Are We Having Fun Yet?

There’s an old saying about time flying when you’re having fun, or better yet, making that into a question of “Are we having fun yet?”  During my working years, it became a kind of joke, one we would ask each other when things were tense, stressed, or frustrated. The answer almost always came with an “Oh, yeah,” said with a trace of sarcasm or resignation. Even now that I’m retired, it is still a buzz phrase a friend, and I use to indicate one or the other of us is definitely not having fun.

Last year, time seemed to fly, for the most part, but most of it actually was not fun.  Oh, there were lots of cute kitten photos and amusing memes, plus cuddly animal stories, rescues, and the like. But there were also lots of depressing stories, the kind that could make a body want to curl up in a corner with a warm blanket and just shut out the whole world. Depression seemed very easy to sink into, and the news from day to day only seemed to make the black hole deeper. The national political scene goes from bad to ludicrous; world situations seem to teeter on the edge of a cliff. The nation’s infrastructure crumbles, but a new wall appears to be pushed ruthlessly along. School shootings, as well as gunfire in churches, malls, bars, concerts, and just about anywhere else people gather. Even homes aren’t safe from stray bullets, drive-by shootings, and home invasions. Children in cages, elders suffering neglect, Native Americans still being pushed off their lands and their holy places desecrated by bureaucrats hell-bent-for-leather for profits above ethics. Have we had enough bad news yet? 

Now that it’s 2020, what are our chances of turning things around and making things better for all of us? What is it going to take to do something positive?  When are we going to really start having fun rather than seeing fun as work, which is tedious, futile, or something we should be enjoying? Even on vacations, which are supposed to be about fun and recreation, are often more tiring and stressful than the typical workday.

I’m sure Jesus had lots of times when he would have said, “Are we having fun yet?” only to mean it in a less-than-enthusiastic way. It must have been hard having no permanent home, not always being sure where and when the next meal was coming from, and repeating the same things over and over to people who didn’t always seem to get what he was trying to teach. Even his disciples appeared as dim as 15-watt light bulbs at times. Indeed, there was no way that the journey to Calvary could be considered fun, but Jesus did everything he was supposed to do without complaint or trying to weasel out of it. He didn’t ask that God make things easier for him, just that he could do God’s will, whatever that might be.

So life isn’t going to be all fun and games. Now, I’m sure God had fun making the world with all its diversity of color, shape, texture, and size, from the amoebae and diatoms to the whales and elephants, mountains and oceans, but I can’t do stuff like that. I can enjoy creating simple things, like making a scarf or writing a blog post. I can vote to support something I believe in, and against things I feel are wrong or against the greater good. I can read and investigate what I read and the sources they cite. I can try to keep an open mind and heart, and try to do whatever I can to follow Jesus’s example of doing what is needed without expecting it to be fun.

But then, who says work can’t be fun? Maybe I just need to re-evaluate what “fun” is, and whether positive results can be enjoyable.  Being Christian doesn’t mean I have to be all gloom and doom and waiting for the Second Coming next Thursday. Being Christian means we get Christmas and Easter. We have the Beatitudes, John 3:16, Micah 6:8, the hope of the kingdom of God on earth, the promise of heaven, and the assurance of the love of God, the salvation Jesus bought for us, and the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

Who knows?  Working at making the world better might be fun because the benefits will be out of this world! 

God bless.


 Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café  Saturday, January 4, 2020.

Remembering the Innocent

We are now in the season of Christmas, the joyful time after the meditation and expectation of Advent. We have exuberantly celebrated Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and, unlike many homes and churches, we will continue to enjoy the trees, the carols, and the festivities. Just one day is never enough.


Yet only three days after Christmas Day, the church calendar calls for us to remember what has been called the Massacre (or Slaughter) of the Innocents. It’s a rather solemn, uncomfortable, and almost unthinkable day, especially given its proximity to Christmas Day itself, but not all joy can be completely unallayed.  Yesterday was two turtle doves, tomorrow four calling birds, but today the birds have been replaced by the cries of dying children and the screams of their mothers.


Herod was the client king of Judea, under the authority of Rome. He seemed to have two hobbies, building large complexes, roads, bridges, and even the Temple, while the other was murdering anyone who, in his perception, were out to get him. Down through the ages, he was portrayed as a madman, an insane person, and even a paranoid schizophrenic. The current diagnosis is Paranoid Personality Disorder, an exaggerated distrust and suspicion of others.


He was highly distrustful of the Hasmoneans, the house of the previous rulers, whose rule Rome ended with the appointment of Herod, an Idumean, to act as king. His paranoid delusions led to many deaths of prominent Hasmoneans throughout his reign. Among his own family, he had his wife Mariamne, a Hasmonean woman he loved dearly and made his second wife, executed because he feared she was plotting against him in favor of two of their sons. He killed those two sons also, as well as another son by another wife. Even Mariamne’s mother was not exempt from the executioner.

He knew the people hated him for his cruelty, unfair taxation, and suspicions, so, knowing his death was not far away, called for prominent Jews to be “invited” to Jerusalem for a meeting, then rounded up and ordered that they be executed as soon as Herod’s own death was announced. He was determined that there should be mourning upon his death, even if the mourning was for Jews and not for the King of Judea.


