Canon Kearon speaks

Here are some thoughts on the latest Executive Council meeting. These are MY observations and opinions, not those of the council.

Although I think the work we did around mission and ministry was our more important work, I want in this post to focus particularly on the Q&A session with Canon Kenneth Kearon. I have interspersed this with some Texas wisdom that I think is applicable.

The room for the meeting was set up as usual, with all of us sitting at round tables for five or six with microphones at each table. There were two podiums set up at the front of the room. Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori presided from one and anyone else making a report, presentation, etc., spoke from the other. There was a big screen between and slightly behind the two podiums on to which reports, copies of resolutions, charts, etc. could be projected. It was also used during the daily worship to project the prayers.

Wednesday was spent in prayer, private conversation, updates since the last meeting, and reports from the CEO and other staff members as well as reports from various committees about work already done and work to be done.

Thursday was spent in committee meetings, and Thursday evening we met with the bishops of Maryland and their deputies at dinner. Bishop Katharine and Bonnie Anderson, president of the House of Deputies, are members of ALL the committees, and they sat in on various committees all day Thursday.

It was the task of the World Mission Committee to craft the questions for Canon Kearon, although they solicited input from all Council members -- and got it.

There's two theories to arguin' with a woman. Neither one works.

So Friday morning Bishop Katharine was at her podium and Canon Kearon was standing at the other. Bishop Katharine was half sitting on a stool behind her podium looking very relaxed and non-anxious, holding her hands loosely clasped in front of her. Canon Kearon, on the other hand, looked like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs

It began with Canon Kearon telling Bishop Katharine that he wanted the session to be private, with staff and press put out of the room. He talked about how the press was the enemy of us all and that bloggers would take anything that was said and distort it.

So Bishop Katharine said, "All those in favor of a closed session, please raise your hands." Four or five hands went up.

"All opposed?" Hands went up all over the room. The session remained open to everyone.

There was one positive moment when Canon Kearon said to Bishop Katharine, “I gather you’ve also been visiting England and there have been some issues that arose during your visit there. I just want to say I’m not a member of the Church of England, I'm a member of the Church of Ireland."

Most of us took this to be a back door apology for the way Bishop Katharine was treated by the Archbishop of Canterbury [he told her not to wear a mitre] -- "mitregate," as it is being called. By the way, Bishop Katharine remains amazed at the uproar over it, and she clearly is losing no sleep over something she calls “bizarre, just bizarre.” She did comment in conversation that the readings that day were wonderfully apt, being about the woman who knelt before Jesus with her hair uncovered.

Back to the session with Canon Kearon. After his oblique apology about the miter incident, it went downhill. You would think after the vote to NOT close the meeting, he would have gotten the message that we were in no mood to play his game of "Let's all us people in positions of power get together and make decisions without consulting with those most affected by them." But no.

Never kick a cow chip on a hot day.

Then Canon Kearon looked out at a room that was at least nearly half full of people of color, and the first thing he said was the "problem of increased and growing diversity in the Anglican Communion has been an issue for many years." He said that by the 1990s leaders in the communion has begun to name "the diversity of opinions in the communion and diversity in general as a problem and sought some mechanisms to address it."

Jaws dropped all over the room. People looked at one another in disbelief. Had he really just said that? Yes, indeed he had. Whether Canon Kearon meant diversity of cultures, of people, or of thought, to see “growth in diversity” as a problem is astonishing in a leader in the Anglican Communion, don’t you think?

Another aside – throughout his presentation and in his answers he referred to The Episcopal Church (TEC) as “tech”, something that really grates on me, probably because it is how the schismatics always refer to The Episcopal Church.

Canon Kearon told us he would talk to us about “the way I see it because I don't think the way I see it is the way any of you see it."

You think?

Canon Kearon said during his statement that Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams has limited authority beyond the ability to call meetings of certain communion bodies, make some appointments and "occasionally articulate the mind of the communion."

"Everywhere I go, everyone wants him to act as a sort of an Anglican pope as long as he does what [they] want him to do.”

Well, actually, no. We don’t want him to act as a sort of Anglican pope. That would be Rowan who wants to be an Anglican pope. It would be Rowan who keeps forgetting that he has "limited authority beyond the ability to call meetings of certain communion bodies, make some appointments and 'occasionally articulate the mind of the communion.'" And I dispute the latter point.

After detailing our offense – the consecration of Mary Glasspool “put this church out of step with the rest of the communion” -- he said we should have expected consequences because actions have consequences. But apparently not ALL actions have consequences. Can you say “interventions?”

"Each instrument of communion [Archbishops of Canterbury, the Lambeth Conference, the Anglican Consultative Council and the Primates Meeting]has condemned them and asked for them to cease, but we are a voluntary communion and have no [ability] to act against a province," he said. [Emphasis added.]

Get that? We have no ability to act against a province – except you just did, Kenneth.

It was at that point that Bishop Katharine quietly said, "Kenneth, we're ten minutes into the time we have allotted for this."

He said that put him in a dilemma.

Bishop Katharine said, "Can you wrap up?"

He was a bit nettled, but did sum up. And then it was time for questions. Canon Kearon said he would answer all the questions he "can" answer and may leave some questions unanswered. Bishop Katharine said she would send any unanswered questions to him to answer later in writing. As far as I’m concerned that is all of them, because I found his answers totally inadequate. For a man who used the word “logic” every other sentence, there was not a lot of it demonstrated.

When you’re in a hole, stop digging.

The first question was asked by Canon Rosalie Ballentine, chair of the World Mission Legislative Committee. Rosalie is from the Diocese of the Virgin Islands.

“”There is a covenant being considered that has in it certain processes, some of which have caused great concern for some of the provinces on how fairly they would be applied. For example, the Province of New Zealand gave only partial approval to the covenant, with members of its General Synod noting that Section 4 could “get into a situation where we sanctify a process of exclusion or marginalization” and that it might be implemented in ways that are “punitive, controlling and completely unAnglican.” Do the recent actions of the Archbishop of Canterbury give credence to these concerns?

Canon Kearon’s responses to all the questions were carefully parsed, often to the point of leaving more than one of us wondering, “Exactly what did he really say?”

He did say that “To remove people from representative functions [within the Anglican Communion] is not to be [exclusive]. Being in full communion does not require us to have people from [a particular church] representing the Anglican Communion.”

A “full communion relationship” does not commit any church body to “everything” done in connection with the Anglican Communion, he said, but indicates a shared fellowship.

He said the Archbishop of Canterbury was not anticipating enforcement of Part 4 of Anglican Covenant by removing Episcopalians from ecumenical bodies.

Bonnie Anderson, president of the House of Deputies, asked the next question.

“There are always consequences to living authentically as Christians. Within relationships among Christians, however, we ought to have opportunity to question those consequences, lest all end up walking on eggshells. Is there such a process now? And, do you foresee a season of such sanctions or is the removal of ecumenical committee appointees from The Episcopal Church an isolated event?

Canon Kearon said he “hopes” removal of TEC from ecumenical bodies was an isolated act but repeated his remarks that we have not exercised gracious restraint.

As near as I could decipher his answer, he said – and these are MY words, not his -- that more sanctions might be forthcoming, depending on how much more power Williams thinks he can get away with arrogating to himself. One wonders exactly just how inflated Rowan Williams’ idea of his office really is.

Canon Kearon earlier had said, “...the aim has not been to get at the Episcopal Church, but to find room for others to remain as well as enabling as full participation as possible for the Episcopal Church within the communion.”

Now did you get that? We get sanctions for being faithful to our baptismal promises, to our canons and to classical Anglicanism in order to “find room for” other provinces who are crossing borders, promoting schism, and abetting the persecution of LGBT Anglicans.

Don't squat with your spurs on.

Blancha Echeverry from the Diocese of Colombia asked (in Spanish), “You have stated that The Episcopal Church does not “share the faith and order of the vast majority of the Anglican Communion.” Given the place of the Chicago Lambeth Quadrilateral in our common life as The Episcopal Church, how was it determined that The Episcopal Church does not share this faith and order?

He said that we don’t share the understanding of same-sex relationships as the rest of the Communion.

Now, Mark Harris has done an excellent examination of this whole faith and order issue at his blog. Please go read what he says. But essentially what Canon Kearon seemed to me to be saying is that by fully including LGBT Christians in the life of our church we have violated a core doctrine of Anglicanism, something I find astonishing – and more than a little disturbing.

