Lion King

Christians have a conflicted relationship with lions. “”The lion shall lie down with the lamb” is Isaiah’s soaring image of hope. The early Christians being thrown to the lions at the Coliseum? Not so good.

Of course Isaiah actually said ”The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.” (Isaiah 11). Contrary to popular belief, there’s no lion and lamb lying together in the Bible. But in any case it’s a powerful image for the potential people of faith together hold.

Which brings us to the NFL’s Detroit Lions who won a game yesterday for the first time since December 23, 2007. They broke a 19-game losing streak by beating the Washington Redskins 19-14. On the surface, it was a meaningless game between two hapless franchises. But on another level, you couldn’t help but be thrilled for the Lions players — especially the ones who endured all 19 of those losses.

I watched the end of the game with Ben and Zack yesterday afternoon and the three of us had fun rooting for the Lions to finally win one. Sure, everybody loves an underdog (at least any red-blooded American). But this transcended the stereotype. To me it was about the amount of suffering one person or one team can or should endure. It’s hard to go on living without hope. And we all know people who always seem to be getting metaphorically kicked to the ground. It makes you wonder why — is it simply their destiny? Does God not like them for some reason? How can they break this cycle?

The Lions showed us that the way to break through is to simply keep showing up. The hope lies in picking yourself up off the turf and going at it again. Sure, it helps if you’re being paid a lot of money to keep showing up. But it’s still a lesson for all of us when we’re in the midst of our own personal 19-game losing streaks.

It was an amazing sight watching some of these huge men weep following the final whistle. I’m pretty certain God couldn’t care less about the outcome of a football game. But maybe it was time to offer a bit of hope to the long-suffering football fans in Detroit.

Stairway to Heaven?

Writing a sermon on Mark 9:38-50 replete with the “unquenchable fire” has made me consider my own personal Hades soundtrack. Not that I intend to put it on my i-Pod in preparation for an upcoming journey. Feel free to add to this, it’s hardly complete. Just a quick stalling tactic on my part in the middle of sermon prep. Here goes:

1. “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash

I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher.
And it burns, burns, burns
The ring of fire
The ring of fire.

2. “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones

I was round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate
Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name

3. “Hell in a Bucket” by the Grateful Dead

I may be going to hell in a bucket, babe
But at least Im enjoying the ride

4. “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC

No stop signs, speed limit
Nobody’s gonna slow me down
I’m on the highway to hell
And I’m going down, all the way down

5. “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” by the Charlie Daniels Band

The devil went down to Georgia, he was looking for a soul to steal.
He was in a bind ‘cos he was way behind: he was willin’ to make a deal.

Handwriting on the Wall

Is the art of writing cursive dead? Does it matter? This was the subject of a Boston Globe article yesterday titled “Cursive, Foiled Again.” As I type this — it’s hard to blog on yellow legal pads — I genuinely don’t know how I feel about the issue. 

Emotionally, it makes me cringe. What if John Hancock didn’t use cursive? Getting autographs from athletes might be more readable but a lot less fun. The major challenge of a pharmicists’ work — decoding the chicken scratch on perscription pads — would be eliminated.

But logically, shouldn’t our kids be spending more time with computers than learning how to make a script “j?” Perhaps cursive will go the way of the feather quill pen but there is something wonderfully personal about it — especially in this era of e-mail and texting. To get a handwritten note with flowing loops is a great joy. Even if I can’t decipher half of what it says.

Oddly, I never learned how to print letters — it’s a major gap in my education. I switched schools in Baltimore between third and fourth grades. In the one school they taught cursive first and then moved on to printing. In the other they taught kids to print before delving into script. The upshot is that I can write in block capitals or I can write in cursive — something my boys find hilarious. When they were just learning to print they often offered to “teach me.” But I’ve made it 40 years without the skill and I’m just not interested. Of course my handwriting is horrific but I can’t blame that on my teachers. Or maybe I should.

In the Book of Daniel, a hand appears and foretells the demise of the Babalonian Empire. This is, of course, where we get the expression about “seeing the handwriting on the wall” as an omen of doom. No word on whether the hand wrote in cursive. Perhaps a modern translation of the Bible will change ”handwriting on the wall” to “text on the BlackBerry.”

Talbots vs. The Episcopal Church

Living in Hingham, the home to Talbots, has made me consider a few of the similarities between the Episcopal Church and the venerable clothing store. Here goes:

1. Talbots is known colloquially as “The Red Door” since all their stores have them. The vast majority of Episcopal churches have red front doors — though not, interestingly, St. John’s in Hingham. I guess this town’s only big enough for one red door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2. Talbots Catalog. Almy Catalog. Models striking unnatural poses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 3. The classic Talbots look was intended for the customer whom Women’s Wear Dailyonce called “the country club woman.” In another era the Episcopal Church was half-jokingly referred to as “the Republican party at prayer.”

4. Famous people, like Michelle Obama and her mother, wear Talbots clothing for magazine shoots. Sometimes famous Episcopalians end up on magazine covers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5. Snazzy seasonal colors: reds, purples, greens, and whites.