When the Magi visited Jerusalem and brought news of a newborn King of the Jews, paranoia struck Herod like a sword in the gut. He planned on having the Magi identify the name and place in Bethlehem where this usurper child was living, but the Magi slipped the trap and used another route homeward. Nevertheless, Herod sent out a troop of assassins to go through every house in Bethlehem and every nearby village, find every boy baby under the age of two years, and murder them.  


Matthew 2:18b quotes part of Jeremiah 31, “… A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are no more.”  Jeremiah was referring to the children of Israel, regardless of age, who were taken from Israel during the Exile. Their “death” was that they no longer lived in the land God had given them.  Matthew referred to the more physical murder of little boys who just happened to fit the criteria of being male and two years old or younger, but the same emotions are evoked: grief, pain, desperation, and desolation. Luckily, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus had escaped before the child could become a victim. They had become refugees heading for safety in Egypt.


We see this story played out over and over, even in this modern world. The daily newspapers and programs are full of images of children dying of famine, illness, or genocide.  Unlike Jesus and his family in Egypt, refugees seeking safety for their families and children are not always welcomed into the lands in which they seek sanctuary. Images of Jewish men, women, and children being separated at extermination camps come to mind.  Recently, images of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus each put into cages, separated from the others, even the helpless child, have proclaimed that there might be a bit of paranoia present in our own country.  In a season dedicated to the birth of God’s own Son, sons and daughters of thousands and thousands of parents have been separated by not only barbed wire or chain link, but by those things plus miles and miles of distance. Children have died due to illness and deprivation. It is our own version of the Slaughter of the Innocents.


Think of being a parent who has no idea where their child is, whether he or she is safe, warm, fed, clothed, and loved. Think of being a parent who walked a thousand miles or more to keep their child safe from rebels, drug lords and gangs, and despotic military troops, only to arrive and have their child taken from their arms and sent who knows where? Think of the children, sitting in pens, the littlest ones in soiled clothes and diapers, crying for a mother or a father that never comes to pick them up and make them feel safe. It’s hard to think of things like that while we sit in warm homes, laughing and enjoying family and friends, lots of good food, and the enjoyment of a loving environment.


Rachel may have wept for her children, but now some of those children have created the same sort of ghettos that threatened them during the Second World War. Bombs fall on both sides of the borders, killing children as well as combatants, destroying homes, schools, synagogues, mosques, and churches. What would it take for peace to come to such an area? What would it take to bring refugees to a place of safety and belonging?  Is there anything that can change this?  Will there ever be anything done?

This year I can’t wait for December 28th to be over. I can’t wait for the chance to let go of the pain and sadness that the commemoration of the day brought. Whether or not it was an actual physical event in Bethlehem, it’s still symbolic of what is happening in our world today. Can we learn anything from it?  Should the children pay the price for our arrogance, greed, and superiority?


God, bless the children. Comfort and keep them wherever they are and whatever their circumstances. Help those of us who could help find the way to do so quickly, before they have to suffer more than they already have. Change the hearts and minds of those who not only order such punishment on the innocents but who think it’s the best solution to whatever problem they think exists. Help us see the Herods for who they are and what they do, and give us the strength and conviction to say “ENOUGH!” as we fight the paranoia and arrogance. Please, God?


Originally published on Speaking to the Soul at Episcopal Café Saturday, December 28, 2019.

Naming the Kids

Now the time came for Elizabeth to give birth, and she bore a son. Her neighbours and relatives heard that the Lord had shown his great mercy to her, and they rejoiced with her.

On the eighth day they came to circumcise the child, and they were going to name him Zechariah after his father. But his mother said, ‘No; he is to be called John.’ They said to her, ‘None of your relatives has this name.’ Then they began motioning to his father to find out what name he wanted to give him. He asked for a writing-tablet and wrote, ‘His name is John.’ And all of them were amazed. Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue freed, and he began to speak, praising God. Fear came over all their neighbours, and all these things were talked about throughout the entire hill country of Judea. All who heard them pondered them and said, ‘What then will this child become?’ For, indeed, the hand of the Lord was with him.   – Luke 1:57-66

A familiar part of the Christmas (or Advent) story is that of Elizabeth and Zechariah, two righteous people who kept the laws of God but who had never had children. Surely the neighbors must have wondered what one or the other of them had done that God would withhold that blessing from them, but knowing the couple as they did, the question probably never came up (or very often, at any rate), at least in their hearing.

Zechariah did make one error, though, although I can’t think of many people who wouldn’t do precisely the same thing, given the circumstances. During his regular duty of offering incense at the altar, he was shocked to see an angel standing on the right side, something so unexpected that it was no wonder he was shocked and fearful. Who wouldn’t be?  Angels don’t just pop up everywhere and every day. Still, the angel told him not to be afraid because God had heard Zechariah’s and Elizabeth’s prayers for a child. It was going to be a boy (doubly a blessing) and that the parents should name him John. There were more reassuring words about how the child would grow up filled with the Holy Spirit which would be present in him from the time of his conception forward. He would bring many back to God and cause many others to repent and be washed clean. In short, John had a mission to fulfill.

Poor Zechariah, it must have been almost too much to take in, especially given that he and his wife were long past their youth or even middle years.  The angel, Gabriel (who happened to be the same one to visit Elizabeth’s cousin Mary a few months later), gave Zechariah a sign that what he had heard was the truth. For the next nine months,  Zechariah would not be able to utter a word or syllable, or even a sound.  He finished his shift at the temple and went home.