Jim Simons from the Diocese of Pittsburgh asked the next question. Jim was the sole member of their Standing Committee left after the previous bishop and other diocesan leaders left The Episcopal Church.

“I am Jim Simons, a priest resident in the Episcopal Diocese of Pittsburgh which, as I’m sure you are aware, went through a recent and painful schism. Currently, there are over 100 priests, deacons and one bishop canonically resident in the Province of The Southern Cone as well as another Bishop canonically resident in the Province of Rwanda functioning in our diocese without licenses and laying claim to some of our parishes. This is in clear violation of the canons and it is also not unique to our diocese. What if any disciplinary action do you anticipate toward provinces who engage in such jurisdictional incursions?

Canon Kearon replied that he sent letters to Southern Cone, Rwanda, et al at the same time he sent letters removing Episcopalians from ecumenical bodies asking for clarification of their actions, but added that “no instrument of communion” has addressed the questions about interventions by bishops from other provinces. Note that earlier he had said that all the instruments of communion had condemned interventions and asked that they cease. But that is apparently not enough to get Kearon to take action against them, while a "proposal" from the ABC in his Pentecost letter that Episcopalians be removed from ecumenical bodies is acted on by Kearon virtually the next day.

Jim followed up, asking whether any of the “instruments of communion” will address these question, Canon Kearon said he hoped so.

Later Mark Hollingsworth, Bishop of Ohio, addressed Canon Kearon, saying he had a bishop in his diocese doing confirmations and ordinations and meeting with disaffected Episcopalians, so he is really clear about what an intervention looks like and is puzzled that the Archbishop of Canterbury and Canon Kearon have so much trouble figuring that out.

Canon Kearon then made a strange comment about how some of those bishops and priests “appear to be Americans” and so it is difficult to figure out if they are intervening in The Episcopal Church or not.

They don’t just “appear” to be Americans, they ARE Americans. So what? They are still intervening in The Episcopal Church under the auspices of another province in the Communion. This is not hard to figure out, Kenneth.

Lee Alison Crawford, a priest in the Diocese of Vermont, asked, “As a lesbian priest, in a 20-year relationship, legally recognized civil union in my state for ten years , and serving in a congregation, I ask this question because inclusion is very important to me. In his Pentecost letter, the Archbishop of Canterbury said, “We are praying for a new Pentecost for our Communion. That means above all a vast deepening of our capacity to receive the gift of being adopted sons and daughters of the Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ. It means a deepened capacity to speak of Jesus Christ in the language of our context so that we are heard and the Gospel is made compelling and credible.” Removing people by executive action seems counter-intuitive to furthering inclusion. How is the exclusion of Episcopal Church members reconciled with the language of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Pentecost letter?

Canon Kearon essentially answered by saying that one form of exclusion for faith and order issues is not the same as other forms of exclusion. I am still seeking enlightenment on that reply.
Then Bishop Wendell Gibbs, Bishop of Michigan, asked the stumper, “The Church of England remains in full communion and ecumenical dialogue with the Old Catholic Church, which blesses same-sex unions, and the Church of Sweden, which has a partnered lesbian bishop and blesses same-sex marriages. Given this fact, how are we to reconcile the removal of Episcopal Church members from ecumenical bodies?

LONG silence ensued. He looked at Wendell like a calf looks at a new gate. He clearly didn't know where to go.

Canon Kearon hemmed and hawed and finally said that there are different types of full communion and that the sticking point is being able to represent the Communion vis a vis faith & order. Wendell stressed the point of who the Church of England is in communion with, but Canon Kearon had nothing more of substance to say.

So. It gives one pause, doesn't it? And makes it really clear why we fought the Revolutionary War.

If you're ridin' ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it's still there.

Texas Republicans and the oil industry

A story in today's Fort Worth Star-Telegram was about Texas Republicans calling for an end to the deep-water drilling moratorium. It said the moratorium is hurting the oil industry.

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DALLAS -- Rep. Joe Barton and other Texans in Congress asked President Barack Obama on Saturday to call off a six-month moratorium on deep water oil drilling to avoid hurting the drilling industry more than it has already been damaged.
Republican House members led by Rep. Pete Olson, R-Sugar Land, say they'll file a bill Tuesday calling for an end to the moratorium, which they say is creating financial hardships for businesses and workers in the deep water drilling business.

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As a Texan I'd just like to say -- read any story about whole fishing industries in multiple states along the Gulf Coast in danger of dying; read about birds, dolphins and other forms of sea life that are already dead and dying; read about whole recreational industries in danger of dying because of the reckless drive for profit by ONE part of the oil industry on ONE deep water well -- and then tell me why ANYONE would be feeling sorry for the oil industry or support Texas Republicans in this insanity?

The Simon Chronicles -- Partie Deux

Hello.

I am Simon.

The Cat.

I have asked my Chief of Staff to assist me in preparing this, ah, report.




It is a meditation on sleep, something humans beings seem to take much too lightly. But then, you are not Cats, are you?

"Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care. The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath. Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast." -- Macbeth, Cat who allowed William Shakespeare to live with him and to use his name as the title of a "play."

If Cats are anything, we are professionals at sleeping. Our keen minds and highly honed bodies require, oh, about 20 hours of sleep a day.

"Life is too short to sleep on low thread-count
sheets." -- Prissy, the cat who allows Leah Stussy to
live with her.

We are such professionals that we can sleep in the most insalubrious of situations. Why, here I am shown sleeping in the driveway. This makes my Chief of Staff very nervous and she scolds me for it constantly. But of course I am always careful to sleep out of the way of the Big Moving Machines she and her assistant use. I am not an idiot.

But most of the time I sleep in one the many lovely places my Chief of Staff has prepared for me around my garden. She has nicely placed them in shady spots where I can doze while also keeping an ear turned to her whereabouts in the garden or the house. If she goes anywhere NEAR the cupboard where my treats are stored, I know it.

This chair is in the Chapel Garden. I often doze there in the early evenings while my Chief of Staff and her assistant have "drinks" in the garden. Why they don't just drink out of one of the fountains like I do is one of the mysteries of my life.

"And if tonight my soul may find her peace in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created." -- Sheik, Cat who allowed D.H. Lawrence to live with him.

Here I am dozing next to one of the statues of St. Francis, one of the rare human beings who really understood what God was doing when She created the animals first, THEN the humans.

"Consciousness: that annoying time between
naps." -- Unknown Cat

Here I am sleeping while keeping one ear on my Chief of Staff as she reads the newspapers, things human beings need to keep them informed about what is happening in their world. Cats, of course, need only their noses and their ears to know what is going on their THEIR world.

"There is no snooze button on a cat who wants breakfast." -- Cat owned by some really smart but anonymous human.

Cats can sleep anywhere, even amidst the toys that the human kittens my Chief of Staff adores insist on strewing about MY room in the house. I allow these two kittens to believe my room is their room.

"Without enough sleep, we all become tall two-year-olds." -- Bijou, Cat who allowed JoJo Jensen to live with him.

We Cats are masters at total relaxation, something humans seem to need "wine" or "drinks" to accomplish. Pity.

Sometimes I also guard my Chief of Staff's computer case when I sleep.

My Chief of Staff has prepared a basket for me that she calls "my" basket. It is one of the MANY places I sleep.

"O bed! O bed! delicious bed!That heaven upon earth to the weary head."-- Cissy, Cat who allowed Thomas Hood to live with her.

She has made the basket quite comfortable, and it is exactly the right size.




I also sleep in the "the boys" bed, although in reality it is MY bed. I graciously let the "grandchildren" think it is theirs.


See what I mean about the toys?





Sometimes I am so relaxed my Chief of Staff thinks I am about to fall off the bed. Silly thing. Cats never fall off beds.



Oh, all this dictation is exhausting. I need a nap.

"There is no hope for a civilization which starts each day to the sound of an alarm clock." Cat who was owned by an anonymous human.