 

 

 

 

 

 

5. Bloody Marys are often sipped by Episcopalians wearing Talbots. In a fit of irony, Queen Mary Tudor (aka “Bloody Mary”) often persecuted Anglicans. 

6. Founders Rudolph and Nancy Talbot were Episcopalians and attended St. John’s in Hingham.

Well, that’s a start. And probably also the end of this nonsense. Come visit us in Hinhgam and Bryna will be sure to give you a tour of the original Talbots. Or at least take you to the outlet store (one of only two in the whole country I understand). I’d love to join you but I’ll be, um, busy.

First Impressions

Here are a few impressions of my new hometown of Hingham, Massachusetts. Everyone knows it’s beautiful, quaint, “the prettiest town on the South Shore,” blah, blah, blah. So I won’t go into all that. It’s pretty obvious that Hingham is special. If you’ve never been here, come on down. You can join my mother-in-law for her monthly visits from New York. Yes, monthly. See you soon, Rosalie!

1. As I’ve run around town with my dog Delilah, I’m thankful for the many sidewalks. My knees are doubly thankful that they’re paved with asphalt rather than concrete slabs. Asphalt is more forgiving than concrete — which is the worst possible surface on which to run. Otherwise I’d be running in the street and this may well be a posthumous blog post as I would have been run over by one of your infamous Massachusetts drivers. (And this coming from a guy who learned to drive in Brooklyn! ) My only complaint, I mean observation, is that the poet Shel Silverstein of “Where the Sidewalk Ends” fame could have laid them out. They seem to end for no apparent reason which means playing Frogger (old video arcade reference) to continue my run.

2. I used to scoff at the guys who would wander around Manhattan with those “The End is Near” signs. I’ve got nothing against The Apocalypse, I simply didn’t believe them. But now that I’ve been to World’s End, the state park in Hingham, I guess they were right. The World’s End is near — about a three minute drive from my house. And with its stunning vistas of downtown Boston the end of the world as we know it is a lot more attractive than I thought it would be.

3. The Derby Shoppes. They do seem to have everything: from Panera to Barnes and Noble to The Gap. What’s amazing, besides the odd configuration of speed bumps (see Jeff Cutler’s “Heard in Hingham” blog), is the blaring classical music one encounters upon exiting your vehicle. As I walk through the parking lot I feel as if I’ve been transported to Red Square in Moscow during the height of the Cold War and they’re playing Russian fight songs over the loud speakers. The only difference is that instead of Red Army tanks and soldiers marching in formation, I see lines of SUVs and young mothers pushing jogging strollers into Crate & Barrel.

4. Evidently the town fathers (and/or mothers) do not believe in street signs. At least along cross streets. Half the time I drive around Hingham I have no idea where I am. Fortunately, this is precisely why God invented the GPS.

5. The town dump is the greatest place in all of Hingham. I can’t get enough of the place and, since I got my permanent dump sticker yesterday, I’ll see you there. But only Thursday through Sunday of course.

I’d love to hear your own impressions of the quirkiness of life around Hingham. We’re delighted to be here and it’s always fun to view a new (375-year-old) place with fresh eyes.

Gnatty Dread

This afternoon I found a dead gnat swimming in the coffee mug on my desk. This was tragic for the gnat, no doubt, but it also briefly interrupted my caffeine intake. And that has serious ramifications for an entire community of faith. There is no word yet on whether said gnat committed suicide by java or was pushed. When I found the body, I immediately contacted the authorities (by posting the event on Facebook). I have an alibi as I had temporarily left my office to speak with my Parish Administrator. She can vouch for me (or she’ll be fired).

In the ensuing moments I did my Christian and priestly duty by administering last rites and conducting an e-funeral. The Rev. Scott Gunn of Rhode Island gave a touching eulogy via his iPhone. The text is here:

“It was a good gnat, beloved by all. Active early on as a gnatolyte, then later on in the gnat choir. Most recently, she’d been in the gnat’s home. Survived by 300 sons and daughters, she lived life to the fullest for her four months.”

 

Thank you to Father Gunn for taking time out of his busy schedule to offer us all a word of comfort amidst our grief. Memorial contributions in loving memory of our dearly departed gnat may be made to either one of our discretionary funds (pick me). A reception will be held in the Parish Hall later today. GNatty Boh beer will be served.

Root, Root, Root for the Red Sox??

Okay, I’ve been in Hingham for a month. Here’s my debut column for my new hometown paper, The Hingham Journal. It’s about time! I’ve also pasted it in below for those too lazy to click:

 

Root, Root, Root for the Red Sox?

By the Rev. Tim Schenck

“Are there Yankee fans in Hingham?” This was the second question my boys asked me when my wife and I shared the news we’d be moving from New York to Massachusetts this summer. My answer? “Probably not.” And so far we haven’t met any. But for eight and 10-year-old boys amid a swirl of emotions this was a valid inquiry. The first question, by the way, was “Is there little league in Massachusetts.” Uh, yes. We’re not moving you to France after all.

We moved to Hingham last month as I was called to be the new rector at the Episcopal Parish of St. John the Evangelist on Main Street. You know, the stone church up on the hill that looks a bit like a castle from the outside.

