Last Call

In church circles, people are always nattering on about “community.” And it’s true that Jesus doesn’t call us into isolation but into community (hence the group of disciples). As much as church leaders try to foster community — and write book after book on how to do so– it’s only truly authentic when it arises organically. At the center of this of course, must be the risen Christ. 

But true community comes in many forms. Over the past five years I’ve found it at a small, local coffee shop in Tarrytown. For me, Coffee Labs Roasters has been the perfect storm: fabulous coffee hand-roasted on the premises; dog-friendly (Delilah always accompanies me); earth-friendly and fair-trade; smart, friendly, and highly competent baristas; a wonderful regular clientele that includes writers, artists, and poets; and an environment so conducive to writing that I’ve literally written hundreds of sermons, countless articles, and a book.

Credit goes to owners Mike Love and Alicia Killegrew whose vision and community involvement have made Coffee Labs what it is. And as I sit here on moving day drinking my final cup of CL coffee (a medium-bodied Kenya Wachuri) and staying out of the way of the movers, I’m full of gratitude for this particular community. I will miss it tremendously. Yes, I’ll be back to visit on occasion but I’ll miss my Thursday morning sermon writing ritual — complete with the good coffee, good company, and good vibes. The bar is very high for any coffee shops on the South Shore of Boston.

For my last will and testament, I bequeath the role of Coffee Labs chaplain to the Rev. Nora Smith. Nora is a former seminarian from my parish in Briarcliff, current priest in the diocese of New York, fellow Coffee Labs devotee, and newly called rector of St. Barnabas in Irvington. She has promised to keep my seat warm.

Now it’s back to the house and the seven guys loading the truck. Thanks to Bryna for letting me grab that last cup of coffee and say goodbye to folks here! Hopefully I’ll remember to bring her that Cool Cap…

Dirt Devil

After the final game was played at the old Yankee Stadium last year, Don Larson reverently scooped up some dirt from the pitcher’s mound. The only pitcher to toss a perfect game in the World Series was assisted by Whitey Ford, another Yankee great. And it was a poignant moment no matter what team you root for; these two old men bending down in front of 50,000 people to try and preserve an integral part of their lives. They sought something tangible, a “holy relic” from the “cathedral” where their stars had shined so brightly those many years ago.

I mentioned this ten days ago during my final sermon at All Saints’ in Briarcliff Manor, New York. Just before I broke off a chunk of the altar to remember my seven years as rector. Okay, I didn’t actually do this but it crossed my mind.

Ben was obviously listening because after his last game of Briarcliff little league last night, he went out to home plate and did the same thing. He scooped up a bunch of dirt/mud into his hat and processed it with great ceremony to my car. Where half of it promptly spilled all over the back seat.

Kids do have an amazing sense of ritual during times of transition. And I always feel it’s best to follow their leads with this stuff. Even if it means moving dirt from New York to New England.

Ben’s Briarcliff dirt — the portion that’s not ground into my car’s fabric seats – is now safely encased in a ziplock bag that’s sitting on our kitchen table. Next stop: Hingham, Massachusetts.

Revolution in the Air! Again.

After spending the past few days in Colonial Williamsburg I’m convinced the whole experience is a combination of The Truman Show and Groundhog Day. A new day? Revolution’s in the air. Again! And I’m not sure whether all of the “colonists” know they’re just play-acting. Some of them take their roles so seriously I swear I was getting looks like we were the ones oddly out-of-place with our cameras and t-shirts and soft drinks.

Don’t get me wrong. We had a great time down there — hanging out with our friends Harry, Andrea, and their daughter Madeleine (Harry’s an old Army buddy). And I’d always wanted to spend over $40 on replica muskets. At least we were all well protected on our walks down Duke of Gloucester Street.

One of the most intriguing things about the whole Williamsburg experience is the “real” Episcopal church — Bruton Parish — right in the heart of the colonial district. I went to a mid-week service and sat in John Marshall’s pew. Pretty heady stuff but I can imagine tourists wandering into the liturgy and thinking the whole thing is part of the theme park. “Oh, Bea, look at that priest — his robes make him look so authentic!”