Another of Bruce's sermons

I am privileged to host another of Bruce Coggin's sermons from All Saints, Wichita Falls, one of our displaced parishes. Bruce shares the care of this dynamic congregation with Maurine Lewis. This entire group is one of our diocese's greatest blessings.
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A Sermon on Ascension Sunday
Preached at All Saints’, Wichita Falls, Texas
May 16, 2010


A casual observer—should we have one!—might be forgiven a little confusion about what’s going on here today. The service leaflet says Seventh Sunday of Easter; but the hymns and this sermon are all about Jesus’ ascension, the Ascension. So, which are we about this morning?

We’re about both, of course. This is in fact the seventh Sunday since Easter, but back in the good old days when everything was done right and everybody was happy, the Sunday after the Feast of the Ascension was called, logically enough, “The Sunday after Ascension Day.” Then they changed everything. You see, Ascension Day is always forty days after Easter, and that’s always a Thursday. Since they repealed the law that required people to go to church on major feasts, observation of Ascension has fallen off some little bit. I mean, how many of you greeted each other last Thursday with “Happy Ascension Day!”? (Don’t all stand at once.) Ascension was sort of like Transfiguration which always came on August 6th, a date which more likely reminds people of Hiroshima these days. So the folks in the liturgical movement quite wisely moved the observation to the last Sunday in Epiphany, and one of Jesus’ most epiphanic moments now gets a little more face time with the average Episcopalian. Now it’s Ascension’s turn, I reckon. The Roman Church, where it’s run from the top down and you can get a decision, already changed the name of this Sunday to Ascension Sunday. We’ll get there eventually, and that’s all good.

I say good because the ascension, Jesus’ ascension, is one of the most problematic yet critically important events in the Lord’s life on earth. I mean, it’s the end of the story, for one thing, and beyond that the implications of that . . . fact? myth? . . . are compellingly important. Let’s deal with the fact/myth bit first.

After Jesus’ resurrection, scripture tells us, he tarried—love that word—in his resurrected body for forty days, a number whose import I don’t need to elaborate. When you think about it, wouldn’t you expect Jesus would have spent those six weeks running a kind of victory lap, filling the disciples jam-full of teachings now that he had their attention? You’d expect big crowds, press conferences, riotous acclaim. I mean, everybody in town saw him executed, yet here he is! Funniest thing. After his resurrection, Jesus had very little to add beyond renewing his promise about the Holy Spirit and telling the disciples to get cracking. Then up and out. One wonders.

At any rate, on the fortieth day, a Thursday, scriptures tell us he and the disciples were outside the city and walked into one of those clouds that show up every now and then and open up and you just never can tell what’s going to happen. This time the disciples were, I’d bet, somewhat amazed to see Jesus just lean into that cloud and ride it right up to . . . well, way up in the sky, out of sight, gone. Foosh! There are lots of famous depictions of the moment. Jesus always has the same sappy look on his face, as if floating up into the empyrean was nothing unusual, and the disciples often express an unsettling serenity at the sight. I mean, that guy on TV, the magician who walks on water and through glass doors and all that? When people watch him, they take on about it somewhat. You’d expect the painters to show the disciples evincing some level of Oh my gawd!, wouldn’t you? But no, he just rode up into the sky and that was that. Never can tell when that’ll happen.

Now, folks, that’s a problem. Isn’t it?

When I was a graduate student some decades ago at the University of Dallas, a pretty conservative Catholic school, in a very upscale program that considered the vast realms of politics and literature all at once, we were summoned each semester to what the Great Ones in the faculty called a colloquium. What it was, they invited a Great One From Afar to come give a talk on some Big Topic, after which the faculty would listen as the students responded, asked questions, got asked questions. A real hot skillet dancing moment, believe me. The colloquia always took place in a smallish amphitheater auditorium, dais down at the bottom, seats rising in a semi-circle. The faculty sat up on the top seats, students in the middle, speaker on the stage—all except for Dr. Donald Cowan, the president of the university and a scientist. (His wife, Dr. Louise, really ran the place, and she sat up top. And watched. Like Madame Defarge) Well, one semester the Big Topic was nothing other than: The Ascension. Myth or fact? And what does it all mean, Alfie? The speaker was from California, I recall, and when we’d all settled in he took the mike and started out this way: “If at nine in the morning of Thursday, May 16, A.D. 33, the body of Jesus, whatever it was made of, left the earth headed for Heaven or wherever traveling at the speed of light, he would not until this good day have gotten beyond the boundaries of the known universe or even the reach of our most powerful telescopes. Surely by now, with all the sky watching we do, we’d have picked him up.” Then he stopped and glared up at us as if to say, “Howzabout them apples?”

As Mark Twain said, “a kind of black frost descended upon the chamber.” Nobody budged. Then Doctor Don leaned back in his front row seat, threw his arm across the back of the seat beside him, ran his eyes over the audience above him, smiled broadly, and said, “Oh, how innocent!” You might say the rest of the evening didn’t go as planned.

But, you know, the guy had a point. If you take the ascension literally, physically—and that’s one of the options here—you run into that problem right away. Unless there was some anti-matter finagling or some other kind of intervention, divine or otherwise, an object leaving the surface of the plant at light speed way back then would indeed not be even nearly beyond the reach of the Hubble, which came along later, and maybe we could . . . oh, you get the point. Most people—I guess, though these days you never know—most people long ago abandoned the three-decker universe notion that would justify the claim that Jesus “went back to Heaven,” but without arguing the endless points of contention in that claim, let’s just say most people don’t think that way any more. Right.

So, then, what happened to the body? If the Romans could have burnt it, they would have, just to get him out of their hair. Did the disciples hide it? Every now and then we have another eureka moment when somebody discovers Jesus’ remains and then finds out it ain’t really him. And if it’s all a story, who made up the story? And did they all lie about it the rest of their good lives long? Was it mass hysteria? Was it mass delusion? While there are relics of just about everybody in Christian history you can think of, there are absolutely no relics of Jesus—outside a few vials of his tears and some spurious little body shards claiming to be the residue of his bris scattered around Europe. The best we’ve got is the Shroud of Turin, and that’s a whole nuther Pandora’s box of claim and counter-claim. If Jesus did not in fact ride that cloud up the Heavenly way, wha hoppen to his resurrected body?

This one of those ya pays yer munny ya takes yer choice moments de luxe, and I don’t think there’s much to do about it. It’s one of those rocks in the road that Robert Capon says is in the Bible because the Holy Spirit wants it there. I’ll take that. But if the Holy Spirit’s insistence seems to leads us at once to an imponderable, what is it we’re supposed to be hearing, seeing, learning? Gotta cast the net on the other side. I think there are at least two directions to go from here. One has to do with you and me today, and the other has to do with getting a story told. One is mandate, the other, mystery. Let’s take the you and me part first.

Did you notice the lovely icon of Jesus’ ascension that graces the first page of Joyful Notes this week? Sometimes the Orthodox surprise me. Their icons are so . . . un-human looking so much of the time, all dark and somber and rigid. But in this one, Jesus looks almost like he’s skipping, definitely moving, which is sort of un-iconish in my experience. He looks happy, too. And did you notice, right at the edges of the image on both sides, what he’s doing? No? He’s holding hands. You don’t see with whom, but he’s holding hands. Wonder who that could be? Wanna guess? Another fetching icon I remember is of the resurrection. Jesus is coming up out of a door let into the ground—sort of reminds me of us coming out of the storm cellars after the cloud passed when I was a kid over in that county I grew up in—and he’s got somebody with him. A man, naked as the day he was born . . . er . . . created I mean, because it’s Adam. In the three days in the tomb, Jesus went down to Hell and brought everybody out, starting with our eldest brother. Isn’t that wonderful? And in this icon of the ascension, Jesus is holding hands and skipping along. I figure he’s holding hands with you and me.