It didn’t take long for Elizabeth to conceive. For five months, she remained in seclusion, probably until her abdomen began to swell with the new life within it. She praised God, giving thanks for the new life within her and also for the shame and disgrace she had experienced over the years as a barren woman. In her sixth month, Mary, Elizabeth’s cousin, came to visit following her own visitation with Gabriel. The two women probably had a lot to talk about over the next three months, as Mary probably stayed until Elizabeth safely delivered her son, to the joy and rejoicing of all the neighbors and relatives.

Jewish custom required that a male child be circumcised on his eighth day after birth. Everyone seemed to think the baby should be named Zechariah, after his father, but Elizabeth told them that the child’s name would be John. What a kerfluffle that made! Children were usually named after their father or at least a deceased relative so that the child would carry on the name, but there was no one called Yochanan in the family so why would they name him “Jehovah has been gracious” or “has shown great favor” (the meanings of the name in Hebrew)? Indeed, Elizabeth and Zechariah had been blessed by God’s grace, having a baby in their old age, and it was a sign of great favor, but would that be reason enough to change tradition? While the neighbors talked to Elizabeth and received her answer, they still weren’t satisfied.

They approached Zechariah, still mute after all these months, and motioned to him to get his response about this unusual naming. Funny, they could have asked him – nothing is ever said about his being deaf, only mute. Still, he motioned for something to write on and, in his own hand, confirmed the name Gabriel had told him to give the child. From that moment, his tongue was functional and he began to praise God for the miracles he had experienced.  That stirred up the neighbors because word quickly spread throughout the whole hill country of Judea about this miracle child. And John did go on to become a very well-known figure in Scripture.

Parents today are pretty much free to name their child anything that appeals to them, whether or not there is a family connection or there even seems to be much sense in the name (Moon Unit?  True? Prince? Jezebel?). Names in antiquity usually were given to honor specific gods, carry on a family name, or use a Biblical name or virtue. The names frequently had meanings in their original tongues which carried a message beyond just having a handle to call a child in from play. I confess I didn’t think of “Jehovah has been gracious” when I named my son and only thought of the name of a family friend for his second name. Still, God was gracious in giving me a child who has become a fine man.

God gave both Zechariah and Mary names to give their children. Yochanan and Yeshua bore names that had specific meanings that would be understood by anyone understanding Hebrew. That reminds me that I should perhaps take a look at some of the names of the Bible and see what their meaning was. Maybe I might gain some new insight into their character or mission in life or something else important.

Next week we celebrate the birth of Yeshua, “God is salvation.” We call him “Emmanuel” (God with us), or one of the names we have heard in the O antiphons this past week (in Latin). By whatever name we call him, we rejoice at his birth and want to share it with the whole world.

Come, let us adore him, the Grace of God given to all humankind for all ages, the salvation of God for all as well, and the joy of heaven come down to earth.

Merry Christmas and God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café  Saturday, December 21, 2o19.

A Simple Remedy

It’s almost Gaudete Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent. We’ve been taught that Advent is a time of patient waiting and expectation, a time to reflect and plan for the coming of the Christ Child at Christmas.  Unfortunately, the closer we get to Christmas, the more frantic we seem to become.

It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed this time of year. I know I experience it, even though I am not doing much Christmas shopping, participating in parties and events, or contributing to outreach programs or children’s activities.  The house isn’t going to clean itself, especially when three cats are busily shedding fur faster than I can vacuum it up. The tree isn’t going to redecorate itself when the self-same cats knock off ornaments oh-so-innocently. I won’t even think about the dishes that seem to dirty themselves if I turn my back for a minute. Bills still have to be paid, appointments I have to keep, and early nightfall, making the days seem shorter and shorter. It’s all part of this time of year, but sometimes it gets to be a bit too much.

I was sitting in my rocker the other night, trying to knit a scarf that should become a present but finding myself making mistake after mistake due to inattention. Trying to write didn’t seem to be any more successful, and even attempting to comprehend the latest book I was reading didn’t work.  Sitting and thinking encouraged the hamster wheel of my mind to spin nearly out of control, to the point where I was becoming less and less functional. Then it happened.

There was a commercial on TV that had a darling little boy walking down the aisle of an airplane, giving fist bumps to guys sitting on the aisle. As adorable as that was, it was the music they were playing that got to me. I heard a jazz pianist play “Linus and Lucy” from the Charlie Brown TV specials from years ago made my shoulders drop in relaxation, the hamster-wheel slow down, and a smile come to my face.  It made me feel like a kid again in a time where things weren’t so tense and scary, where I felt safe and happy, and where I could open the daily paper and find the Peanuts comic strip.

It felt like a good time to be alive, to remember what it was like not to have to worry about finances or the state of the world, and to look forward with joy to Christmas. It was fun rehearsing for the Christmas music in school and church. Mama would let me help make the cookies and cakes that made the house smell good (and be shared with my class at school and Sunday school, and friends and family over the holidays). I would flip through the vast Sears catalog, trying to choose what I would most like to see under the tree on Christmas morning.  It was a slower, more relaxed time, or so it seemed. It probably didn’t feel that way to Mama.

Still, I have been hearing that jazzy little tune in my head all day. I especially remember it in the context of the Christmas special where Charlie Brown found a very skimpy little tree and put a Christmas ball on it that almost bent it in half. Linus recited the Christmas story from Luke 2, and the tune made them happy enough to dance around. Even the little tree seemed to perk up. 

