St. Somewhere

If you have a snow day and there’s no school does it count as a snow day? That’s the esoteric question being posed at our house today. It’s snowing and the kids are home, which is pretty much as it should be in the week between Christmas and New Year’s. We played a board game this morning, they’ve been outside to play football, sledding’s on tap for the afternoon followed by s’mores in the fireplace. Not a bad deal.

Me? I’m in the midst of a “virtual” Carribbean vacation. I’ve been listening to a lot of Jimmy Buffett and wishing I was able to “fly to St. Somewhere.” The closest I came to the swim-up bar was doing laps at the gym this morning. My “boat drinks” (as Jimmy refers to any rum-inspired concoction) have consisted of pouring hot chocolate for the boys. And I’m more concerned with the wind chill factor than the “warm summer breezes and French wine and cheeses.”

But it’s all part of my attempt at a post-Christmas thaw. It’s going pretty well except for the requisite sermon preparation and liturgical planning. Ready or not Sunday morning (and Saturday night in this case) always comes. As Jimmy sings, “There’s a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.” So true.

Maybe I’ll celebrate New Year’s Eve with a boat drink. Anyone have one of those little umbrellas? Actually it doesn’t matter; as long as I’m in bed by 9:30 I’m good. Happy New Year everyone!

Holy Hangover

I’m hungover this morning and it has nothing to do with alcohol. It’s a “holy hangover” — the kind that comes from slaving over a hot altar the past week. I think most parish clergy feel the same way after Christmas — lots of preparation, too little sleep. But I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone has a touch of it.

Everyone’s sick of Christmas just as the season actually begins. Which is too bad. The malls have moved on to Valentine’s Day or President’s Day or whatever’s up next on the holiday docket. And we’re finally able to sing some Christmas carols in church — just when people are ready to puke if they hear another one. Ah, the joy of living a counter-cultural life.

The whole notion of the Holy Hangover is partly what drives the phenomenon of “Low Sunday” on the Sunday after Christmas. Attendance drops and so does the energy level. Raise your hand if you slept in yesterday (it’s okay I won’t tell). I actually cherish this low Sunday — you can still find some tinsel in the pews from the pageant angel’s halos, the service is small, contemplative, and quiet. The faithful remnant remains.

Things will soon enough get back to normal but there’s no hurry. Just as Christ is found in the holy zoo of the Christmas pageant and the beauty of Midnight Mass, he’s also found when just two or three are gathered together in his name. Which is precisely what low Sunday feels like.

But I’m still tired. So in the meantime I’m trying to cram a week off into one day. I’ll let you know how it’s going — I may just fly to Bermuda in my mind. But that might lead to an actual hangover.

Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel

Two days before Christmas Ben had the whole family playing Dreidel. For a clergy family we have an inordinate number of dreidels. Plastic, wood, metal — pretty much everything except the “made it out of clay” model of the “Dreidel Song.” Though with the way Ben and Zack spin these things I think clay would be a bad idea…

This doesn’t bother me – it’s just what happens when you live in a place like Briarcliff Manor that has a significant Jewish community. The boys are always coming home with dreidels in December and they both know all the words to the Dreidel Song. I find myself humming it on my way to church some days. Which is odd.

Ben even knows the Hebrew letters that I learned in seminary and have long since forgotten. Though I must say his rules seem a  bit fuzzy. The game felt a lot more like poker than anything else. And I got trounced.

A few years ago our town of 7,000 was embroiled in the requisite “culture wars” debate on public holiday displays — complete with an article about the controversy in The New York Times. Some guy wanted to donate a large creche scene, the village trustees turned him down, and in the spirit of Christmas he sued them. I was quoted as saying, “If people are so passionate about this, put up a display in your yard, go to church, go to synagogue, go to your religious institution and celebrate. That’s where the energy should be … rather than publicly debating what symbols to put up.” And that’s where I stand on the issue.

We ended up with a “non-religious holiday display” consisting of a large decorated tree with a star on top alongside a huge mettalic dreidel. How inspiring.

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas Redux

Who says you can’t blog less than one hour away from Midnight Mass? I’m posting my Christianized version of the Clement Moore classic. I first used this in 2000 when I was the curate at Old St. Paul’s in Baltimore. So here’s the latest version and Merry Christmas to all!