Looky here. The ascension means that Jesus’ work among us is done. The second person of the Trinity—we call that Christ—took human flesh, lived, loved, taught, resisted, suffered, and died, just like us. That was so, since we’re so prone to skew God’s messages to fit our own notions, we could see the perfect revelation of God in the flesh of one of us who was utterly incorruptible, made no compromises with expedience, showed us God as God wants to be seen. He came to reassert the claim of God’s love on us, to invite us to live in and out of it: love God with all you’ve got and love your neighbors as yourselves. He got even more specific: love each other as I have loved you. And why? As today’s gospel says, so the world may know that God sent me. The church’s mission, our whole mission, is to be the sign of God’s redeeming, self-giving love for the creation. Believe me, that’s enough. And believe me, after two millennia, we’ve still got a long way to go to accomplish that mission. Yes, maybe nearly half the world’s vastly expanded and expanding population is nominally Christian. Good. I guess. But just as surely, there are people within earshot of this place who haven’t got a notion of God’s love in Christ, don’t have a notion what the cross is all about, would look at you like a calf looking at a new gate if you asked them what Jesus’ ascension is all about. When Jesus goes away, he just turns it over to us, that’s all. No other plans. Oh, the Holy Spirit is at work, to be sure, but in territory largely held by the devil. Jesus’ ascension is the astonishing corroboration that he actually trusts his work to us, to the likes of you and me! He thinks we can do it. Or at least enough of it to let the world see that he really did come to reveal God. So . . . we’ve got work to do, no?

Here’s where you can throw up your hands and say, “I hope you don’t expect me to save the world! That was his job!” You hear that, and it’s a fairly reasonable response in some ways, but it misconstrues the job. We need to pay attention to Mother Theresa here. When somebody scoffed at her—“How on God’s good green earth do you think you’re going to take care of all the homeless people in Calcutta? More people sleep on the streets here every night than live in some countries!” Know what she said? “One at a time.” One at a time.

Jesus has, like it or not, handed the work of redemption, of lifting up the fallen and showing them God’s love, over to the church, to you and me, and to say the job’s too big is silly. Of course, it’s too big, but as the hymn says, no arm so weak but may do service here. All we have to worry about is the people God sends our way, but we really really really ought to pay attention to them. This congregation is learning a lot about that these days, and though you may think your efforts are just a drop in the bucket—they are—you must remember that if you don’t put that drop in the bucket you’re in the same condition as the feller who had only one talent—and went and buried it. So the ascension is mandate. Hold hands with Jesus. He can’t take care of this one or that one, hardly matters which one, right now, so you do it. Mandate. Bear the light. So the world may believe. We already believe. Our love in Christ must bring God to those who don’t yet believe.

And now, the rest of the story. Every story has an ending, even those wonderful fantasy movies where the kiddo heroes ride off into the skies on gorgeous, silky Falcor in a never-ending story, has to stop somewhere. The Bible is a story book, a library of stories, a bunch of narratives laid out alongside each other, each a subset of the Big Story of God’s love of creation. Capon again is so useful: he reminds us that the Bible is like a movie. Even if it’s got scenes you don’t like, you gotta stay until the end, gotta see it through, if you are ever to have a chance of understanding it. And the ascension of Jesus, his “going back home,” is effectively the end of the story—or better, the end of that part of the story. There is in the study of literature what they call “a sense of an ending.” You can tell when the story’s over, and the best stories don’t try to do more, don’t rattle on when they’ve said all there is to say. I don’t know how much you know about the structure of the music we’re accustomed to, but music is written and performed in a particular key called the tonic. Usually a piece—from a lullaby to a choral symphony—starts out in its tonic key, can then go off in a bazillion directions exploring this key and that, slipping and sliding often with amazing complexity until it just about wears a feller out. But if you have any ear for music at all, you know when it’s getting ready to stop. The conductor’s arms wave and the musicians play their hearts out in the key a fifth above the tonic until all at once, crash! Everything drops back to the tonic and you know it’s over. I don’t know of anything written in the key of C that ends on a G-minor chord. The story, the song, comes back home.

Jesus’ story ends that way. We say he came from God into the world to love it and show it that God does not condemn us but rather loves us, and that those who see that, realize it, accept it, believe it, live in it, are given God’s own eternal life in his kingdom forever. John three sixteen. So what’s he gonna do next? What’s left to do? Think of the story of the Bible, from Genesis right on through Revelation, as a western. In a western we usually see pioneers starting out to make a new life in a new place; they run into trouble they can’t handle; A Tall Stranger rides in on a Tall Horse, sees the problem, solves it—and runs for mayor. No! Of course, he doesn’t run for mayor. Then everybody would hate him. No, he does what western heroes do: he rides off into the sunset, and the people standing around all shake their heads and study that silver bullet. That’s the way Jesus’ story ends, and our part is how to honor that silver bullet.

Or think of it as a tableau vivant, one of those wonderful pageants late nineteenth, early twentieth century school kids got dragooned into at commencement exercise. Say it’s June 1919, the U.S. has just won World War I, and for commencement every kid in school gets dressed up as a Good Yankee Doodle Dandy or an Evil Hun or a Brave But Battered Belgian Maiden or a foot soldier or a ship captain or a Red Cross nurse or somebody else in the war. The prissiest girl in school gets to be Miss Liberty and wrap herself in a flag and stand up on risers and hold a torch way up high. All this behind the curtain, lights off. Then the curtain parts, and the narrator begins telling the story, directing the light this way and that, telling who this is and who that is, finally ends up with all the lights on and sparklers spritzing and the upright piano hammering out America, the Beautiful—that Kate Smith thing hadn’t been written yet—and then it’s all over. That’s the way I think the Revelation works. That’s the way any story works, really, the way allegorical paintings—and icons to be sure—work. The whole story is here, and it has an ending. A mighty happy one. A mystery.

So on this Seventh Sunday of Easter which is in fact the Sunday after Ascension and might just as well be Ascension Sunday even if it did all happen on a Thursday, we can have a sense of both an ending and the anticipation of a mighty new beginning—because next Sunday is Pentecost, the day we remind ourselves of the Holy Spirit’s presence among us, and that’s a whole nuther look into the mystery and another day. Today though, be thankful that Jesus rode into town on a tall horse and showed us how to handle the bad guys. Be thankful that when he left, we got a silver bullet. Be thankful that he promised us that where he is, we may also be, indeed in his eyes already are. Be thankful that he showed us everything we need to know to do the job he left us, namely to celebrate God’s love for us—what we do in church—and to show it to everybody who crosses our path who doesn’t know it yet—what we do out of church in the world—so that the whole world may both know and believe that God is love and is reconciling all things to himself.

Happy Ascension Day!

An Easter Sermon

My friend, Bruce Coggin, has done it again -- preached a sermon that I wanted to share. So read and chew on this.

A Sermon
preached at All Saint’s Episcopal Church, Wichita Falls, Texas
Easter 2010


V. Alleluia! Christ is risen!
R. The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Let me tell you a story I hope is true. I’d hate to tell a fib in church on Easter Day, but I believe I heard it from Fr. Alexander Schmeeman, for many years dean of St. Vladimir’s Russian Orthodox Seminary on Long Island. I’ll say it was him, if it wasn’t, maybe nobody’ll find out.

The story goes this way: in the first years after the Bolshevik revolution in 1917, the Soviet government in Moscow was at pains to stamp out religion all over Russia, to re-educate the benighted Christians about the opiate of the people. They sent teams of propagandists into the rural villages to explain the folly of religion to the peasants and give them the good news that the Soviet government was about to start doing all the things the church had promised forever and never delivered on, as well as a lot of other wonders. A team goes out to Village X somewhere in the Urals—think Doctor Zhivago—calls the few hundred villagers to some assembly spot, and harangues the silent, sullen crowd for a couple of hours.

When the speeches are over, nobody moves, nobody makes a sound. So the leader of the atheist pep squad hauls the village priest up to the front and asks him, “And what, you scum, do you have to say about all this? How can you answer us?”

The old priest, likely nobody impressive, shambled up before the crowd in his grubby cassock, summoned all his lung power, and barked out, “Alleluia! Christ is risen!”

The response thundered back, “The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

End of re-education session.

Now, that’s a wonderful story of faith in action, of a belief so profoundly fixed among a community, such a habit of life, that even the fear of bloody repression could not pry those villagers loose from it. Great moment. Great story.

Now . . . I can’t help wondering how that story would play out if something similar happened today in some little town in, say, Montague County down the road a piece here? You know and I know it would be a far different story. As our country becomes more and more biblically illiterate and either non-Christian or just reputedly Christian, you’d be justified to wonder how people would respond—because it’s anybody’s guess what people believe Easter is all about.

