Lap of Luxury

Panoramic views, granite sinks, walk-in closets, media rooms, and plush furnishings. A penthouse suite at Trump Tower? A luxury condo in the Caymans? Nope. It’s a dorm room at Boston University. According to an article in the Boston Globe students arriving in September encountered name tags with ”Skyview from the Center of the BUniverse” taped to their doors. Is it too late to become redshirt freshman for a year?

Maybe I’m just a bitter and jealous old man but that stings. I entered Tufts University in the midst of a housing crunch in the late 1980’s. The upshot was three freshmen crammed into a small room for two. My roommates and I made the best of it. Actually we had a great year. Sure, we had a few bumps along the way (smelly laundry, girlfriends who wouldn’t leave, etc). But that’s what freshman year was all about. Living into a newfound sense of freedom, making some mistakes, drinking too much, and learning to get along with others at close quarters. While sharing a bathroom with 15 other guys, having no control over the thermostat, and living in a veritable prison cell.

The reality is that colleges now have to compete for the best students by one-upping one another on student amenities. So they have on-campus coffee bars, gourmet dining halls, and state of the art workout facilities. We had tater tots and frisbee.

But I won’t rail against coddled kids and Little Lord Fauntleroys.  I would have loved the same treatment. But I also wouldn’t trade my Tufts experience for anything. We made the best of it, had no idea what future luxury we’d be missing, and developed a lot of character through the process.

Thanks to my roommates Steve Bleckner from Summit, New Jersey and Michael Jackson from Belmont, Massachusetts for making it a great first year at Tufts. We’ve gone our separate ways over the years but recently reconnected through Facebook. Perhaps for our 25th reunion we’ll jam ourselves into a 12×14 room with a case of cheap beer and do some serious reminiscing.

Wren Hall at Tufts University

Accident Prone

I got rear-ended last week. I’m fine, the car is fine, the other driver is fine, the other driver’s car is not fine. The hood and front grille of her dark blue mini-van got mashed in. My Honda CR-V has an exterior spare tire which acted like a giant bumper (whatever happened to rubber bumpers on cars anyway?).

Not that I’m laying blame but the accident was completely her fault. She admitted she wasn’t paying attention. Okay, I’m laying blame. I was leaving a popular shopping area – the Derby Street Shoppes in Hingham – where I had just left a Panera restaurant. I had brought communion to a woman in a nearby nursing home and stopped into Panera to work on my sermon and grab a bowl of soup.

I was stopped at a stop sign waiting to merge into traffic to head back to church when…Bam! The woman jumped out of her car apologizing for her negligence. I have no idea whether she was on her phone or texting but one can make a reasonablypositive assumption. I also don’t know what she thought when she encountered a priest wearing his clericals but if it made her feel a tad guiltier, fine.

I’m sharing this because it’s a good reminder that things in life don’t always go as planned. You can do everything right and still get blindsided. Just as you can be completely reckless and glide right through certain situations unscathed. The reality is that I could have just as easily been on the other end of this accident. I’ve answered tmy cell phone in the car even though I know I shouldn’t. Why? Ego, I guess. Or at least a feeling of self-importance and over-confidence.

And so it’s helpful to remember that we’re not in complete control of our lives. Not because of fate or chance but because God’s realm operates on a plane beyond human comprehension. That doesn’t mean God toys with us like a toddler playing with matchbox cars: “I think I’ll have this blue one smash into this red one. That seems like fun.” But it means we can make all the detailed plans we want – I’ll go to law school and get married and have three children and die in my sleep at the age of 102 – they just may not work out that way. The bar exam gets flunked, our spouse gets cancer, our sperm count is too low to have kids, and we’re dead of a heart attack at 52. Hopefully it’s not that extreme but the more we tell God our plans, rather than the other way around, the more we set ourselves up for disappointment.

All of which is to say that a minor traffic accident can point out some larger life lessons. And anyway, as the saying goes: “Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the bug.”

Feeling Jumpy

Two boys with expendable energy plus Bryna trolling Craig’s List equals a new trampoline at the rectory. You also have to throw in borrowing the neighbor’s pick up truck to complete the cycle. Oh, and my mad put-it-together skills (worst grade I ever got at any level of school? C-minus in my 6th grade shop class).

All of this has combined to create the perfect trampoline storm. Which means Ben and Zack are free to go out and knock heads together at will. Actually trampolines are safer than ever. Well, besides the brain banging around the skull ad nauseum. Because when we were kids there were no safety net enclosures. If you jumped too hard on your friend’s trampoline you flew head first into a nearby tree. Or broke your arm. It was as simple as that. But today, while you might accidently get kicked in the head by your brother, you’re not going to fly off into the driveway.

