26.2 or Bust

With the President of Tufts following the 2008 Boston Marathon

Boy, is it easy to sign up to run a marathon. You go to the website, click “register,” type in your info inculding your credit card number for the registration fee, and presto! You’re in. It’s only later, as you’re slogging through mile 17 of a training run in the pouring rain that the buyer’s remorse kicks in. But by then it’s too late. You’ve already told your family and friends that you’re running it so the potential shame alone keeps you going.

For me, the hardest part about running a marathon isn’t race day. Despite a few close encounters with “The Wall,” the marathon itself isn’t the toughest piece. It’s the training. It’s the four-month mileage buildup to make sure you can make it to the finish line. That’s the part that no one sees. Unless you’re the spouse of a marathoner and you’re used to getting woken up at oh-dark-thirty by your clumsy runner-husband who trips over his shoes in the dark. Speaking of which, here’s a great article on the subject of crazy runners that my sister-in-law forwarded to Bryna.

I always figure if I can make it to the starting line in relatively good health, I’ll be fine. That hasn’t always been the case but I’m feeling good these days as I train for the Providence Marathon in May. I ran 15 miles last Saturday and will continue to slowly build up the mileage. It will be my fourth marathon (Baltimore, Chicago, Boston) and, as I did for Boston last April, I’m excited to be raising money for a good cause. (Best thing about running Boston? Blessing the students from BC yelling out “Go Father Tim!” as I climbed up Heartbreak Hill — here’s that story.)

This time I’m raising funds for Episcopal Relief & Development, the Church’s global outreach ministry. They do amazing work all over the world in areas of greatest need. So, if you’re so inclined, you can support me in this endeaver by going to my fundraising website. Chip in a few bucks, add a comment, and I’ll be eternally grateful. Or at least grateful until the next time I run a marathon for a cause at which time I’ll hit you up again.

Dust Bunnies

There’s always a bit of confusion about how to greet people on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. “Happy Lent!” doesn’t feel quite right. “Merry penitential season of repentance!” is worse. If only Hallmark made Ash Wednesday greeting cards we’d know how to properly greet one another.

The Church invites us to keep a “holy” Lent. So that’s probably as good a salutation as any. I bid you all a Holy Lent and a blessed Ash Wednesday. Below is an Ash Wednesday reflection I wrote that was posted today on Episcopal Life Online. Enjoy.

Kicking Up Some Dust

I don’t like dust. And I especially don’t like dust bunnies. You know, those mysterious furry things that lurk behind your bedroom door, or in your closet, or under your bed. Who knows how they got there? Who wants to know how they got there? But they’re there and I don’t like them. And I especially don’t like when they move around. You’ve probably seen them do this. You open a door, look behind it, and the dust bunny catches just enough air that it starts moving like it’s possessed.

Ash Wednesday always makes me think about dust because of the words said during the imposition of ashes: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It is not a particularly uplifting image. If the oak tree is the symbol of strength and permanence, dust is the symbol of transience and fragility. Here one moment, gone the next. To be dust is to be fleeting. Dust can be swept away in an instant; or blown away by a gentle breeze. Dust scatters; it is transitory. Just like us. We are no more permanent upon this earth than the smallest speck of dust. With the slightest breath we can be lost forever. Forgotten. Erased as if we had never existed.

Reflecting upon our own mortality is about as much fun as thinking about dust bunnies. The good news is that, as Christians, we do so within the context of Christ’s resurrection. Dust is not the end of the story. Death is merely a temporary state, as ephemeral as dust itself. We pass through death into the new life we share with the resurrected Christ. Which doesn’t mean that death is without regret or pain or grief. We are human. But the dust of the grave is not our final dwelling place.

Now think about dust for a moment. There are two ways to create it. One is through inactivity. If you go downstairs into a part of the basement you never use, the part where you store old boxes of books or the pair of skis you haven’t used in 25 years, you encounter dust. Run your finger along those skis and you get a tangible reminder that they haven’t been used in ages. Your finger is suddenly covered with dust. And maybe you even sneeze once or twice.

But there’s also another way to create dust: through activity. That’s how those dust bunnies in your bedroom came to be. Through the activity of everyday life, you create dust. It comes in on your shoes, or your clothes; it’s formed when you take that cookbook off the shelf to find a recipe for guacamole. If we’re not kicking up some dust, we’re not really living.

