This (Holy) Week in Baseball

Some Christians are protesting the Detroit Tigers’ decision to start their home Opener during the “holy hours” on Good Friday. The first pitch is 1:05 pm, coinciding with the traditional time of noon to 3:00 pm kept to mark Jesus’ hanging on the cross. All across America Christians will be sitting in church for all or part of the “Three Hours Service” often focusing on “The Seven Last Words of Christ.” And at the same time the Tigers will be taking on the Texas Rangers. In fact all 30 Major League teams see action that day but the Tigers are the only team hosting a game during the holy hours.

It would be easy to just rail against this — call the entire Tigers’ organization a bunch of heathens and condemn the fans who bought tickets. But it’s all part of something much larger: the way the Church interacts with culture is changing dramatically. In the days of the early Church, the great enemy of the Christian faith was persecution. Today, I would contend, it is apathy. And this will continue, I think, until we are left with a smaller, stronger, more faithful Church. A Church that continues to reach out in radical welcome but one that  is not propped up by the culture.

I’m used to (though never pleased by) the fact that more and more families blow off church to go to fill-in-the-blank-little-league-sport or those Sunday morning birthday parties. The whole notion of church as “activity” — important unless a better offer arises — is a distasteful reality of modern Church life. A far cry from the discipleship of the cross to which Jesus calls us. I’ve even become resigned to the fact that Holy Week generally overlaps with school breaks. While some walk through and are transformed by the most profound spiritual experiences of the year, their neighbors are sunning themselves in Aruba. The contrast is both stunning and telling.

So I don’t think it’s particularly productive to protest the Tigers’ decision, though I do disagree with it. Rather, it should spur all of us to share the story of the Christian faith with even more fervor. Invite a friend, who doesn’t already have tickets to the Tigers/Rangers game, to a Good Friday service.

You never know the impact it might have. They might even respond, as Mel Allen used to exclaim on This Week in Baseball, “How about that?!”

The Bishop is Coming! The Bishop is Coming!

Yes, it’s true. Bishop Cathy Roskam is coming to All Saints’ this Sunday to make an official visitation on behalf of the Diocese of New York. The 200+ parishes in the diocese get a bishop once every two years and we were due.

Officially, she will meet with the Vestry, examine our parish register, and do Confirmations. But beyond the canonical duties, episcopal visitations remind us of our connection to something bigger than our individual congregations. While we live out our lives as disciples of the risen Christ in a particular parochial context, we are also part of something that transcends the bounds of the parish community. Namely: the Diocese of New York, the national Episcopal Church, the worldwide Anglican Communion, and the communion of saints that encompasses all the saints and angels and faithful departed who have ever walked the path of Jesus.

While larger parishes (and there are a bunch of them in New York) tend to get bishops on big liturgical days like Pentecost and All Saints’, smaller congregations get them on lesser days like the 5th Sunday in Lent (this year) or the Sunday after Easter (two years ago). I’m not complaining since this makes intuitive sense but it’s harder to have a big celebration at the end of Lent (Woo hoo the bishop’s here! Let’s get penitential!).

I’m lucky to have served in dioceses (Maryland and New York) with great bishops. Because, let’s face it, visitations have the potential to be pretty awkward. The rector plays host but it’s also a bit like having the boss to dinner — with the boss making the meal and helping to serve it.

When I was in seminary in Chicago the Roman Catholic archbishop, Cardinal Francis George, had a lousy reputation among parish clergy. Granted he had to succeed the late and exceedingly popular Cardinal Joseph Bernardin. But he developed the nickname “Francis the Corrector” for his penchant to correct the smallest liturgical detail at the parishes he visited. I can’t imagine the clergy looked forward to his visits a whole lot.

I am looking forward to an exciting Sunday morning and, anyway, I did get a break from writing a sermon this week.

Round ‘Em Up

Greetings from Grimes County, Texas. I’m down here for the Episcopal Communicators conference at Camp Allen, located 45 minutes from Houston. I have no idea in what direction.