And who’s to blame for that? The church hasn’t done as good a job of selling Easter as we have Christmas, have we? I mean, even though the slobbering orgy of conspicuous consumption and aggressive generosity that mars the way this country celebrates Christmas has little or nothing to do with what the birth at Bethlehem was all about, you’ve got to admit that almost anybody you’d ask what all the fuss was about could at least tell you it’s Jesus’ birthday, and everybody’s for birthdays. But Easter? The worst I ever heard was a bad joke about “that’s when Jesus dies and then comes out of the cave on the third day and if he sees his shadow he has to go back in for six more weeks.” And we hear a lot about Spring and the renewal of life and all that, none of which makes much sense in the southern hemisphere where winter’s coming on. You’d hear most Christians say something about the resurrection, though if pressed on the details, you’d get responses running anywhere from bedrock fundamentalist literal reading to a vast range of lower octane attempts to deal with the improbable Bible story. Probably the most innocuous and engaging response we see is all the Easter bunny lore, fuffy hoppers everywhere and happy kids hunting for eggs. The lady at the check out desk at the motel this morning had on bunny ears, and I wished her a happy Easter, which she returned all bubbly and . . . well, just glad about it all.

Why do you guess it is Christmas is so much more popular than Easter? I think I know why. I mean, after all, Christmas begins with a baby, at the manger, and everybody loves babies! But Easter? Easter starts in a graveyard, in a graveyard, which is a little discomforting, and the story is . . . well, just not very believable. Today’s version: Mary goes to clean up the corpse, finds the tomb empty; tells the men who come, take a look, and run off; and then sees somebody she doesn’t recognize who tells her he’s Jesus.

Now, who’s gonna believe that? The resurrection story goes against everything we know about death, doesn’t make any sense at all. Even the biblical narratives reflect the difficulty of believe any such thing. In today’s gospel, Mary doesn’t recognize Jesus, thinks he’s the gardener—and several Renaissance depictions of this story show Jesus with a hoe or a little sharpshooter in his hand. Thomas didn’t believe it until he touched Jesus’ wounded hands. The travelers on the way to Emmaus didn’t know him during an eleven mile hike home. The disciples on the lake sorta kinda recognized him but weren’t sure until he fixed their breakfast. And on and on. It’s not believable.

Let me butt in a minute and say how I define belief and how I define faith. Belief, in my book, is something we have when we’ve been given enough evidence to suit our empirical minds that this or that fact is in fact a fact, where all the columns add up the same way, and all the pieces fit: that’s something I can believe. Faith, the way I use the word, is something more in the realm of a corroborated notion, something we hear about or perceive ourselves, singly or in community, something that doesn’t submit to empirical proof yet also something that tugs us, inclines us, somehow seems to ask for our . . . what? . . . mental consent? Spiritual consent? I can’t say exactly, just something that pulls us toward acceptance and trust when we can’t gin up what I’ve called belief. Faith and belief are two very different critters in my book. And can say for sure that I have faith in a good bit I don’t believe, can’t believe. That’s what we call a paradox, and I sure didn’t invent that. I think we misuse the word faith a lot, load it up with more certainty than it can bear. It’s sort of like the way we misuse brave and coward: a coward, you’d say, is not brave; a brave man is fearless! But if he’s fearless, why does he need courage? I say the brave man is the fellow who’s scared to death of the boogher on the porch and still musters the gumption go out and face it. A man who can’t believe can have faith. St. Paul prays, “Lord, I believe! Help thou mine unbelief!”

Now, since I’m talking about faith, I can witness only to my own and the way it finds itself in the faith of the whole church. Most of you from around here know what it means to testify in church, and I’m about to give my testimony.

I first became really aware of the reality of death in the late forties when my Aunt Cecile died and was buried from the Coggin Avenue Baptist Church in Brownwood where she and Uncle Mose were every Sunday members for decades. I was ten or younger, and I adored her. Mose was my Grandfather Yeager’s brother, the baby of that big family, ran a barber shop in the Southern Hotel for years, and Aunt Cecile was his soft, talcumed, sacheted, laced up, blowsy, sweet, cooky baking, great-nephew spoiling wife, my favorite among many great-aunts. And she died. And I was taken to the funeral. And we did as Baptists do, filed past the casket for a last look. I thought she looked funny. Not natural. Not much like Aunt Cecile. Her stomach was all pouched out, and her face was . . . well, she didn’t look much like Aunt Cecile to me. I asked questions.

I was raised in a standard Bapto-Methodist middle class Texas family, and I got the standard answers both at home and at Sunday School: Jesus came back to life. His body, dead as a doornail when they laid him in the tomb, miraculously once more possessed life—he re-booted—and got up. And talked. And all the rest. Nothing more. Just that. Especially at Sunday School I got the notion I ought not ask.

It bothered me considerably. I right quick transferred the whole scenario to myself. I knew I was going to die. I knew since I’d been baptized in 1948 I would be resurrected, so I really wanted to know how that was going to work. One of my earliest phobias—one I still have—was the fear of drowning. I’d read a lot of Horatio Hornblower books and knew about men going down with the ships or walking the plank or otherwise getting dead under water, and I really did not want to do that—unable to breathe, eyes all blurry and dark like in the swimming pool. That made the idea of the resurrection worse, because I knew what happened to men who died at sea: fish et ‘em, fish and other critters, because they were just skeletons when they washed up. And if I were going to be resurrected, would God have to get all my bits and pieces from the fish that ate me? That’s a childish fret, of course, but it was sure real to me.

Later as a young adult, still pondering these matters, I learned that about every seven years my body swapped all its atoms—all its atoms—for other atoms, that by the time I got as old as I am now, I’d have shucked eight, nine, ten bodies, might even been toting around some atoms some of you used before. In the resurrection, whose would they be? It all seemed almost laughable.

And, by the way, if I’ve got resurrected body options, which one would I get? The one I died in? Could I get a better one? It was laughable. And so by the time I was a brilliant undergraduate, I’d abandoned all that. Just not believable. Did not make sense, any of it, and especially all that about resurrection. To borrow a trope from Gertrude Stein, death is death is death. Period.

Yet . . . before I graduated college, I was confirmed at All Saints’ Episcopal Church on the campus in Austin, and by the time I finished a first graduate degree, I knew I was headed for the priesthood. Now, what kind of sense does that make?

You never know where you’re gonna find help articulating things, finding a way to express your living experience, a lot of it not easy to understand, a lot of it pretty hard to relate. I found help for this moment today—I must preach to you about the resurrection this day—very recently in a place you’d not expect. You know I’m an English teacher, and I’ve been re-reading Tennessee Williams’ short stories recently. Yes, I said a place you’d not expect. In one reflective narrative about his life as a script writer in Hollywood, he tells of an afternoon when he’d written for hours, then decided to call it a day. He said he rubbed a place on his chest that hurt, and that led him to consider what he called “this rubbery machine,” our body, this funny thing we get around in, not perfect and not designed to last very long, not a very reassuring habitation. And yet, he says, that little house we live in has a tenant, someone, a being, a presence, a conscience, a person, who tries endlessly to describe himself, who peers anxiously out as if listening for something, waiting for something. He said he wanted to know more about that tenant and what he’s up to. I think that’s really good. Somebody inside this funny rubbery thing, a tenant who describes himself—and what do we do all our lives? Try to decide who we are, why we’re here, what we’re here for, where we’re going. Describe ourselves. And always looks anxiously out, expecting something, listening—and hearing things, seeing things. I think that’s really a helpful formulation of . . . who, what, I am. Or believe I am.

I know that I came back to the church—not to faith, mind you—to the church on the purest whim. I went to a wedding in San Antonio at St. Mark’s Church and walked into All Saints’, Austin, the next day—and I’ve hardly been outside a church on Sunday morning since. What called me to do that? I know that when I was a graduate student at Columbia, I could not stay away from St. John the Divine two blocks down the street, went almost every day to hear the boys sing Evensong in St. Ansgar’s Chapel. Why? And I never once thought about priesthood until one day a woman there, a perfect stranger, asked me if I were a seminarian. I was trying to describe myself, and little pieces of the picture kept falling from somewhere into my little rubbery machine head. And heart. Off to the seminary I went, under Bishop Mason’s hands I went, and into the priesthood I went—but I have to tell you, I could not then and cannot today say I believe in the resurrection of the dead and the survival of that little tenant in my rubbery machine. It makes no sense.