I love Christmas. I love the carols and Messiah. I love the colored lights and the smells of evergreens from the trees and wreaths. It used to seem that people were a little kinder to each other during this season, and maybe there are still times and places where that happens, or I hope it does. It was such a beautiful part of the waiting. Smiling at strangers came easily, and people were happy to be greeted, whether it was “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.”

Christmas can be a tough time for lots of people, me included. Each year seems to bring one more empty place around the tree or the dinner table. Anniversaries of tragic events threaten to sabotage the happiness I feel it is my right during this time of year. That’s when I need that jazzy little Charlie Brown theme. It makes the circle seem complete, even if physically there are still gaps.

Here’s a thought. If things seem to be getting to be too much, I’ll find A Charlie Brown Christmas on YouTube or cable or maybe on DVD. It doesn’t take very long to watch, but I will let myself watch it as a child would, with innocence and enjoyment. I will remember when life was simpler and kinder, a time when even a bare little tree could be made beautiful. If Christmas has painful memories, I will acknowledge them and then try to think of ways to make new memories that can be part of the present and the future, not the past. I can even use a little tune to lighten my heart and lift my spirits.

Waiting and reflecting just might be a bit easier if there’s a little jazz playing in my mind.

Two Sundays until Christmas.  Enjoy them!


God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, December 14, 2019.

Photos and Memories

I’ve been thinking about pictures all day. It’s made me wonder what we did before cameras and digital devices that record images that we can look at weeks, months, even years later, and bring back memories that we might possibly forget if we didn’t have the photos to remind us.

One image I have in my mind today is my beloved first indoor cat. My then-husband named my little dilute calico “Dammit” because the ex- was forever yelling at her to get off the table, down from the curtains, or just on general principles. At her heaviest she weighed only six pounds, and the rabies tag she wore for years looked so huge on her. She was my trial baby, born six months before my son, and remained my beloved soulmate until her death twenty years later. I still miss that cat.

The other photo that has been in my thoughts and my heart today is a Christmas photo of my little blonde, curly-haired, blue-eyed boy that I swear was the cutest child ever born. He was born in the Philippines, and the picture I love best was one I took on his second Christmas, the first one we spent back in the States after our return. He wears his blue-and-white one-piece pajamas with the long sleeves and non-skid soles, the blue figures of the cloth being much lighter than the color of his eyes. I swear, I would have given almost anything to have eyelashes as long and as thick as his! His chubby little face had the sweetest grin as he opened a present, a Tonka Winnebago motor home. I have that snapshot tacked up next to my desk where I can see it often. He’s still adorable, some 45 years later, but this was my little boy blue.

Thinking about that picture made me consider Mary, mother of Jesus. Granted, Jesus never got a Tonka truck under a Christmas tree, but Mary never had a camera to take photos of her baby boy as he grew up. All her memories would have been kept in her head, not precisely somewhere she could keep with her to pull out and show to curious neighbors and relatives who lived at a distance.  Did she have particular memories of adorable-child images that all mothers have of their offspring?  Did she think about them from time to time as something reminded her of those times?  I don’t see how she could have kept from remembering them; I think all mothers have those moments.

I wonder what her memories might have been when Jesus grew up, such as when she and his siblings went to try to convince him to come home, fearing that he would be thought insane and in need of familial care and, very probably, confinement. Did she think back to times in his life when she might have doubted whether or not he would have problems when he grew up? Did she look at him there among the crowd, and then hear that he repudiated her and the siblings? Did her heart ache for the little boy who would run to her and put his chubby arms around her in a huge hug? I imagine that might possibly have gone through her mind at the time.

And then there was when she stood at the foot of the cross, looking up at her grown-up son being executed as a criminal. Was there room in her heart for anything but the horror of what she was seeing and knowing the agony and fear he was feeling? Did she remember the first time she cradled him in her arms, wrapped warm and tight, and being safe in the shelter of the hay-strewn stable?  Did she feel the presence of the other women, crowded around her there on Golgotha, witnessing what she was seeing, and supporting her in their communal grief? Did she miss Joseph’s arms around her, and the bustling of the midwife tidying up their temporary accommodation in Bethlehem?  Did she think of the long trip to Bethlehem and then the journey to Egypt to escape the threat against her baby’s life? Perhaps she spared a thought for the three-day trek from Jerusalem when she and Joseph first missed Jesus and the rush back to find him in the Temple, astounding the rabbis with his knowledge and poise. Maybe all the memories ran through her head as she looked upwards, and her one wish was to take him in her arms again and soothe him, even though she knew it would be impossible.

I think of modern-day mothers who live in dangerous times and who hold their children close, hoping that no harm will ever come to them but fearing that that will most probably be a hope that will not happen. How many of them will not have a photo of their child to remember them in happier times, only memories of shattered, battered bodies lying amongst the rubble of bombed and burned homes? What of the children who have been ripped from their parents’ arms to be put into cages and tents far from anything familiar, and who cry for comfort and safety? How can it be possible for us to cherish our children so much but have so little regard for the children of others who are lost and afraid?

My heart aches for Mary, even as I prepare to celebrate the beginning of the journey to Bethlehem and beyond. I have the chance to look back at various times in my son’s life, knowing she didn’t have that luxury except in her memories. Right now, I honestly want to keep my eyes on that picture of my little two-year-old boy, smiling as he opens a toy under the Christmas tree. Looking at photos of migrant children and those who are incarcerated simply because their parents sought to bring them to safety as Mary and Joseph tried to find in Egypt is almost more than I can bear.

