lock there were a few locals ready to watch us lock through.  But, no place along the system could top the greeting our ship received in Waterford where the Mohawk joins the Hudson. 

We were escorted from the Federal Lock just north of Troy to Waterford, the canal's official beginning, by a large tug boat where a cluster of state and local dignitaries, the president of Blount Small Ship Adventures, a knot of television crews and reporters and onlookers of all ages awaited us.  Waterford’s fire truck pumped a long arc of water into our path.  The return of the Grande Mariner to the canal system was an event of special note.

Last year this time Tal and I were on her first Warren RI to Chicago IL run of the season.  Because of heavy springtime flooding in the northeast the Erie Canal opened late.  We entered it on its opening day.  But the water on the Oswego Canal was still too high for the ship to use and our itinerary was adjusted rather severely.  (A tour of historic waterways by bus was an interesting turn of events.  More about that in Meanderings from 17 May to  2 June.) 

Then, on Blount’s last runs of the 2011 season two of their three ships encountered Hurricane Irene and Tropical Storm Lee while in the canal system.  The passengers required rescue, the ships ended up trapped for 70 days and the state of New York spent millions repairing the locks and canal enough to free them.  Hence, the celebratory flay waving at the advent of the 2012 cruise season.

After all that a celebration and some handshaking was in order.  I decided it was a good sign; Tal and I should sail all the way to Chicago on this try.  It was our celebration, too.

Uncle Ed

Before we left home this morning bound for Chattanooga and the reunion of Tal's 3rd Army Reserve Rifle Team I checked on our cardinal nest by the screened porch and spent several minutes reveling in the first of our Asiatic lilies to bloom, large and brilliantly white.  As we were settling into our room at the Chattanooga Choo Choo some six hours later my cell phone rang and I knew who it would be and the nature of the call.

My mother's younger brother and only sibling, Edward, after a long illness had died.  It struck me that during the same hour I looked one last time at that wary, protective female cardinal with her two helpless chicks and stood speechless at the beauty of new flowers at the front of the house this dear man I've known and loved all my days was making his mighty transition from this life to whatever comes next.  It seems only fitting to offer this morning's photograph to his memory.

Edward P Johnson

07 December 1934 - 06 May 2012

May your rest this day be in peace and your dwelling place the paradise of God.

Clouds

Yesterday was simply one of those days.  I like the word "charmed."  In actuality, nothing extraordinary went on ... nothing noteworthy for anyone but me, and probably Tal.  But, it was our day and I was aware every minute of that fact and that I was both aware and engaged. 

No, you don't have to endure any minute-by-minute details (or to decide not to wade through a long essay about it).  Rather, I'll let two images made just before we came inside for supper do the talking.  We had walked to the water's edge to put out corn for the reclusive wood ducks who reside at the head of the pond -- and who have eggs in the two duck boxes.  The sun was low in the sky and the clouds were dramatic.  I looked out -- and then I looked straight up.

This is a portion of the westward view.



This dizzying sight is of the clouds casting shadows on themselves.
 (West is at the bottom of the image.)

Icing on our cake ...

Almost there

I preached today at the Episcopal Church of the Resurrection in Greenwood SC.  Since I've not written here in such a long time, I'm posting the sermon as a way to restart (on a less than regular basis -- that I already promise) the discipline of writing.  Enjoy.

Almost there, we’re almost there …

That is the first line of a love song.[1]  In fact, it was the title song of the 1964 movie “I’d Rather Be Rich.”[2]  I was eleven in 1964, far too young to see that movie at the Rivoli, the only movie theatre in Myrtle Beach way back in those days.  But, my age didn’t prevent me from getting all dreamy over the song or over Andy Williams, who not only did the singing but starred in the movie as well.  I suppose that memory should have come as no surprise when I realized the significance of this particular Sunday. 

This Sunday, the fourth Sunday in Lent, is special.  It marks, more or less, the mid-point of our season of penitence.  It’s set apart from the rest and it has been almost from the beginning.  I’m not going to give you a liturgical history lesson, but among our friends in the Roman Catholic church today is known as Laetare (lā-‘tär-ē) Sunday, Laetare being Latin for rejoice.  In the early years of the church the word “rejoice” was interjected on this Sunday into the liturgy in various places to remind worshippers that they were well on their way to the light of Easter. 