Lest you think three Yankee fans have invaded Red Sox Nation (my wife, like Switzerland, stays neutral) please know that I’m an avowed Yankee hater. So fear not: I have not come to evangelize in the name of Jeter. Growing up in Baltimore, I’ve been a loyal and avid Oriole fan for the better part of 40 years. I always considered it my parental duty to raise Yankee despising Oriole fans. And I’ve failed.

How did this travesty occur? I actually brainwashed both Ben and Zack they were younger to say “Go Orioles, Boo Yankees.” I dressed them in Orioles garb; we watched games together before they could speak. But then it happened. We moved to Westchester County, New York, from Baltimore when the boys were three and one — this was my first mistake. The other egregious error, in retrospect, was pushing the Oriole fan/Yankee hater issue too hard. It wasn’t long before they realized this was a huge button for Dad. And boy did they push it.

In a sense I can’t blame them. All of their friends were Yankee fans and, well, the Yankees actually won some games. My Birds? Haven’t done squat in over a quarter of a century (come on Red Sox fans, it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten what futility feels like). So I’m left with my own personal fallen angels complete with Yankee posters on the walls of their new rooms and Yankee hats perched on their infidel heads.

There’s been talk among some of my new parishioners about conversion. Now that’s always a hot theological topic in any church but in this case it has nothing to do with salvation and everything to do with the color of one’s socks. If this doesn’t work the BoSox diehards in our midst may well take the next logical step with the boys’ baseball loyalties: exorcism.

And while I wish them luck, I doubt they’ll have much success. Moving from Baltimore to New York City when I was 13 only increased my level of loyalty to the Orioles. I imagine Ben and Zack will experience the same thing. As distasteful as their whole Yankee worship is to me I’m proud of them. As much as parents want to control the lives of their children, they ultimately cannot. Kids grow up, make choices, experience joy and hurt and exhilaration and sorrow. From the perspective of faith this is all part of the process of recognizing that our lives are in God’s hands, not our own. For me, this Yankee fan debacle is just another reminder of this lesson. Though I’ve suggested that, perhaps, they wait until the second day of school to wear those Yankee jerseys.

The Rev. Tim Schenck is Rector of the Episcopal Parish of St. John the Evangelist. Visit him on the web at www.frtim.com where you can access his blog “Clergy Family Confidential.”

Bookless Library?

A library without books? The headmaster of a New England prep school is convinced this is a good idea. An article on the front page of today’s Boston Globe is accompanied by a picture of Cushing Academy’s $500,000 digital library. “When I look at books, I see an outdated technology, like scrolls before books,’’ said James Tracy, Cushing’s headmaster and chief evangelist of the bookless library.

Now, I realize I’m an old and old-fashioned 40-year-old. But the whole notion makes me cringe. What’s a church without a cross? What’s a baseball field without bases? What’s a Walmart without a greeter? What’s a library without books? I envision the bookless library to be about as effective as the paperless office. 

Most of the books I read these days comes from browsing the stacks at the local library. Yes, I judge books by their covers — something you can’t do digitally. And while I’d like to see libraries do more with technology (I won’t by a Kindle until I can download books for free from a library), I also love the physicality of a book. Perhaps I’m just a speed bump on the digital highway of the future. But I like how books feel and smell; I like the communion between author and reader that comes through a book; I like turning pages; I like bookmarks. Of course ancient scribes probably felt the same way about parchment.

On the upside, the new “library” will include a $50,000 coffee shop complete with a $12,000 cappucino maker. Besides the fact that combining raging hormones and lots of caffeine is a recipe for disaster, there’s another potential danger here: Kindle Reader — meet hot coffee. Oops.

A First Class Idea

At the Holy Post Cafe in Nottinghamshire

A parishioner recently shared an article with me about a parish in England that introduced a combination cafe and post office. It seems like an odd pairing but the “Holy Post Cafe” has evidently made the rural church into quite the meeting spot. You can purchase a scone as you wait on line for the “postmistress.” Or have a spot of tea as you lick your envelopes.

I’m all for things that get people into our church buildings — whether it’s to say a prayer, drink some Earl Grey, or mail a letter to France. Our buildings are a great communal asset; which is why it’s rare to find a church that doesn’t host an AA meeting. The trick is to blend the spiritual and the secular in an authentic way that honors the faith without demeaning it. A needed rural post office? Great. A reincarnation of Studio 54? Not so much.

I’ve always thought getting people non-parishioners to even step foot into a church building is a herculean feat. Churches can be intimidating and hold a tremendous amount of emotional baggage for folks. Breaking down that barrier is difficult. Coffee can help. So, evidently, can the need to send a package to your sister in Liverpool.

But once someone takes that first step and enters the sacred space of a welcoming (hopefully) church community, who knows what might happen? Who knows what God might plant into someone’s heart? But you have to have to fling open the doors, metaphorically and physically, to find out.

Of course the cafe/post office combination has my head swirling with other potential church ministries. Like a library/book burning facility: “You condemn it, we burn it.” Whatever brings ‘em in I guess.