Even though I have just begun the season of Advent, the images on my wall remind me that the journey doesn’t end at 11:59 PM on December 24th. Still, I can’t help but think ahead and put myself in Mary’s place. I’ve been a mother (still am, thankfully), and have reminders of my little boy’s first home-made Christmas ornament (a reindeer made from clothespins he made in daycare at age four), pictures of him sitting on my brother’s front steps on a trip back to Virginia when he was about ten, and a graduation picture from high school. I treasure them and hope that Mary had good memories to hold in her heart through the years of her life.

Cherish the memories of the good things and times and work for those who need good things to happen for them.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café  Saturday, December 7, 2019.

St Andrew to the Fore

A man walked by the sea where fishermen landed their boats, unloaded the fish, and worked on their nets. He summoned two men from the many present on the beach that day with a single gesture. He didn’t know them personally, but he evidently saw something in the two of them that told him that they were men he could trust, teach, and who would carry on his work. Their names were Peter and Andrew bar Jonah, and they had just met the man who would change their lives forever.

Andrew became one of the 12 disciples. Legend has it that he was the first one chosen, although Peter might have been the elder as he was already married when Jesus called him and his brother. They followed Jesus, learned from him, and took his teachings out into the world both before and after the Resurrection.  Andrew became a missionary to Greece and Asia Minor, possibly including parts of Russia and Poland. He was martyred in the city of Patras, Turkey, by crucifixion on an X-shaped cross, called a saltaire, which became one of his more customary symbols.  Following his death, his relics were gathered and hidden as per a dream given to St. Regulus, who did as the vision commanded.  In 356, Constantinus II ordered that the relics should go to Constantinople, but Regulus had another dream in which he was told to take what relics he had not sent and put them on a ship to sail to the end of the earth.  The boat wrecked on the western coast of Scotland near the town of Kilrymont, later renamed St. Andrew’s in honor of the saint.

Festivals celebrating St. Andrew have been held in Scotland since sometime around 1000 CE, and in 1320, Andrew was made the patron saint of Scotland. The saltaire-shaped cross of his martyrdom became part of the Scottish flag and was incorporated later into the flag of the United Kingdom. His relics were placed in a chapel in the Cathedral of St. Andrews, a medieval church built in the 11^th century. When the monasteries and religious places were pillaged and desecrated at the time of the Reformation, the Scottish relics were shipped to Rome, where many of them remained.

Many people are familiar with St. Andrews, Scotland, not so much for the saint himself but for the game of golf. It is one of the oldest and most prestigious golf courses in the world. Golf has been played in various forms in far-flung parts of the world, but the course at St Andrew's is where the  18-hole game we know today was established (previously it had been 22), as well as a code of standards for the course and the game. For many golfers, a trip to and a chance to play a round at one of the four courses at St. Andrews is the equivalent of a trip to Jerusalem, and probably as expensive as a trip to the Holy City, with accommodations, and tours included.

Needless to say, St. Andrew is a patron saint of fishermen, and places such as Scotland, Romania, Ukraine,  Patras (the city in Turkey where most of his relics are now located), and Barbados. His patronages also include singers, single laywomen, anglers, farmworkers, pregnant women, and golfers. Religious medals honoring St. Andrew are for sale in religious stores, but there are also medals for those golfers who wish to invoke the blessing of their patron saint as they walk or drive their golf carts from hole to hole like a journey to a sacred shrine such as Compostela or Jerusalem. There are also golfing rosaries, with small replicas of golf balls marking off the prayers. What will they think of next?

Many of us look at St. Andrew primarily on his feast day. Churches sometimes celebrate the day with the Kirking of the Tartans. Those of Scottish descent bring a piece of their tartan to lay on the altar rail, parishioners wear their clan kilts, and often bagpipe and drum bands play processionals and recessionals, with the eerie and sometimes heart-pounding sound of the old country bouncing from the ceiling and walls. It’s been compared to the wailing of lost souls, but it is also a significant part of the Scottish identity, a soul-stirring reminder of the reason wars have been fought, brave men summoned, and the dead remembered – just not on the golf course, please!

Gum beannaicheadh Dia thu. God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café on Saturday, November 30, 2019.

The Scents of the Season

We’ve had lots of rain this week – the remnant of a tropical storm that started passing us about three days ago and is now the tail ends of it cause occasional showers and thunderstorms. It’s been lovely, as far as I’m concerned. I miss having rain more frequently than every 3-6 months!

One thing about rain is the smell of it. Who’d think that water falling from the sky could have a scent to it, but then, maybe it’s the scent of dry earth being touched lightly by water or plants that send their fragrances into the air when touched by precipitation. Rain brings a clean smell while salt air has a tang to it. Fresh-cut grass has a scent of its own, and even dust can have a particular smell. There’s a kind of signature about the smell of rain; once you learn its scent, it’s as distinctive as a rose. 

It would be a very dull world without smells.  Without it, food would have no taste, since much of what we perceive as “tasty” is not totally a function of the taste buds on our tongues.  Without our noses to smell, we are basically limited to sweet, salty, sour, and bitter.  Add a nose, and a couple of unimpaired areas of the brain, and the combinations multiply infinitely. 