Besides some engaging workshops and catching up with friends and colleagues from across the country, I’ve been experiencing a bit of Texas culture.  Some might argue that “Texas culture” is an oxymoron. “Flavor” might be a better word. I am at a communicators conference after all so word usage is important.

Last night we were treated to a “chuck wagon dinner” out by a lake. There was a genuine (gen-U-ine) chuck wagon and what I was assured were “real” cowboys cooking up the chow. This was no Euro Disney cowboy experience; this was serious stuff. If I’d asked for tofu I might have had my head blown off with a 12-gauge shotgun. The head chef may well have been the original Marlboro Man — though, as I think about it, I believe he died of lung cancer at some point. So perhaps it was his brother. But I ate the largest steak I’ve ever seen. It was huge! I mean this thing would be enough to make a vegan crawl into the fetal position and weep. And it was delicious.

This morning I went out for a pre-dawn run (had to do something to atone for that hunk of meat) and I saw more stars out in the Texas sky than I ever knew existed. It was stunning and one of those unique encounters with the divine through the beauty of creation. As the sun rose, I encountered various pieces of that Texas flavor. I passed a property raising llamas (not sure what you do with them and, actually, maybe they were alpacas. Not sure what you do with those either); set off a whole string of angry dogs barking as I passed through a neighborhood of trailer homes; passed a bunch of horses eating breakfast; and saw a sign that read: “Fourclosure (sic) — Double Wide — $14,800).”

After 13 miles I came back in and had cheese grits with black coffee. A perfect way to start a day somewhere in the Lone Star State.

Chasing Cheever

John Cheever

Churches make great claims about famous people who sat in their pews. Scour East Coast Episcopal churches and you’ll find all sorts of plaques: “John Hancock Worshipped Here” or “Washington Irving’s Pew” or “Oprah Appeared on the Secretary’s Television.” We’re proud of our history and the era when anybody who was anybody or anybody who wanted to be anybody was an Episcopalian. Plus we have a great affinity for bronze plaques.

Everyone knows that George Washington slept in nearly every house from the Mid-Atlantic to New England. No word if he slept in any pews of our churches during particularly uninspiring sermons.

At my own parish, All Saints’, Briarcliff Manor, we’ve had a few brushes with royalty. Brooke Astor lived across the street for many years in her Holly Hill estate and worshipped at All Saints’ for a number of years. At some point she got mad at one of my predecessors and left to attend another nearby Episcopal church. Or at least that’s one theory. It may have had to do with the incorporation of the modern language rite or her dislike for female priests. I’m not sure — but by the time I came to All Saints’ that ship had sailed.

The other famous parishioner was the writer John Cheever. He’s been in the news recently because of a new comprehensive biography by Blake Bailey titled Cheever: A Life. One of our parishioners, Bob Minzesheimer, who also happens to be the book reviewer for USA Today, forwarded me some quotes from Bailey’s book.

Cheever was confirmed at All Saints’ in 1955 and the church “met his basic requirements: it used the Cranmer prayer book and was less than ten minutes away, and (as Susan Cheever pointed out) its altar was ’sufficiently simple so that it [didn't] remind him of a gift shop.’ Also the eight 0′clock service was sermon-free so he could have twenty-three minutes of relative peace each week.’”

Cheever apparently didn’t have much love for the church’s long-time rector, Bill Arnold. According to the book, Cheever “once told his son Ben that it didn’t matter if the minister was a jackass — though there were times, plainly, when it did. ‘I will not go to church,’ Cheever recorded one Good Friday, ‘because Bill will insist upon giving a sermon and I will not have the latitude or intelligence to overlook its repetitiousness, grammatical errors and stupidity.’” Ouch!

Finally, Bailey says of Cheever’s faith, “Not one to proselytize, her rarely mentioned his faith except at odd moments when visited by the same happiness that had moved him to become a communicant in the first place: ‘There has to be someone you thank for the party.’”