Along the same vein and more central to the tradition we uphold, in some Episcopal and Anglican circles today is known as Refreshment Sunday.[3]  The message to the faithful is to take a deep breath, to relax the Lenten disciplines a bit, to take stock of the journey so far.  For certain, there’s more of Lent to come, there is more work to do for all of us, but we are making progress. 

Almost there, we’re almost there ...

Sometimes when we’re in the middle of something we don’t have the luxury of knowing the target.  But, we do know on Ash Wednesday how long the Lenten journey is going to be.  From the very beginning there’s light at the end of this particular tunnel.

For the Israelites in our first reading, however, it was a far different situation.  They had followed Moses out of Egypt without a timeline and the wandering was growing old.  Obviously disappointed, they are sounding anxious and impatient.  More likely than not they were murmuring among themselves.  “They spoke against God.”  They confronted Moses: “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness?”[4]  They complained about the food.  Milk and honey it was not.  The Promised Land, whatever that was and wherever that was, couldn’t possibly be worth all their present hot, hungry, thirsty misery.

They had lost sight of the purpose and the meaning of their journey.  The difficulties they were encountering had robbed them of perspective and hope.  They didn’t know – and neither did Moses – if they were almost there or not.  And, at least initially, it sounds as though they’d pretty much stopped caring.

That group of travelers, once so hopeful, had adopted a distinctly negative view.  What strikes me about this is how universal a phenomenon it is – from century to century, from civilization to civilization, from community to community.  There’s something about humankind that wants to complain, that wants to blame, that wants to point, that wants to judge.  Perhaps it’s the human condition.  Maybe it’s just the way we’re wired. 

Take the gospel reading for example, that beloved verse from John that we all know.  It appears in all sorts of places, doesn’t it?  I have a seminary classmate who jots “3:16“ under his signature on all his letters.  And probably every one of us has seen fans unfurl banners with “John 3:16” on them at baseball games and the like.  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”[5]  That is the ultimate in reassurance.  I understand why we love it so.  It is good news.  It’s news that makes the heart swell and sing. 

How many of us, though, tend to approach that verse from a less expansive point of view?  How many of us, without even thinking about it, certainly not on purpose, qualify its message, making it seem almost as though the verse could read: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who doesn’t believe in him won’t have eternal life, but will perish.”[6]  We take something that is so hopeful, something intended to make us whole, to give life to us and to the world, and we turn it into something that instills fear, even condemns.  Without thinking about it, we turn the love song of John 3:16 into a mighty discordant threat.  “If you don’t believe the way I believe, you’re out.”

I know that sounds harsh.  I also know that we don’t mean to do it, that we do know better.  And, a case could be made that we have good reason to be watchful and wary.  Our entire globe is in the midst of a remarkably difficult and challenging time.  Whole economies stagger.  Some governments teeter on collapse; others are being overthrown.  So much of what once seemed stable now appears unreliable.  There’s lots of talk – endless talk – about restoring greatness.  We and everyone we know are full of fear.  And, the trouble is, like our wandering ancestors following Moses though the desert day after endless day, we don’t quite know where we are, we don’t know if we’re still close to the beginning of our troubles or if we’re nearing better times. 

I can’t answer that question.  But, while we indulge our fears and shake our heads at the awfulness of it all and blame our favorite bad guy, let’s not lose sight of what we do know.  We are gifted with “memory, reason and skill,” to quote the prayerbook.[7]  We have the capability for selfless generosity.  We can look at our confounding negativity and we can change.  Not because of who we are but because of whose we are.  Our getting beyond ourselves, however, isn’t an automatic sort of thing.  We have to want to and we have to keep at it. 

It just happens to be Lent, a blessing of sorts.  For that’s the very focus of this six week season:  to acknowledge our mortal nature, to engage in self-examination, to repent, to make a right beginning.[8]  We know where we are.  We’re a fraction beyond halfway through.  Easter will dawn before we know it. 

Refreshment Sunday couldn’t have come at a better time.  Now is the moment to ask where fear and uncertainty are getting the best of us.  Now is the moment to wonder – bravely and honestly – how, or if, we demonstrate in our lives God’s love for the whole of creation.  Now is the time to make our course corrections.

All of life is made up of middle points and transitions to which we attribute unique and special importance.  And, today is one of them.  We know where we started.  We know what we were hoping for when that cross was smudged on our foreheads nearly four weeks ago.  We also know that this is a finite season.  We are not wandering aimlessly.  Easter Day is on every calendar – a mere three weeks from today. 