My adoptive father lost his sense of smell in an accident.  He could tell which of the basic four tastes was which, but that was all. Yet to the end of his days, he would not eat a piece of apple pie without an accompanying slice of cheddar cheese because, as he put it, he didn’t “think it would taste right” without it.  It amused us no end, but he was entirely serious.  He had eaten his apple pie that way all his life until that point, so why change just because he could not physically taste it?   I think of the last time I had a severe cold.  It was hard to feel hungry because I could not taste anything.  I remembered something I had read about how to get sick pets to eat, so I tried the same thing – I added some pungent garlic to my food, and suddenly, I was not only hungry but enjoying what I ate.  That sense of smell made all the difference.

Smells are important, not only for telling us what is good to eat and what is not but also as a trigger for memories, both good ones and bad.  Things like apple pies or bread baking are not just pleasant but often bring back memories of special times.  Sometimes real estate agents encourage sellers to have one or the other cooking in the oven when the house is being shown to prospective buyers as a kind of encouragement to think of the house as warm, welcoming, and homey.  Maybe it works, I don’t know.  I know I love the smells of a wood fire, even if I can’t feel the heat or hear the popping and crackling of the burning process.  I enjoy the scents of rosemary and lavender, sugar cookies baking, hyacinths, salt air, and even the neighbor’s Chinese food (with lots of garlic) cooking. 

I like the smell of incense too. Nothing beats the scent of a high holy day like having a swinging thurible and puffs of smoke coming from incense burning on hot coals inside it. It’s a reminder of incense burned in the temple as a sacrifice or to represent prayers rising to the heavens in some other faiths as well as some Christian denominations. Native Americans often use burning sage to cleanse and purify a designated area. Hindus and Buddhists use incense as gifts to the gods and to carry their prayers upward. Beeswax candles have a subtle but clean fragrance that lingers after the flames are extinguished. I feel a sense of loss when I see oil candles on the altar and as the Paschal candle. They may be more economical, but I miss the fragrance of beeswax.

This week will be a busy one for our senses of smell. Pumpkin and apple pies, fresh bread, turkey stuffing, the tang of cranberries cooking for sauce (if one is brave enough to try to make it!), and more will be in the air as we prepare for Thanksgiving. Looking beyond, we have the scents of gingerbread, hot cider, sugar and other kinds of cookies, cakes, pies, puddings, fires in the fireplace, coffee and tea brewing, perhaps a smoked ham cooking, Christmas tree resins (or maybe fake Christmas tree sprays), fresh-cut boughs and runners, the tang of cold air – there are so many scents to look forward to. The weather may be severe and treacherous, but somehow the fragrances of the holidays cheer us up even if just a little.

Perhaps it sounds silly, but I need to remember to thank God for giving me a reasonable sense of smell so that I can enjoy the smell of the rosemary bush I brush past as I go to get into my truck, the scent of rain, the delicious anticipation of good food cooking, the comfort of natural wood fires on the hearth, and the faint recollection of the scents of the church during the holidays. It’s enough to make my heart lighter, despite the lengthening of the nights and the chill of the air this time of year.

Come to think of it, I should thank God for the candles, colored lights, sounds of music of centuries past, and the taste of seasonal foods (and everyday food as well). I think this year, I’ll have to have a piece of apple pie with a sliver of cheddar cheese for Daddy. I’ll thank God for memories that are evoked by things I see, hear, smell, taste, and touch because they are gifts that give the world dimension and texture. It would be a very dull, bland world without them.

Happy Thanksgiving and God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café on Saturday, November 23, 2019.

Running Out

Drat.  I had a recipe all set out to make up this afternoon and had my mouth all set for the delicious product I had hoped to produce, but I lacked one ingredient and really didn’t have a substitute for it.  Running out of things is getting to be a habit. Last week I ran out of bread, eggs, and canned cat food. As someone I know on Facebook would say, <le sigh>. I had bought some groceries this week but didn’t remember that the milk was getting old and I didn’t know I needed currants or raisins. Well, the Welsh cakes I wanted to try will have to wait until next week. At least I’m not out of bathroom tissue, eggs, or cat food!



It’s always inconvenient to run out of something just at the time it’s needed the most, like gas in the tank, tape to finish wrapping a present, paper towels to clean up a mess, or another skein of yarn to finish a shawl, sweater, or scarf.  It’s inconvenient to have a month that lasts longer than the money available to last through it, but that’s something many of us try our best to keep from happening. The tires on the car will last another year or so, we hope, but we do need to have the oil changed soon or face possible calamity. There are lots of things we can do without, but it’s more pleasant if we don’t have to.

Luckily for us, God never runs out of things except for maybe patience now and again. Indeed, the Hebrew Scriptures portrayed God as being a bit grumpy from time to time, but then, we have to remember that God was trying to teach creation and the descendants of Adam and Eve (and any other people or creatures) the rules of life and obedience. I wonder, though, did God run short on things when God made the platypus with a bill and tail without fur?  Was there an excess of beautiful colors that God wanted to use when the peacock, parrot, hummingbird, tropical fish, and other colorful creatures’ turn came for painting?  Were the shades of trees selected so the leaves of specific species turned a particular hue in fall? Did God take pleasure in creating all the kinds and colors of cats and dogs, as well as their different environments and temperaments? I wish I could have been there at creation; I might have tried to talk God into making a few real unicorns.

But that brings us to the thought of God as infinitely nearly everything we could name. Patient, creative, boundless, generous, caring, protective, and loving – and those are just some of the attributes of God.