There’s also a slightly cult-like feel to the whole place. Or at least the conspiracy theorist in me felt it. It takes a special person to dress up in knickers and wander around in the hot sun all day. One morning on the way to Aromas Coffee Shop in Market Square, I saw a young professionally-dressed woman driving an SUV. In the passenger seat was a man, presumably her husband, dressed up like a colonist. She was obviously driving him to work. “Have a great day, honey; give the Royal Governor hell.” Then I went for a quick run around five o’clock the next day and all of the 9 to 5 colonists started walking out of the historic district at the same time. I think they instruct them to walk alone — don’t want to hear them complaining about the tourists. Seeing them all slowly walking out of the various shops — the gunsmith, the printer, the cooper — it looked to me like the Day of the Dead. But that’s just me.

One day we’ll go back — you can’t possibly learn all the history in one trip. Plus, I need to get myself a musket. And if I ever need to enter the witness protection program, I’ll hide myself in colonial America somewhere in Williamsburg. Check out the blacksmith shop.

Sum, Sum, Summertime

Good article by crack religion reporter Gary Stern in yesterday’s Journal News on how congregations deal with summertime. Nevermind that I have a quote buried in there. If you don’t keep up with Gary’s blog “Blogging Religiously” I commend it to you. Oh, and happy summer.

Episco-Papal Encyclical

Word seems to be getting out about my Popiscopate. Thanks to Father Scott Gunn, blogging from General Convention, for highlighting the state of the Episcopal Church on the East Coast and to Mad Priest blogging from the UK. Of course Father Gunn has passive aggressively hinted that he will be sharing the news of my (not-so-hostile) takeover with my current bishop. For this I have razed his church in Rhode Island and turned it into a Dunkin’ Donuts. Drive thru, of course (stained glass windows).

Below is my first Episco-Papal Encyclical. I write on the subject of church polity (etc) during the waning days of my reign. This is a hot and confusing topic in the Anglican Communion; one which I will clarify. Just as a reminder, whenever I sit down to write an e-encyclical I am infallible. Not just the typed words but my very being. Got it? Infallible. Oh, and inerrant as well. If you’re not already on your knees in humble supplication, I bid you to bow down before your computer in anticipation of holiness.

EPISCO-PAPAL ENCYCLICAL
OF THE SUPREME PONTIFF
Timotheus I
TO THE BISHOPS
PRIESTS AND DEACONS
MEN AND WOMEN RELIGIOUS
THE LAY FAITHFUL
AND ALL PEOPLE OF GOOD WILL
ON INTEGRAL HUMAN DEVELOPMENT
IN CHARITY AND TRUTH

 1. I have abolished the Southern Cone and replaced it with the Orange Southern Cone. This will lead to a more godly church and assist with parking control problems on Sunday mornings.

2. All “Flying Bishops” will be relegated to the overhead compartments. If their size prevents the flight attendants from adequately closing the bin doors, they will be tagged and stowed below in the checked baggage area.

3. Clergy who update their Facebook and/or Twitter status more than five times per day will be de-frocked for dereliction of pastoral duties.

4. Parish Halls built in the 1960’s will be immediately torn down. Those with massive sliding room dividers that haven’t been used since the mid-’70s will have priority.

5. All Episcopalians East of the Mississippi will sign an Oath of Conformity to the Most Grand High Pope of the East Coast. What precisely they will be conforming tois irrelevant. Those who fail to sign the oath will be banished to the undercroft to wear a dunce cap. Which looks amazingly similar to the Orange Southern Cone (see #1).

 6. I hereby establish the Institute for New Episco-Papal Tchakes (INEPT). Their charge will be to create an Episco-Papal Industrial Complex to include, but not be limited to, Episco-Papal Soap on a Rope, E-P Halloween costumes, the E-P Bar (with nougat), E-P bobble heads, and E-P box cutters (which, if you’re taking an airplane, must be checked with the Flying Bishops — see #2).