So, there are two ways to create dust: through inactivity or through activity. And the best we can do is to create dust by being active. When you reach out to a friend who’s hurting, you kick up dust. When you volunteer your time to tutor a child, you kick up dust. When you sacrifice an afternoon to work on a Habitat for Humanity house, you kick up dust – both figuratively and literally. Jesus encourages us to kick up some dust every now and then; to roll up our sleeves and get involved with the world and the people around us. We might get a bit dirty every once in a while, but that’s okay. Because through our relationship with Jesus we are cleansed and renewed and dusted off.

Logging Off (sorta)

After much prayer and reflection, I’ve decided to give up Facebook and e-mail for Lent. Sort of. Okay, I admit I’m too weak to do this completely. And the spirit, let alone the flesh, isn’t even interested in trying. But I will commit to not checking e-mail or FB after 6:00 pm.

I realize I’m facing a potentially harmful (evening only) detox. I get the shakes just thinking about it. I did something similar two years ago when I gave up checking e-mail in the evening. But that was before I joined Facebook. And before I got that extra appendage known in some circles as a BlackBerry. This totally ups the degree of difficulty.

As difficult as it will be to pull off, I think 40 unplugged evenings will be a good thing. It will certainly be good modeling for Ben and Zack — you don’t need to sit at the computer every time you pass through the family room. And perhaps we’ll play a bit more Chinese checkers or Connect Four or whatever game they want to play in that time between dinner and bedtime. It might even help make up for the extra evening meetings I’ll be going to during Lent.

I do realize Jesus didn’t die so that I could check my e-mail less. But giving something up (that you actually like) is a great way to connect with the self-denial of his 40 days spent in the wilderness. In Scripture we read about the devil tempting the famished Jesus by daring him to turn a rock into a dinner roll. For me, the temptation will be that little red flashing light that blinks on my “CrackBerry” whenever I have a new e-mail or FB message.

I will try to be strong. But I also wonder how many times I can check my e-mail between 5:59 and 6:00 pm?

Burying the Alleluias

Lent begins in less than a week. Which means you’d better get all your “alleluias” in during the next several days before the Church’s moratorium kicks in. If you get caught saying “alleluia” during Lent the Liturgy Police will “disappear” you until Easter. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

I remember one year on the Second Sunday in Lent a sweet, older parishioner of mine mistakenly said “alleluia” during the Fraction Anthem. You know, the part when the priest breaks the bread and says “(Alleluia) Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.” And the response is “Therefore let us keep the feast. (Alleluia). The “Alleluia” is omitted during Lent. But it slipped out of her lips and we didn’t see her again until the Easter egg hunt following the 10:00 am service. 

Okay, I made that up but you don’t want to take any chances with this stuff. There’s a fine line between a liturgical faux pas (saying “And also with you” during Rite I, for instance, instead of “And with thy spirit”) and a punishable offense like singing “Alleluia, sing to Jesus” on Good Friday. Don’t blame me, I didn’t make the rules. Jesus did. Or maybe the rubric writers of the Book of Common Prayer who have at least as much power.

The only time you can legally say the banned word during Lent is at a funeral. Since funerals are “Easter liturgies” they trump the season. When I was first ordained and serving a church in Baltimore, I did a funeral at an Episcopal church in Brooklyn. The brother of my best friend from high school killed himself by jumping off a building in Manhattan. Needless to say it was a very emotional time for all involved. It was the first time I did a service at another church — the family had arranged this – so I was very respectful in my dealings with the church’s rector. He wasn’t going to be there but I wanted to make sure things went as smoothly as possible. It happened to be Lent.

He wasn’t particularly helpful or pastoral but he did give me one directive: “Since it’s Lent, make sure you don’t say ‘Alleluia’ during the service.” Which is difficult since the word is part of the burial rite’s Commendation (“Even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia). The very last word of my sermon was also “Alleluia.” In an admittedly passive aggressive move, I left the manuscript in the pulpit turned to the last page so that word would greet him on Sunday morning.

Some things transcend the pettiness of liturgical minutia. Like the Resurrection. So go ahead and bury your alleluias this Lent. But remember it’s all within the context of Christ’s rising again in great glory. The power of which is precisely why we proclaim “Alleluia” in the first place.

Pretty in Green?