But thanks be to God who giveth us the victory, I can say with as much certainty as I’m capable of that I have faith in the resurrection, maybe could say I believe in it by faith. It still makes absolutely no sense, goes against everything I know about death empirically—and yet faith enables me to stand up here in front of you and tell you it’s God’s truth. Whatever tugged and pulled and notioned me back into the church and into the priesthood and into a life of looking out and listening and being up to finding what I’ve defined as faith has vanquished my unbelief horse and foot. And how’s that? Why because the notion has been corroborated more times than I can tell you. I have faith in the resurrection because I’ve seen so much resurrection. Without going into lurid detail, most of it not news anyway, I can tell you that about twenty or so years ago, I died and went to Hell. Or may as well have. Life was Hell—horrible, tasteless, joyless, painful, full of my own ugliness and what the Heart of Darkness calls the horror. Horror. Yet I came back to life, by no means through anything I did or even tried to do. I came back because that tugging started again and pulled me right up from the grave. I won’t tell you about all that, but here I am.

I’ve seen resurrection all over the place. I could but won’t tell you stories of dozens of people I know who’ve died one way or another, some who needed to, some who just got bludgeoned, and over time and with love and God’s grace shared by people they maybe didn’t even know, found themselves alive again. Funniest thing is, they often don’t recognize themselves any more, others say, “I hardly know you any more!” I’ve seen it in individual people and in congregations, among them this one. When I met you these eighteen, twenty months ago, about all you had left was resentment, anger, fear, enough Hell on earth to qualify you for a death certificate. But this morning here you are, alive and kicking and skipping forward to meet the Bridegroom on Resurrection Day. I can’t say any of the cadavers I’ve prayed over at countless graveyards has reappeared, but neither can I say for sure they’re not alive somehow. I know I’ve got all kinds of dead people I’m in touch with, and I imagine you can say the same thing or will one day when you’ve sent a lot of people you love across Jordan. Resurrection is real. That which was dead is made alive, that which was cast down is raised up, that which was old is made new. Life is not ended but changed—and you don’t even have to be religious to believe that. Just raise a garden. Raise some kids. Just look at all the busted down rubbery machines in this room, the lame and the halt, half of us not ten years from the grave—and did you ever see so much life?

Resurrection is real.

Yet . . . it’s not just resurrection we preach, not just the return of life in the Spring, not just the general greening of the earth up here on this half, not just an existential philosophical concept. This is not the Sunday of Resurrection: this is the Sunday of the Resurrection, of a specific resurrection, Jesus’ resurrection. And that makes everything every so much more . . . pointed. I mean, we have here both a real challenge to belief and a real moment when nothing but faith will do.

Let’s watch Jesus as he faces his earthly doom, the breaking and failure of his own rubbery machine, let’s watch how he behaves while the world, the flesh, and the devil break his body. Let’s keep our eye on his spirit, on what goes on inside him, and how that tenant behaves. When they come to seize him, he chides Peter for resisting and heals Malchus’ ear. When the Sanhedrin revile him, he stands them down. When Pilate condemns him to please the mob, he is civil—the guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. He’s compassionate with the crowd—“Weep not for me but rather weep for yourselves.” He forgives the soldiers who nail him to the tree. He pardons the thief and promises him paradise that very day. The more the outward man decayeth, as the old Prayer Book said, the more the inner man is strengthened, the brighter the flame burnt.

Don’t take that to mean it was all just a show, that he knew he was going to be all right, could therefore be generous. Divinité oblige. None of that. His spirit held out nearly as long as his rubbery machine, but if Jesus is to be fully human—and he is fully human—then he must go through not only the best we know but also the worst. If Jesus is fully human, then he has to know what despair is, what death in the spirit is. Those last words from the cross—Father, why hast thou forsaken me?—come from a broken, terrified heart. Oh, I know it’s the thing to say he was reciting the psalter, but I don’t believe that for a minute. The man is in pain you and I can’t imagine, people are laughing and spitting and jeering, his poor mother and a pair of friends are helpless in front of him, he’s vomiting blood and pushing up against the nails, writhing just to draw a breath. He felt forsaken, all right. That cry was not piety. That cry was the anguish of every human being who ever lived or will live. God, why are you doing this, letting this happen to me? You said you loved me!

And then the rubbery machine fails, shuts down. With his last breath, Jesus lapses into habit, into trust, into faith. Usually we hear the last Word read as some kind of triumphalist boast in a Charlton Heston voice: “It is finished! Into thy hands I commend my spirit.” Never has seemed that way to me. I see a man, body broken, spirit broken, fall back on what’s left—faith. I think it sounded more like, “Oh, Father, it’s all over now. I can’t go on. It’s all in your hands now.” And that is the voice of faith speaking in the face of some mighty believable circumstances that point to the contrary.

They take him down and they put him in the tomb and they leave him. Yet before you know it, they see him again, alive, talking, eating, walking, teaching, encouraging, praying. And from that day to this, people who’ve known resurrection in themselves and known Jesus’ resurrection in the faith of his risen body have proclaimed that Christ is alive, that the Lord is risen indeed.

Do I believe that? I can’t answer the question that way. Do I have faith in Jesus’ resurrection and my own and yours? You better believe I do. I’ve bet everything on it, committed my life and my loves and my hopes to it. And I pray that when my rubbery machine turns off I’ll have the presence to say “Oh, Jesus, take me with you. It’s all up to you now!” with my last breath. After all, that’s the only hope we have.

It’s also the only hope we need, because if Jesus is who we say he is, then our death is part of his act of gathering us up into his victory as he promised time and time again to do—If I be lifted up I will draw everyone to myself . . . those the Father gives to me I will not lose . . . my Father’s house has many rooms . . . come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you before the worlds began.

That, dearly beloved, is Easter faith, Easter victory, Easter joy, and we’ll sing and pray that victory for the next forty days and for the rest of our lives and on into whatever wonders eternity holds for us in God’s good grace. That’s Easter. And if people want to celebrate that by putting on bunny ears, it’s just fine with me!

V. Alleluia! Christ is risen!
R. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Blogs and birthdays

In my post "Who is in the room matters" I wrote that the HOB "received" the report of the theology committee on same sex marriage.

That was not correct.

They didn't even "receive" it. It was "presented" to them. I've been told that the bishops were so underwhelmed by the report[s] that there was a long discussion of what word to even use to describe what happened.

Now that the report has been published for all of us to read here many people have begun to comment on it. One of the best I've seen is posted at Friends of Jake entitled "I won't lecture you on theology if you won't lecture me on science."

Episcopal Cafe is gathering and posting comments as well. So go read it and let us know what you think about all this.

Elizabeth Kaeton has posted her thoughts on Bishop Lambert's comments and demonstrates that he is not alone among bishops in not wanting inconvenient people in the room where decisions are being are made.



Read and enjoy. And please say a prayer for my grandson Curran, who is 8 years old today. He and his brother Gavin are my heart's delight. May he continue to grow in grace and knowledge of God.

Who is in the room matters

At their just-concluded meeting, the House of Bishops "received" the two reports from the no-longer-secret-committee of theologians about same sex marriage.

Mary Glasspool, bishop suffragan elect of the Diocese of Los Angeles, attended this meeting at Camp Allen near Houston as did Bishop Gene Robinson. For non-Episcopalian readers of this blog, Glasspool is a fine priest and a lesbian living in a long-term committed relationship. Bishop Robinson is a great bishop, and a gay man living in a long-term committed relationship.

Episcopal News Service has a story in which reference in made to a comment by Paul Lambert, bishop suffragan of Dallas, in a posting to the Anglicans United website. I found it revealing and informative.

Here is the statement [emphasis added]:

"It goes without saying that the recent Consent for the Bishop Suffragan of the Diocese of Los Angeles has been a topic of discussion among the gathered bishops and how that will impact our relationships with the larger Communion. Although we have not had a plenary discussion on this development we will no doubt do so when the subject of the Anglican Covenant later this week occurs. Of course, her presence at our meeting makes it difficult to discuss this openly and honestly, both for her and the House gathered. I bid your prayers that we may have a spirit of mutual respect and forbearance for all involved. I do believe that we will do so with sensitivity and concern for all."

One might ask, how does the presence of Mary Glasspool make it difficult for bishops to discuss how her election will impact our relationships with the larger Communion openly and honestly?