Does God loose natural disasters on humankind and innocent creatures on a whim, knowing that none of them are prepared for such calamities?  The ancient Egyptians would have said yes, based on the plagues God sent so the Israelites could be free.  The victims of epidemics, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, earthquakes, and the like might say yes, based on the losses of life and property as a result.  Even some Christians would say that God was responsible for teaching the modern world the same lessons the Egyptians and others had to learn about who God is/was and what the rules were. I don’t even want to think about a God who makes wagers on a person’s faith as if his life, family, and possessions were a prize to be won or lost on the toss of a die.

Unlike us, God doesn’t run out of things. Commodities are nothing to God except to be recognized as temptations that can change good men to evil as the Emperor turned Anakin Skywalker to the dark side. God gave humankind almost limitless freedom, except for a few rules (which humans didn’t waste time observing). Ok, there were really 613 by the time of Leviticus, but by then the Ten Commandments needed updating.  It sounds a lot like the way our government operates today, at least to my way of thinking.

Does God weep when seeing homeless and hungry people and animals?  When disaster overwhelms farms, towns, and even cities?  Does God rejoice when a new child is born, or someone acknowledges God’s love?  I can’t imagine God not loving to watch kittens wrestling, birds singing, or seeds sprouting.

God’s highest abundance is grace, the ability to receive regeneration and sanctification through divine influence, to be strengthened to endure and resistant to temptation, and to be given particular virtues or gifts. Christians recognize grace as God’s gift to us, but often it is applied to those fitting particular beliefs and parameters.  That’s the bad news.

The good news is that God’s grace is boundless, unlimited, and available to all, whether or not they accept it. There is no expiration date, number of items, coupons, or anything other than a willingness to be open to it and receive it. It never runs out. If somehow someone makes a mistake and feels that he or she has lost God’s grace, an acknowledgment (and possibly amends) is all it takes. Unlike cupboards and cabinets, the supply is endless and renewed in times of need. Now how much better can something get than that?

Thinking about that grace makes being out of milk and things like that pretty paltry (except for cat food – my boys would never forgive me!).  Sure, running out of things is inconvenient and sometimes makes life very difficult, but the cupboard full of grace is always there. And God is never going to send a bill for taxes, overdrafts, or past due amounts.

That, my friends, is a deal I can’t turn down. 

God bless.

Originally published on Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café  Saturday, November 16. 2019.

Repairing the Broken

In 1847, Margaret Wolfe Hungerford used a phrase in a book that she authored that, in part, has become well used: “…Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Perhaps she wasn’t the initial author of the phrase, but she used it in a modern context to explain that what appeals to someone as something beautiful may not always appeal to everybody else in the same way. Most contemporary and post-modern art is, to me, incomprehensible, while others find it profound, penetrating, and, yes, beautiful. Oh, well, different strokes for different folks.

In our most recent Education for Ministry (EfM) class, we used a picture of a cup very similar to the one above. First, we looked at it as an interesting object, determining what it was, what kind of world it would come from, how it was created, and what it meant to the culture that made it. We were off and running.

This teacup started life as a lump of clay, formed by hand, painted, glazed, and fired. It became an everyday, useful cup that could possibly be found in thousands of homes in Japan. Somehow it got broken into pieces. In our culture, it probably would have been thrown out, but in Japan, someone took the time and expense to repair the cup very carefully, using gold resin rather than ordinary glue. Suddenly, the plain broken vessel became something unique and beautiful, a piece of art that was now worth much more than the original unbroken cup had been. It became a treasure, a thing of beauty in the eyes of many beholders.

In our Theological Reflection (TR), we moved to the tradition questions as a way of looking at the object slightly differently. Where was the brokenness in the image? What reminded you of redemption or restoration?  Where in our Christian tradition (scripture, hymns, lives of saints, stories, etc.) could we recall that might illustrate what this cup could be a reminder?  


We thought of someone taking the time and effort to restore the cup, and that brought us to God taking all of us who are broken in various ways, and healing (if not curing) us so that we could continue our lives in God’s service to the world. We reflected on the healing ministries of Jesus, who took strangers, all broken, and healed them, not to prove his legitimacy as the Son of God but as an example of the power of God and God’s love for the broken of the world.

We are taught to hide our flaws and brokenness. It would make us look bad in the eyes of the world if they could see the cracks and fragments of our inner selves as well as our outer ones. Our self-image, our pride, and our image to the world would be harmed if others could see our internal messes. We are taught to use invisible tape to try to repair things like a torn piece of paper, super glue for just about everything, and an internal form of duct tape to patch the inner flaws and brokenness so that we appear to be whole and healthy. God doesn’t bother with invisible patches (or duct tape, which is far from invisible).  God uses love and care to fix the broken, and if it is visible, it makes it much more beautiful than the original was.

What is more, God doesn’t wait for us to bring ourselves for healing. We present ourselves to God for our own sake, not for God’s. God forgives us even if we don’t ask, but speaking of our sins and brokenness makes it more real to us and helps to bridge the gap left by whatever it was that we did. God uses the bridge to bring the pieces together, stronger than before, because we had the strength to ask and the wisdom to realize that God’s forgiveness is guaranteed. That’s not just a gold resin, it’s pure gold, and it’s available to us without reservation.