 Given by my hand this day in the first week of my Popiscopate, 2009. 

 +Timotheus I+

Most Grand High Pope of the East Coast

 

 

 

Walking on Air (McNair)

Ben wearing his McNair jersey at Ravens Stadium

During the recent spate of celebrity deaths, one hit my family harder than the others. No, not Billy Mays — we don’t own a salad shooter. Not even Michael Jackson — for my money his career peaked with the Jackson Five. It was Steve McNair, former Super Bowl quarterback for the Baltimore Ravens and Tennessee Titans.

You see we’re huge Ravens fans in our family. It’s the only sports team we all agree on. Come game day you’ll find the Schencks decked out in purple from head to toe (literally — Bryna gave me a pair of Ravens socks last Christmas). Bryna — who has a thing for Ravens kicker Matt Stover — wears her Ravens fleece; I put on my Ray Lewis jersey (he was found innocentof that 2000 murder charge); and the boys don their Steve McNair #9 jerseys.

Ben and Zack’s awareness of and passion for Ravens football coincided with McNairs’ first year as the Ravens’ quarterback. And when you’re a kid who else will you attach yourself to if not the QB? So he quickly became the boys’ favorite player in 2006 when he led them to a 13-3 record. It helped that we went to a game in Baltimore that year watching McNair and the Ravens beat Michael Vick and the Atlanta Falcons in a dogfight (okay, bad analogy).

When we received news of McNair’s death Bryna and I were stunned. And it meant a difficult conversation with Ben and Zack — I didn’t want them to hear it on Sports Center. So I sat them down and told them I had some “news” for them. I told them that Steve McNair had died and they processed it by asking a lot of questions. There was little information at that time except for the detail that he’d been shot. We’ve continued to talk about how as a person he made some poor choices but that it didn’t diminish his greatness on the football field or the charity work he did off it.

Still, when your kids’ heroes are professional athletes these days, you ending up having lots of similar conversations. I had another one — not quite as dramatic — when Alex Rodriguez, one of their favorite players, admitted to taking steroids. I just keep trying to affirm the humanity of these guys even as we can respect what they do on the diamond or gridiron.

This all highlights the importance of parental involvement, other adult role models, and a community of faith in the lives of our children. If athletes and actors provide the sole path of enlightenment, we’re headed down a pretty dark corridor.

May Steve McNair, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and Billy Mays all rest in peace.

Pope of the East Coast

Since nearly every Episcopalian I know is in Anaheim, California for the triennial General Convention I’ve decided to take over the church on the East Coast. So for the next few weeks things are going to look a little different around here. Consider this your insider’s guide to the mind of an ecclesiastical madman. Here we go:

1. My Title – ”Simple Country Parson” will no longer do. You will now refer to me as the Most Grand High Pope of the East Coast. The nice thing about this new moniker is that it rhymes (basically), gets to the heart of my new job description, and creates a simple yet easy-to-remember acronym that just rolls off the tongue: MGHPEC.

2. My Domain– I’ve taken over the Episcopal Church east of the Mississippi River. So everything from the river to the sea is my “see.” I look at my new territory as one giant mega-church where I’m the outlandishly paid Senior Pastor. (You should see the size of the collection plate I’ll be passing around on Sunday morning). I’m insisting on a 10% tithe from all of my subjects, I mean parishioners. Auditors are standing by to examine your most recent tax returns.

3. My Platform– Absolute conformity to my theological and liturgical whims. These may change on a weekly or seasonal basis so keep your eyes peeled for updates. You won’t actually receive any updates but you will nonetheless be expected to remain in sync with your MGHPEC.

4. Liturgical Dress– This is most important so pay attention. So there’s no confusion over who is lording what over whom (that would be me over you), my vestments will reflect my stature (in the church; not my actual height which isn’t important — 5′8″ is taller than it looks when you wear high heels). We’ll start with headgear. I won’t be wearing a miter so much as a replica of the Washington Monument. When I walk into my cathedral (which bears a striking resemblance to Giants Stadium) I don’t want to be mistaken for some measly acolyte. You won’t need to concern yourself with my other liturgical haberdashery since I will be carried into mass on a platform like the pharaoh.