Would the bishops say things behind her back that they would not say to her face? Apparently so.

It is indeed harder to talk about another human being as an "issue" or a "problem" when he or she is in the room looking you in the face. It is even harder when they are worshipping next to you, taking communion beside you, sharing the Body of Christ.

It is the power of the incarnational experience, and it is exactly why some have fought so hard and long to keep people of color, women and LGBT people out of the rooms where power is wielded and decisions are being made that affect the lives of people of color, women and LGBT people. It is why some primates, bishops, and other individuals have refused to worship with our presiding bishop and have loudly demanded she not be allowed to come to meetings of the primates.

It is why the Archbishop of Canterbury declined to invite Gene Robinson to Lambeth.

But we are an incarnational church. Each of us has been sealed as "Christ's own forever." That includes Bishop elect Glasspool as much as it includes Bishop Lambert. It includes Bishop Gene Robinson and the Communion Partner bishops. It includes every person of color, every woman, every LGBT person in the Anglican Communion.

Yes, it makes it harder for those who have been accustomed to wielding power unchallenged for so long to continue to speak and act as if all these millions of people are somehow "less than" other people.

Yes, this means that when you say LGBT people are "intrinsically disordered" you are going to have to say it to their faces -- and then -- harder still -- listen to their response. You might even have to witness the deep wounds your words and actions have caused and are causing all these people.

But given that we are brothers and sisters in Christ, this new reality in our House of Bishops should be an occasion of rejoicing, not lament. Our bishops are beginning to experience what the House of Deputies began to experience long ago -- who is in the room matters.

Bishop Lambert obviously realizes this, as he writes, "I bid your prayers that we may have a spirit of mutual respect and forbearance for all involved. I do believe that we will do so with sensitivity and concern for all."

I join him in this prayer.

Losing Liz

Friday I was among several women who were honored as a "Veteran Feminist of Texas" by the VFA of America at the Women's Museum in Dallas.

While there, I treated myself to a red T-shirt with one of my favorite sayings. It is a quote from the writer Laurel Thatcher Ulrich -- "Well behaved women rarely make history."

I was literally holding that shirt on Saturday when my husband walked in and said, 'Liz Carpenter died."

I hugged the shirt to my chest and cried. And then I had to laugh, thinking of Barbara Jordan, Molly Ivins and Ann Richards greeting Liz with big hugs and cries of "Well, I guess they'll let just anyone in here!"

Heaven is a lot more fun this week than it was last week. But what a loss for us all.

Liz Carpenter was the incarnation of Ulrich's saying. Killer smart, bawdy, irreverent, kind-hearted, generous and feminist to the core of her being, Liz Carpenter never DID behave the way society thought "good girls" are supposed to behave. And she taught at least two generations of Texas women how to do the same.

One of the prime evenings of my life was when a group of us from Leadership Texas found ourselves sitting around at Liz' house with Barbara Jordan, Ann Richards and other amazing Texas women. I remember thinking, "Thank you, God, for letting me live to be in this room."

I laughed so much that night my stomach muscles were sore for days afterward. Barbara Jordan taught us all how to sing Gospel songs right and Ann and Liz tried to top one another with one-liners. We were almost too weak to walk when it came time to leave -- a common affliction of anyone who spent much time around Liz and Ann.

Liz' most common greeting upon meeting new people was not "Hello," it was, "Do you support the ERA?"

She was never afraid of that second "F" word -- "feminist" -- and it grieved and puzzled her that so many younger women are so comfortable using the first "F" word and so uncomfortable naming themselves as feminists.

Her battles for women's rights began as a young reporter trying to get equal access with male reporters to the halls of power. She credited Eleanor Roosevelt with breaking down barriers for women reporters, because Roosevelt would allow only women to come to her press conferences, forcing many newspapers to scramble to hire women.

Another Texas politician -- and a friend of Liz Carpenter - did the same thing for women reporters of my generation. When Sissy Farenthold ran for governor of Texas in 1972 [she ran again in 1974], she was largely ignored by the Texas press. The only reporters who covered her at all were women working in "women's sections," having been denied jobs in the main newsrooms of the large Texas dailies.

Then suddenly it looked liked Farenthold might actually win the Democratic Primary, which in those days meant she would win the General Election. The newspapers sprang into action, trying to get interviews with her. She would agree, but only if they sent one of the woman reporters who had already been covering her. I was one of those reporters.

Her support meant women reporters all over Texas were found suddenly to be capable of doing "real" reporting by their editors. Dozens of us were finally allowed to do political reporting, a job formerly reserved for male reporters as it was thought to be too tough and rough for a woman to cover.

Sissy's act of solidarity was cheered on lustily by Liz, who was constantly exhorting us to keep a toe stuck in the doors we had pried open so women coming after us would have an easier way in.

It is that sense of sisterly solidarity that Liz worried younger women are losing. She worried that if they don't understand how hard fought were the battles to get them into the rooms of power, how could they be expected to stay vigilant on behalf of other women? She worried that our daughters would have to fight all the same battles again and again.

Liz understood power. Hell, she worked with LBJ, the politician who understood power better than anyone -- and Liz would regularly face LBJ down in arguments. She would go head to head with him, giving as good as she got. He adored her.

Liz understood that power is a neutral thing that can be used for good or for ill. She understood that reserving power into the hands of less than half the population is not healthy for any people or nation. She knew that any nation that refuses to use the resources that reside in its women and girls will never thrive.

Liz understood the interlocking nature of oppressions -- we can't fight sexism without fighting racism, and we can't fight heterosexism without fighting sexism and racism.

In her early 70s she took on the raising of the three youngest children of her brother Tom Sutherland, who had died of cancer. When the mother of the children, who ranged from 11 to 16, and their older siblings were unable to look after them, Liz took charge.

Her 1994 book “Unplanned Parenthood: The Confessions of a Seventy-something Surrogate Mother,” is a hilarious and deeply touching account of that time in her life. But the things she learned from those teenagers honed her insights and kept her keenly attuned to changes in our our culture.

Liz never "retired." She was engaged down to her toes every minute of her life.

I know we are supposed to say, "rest in peace," but I think that would bore Liz to tears. So I'll just say, "Give them all my love when you see them."

I am going to miss her for a long long time.

Reflections on Executive Council

Here are some reflections on the recent Executive Council meeting in Omaha.

On communications:
I was asked at my first EC meeting last fall in Memphis to head up a sub-committee of the Executive Council Joint Standing Committee on Governance and Administration for Mission [GAM] to respond to a letter to the Council from the Episcopal Life Board of Governors.

That letter explained that the Board of Governors was created by Executive Council in 1990 and that "the need was seen then, and we believe continues now, for independent oversight of the news operation of The Episcopal Church. We believe that such oversight helps protect and ensure the credibility, power and authority of The Episcopal Church’s media. The board also works as a conduit and sounding board for story ideas, suggestions and observations from members of The Episcopal Church. We do so being guided by the principle that the news operation of The Episcopal Church affects and belongs to the whole Church."

The letter asked Executive Council to designate a member of Council as a liaison with the Board of Governors and to fund one face-to-face meeting per year of the board.

Underlying all of this, of course, was the tension that remained in the aftermath of the decision to cease publication of Episcopal Life and the still-resonating pain of staff reductions at the Church Center, especially those that affected the communications staff; and issues about news coverage at General Convention and afterward.

Before I left Memphis I met with Anne Rudig, director of communications at the Church Center, and with Chief Operating Officer Linda Watt. Then I met in a face to face meeting with the Board of Governors and Anne Rudig in Chicago on Nov. 17 at the Episcopal Church Center, Diocese of Chicago. I was very impressed by the frankness with which everyone spoke and of the clear desire of everyone in the room to find a way forward.

As often happens when people of good will get together in the same room, several misunderstandings were cleared up and large areas of common ground were uncovered.

I wrote a draft report of that meeting and circulated it to everyone who had been in the room for their comments, corrections, and suggestions, which were then incorporated into a second draft. That was then circulated to all the same people again, and to the other two members of my sub-committee, and everyone’s final comments and suggestions were incorporated.

So it is accurate to say that the report we presented to GAM represented a consensus among this group. That report described the many areas of consensus and made several recommendations, chief among them being that the Executive Council continue the existence of this body because "the need for a vital robust news organization that does tell our story is more important than ever. It is time to extend the board’s mandate to reflect these changed circumstances – including the expanded nature of the news operation and the rapidly changing means of delivering that news including online as well as offline news gathering and dissemination."