The mended cup may not be used for tea or saki after it has undergone the kintsugi process. Instead, it becomes a work of art, to be displayed singly, not buried in a cupboard, or in a collection of other pieces.  Most often, it has a pedestal or tabletop all to itself to prevent anything else from detracting from the object. It is allowed to be studied and appreciated for itself alone, not as a manufactured or cookie-cut piece like thousands of others. Each piece breaks in its own way and is restored to its original shape but with a beautiful pattern of repair that invites reflection and appreciation.

Perhaps we need to see ourselves in terms of kintsugi. God repairs us because of love, just as the artist who restored the cup did, only God does it with so much more than love and resin. Maybe if we thought of ourselves, and others, in that way, we might become closer to the Kingdom of God people we promise to try to be in our baptismal covenant. Perhaps it would be easier to focus on others rather than staring in our own mirror, looking for brokenness to hide and flaws to cover up. Possibly exposing the flaws God has mended would give someone else the strength to seek God’s forgiveness and grace. It’s much more valuable than gold baubles and perfect images, and it is beauty in the eye of the beholder who may just need some beauty in his or her life.

Think about it.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, November 9, 2019.

All Souls 2019

The ghoulies, ghosties, and spooky noises have disappeared for another year, although many houses still have a pile of candy either left over or gained by family trick-or-treaters.  

Yesterday was the first day of November, the official beginning of the new church year and usually listed as All Saints’ Day. This year, churches will celebrate tomorrow as All Saints, as it is celebrated traditionally as a major feast day on the Sunday closest to the calendar date.

Today we celebrate All Souls, a commemoration that usually follows All Saints but which this year is between the actual date of All Saints and the celebrated feast in the church. It is not celebrated as lavishly as All Saints, except in cultures that mark el Dia de Los Muertos, a Mexican and Central-American fiesta unrelated to Halloween. Families decorate the tombs of their loved ones, and often spend an entire night at the gravesites, eating and drinking and remembering the ones who have gone before them. Flowers are abundant and painted caricatures of skeletons and skulls decorate family altars and even shops. It is truly a feast of the dead rather than a fun holiday where children can dress up and ask for candy at neighborhood houses. Many other predominantly Roman Catholic countries decorate the family graves and spend time in prayer and remembrance, sometimes feasting and sharing with their loved ones.

For the Episcopal and some other churches, All Souls is a celebration of the small-s saints, those who have died in the faith but not canonized by the church and given a commemoration day of their own. All Saints belongs to the Big-S Saints like Francis, Catherine (the multitude of them), Augustine, Hildegarde, and others who we know by name. All Souls belongs to the ordinary people; the faithful departed who might not have done significant miracles but who were present in the lives of those who knew and loved them. They are the mothers, fathers, family members, beloved friends, inspiring teachers and leaders, and heroes who do thousands of small miracles every day, often unrecognized.

Beginning perhaps a week or so before All Souls, churches ask people to submit names of their departed, especially those who have died in the past year. The individual submissions are combined to form a list that rests on the altar until it is read aloud during the prayers at a mass held on November 2nd.  

All Souls is an important day in my calendar.  I have so many people on my list that it would take several minutes just to read them.  There are my birth father, adoptive father and brother, lots of aunts and uncles both related and honorary, and neighbors and friends who have loved me and helped me at various points in my life. Some were friends only for a few years, while others remained friends for decades. There are some people inspired me in so many ways, and some who supported me through difficult times. All of them feel very close to me on this day, and although I am not able to cry, the tears are just below the surface simply because I miss them so much.

One particular saint was my adoptive mother. She and the family took me in when I was about five months old and made me part of that family.  She was a two-time breast cancer survivor who died when I was fourteen, a time when it felt like I could do with a mother even if I didn’t recognize it at the time. Many of my saints were women who filled her shoes from time to time, making sure I had what I needed, whether clothes, advice, a place to visit when I got lonely, and more than occasionally put an extra potato in the pot for dinner just for me. 

I miss Mama more the older I get. Knowing she and I had suffered the same disease made me miss having her advice and experiences so that it wouldn’t be so frightening. Luckily I had a friend who filled in, going to the doctor and surgeon with me and even taking me to the hospital and picking me up after my surgery. Another friend took me to some medical tests and stayed until I was ready for a ride home. Those two have been priceless.  Fortunately, one of them I can still rely on; whatever I need, she seems to be able to supply.  

When I visit back home, I always manage to visit the cemetery where many of my family lie. I wish I could visit that cemetery today, but it’s on the East Coast, over 2,300 miles away, so I will have to content myself with looking at their graves from a distance on Google.  Still, in my heart and mind, they will be with me today as they are whenever I think of them and probably many times when I don’t consciously have them in mind.

I love it that my church has a commemoration where my saints can be remembered, even by those who never knew them, merely by hearing their names read on a list. I appreciate that I can join with others in remembering their saints along with mine, making our community stronger and more connected. Not all denominations have such a remembrance, but since I have found it, I have gained comfort and a designated time to celebrate all of them together. The night of All Souls becomes a thin space, a veil between the world of the living and the dead which is almost able to be penetrated so that the two worlds can join together.  It’s a precious and priceless feeling, one I wouldn’t trade for anything. 

Who are your saints?  If you haven’t made a list already, sit for a few moments and write them down. Then remember why they are your saints and thank them for their gifts to you, and thank God for having put them in your life at just the right times.  It won’t be a wasted few moments, I assure you.

May the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace, rise in glory, and remain with us in spirit until we can join them in the glory of God and the heavenly kingdom. Amen.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul  on Episcopal Café