Have you heard that green is the new color of Valentine’s Day? I know 40 is the new 30, and that works for me, but this is ridiculous. I’m not a big pink advocate — though I did own a pink button-down in the ’80’s straight out of The Preppy Handbook. Call me a traditionalist but I just don’t want anyone drawing green hearts for me. Not that they would.

The only reason I’m aware of this is because a mom I know went to five stores before she finally found the pink M&Ms her daughter wanted to give to her fellow kindergartners.  Why did the color change? Because Mars Inc., the company that produces M&Ms, deemed it thus.

Anyone who grew up in the 70’s or ’80’s heard the rumors about green M&Ms. They were said to have special, um, powers. Like oysters. Mars, of course, is playing on this theme with their green M&M vixen. And not that I’m becoming a member of the Moral Majority but isn’t that the wrong message to be sending kids? We do celebrate romantic love on Valentine’s Day but a large portion of the revelers are elementary-school aged kids. For them it is, and should be, all about the free candy. They’ll surely get into the other stuff soon enough.

Here’s what Mars is saying: “By proclaiming green the new color of love, M&M’S® is spinning a traditional Valentine’s Day treat into something fun and flirty,” stated Michele Kessler, vice president, marketing, Mars Snackfood US. “Consumers will be delighted with our sweet and sassy Ms. Green as she encourages Americans to support green as the new color of love and we elevate the myth behind green M&M’S!”

That’s just a bit creepy don’t you think? But I guess it could be worse. Like if they delve into liturgical colors and try to make pink the new color of Lent.

Be My Valentine

If you want to spice things up with your Valentine tonight, try this: show up to your romantic dinner at that cozy bistro dressed as the martyred St. Valentine. He was evidently beaten and stoned before his beheading at the hand of the Roman emperor for marrying couples in the Christian faith. So, depending on how realisitic you want to make this, it might get a bit messy. Perhaps a simple Steve Martin arrow-through-the-head prop would suffice. Though maybe you should just stick to the roses.

But as we celebrate Valentine’s Day I thought it might be helpful to reflect upon the real St. Valentine. Actually, there’s some confusion over this since there appears to have been more than one St. Valentine. The feast of St. Valentine was first established in 496 to mark the death of a St. Valentine on February 14th. But even then it seems to have been a day to mark several martyred saints sharing the name Valentinus (from the Latin valens meaning worthy).

Nonetheless, the modern feast day likely commemorates the St. Valentine who was a priest in Rome during the reign of Claudius II (260-270 AD). He was arrested for marrying Christian couples and assisting those facing persecution – a crime in those days. Valentine tried to convert the emperor and was put to death.

It wasn’t until 14th century England that the feast started to become a celebration of romantic love. The poet Geoffrey Chaucer is often credited with bringing together the romantic imagery of blooming spring and birds choosing their mates. In The Parliament of Fowles Chaucer’s was the first mention of St. Valentine in a love poem.

My clergy colleague and running partner Patrick Ward (thanks for a good 14 miles this morning) tells brides and grooms who choose the famous “wedding passage” from 1st Corinthians 13 (“Love is patient, love is kind”) to insert the word ‘Jesus’ whenever they see the word ‘love.’ Because that’s really what Paul was getting at. It’s a good reminder that God’s love for us is the source of all romantic love.

And one final note: contrary to the ad campaign, every kiss does not begin with Kay. I hope.

Dog Days

I tried to watch the Westminster Dog Show. I really did. But after five minutes of watching overweight handlers trying to keep up with their schnauzers, I gave up.

I guess what really turned me off was that the dogs involved weren’t actually acting like dogs. There was no mischief or nipping at the judges’ heels or inappropriate scratching. They were all too perfect: perfectly behaved, perfectly coiffed, perfectly cute. Like Stepford dogs.

It’s the same reason I cringe whenever I hear about those JonBenet Ramsay-style kiddie pageants. There are no tantrums or whining or begging for chicken nuggets. Sure, the stage mothers are full intrigue and back-stabbing. But the kids involved don’t actually act like kids.

Plus the whole thing seems so arbitrary. I realize there are breed standards the judges look for. But for the life of me I can’t tell the difference between one well-behaved poodle and the next. Or between two little yappy things that are nothing more than glorified cats. I’m also somehow disturbed by the whole sense of the “perfect” member of the breed. I can’t help but hear overtones of the Aryan ideal. And I’d certainly hate to be judged against the stereotypical human by, say, a bunch of hyper-critical otters. I’d come up short based on height alone.