Agreement also was reached about how the board and the staff might best work together, using regular conference calls between the Communications staff and the board "working off a co-created agenda to insure a timely exchange of information and feedback."

Two of these conference calls already have happened.

We recommended revising the mandate of the board to reflect the changed circumstances since its establishment in 1990, including changing the name to more accurately reflect the role of the group.

[In this process, several names were suggested. GAM members thought Episcopal News Service Advisory Committee best reflected the role of the group. Arguing over the name was not a ditch I was willing to die in.]

The discussion among GAM members also brought up the need to bring the group into compliance with changes in the bylaws of Executive Council and to bring clarity to the oversight and administration of the group's budget, which formerly had been part of the communications department's budget. We also wanted to respond to the board's request for clear lines of communication with the Executive Council and to make clear this group's mandate dealt with the news gathering and distribution areas of the Office of Communications, and not with its public affairs division.

We were unable to meet their request for money for a face-to-face meeting, but now that we have clarity on where their budget should be and on communication with the Council, I remain hopeful we can find some funds in 2011 and/or 2012.

After more consultation on Saturday with Sharon Tillman, president of the board, and with Anne Rudig, this resolution was crafted and passed by Council:
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Resolved, That the Executive Council, meeting in Omaha, Nebraska from February 19-22, 2010, directs that the name of the Board of Governors of Episcopal Life be changed to Episcopal News Service Advisory Committee, and be it further

Resolved, that this committee of Executive Council will be comprised of members appointed for six year staggered terms from each of the nine provinces by the respective provincial governing body and up to three at-large members will be appointed by the presiding officers to enhance diversity of race, ethnicity, gender, expertise, language, sexual orientation; and be it further

Resolved, that its mandate shall be revised to read: “This advisory council shall consult and advise on news gathering, distribution and publishing efforts and ventures of the communications staff at the Church Center engaged in news gathering and dissemination with the goal of insuring that all publication[s] regardless of the means of dissemination effectively serve the needs of the church at all levels, i.e., national, diocesan, parish -- to keep the voice of the whole church in a prominent place in the operation of any news gathering entity of the Church” and be it further

Resolved, that the committee shall report annually to the Executive Council through its Joint Standing Committee on Governance and Administration for Mission, and provincial members shall maintain regular communication with their respective provinces, and be it further

Resolved, that this committee and its budget will be overseen and administered by the General Convention Office.

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All the current members of the board remain in place as do their terms of office. A copy of the final resolution was emailed to Tillman as soon as it passed and she shared it with the rest of the board members. I also participated in their conference call on Tuesday to answer any questions. Members of the Communications Office were on that call.

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Other issues that struck me included the helpful [and moving] report of the efforts of Episcopal Relief and Development in Haiti. But I also was struck by the report of the work of ER-D in the wake of the massive winter storms that have left the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation without power or water or heat for more than a month now. What's worse, the power company is telling the community that it may be six months before power is restored.

Council member Terry Starr spoke very movingly of the situation. One example he gave of the cascading effects of the ice storm is the story of several families who moved into one trailer because it had a wood-burning stove. The trailer caught fire and while everyone got out unharmed, they lost all their possessions and are once again homeless.

The Episcopal Bishop of South Dakota, John Tarrant asked for and got relief funds from Episcopal Relief and Development, and Valentine's Day was set for a special collection to help the 30,000 Sioux in an area the size of Connecticut. But Episcopalians cannot do this alone. This situation calls for state and federal efforts.

According to Episcopal News Service, Tribal Chairman Joe Brings Plenty, said they lost 3,000 power poles and the reservation water system.

News reports say that the South Dakota National Guard, the state Department of Public Safety, and the Army Corps of Engineers have supplied some emergency generators. But according to the release, food, medical supplies and additional generators are needed.The tribe's one and only grocery store lost all perishables. Dialysis patients are also being evacuated three hours away to Rapid City.

This story has been almost completely under the "compassion radar." With the except of MSNBC's Keith Olberman, who is now raising funds at MSNBC for the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe Storm Relief - Emergency Assistance Fund -- the national media have pretty much ignored this story.

This is a part of the larger story of the sorry state of our nation's infrastructure, but I can't help but think that if this had happened in an affluent less isolated place to a bunch of suburban families that the story would be all over the news and the power poles and lines would have been fixed long ago.

I plan to do what I can to raise awareness of this issue and I hope all of you will join me and the rest of Executive Council in this effort.

What Simon Says

My friend Simon Sarmiento over at Thinking Anglicans has done some excellent work rebutting the MANY misrepresentations "relating to The Episcopal Church in General Synod paper GS 1764A, a briefing paper for a Private Members’ Motion dealing with the relationship between the Church of England and the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA)."

This is the latest maneuver by the schismatics to get themselves recognized as Anglicans. PLEASE go read what Simon says.

Trust Women

Planned Parenthood can't afford the million bucks it takes to buy airtime during the Super Bowl, but it has created its own video response to the Tim Tebow ad with former Olympic gold medalist Al Joyner and Minnesota Vikings running back Sean James.



Trust women. What a radical idea.

Pass this along.

Which kind of religious messages get TV airtime?

This week's Texas Faith question in the Dallas Morning News dealt with the Super Bowl ad of Tim Tebow.

Here's the question:

University of Florida quarterback Tim Tebow, a Heisman winner, has prepared an ad that CBS has said it will run during the Super Bowl. Supported by groups like Focus on the Family, Tebow’s ad will tell the story of how his mother decided to give birth to him despite medical complications that were severe enough that doctors recommended against it. Serving as a missionary abroad at the time, she returned home and went ahead and gave birth to him.


Some organizations, including the National Organization for Women, want CBS to pull the ad. They claim introducing the subject of abortion is political advocacy and doesn’t belong in a Super Bowl telecast.

Here is the question for the week:

Should CBS pull the ad? Or keep it? Please explain your position.
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Here's my response as a member of the Texas Faith panel:

The question should be asked more precisely -- which religious viewpoints are to be allowed onto the nation’s airwaves?

Case in point, the 2004 ad called "Bouncer" that the United Church of Christ wanted to run on CBS. You can see it at here.

Two burly bouncers stand in front of a church door, deciding who gets to go in and who does not. They stop a gay couple, but let a straight family in. They stop handicapped people, but let able bodied people in. They stop minorities, but let white people in. The words "Jesus didn't turn people away. Neither do we." come onscreen. Over an image of a happy diverse group of people, a narrator then says, "The United Church of Christ. No matter who you are or where you are on life's journey, you're welcome here."

CBS rejected the ad as "too controversial," saying it advocated same-sex marriage. The UCC protested that the point of the ad was to demonstrate that everyone, including LGBT folk, should be welcome in church. Another similar UCC ad, "Ejector," also was rejected by the networks and their cable networks in 2005.

So having banned an ad by a progressive Christian denomination as ”too controversial,” CBS now is allowing an ad supported by conservative religious organizations prime air time before a huge Super Bowl audience.

CBS is not alone in this prejudice against progressive Christians. In early 2005, the UCC tried to buy time on the ABC network, only to be told that ABC did not accept any religious advertising. One month later, Focus on the Family was allowed to buy prime time advertising on ABC's SuperNanny show.

So apparently if the message of a “religious” ad is a conservative one, it is acceptable. But what if Tim Tebow's message was to tell men and boys that women and girls are as much made in the image of God as are men; that it is never acceptable to treat women solely as relief valves for a male's sexual needs; that women should have complete control over their reproductive decisions so that if his mother had decided to terminate, that decision should be as respected as is her decision to carry the pregnancy to term?

After all, Tim Tebow will never have to make a decision about whether or not to terminate a pregnancy. But he, like most male sports stars, will most likely face a decision about having sex with women lured by his sports celebrity. How refreshing it would have been to hear him reflect on how men should handle such decisions responsibly, instead of putting out an anti-choice message that once again lays the entire burden of unplanned pregnancies on women.

I suspect such an ad would never see the light of day on a network. It would challenge way too many of the macho patriarchal ideas that still rule our nation's airwaves, airwaves that, in theory at least, belong to all the people.