Not a bad sentiment. Though I may have to consider screening any writers and/or essayists out of my parish. Myself excluded of course.

Unabashedly Unpublished

I now have three unpublished children’s books to my name. I never intended to write one — I don’t fancy myself the new Eric Carle. All three just sort of rose up organically as the kids went through various developmental stages. But I sure did have a lot of fun working on them and, like any writer, I think they’re better than an awful lot of the stuff out there.

I should be clear about one thing, however: I am decidedly notan author/illustrator like Maurice Sendak or Dr. Seuss. If I were to illustrate the three books, they would be the first abstract picture books. “Mommy, why does this page look like the inside of your lava lamp?”

Having a few unpublished manuscripts makes me feel even more like a “real” writer. Maybe in my next life I’ll come back as a failed novelist living in the Rive Gauche in Paris. Of course I’d be posthumously “discovered” and become a best seller — making all the rejecting publishers look like fools. 

In the meantime, I’m secure in the knowledge that my three unpublished children’s books are pretty good. Or at least good enough to give to my kids one day. The three titles are: “I Can Do It Myself,” “The Kingdom of Serious,” and the children’s version of “What Size Are God’s Shoes?” — told from our dog Delilah’s perspective.

Perhaps I’ll meet a children’s literary agent at a fancy cocktail party in Greenwich Village. That’s my publishing strategy anyway. But seeing as I haven’t been to a cocktail party since I was an eight-year-old lugging the coats of  my parent’s friends up to the guestroom bed, I may take these manuscripts with me to the grave.

About Face(book)

So after announcing that I was giving up e-mail and Facebook for Lent (after 6 pm), word has gotten out. Since I didn’t give up talking to reporters for Lent, I was quoted in an article titled “Fasting from Facebook.” It’s an interesting and well-written article by Lisa Hamilton of Episcopal Life Media which you can read in its entirety here.

Below is the excerpt where I’m quoted:

The Rev. Tim Schenck, rector at All Saints Episcopal Church, Briarcliff, New York, considered giving up Facebook completely for Lent. But, he said in an e-mail interview, “since I view social networking sites as ways to connect with people, I didn’t feel this was an appropriate Lenten discipline. Plus, my parish has its own group on Facebook made up of parishioners. Lent is a time to stay connected.”

Instead, Schenck is denying himself Facebook, e-mail or Internet surfing after 6 p.m. during Lent.

“So far, so good,” he reported via an e-mail sent at 2:36 p.m. “Though the first few days were brutal (especially when I heard my BlackBerry buzzing during dinner on Ash Wednesday).” When he checked in the morning, the message was spam.

Meanwhile, Schenck has found time to read a Bible story with his young sons each night. They decided to take on this spiritual discipline after their father explained his Lenten practice to them.

“I’ve always seen Lent as a way to ‘get back to (spiritual) basics,’” Schenck wrote. “And nothing strips away the clutter of modern life quite like unplugging yourself for awhile. By being accessible to others 24/7 — and feeling the need to respond immediately — the potential exists to put ourselves rather than God at the center of our lives. Intentionally unplugging, even for brief periods, helps realign that balance.”

So much for that reading appointed for Ash Wednesday that reads, “Beware of practicing your piety before others” (Mt 6:1). Maybe next year I’ll give up telling people about my Lenten disciplines and just let everyone guess.

EpiscoPeep

There’s just something about the Peep. The combination of Yellow #5, sticky marshmallow, and a vaguely bird-like shape is strangely compelling. I have a fascination with Peeps in the same way I’m enamored with Elvis, Spam, and RVs. Plus they’ve become a uniquely American symbol of our Lord’s resurrection (yes, that sound you hear is Jesus spinning in his empty grave).

It’s easy enough to get a Peep fix on the internet: there are literally hundreds of websites devoted to these multi-colored siamese quintuplets. Think I’m kidding? Just click here for a gigantic list of Peep links. You’ll find answers to any possible Peep question — like “I wonder what a Peep looks like when it’s microwaved?” or “What happens to a Peep if it’s left soaking in chocolate milk for 24 hours?”