5. My Polity– The church will be ruled by a top-down structure. I’m on top and everyone else is down below — which makes for a simple, easy-to-read flow chart. You may kiss my feet and/or you may kiss my ring (which is twice the size of the average Super Bowl ring). I keep it in my back pocket.

So those are some of the changes that will be implemented during General Convention. You may have thought that all the major decisions affecting the church were being made in Anaheim but this was mere propaganda. Come July 17th I may be your Pope-in-Exile. But until then I bid you to bow down and worship. Jesus, of course.

+Your Most Grand High Holiness+

The Magic (Episcopal) Kingdom

As many of my fellow Episcopalians prepare for the Church’s triennial General Convention in Anaheim this month, I thought it would be helpful to compare and contrast the convention experience with Disneyland. It’s my way of participating in the councils of the church as I promised in my ordination vow. Here goes:

 We’ll begin with the logos (that’s logos, not Logos for you Greek scholars). It’s unclear at this point whether there will be more fireworks at the convention or the park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can be assured that there will be plenty of characters in costume.

 

 

 

 

 

 Dumbo in absentia and Dumbo in situ (not to be confused with any elephants that may be in the room).

                                                                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s always a bevvy of unique headgear.

                                                                                                       

Speeding Monorail versus priests striving to get on the fast-track to bishop.                                             And, finally, our respective patron saints:

                                                                              

If you’re a delegate, enjoy this year’s General Convention. And I certainly hope you fit in a trip to DisneyLand — it may help keep you grounded amid the hoopla.

When in the Course

If we had lost the Revolutionary War would we be suffering through “Tea Hour” rather than “Coffee Hour” after church? It makes me wonder. Actually the very thought makes me cringe. Chatting with parishioners over a cup of Sunday afternoon chamomile is sleep-inducing. But, fortunately, “God shed his grace on thee” and we won. Okay, that’s not quite how it went theologically. But it’s hard to imagine eating Shepherd’s Pie for Sunday brunch.

To mark this day I re-read the Declaration of Independence. It’s an amazing document, one that takes a prophetic stance on the issues of justice and human rights. We have yet to fully achieve the lofty ideals set forth, of course. But working toward helping everyone attain those “inalienable rights” endowed by our Creator is a worthy goal for all of us.

If we are all created equal by God, the deep disparity in how many of our brothers and sisters cannot adequately pursue “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” is a disgrace. So while it’s reasonable to celebrate our own independence on this day, it’s also important to remember in prayer those throughout the world who remain shackled by political, economic, and racial oppression. I encourage you to say a prayer before you eat one of the 150 million hot dogs that Americans will consume today.

And consider taking a gander at the Declaration — it never disappoints. Especially since it includes some great digs at the King of England. This document may well be the first recorded instance of “sticking it to the man.”

Riverside Redux

A few months ago I bloggedabout the controversy surrounding the new pastor at Riverside Church. The Rev. Brad Braxton had made the front page of the New York Post for commanding a $600,000 compensation package. Generally if a member of the clergy makes the Post, it’s not a good thing. You’ll never see “Holy Moly! Priest Preaches Brilliantly.” Rather it’s the holy trinity of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll.

Anyway, it was announced yesterday that Braxton has resigned. To give the NY tabloids equal play, here’s a link to The Daily Newsarticle. It’s a sad day for a proud church, one that has been a leader in liberal Protestantism for generations. Besides being the tallest church building in America (I’ve always thought it looked a bit like Batman), Riverside’s pulpit has held Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Kofi Annan, and even Fidel Castro.

The church is clearly at a crossroads, as is liberal Protestantism in general. How to “compete” with evangelical mega-churches? How to get back to its social justice roots? How to be welcoming to people of different faith yet also be uniquely Christian?

Oh, and it turns out the compensation package was only $475,000 rather than the 600G initially reported. Excuse me while I go drool over the severance pay.