I guess I prefer mutts like Delilah who probably won’t win any behavorial contests but can dole out unconditional love with the best of ‘em. There’s a reason “God” spelled backwards is “Yahweh.” Or something like that.

Episcopal Idol

I didn’t win a Grammy Award last night. And I’m pissed. Granted they don’t have a “Liturgical” category but I can sing the Sursum Corda with the best of ‘em. And evensong? I rock.

Perhaps they should have an Episcopal Idol for clergy. All the contestants would be sitting in the green room in their chasubles or dalmatics. One by one they’d come out, stand in front of an altar and start singing. The audience (or, as I like to call it, the congregation) could boo as yet another deacon butchers the Exsultet. Or wince as the arrogant cardinal rector chants the Collect for Easter to the Mozarabic tone like a dying seal.  And rejoice as the simple, unsung, small town country parson wows them with a masterful rendition of Suffrages B.

I’m not sure who would judge the proceedings. Someone in a pointy hat I presume along with a finicky organist — those are a dime a dozen. The winner would get a recording contract to cut a live album called “Why is There No Ccollect to Sing in Prayer C?” with the choir at the National Cathedral. And be eligible for a Grammy.

Icing on the Cake

Well, we survived Zack’s 8^th birthday party yesterday. That’s about all you can hope to do with these things, especially when youprovide the entertainment. And, no, I didn’t dress up as Bobo the balloon twisting clown. I just don’t believe in paying $600 to have someone else entertain a bunch of 8-year-olds when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. At least in theory.

So we had Zack’s much anticipated Football Party in the church parish hall. My basic theory with this stuff is to sugar ‘em up, wear ‘em out, and send ‘em home. 90 minutes tops. And the kids have a great time just playing with one another rather than having the party feel like another one of the endless pre-planned events they get shuttled to and from all week.

But unstructured time still means you have to have some activities at the ready. There was touch football, of course; football bingo (with Skittles as the edible markers); time with the nursery school’s scooters – we raided the closet; a building project with marshmallows and toothpicks that was the least popular of all; pizza; and finally a Carvel football cake purchased the day before the Super Bowl.

These things always feel like the longest hour and a half of my life. After 30 minutes Bryna and I just looked at one another and shook our heads. The prospect of a glass of wine at the end of it all was the only thing that kept us going. That and the shrieks of unbridled joy.

The best part for this clergy dad was that Zack had requested his baptismal candle be put on the cake. I didn’t realize this until Bryna stuck the honking thing into the laces of the football-shaped ice cream cake. The tradition is to light the candle every year on the anniversary of your child’s baptism. We remember to do this most years. But that wonderful connection between Zack’s identity as a child of God and a child of his earthly parents is compelling. I’m pretty sure he didn’t make this connection – he just wanted a big candle on his cake to put an exclamation point on the day. But I hope that one day he’ll come to see the significance. And I thank him for making me think about both birthdays and baptism in a new way.

Treated Like Royalty

I received my first royalty check yesterday. At least I thought I did. The statement indicated royalties of $77.31 . And I had grandiose plans for my earnings. I considered blowing the whole wad and fleeing to Peru to live like, well, royalty. More realistically, I could have splurged and taken the family out to dinner at a fancy restaurant. Say Applebees.

That was until I realized the $77.31 was in parentheses, the universal sign for deficit. On closer inspection, I realized that by the end of 2008 I hadn’t yet earned out my (paltry) advance. I still “owed” the $77 to Morehouse until more copies sell. Oh well. I guess you could say my royalty check became a reality check.

It was interesting to note how many copies had sold since “What Size Are God’s Shoes” came out six months ago: 1,040. This included 18 sold in Canada and 15 in Mexico. I may have to translate the book into Spanish to feed my growing South of the Border market. And and a few “ehs” into the text to attract more Canadian readers.

With these numbers I finally understand why I haven’t made the New York Timesbestseller list. Though I still check every week just to make sure I haven’t leap frogged over “Eat, Pray, Love” or John Grisham’s latest.

Obviously I didn’t write the book to make money — I’ve surely lost money on this deal. And I’ve donated a portion of the sales back to my church’s memorial garden fund. But I’ll keep at it because I believe strongly in the message. And perhaps next year I’ll be able to buy myself a family-sized package of beef jerky or something.