I’ve had Peeps on the brain ever since my friend Sharon Tillman, Communications Director for the Diocese of Maryland, asked me to be a celebrity judge for their “All God’s Peeps” contest. Now, granted, Sharon needs some remedial education on the definition of “celebrity.” But they are holding the first ever (I mean ever in the history of the entire world) contest for people to create Peep-based dioramas of Bible stories.

This is brilliant! What better way to combine the Lenten discipline of reading Scripture with the best-known secular symbol of Easter. I’m not sure how I’d feel seeing a Peep nailed to a cross but I say bring it on. Oh, and if you win? The grand prize is a Lennox china Peep.

Mud Prints in the Sand

It’s not on the liturgical or secular calendar but we are in the heart of Mud Season. And it’s getting old. Our mudroom is living up to its name in spectacular fashion these days. Having two boys and a dog only add to the mud-laden glee. The only words out of my mouth are, “Take off those disgusting shoes before you go into the kitchen!” or “Get over here with those paws!” or “Making ‘mud angels’ in your new coat ? Are you kidding me?” (and I’m not kidding about that last one).

I’ve wiped Delilah’s paws so many times in the last week I feel like I’ve opened a canine spa specializing in doggie foot massage. I’ve been tempted to invent doggie booties to prevent paw prints all over the first floor. These probably already exist but mine would be made of that Swiffer material so there’d be a dual function: no muddy prints on the floor AND dusting at the same time. It’s a brilliant concept, don’t you think? Better than one of those vacuum cleaner robots. The only problem would be wrestling them onto Delilah. I know I’d end up being covered in mud.

There’s a lesson here, of course. We can’t completely control and sanitize our environment. Mud gets in; things we’d rather keep outside enter our lives. And we have to deal with it. Whether it’s muddy paw prints or filthy sneakers or an unexpected illness or the loss of a job. There’s always the proverbial fly in the ointment waiting to disrupt our perfect plans. Although I admit I’ve never seen an actual insect in any ointment I’ve ever encountered.

Part of this was inspired by this morning’s “Non Sequitur” cartoon by Wiley Miller. Yes, it’s Mud Season. Enjoy.

Bunny Slasher

I didn’t have anything to do with slashing this poor woman’s five-foot tall inflatable Easter bunny. I swear!

I have an alibi. I was running my church’s Wednesday Night Lenten Program last night. I have witnesses! And a parish full of lawyers!

I can’t deflate these things by telekenesis. And believe me I’ve tried. All Advent long I tried to deflate giant blow-up Snowmen and Christmas Shreks by staring hard at them in horrified disbelief. But it never worked. So don’t blame me. I was just an innocent, if disapproving, bystander. Here’s the article in this morning’s local paper.

Going Down

Okay, folks, it’s time to take down the Christmas decorations. I’ve been patient with you; I didn’t nag (much) around the two traditional times to take them down, Epiphany (January 6) and Candlemas/Ground Hog Day (February 2). But it’s time.

I realize it’s 11 degrees outside so the idea of pulling out a metal ladder is unappealing. (I recommend wearing gloves so that your hands don’t become permanently affixed to the third and sixth rungs). But nothing says lazy quite as much as brown garland adorning your white picket fence. It’s Lent. So look at it as a Lenten discipline if you must.

I may be particularly sensitive to this because I continue to run outside year-round. I know, for instance, that six of my neighbors still have Christmas wreaths on their front doors. My running partner, Father Patrick, gets tired of me pointing out all of these seasonal violations. But my vigilance does make the time go by faster.

I read in the local paper this morning that a teenager was arrested for “slashing” an Easter decoration in his neighborhood. I wouldn’t resort to that (and I have an alibi). But it does beg the question: What’s worse? Christmas or Easter lawn ornaments during the penitential season of Lent? Hmmmm.

But please, at least get the wilted brown wreath off your garage.

There. I said my piece. Now I really should go take down the icicle lights from my front porch.