‘Twas the night before Christmas and throughout All Saints’,

The excitement was building, we hope no one faints.

The candles were placed on the altar with care,

In hopes that baby Jesus soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their pews,

While visions of wise men brought the good news;

Acolytes in their vestments and I in my robes,

The trees were all trimmed, sporting their bows.

When out from the manger arose such a clatter

Angels and shepherds, what could be the matter?

Up in the sky rose a star lit so bright,

Streaming upon us this cold winter’s night.

Horses and donkeys and a bed full of hay,

Mary and Joseph could only just pray.

When, what to our wondering eyes do we see,

But shepherds and wise men upon bended knee.

From off in the distance we hear a great song,

A multitude of angels joins the great throng.

Glory to God in the highest they sing

and on earth peace, goodwill to all things.

On that night, all calm and all bright,

I knew in a moment he was Jesus the Christ.

More glorious than cherubim and seraphim he,

Offering salvation to all who would see.

In swaddling clothes in a manger he lay,

Bringing joy to the world on that first Christmas Day.

Now Mary, now Joseph, now angels on high,

On shepherds on wise men we shall now draw nigh.

As presents are opened and gift-wrap is torn,

Remember the Christ to us who is born.

The little Lord Jesus awake and asleep,

He is the shepherd and we are his sheep.

We worship tonight in this Westchester town,

We praise and adore him all the year ‘round.

May the blessing of God be upon you this night,

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Rules for Pageant Survival

Having just returned from our Christmas Pageant rehearsal (and stopped twitching), I thought I’d offer some friendly advice on how to survive the annual Christmas Pageant.

Father Tim’s Rules for Pageant Survival:

1. Make sure you have enough wings for all the angels. Unless you have a high tolerance for the requisite high- strung angel meltdown.
2. Shepherds’ crooks make fine swords (even better than Palm Sunday palms).
3. Don’t give your young Melchior an actual flaming pot of frankincense.
4. There’s a fine line between angel and Barbie princess. Parents, please communicate this to your “little angel.”
5. No live animals. Two-year-old “sheep” cause enough chaos. Save this for St. Francis Day.
6. If you go with a live baby Jesus always have the Holy Doll standing by just in case.
7. When you dim the lights and sing “Silent Night” don’t give out individual candles to the children. Unless you have really good fire insurance.
8. Make sure Joseph goes to the bathroom before the pageant begins.
9. It’s nice to wash those dish towels the shepherds wear on their heads at least once a decade.
10. If you like liturgy done “decently and in order,” go to the late service.

Actually, I think the Pageant service is a more realistic celebration of our incarnational faith than Midnight Mass. Authentic relationship with God is more often messy and chaotic than it is dignified and beautifully choreographed. The important thing to remember is that it’s not just chaos but “holy chaos.” God’s in the midst of it all; which is what Christmas is really all about.

Tech Deck Jesus

Lest you think we don’t have any pre-Christmas action at our house, I came home from a Vestry meeting last night to find out the boys have a new Advent devotion. Baby Jesus can evidently do some radical moves on a Tech Deck.

If you don’t know what a Tech Deck is — and unless you have elementary-school aged boys I’d be worried if you do — I wrote about their popularity last summer. It’s basically a miniature skateboard whose appeal is beyond me. But kids love them for some reason.

The baby Jesus in question is from their Playmobile Nativity Set. Mean parents that we are, we don’t let them play with the real one. But, hey, I’m just glad they’re playing with it at all. If more people metaphorically got down on the floor and engaged Jesus, the world would be a better place.

Smoking Bishop?

In case you were concerned, I survived last night’s annual drag-the-husbands-to-the-ladies’-book-club event. It was like being at a massive festival of food and drink except that the occasional book discussion broke out. We were charged with reading Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” which I dutifully did, unlike most of the other husbands and a few of the women. I am such a nerd. I thought people actually read the book assigned for book group.

I actually really enjoyed it. Everyone knows the story, everyone’s seen the play or the movie, but like many people I’d never actually read it. Good stuff.

After Scrooge has his conversion experience, the book ends with the following line:

“A Merry Christmas, Bob!” said Scrooge with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. “A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I’ll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon over a bowl of Smoking Bishop, Bob!”