How wonderful, wonderful that day will be …[9]

Although we are well on our way, take advantage of this Refreshment Sunday.  There is work still to be done and there is time in which to do it.  Reassess.  Take your own spiritual pulse.  Regroup.  Recommit.  Press on with determination and with quiet hope.

There is a love song being sung that is yours to hear. 

Almost there, we’re almost there …

---

[1] The words and music for the song “Almost There” are by Jack Keller and Gloria Shayne.

[2] The movie, directed by Jack Smight and produced by Ross Hunter, is a remake of the 1941 film “It Started with Eve.”

[3] These details about Lent 4 from Hegedus, The Rev’d Dr, “Sermons that Work,” 4 Lent (B), 22Mar09

[4] Both quotes are from Numbers 21:5.

[5] John: 3:16

[6] Read in Clavier, The Rev’d Anthony FM, “Sermons that Work,” 4 Lent (B), 26Mar06

[7] “Book of Common Prayer,” pg 370, Eucharistic Prayer C

[8] “Book of Common Prayer,” pg 265, invitation to an holy Lent

[9] The actual line from “Almost There” is “how wonderful, wonderful our love will be.”

Church sign

For several years I made a point of photographing church signs.  That is, until something changed.  I don't know if that something was something about me or something about the sentiments on the signs.  It seems to me, in general, the signs reflect our times.  They are a bit more pointed and much more mean than they used to be.

When I last had occasion to drive through Ridge Spring and I noticed the message on the sign at the Baptist church.  While I didn't stop to make a photograph, I did think about the message -- a lot.  This morning I included the camera in the things I put in the car as we were heading to church just in case the message were still there.  As we left Grace Episcopal and turned toward home, I asked Tal to pause at the curb.

So, what do you think?

For me, I was convicted when I saw the sign.  And, not primarily for fear that someone was going to talk about me, although that part seized my attention, too.  The habit of talking about others involves lots more finding fault than it does expressing admiration.  And, even though such talk might serve to elevate us somehow, in truth, it does nobody any good at all.  It tears down; it does not build up. 

I shall refrain.  Well, I shall try to refrain.  I hope I'll manage a better example in the years I still have than I have during the 58 years I've lived so far.

Photograph: Late afternoon on Country Club Pond

I never tire of this scene -- the shallow end of Country Club Pond viewed from the dam.  The afternoon I made this photograph the sun was lowering rather fast and the clouds were dramatic.  I like the whitness of the winter-time tree trunks.

Identifying my tribes

One morning while visiting my mother before Christmas, I read an opinion piece in her newspaper which has stayed with me.  It has demanded my attention with notable frequency since then.  In fact, I thought about it enough to have located it online in order to reread it.

I am surprised.  I read alot of things.  Much of it informative, interesting, helpful.  But, I don't remember much beyond the general idea and the feel of it.  My returning again and again to this particular column is uncharacteristic.

The article in question was written by Charles Bierbauer, dean of the University of South Carolina College of Mass Communications and Information Studies. It is a lightly written piece about tribes and conflict.  Maybe that is what made my being drawn in as I am possible.  A lightly written essay on a heavy topic kept me from getting my hackles up and in my discomfort dismissing the author's overall thesis.

Anyway (and sadly, I admit), what comes to my mind when I encounter the term "tribe" is the Middle East and our penchant to attribute the violence and unrest in that part of the world to tribalism.  We make the term "tribal" out to be counter to our daily reality.  They are so different from us.  And, because they are different their culture is chaos.  Their chaos is what they deserve because they have not adopted a more enlightened form of governance.

What Dean Bierbauer offered the reader -- where my thinking went at any rate -- is the idea that tribes are not so foreign to our experience as we maintain.  His tribe, as he began, claims colors of garnet and black.  Another of his tribes happens to fly a flag with palmetto tree and crescent on a field of dark blue.  You get the idea.  We all have tribal ties, many of them in fact, and those ties dictate thought, behaviour, alliance.

The essay also addressed the importance of grappling with and resolving the conflict brought on by our various tribe memberships.  It is demanding and humbling work.  It is work, however, that cannot be accomplished without first admitting to the truth of and the power of our own tribal system. 

For the moment, that's where I remain -- at the admitting stage, startled repeatedly the longer I ruminate at the intricate web of tribes to which I belong.  It seems as though I am not going to have any choice but to continue moving down this path.  I am hopeful I can trust the process, remembering to take the dean's lead by keeping it light.