What is Smoking Bishop you ask? It’s a drink so named for it’s purple color (brought about by red wine and port) and the fact that it’s served warm. Here’s a recipe to add to your Christmas cheer:

Smoking Bishop
Recipe

5 unpeeled oranges
1 unpeeled grapefruit
36 cloves
1/4 pound of sugar
2 bottles of red wine
1 bottle of port

Wash the fruit and oven bake until brownish. Turn once. Put fruit into a warmed earthenware bowl with six cloves stuck into each. Add sugar and pour in wine — NOT the port. Cover and leave in a warm place for a day. Squeeze the fruit into the wine and strain. Add the port and heat. Do not boil! Serve “smoking” warm. Yield: 15 to 20 servings (serve in small wine glasses).

Don’t feel inclined to make it but still want to partake? If you’re local (to me) plan to attend this Sunday’s Landmark Churches service of Advent Lessons & Carols. 4:00 pm at Trinity Church, Ossining. Reception featuring “Smoking Bishop” to follow.

We Have a Winner

Da Mayor

The envelope please…

The winner of the 100th Facebook Friend Award — mentioned in a previous post — goes to The Honorable James Haggerty. You think I’m kidding about the “honorable” part but I’m not. Jim is the mayor of Kingston, Pennsylvania, and a former Army buddy of mine. Well, still a buddy and now an official “friend” but we met when we were both in Army ROTC at MIT.

Lest you think I actually went to MIT, let me clarify. Jim went to MIT (and later Georgetown Law). Our ROTC program included cadets from MIT, Tufts (my alma mater), Harvard, and Wellesley. An eclectic group of warriors to say the least.

But it’s appropriate in other ways: Jim’s a fellow Armor officer (tanks), we’ve been to a Jimmy Buffett concert together, and have shared a drink at the Florabama.

So, Jim, congratulations. If I had to rank my friends in order, you’d definitely be number 100. And more importantly, the dog-eared, coffee stained display copy of my book that’s been sitting near the register at Coffee Labs Roasters for the past several months will soon be in the mail. Autographed of course. And I’ll even pick up the $2.36 for postage.

For those of you who lost out, I’m sorry. I know this contest has been consuming your every thought over the last few days. You’ll have to buy the book on Amazon (cheap! $9.60!). Though if you’d like me to sign a piece of scrap paper I’m happy to do so. It’ll only cost you a cup of coffee.

Christmas Massacre

I took this picture in a daring drive-by in my neighborhood this afternoon. Sorry to sound cranky this time of year but I can’t stand these inflatable lawn ornaments. The worst? That Frosty snow globe one. I much prefer them in a state of deflation. It looks like some sort of Christmas massacre in which Frosty, Yuletide Shrek, and Rudolph go down in a hail of BB’s.

While I’ve fantasized about purchasing an air gun and personally going out on a raid, I’ve so far refrained. I can just imagine the headline in the paper: “Local Priest Goes on Holiday Rampage.” The maxim “all press is good press” has its limits. So I’ll keep my dastardly thoughts to myself and imagine the damage I might have done whenever I see one of these deflated scenes.

Now back to more holy thoughts — I’ve got some sermons to write!

Rock ‘n Roll Fantasy

Pensive or Pissed?

For those of you who have long wondered what I look like in makeup (and I seriously hope that’s nobody), the answer has arrived. My appearance on the FaithStreams Book Club was just posted. You can access the five minute video by clicking here.

I shared my photo shoot experience in an earlier blog postand now you can see the finished product. Actually we shot two of these and the second one will get uploaded onto FaithStreams late next week.

Growing up in the late 1970’s I always thought that my makeup debut would be as a member of the band Kiss. That didn’t happen and then they even stopped wearing makeup altogether. If you’ve ever seen Gene Simmons’ reality show “Family Jewels” you know this was not a good career move. More recently, I thought it might come as a metrosexual. But I don’t even wear gel in my hair, let alone go in for the occasional pedicure.

Anyway, enjoy the video hosted by veteran “hoster” Timberly Whitfield. And, yes, I know the opening shot makes me look like I’m slouching. I guess I was trying to show just how relaxed I was. Or perhaps I was slouching.