Our new trampoline is only a year old. We bought it from a family whose mother was too nervous that one of her kids would get maimed. It was a gift from her in-laws, she told us. I quickly tossed the parts into the pick up truck to avoid getting sucked into a family counseling session.

Somehow I ended up putting the thing together without any spare pieces left over (as far as Bryna knows). It seems relatively sturdy but I’m still going to have a lawyer draft a waiver for the boys to sign. I don’t want them to sue me when they lose a limb.

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.”

On Boundary Violations

There’s a new article out from a researcher at Penn State that examines the challenges of balancing home and work life. The guinea pigs? 60 Episcopal priests — no I wasn’t one of them. I was too busy trying to balance my home and work life to participate. They chose Episcopal priests because they wanted folks “who face particularly extreme challenges in balancing work and home demands.”

I smell a reality TV show in the offing. ”Clergy Encounters of the Extreme Kind” would have spouses yelling at their clergy husbands/wives as they attempt to conduct pre-marital counseling (“I can’t believe you’re stressing communication to these two. Why don’t you practice what you preach for once in your life?!”). Haggling over personal finances in the sacristy just before the 10:00 am liturgy (“Okay ‘God Guy’, why couldn’t you have been ‘called’ to be an investment banker?”). A vestry meeting being conducted at the dinner table during a family meal (“Would you please pass the salt and do something about the out-of-control flower budget?”).

In reality it isa tricky balance. Clergy have taken two vows: one to our spouses and one to our God. And at times there’s tension between the two demands — the demands of family life and the demands of parish life. The priest who performed our wedding at the Church of the Redeemer in Baltimore (I was in the ordination process at the time) used to always tell me that the vow represented by that ring on my left hand always came first. This advice has come in handy on more than one occasion. But it’s always a work in progress — BlackBerry’s and laptops don’t help matters.

Much of the research revolves around setting appropriate boundaries — between your personal and professional lives. Of course some of the “solutions” are pretty funny. One priest swears by having his wife answer his cell phone to screen calls on his day off. Solange DeSantis — the friend and editor extraordinaire who forwarded me this article — already has her take on this one: “I can hear it now – ‘Bryna, honey, here’s my cell phone, would you handle all my calls today? Be sure to take messages and tell them to please respect my boundaries.’ Fill in the ^%$&^*&^&* answer from Bryna.” I couldn’t have said it better! 

Then there’s the priest (I’m not making this up) who is quoted as having “had a six-foot stockade fence built between the church and the rectory to physically separate her work and her home.” You can’t see me! You can’t see me!

Gotta go now — I’m off to dig a moat.

One Big Happy

Big families are…interesting. I don’t come from one — my mother was an only child and my father had one sister. And growing up it was just me and my brother. Bryna, on the other hand, comes from a HUGE family of Polish descent. Bryna’s mother is the oldest of 12 Gwozdz siblings reared in Western Massachusetts (there’s a reason Rosalie had just two children — she spent her whole childhood raising the other 11!). So much for eight being enough.

A few weeks after we were married in 1995, one of Bryna’s uncles died suddenly. He was the first and, to date, the only sibling to leave this mortal life. The wake and subsequent funeral was baptism by fire for this newly minted in-law. As we drove up to Adams, MA, Bryna tutored me relentlessly on the names. I’ve had the 12 down for awhile. It’s the (now) 26 grandchildren and 36 great-grandchildren that keep me guessing.

Bryna’s grandmother died a week ago at 94. Babcia, as I knew her — polish for “grandmother” — was the quintessential matriarch. She relished, above all, her family and her faith. She was a devout Roman Catholic, a regular attendee of mass at the now de-consecrated St. Stanislaus. But she also took great delight in telling her church friends that her granddaughter Bryna had “married a priest.” I can only imagine the looks!

I was touched when the family asked me to deliver the homily at her funeral, which I did last Wednesday. The mass was held in the other RC church in Adams — the one that didn’t get closed. Father Dan was wonderfully collegial though, of course, I couldn’t receive communion. Which made me wonder when it was that the church transformed into a bunch of legal-minded Pharisees? I don’t mean this to sound as harsh as it might but nonetheless I can’t recall Jesus ever refusing table hospitality to another person no matter how “different.” Father Dan did come over and offer me his blessing and then asked for mine in return which was a wonderfully gracious gesture.

But I can’t recall ever wanting to receive communion so badly. Perhaps it was the forbidden fruit phenomenon but I also wanted to receive in the context of celebrating Christ’s resurrection while marking the life of an amazing and faithful woman.

I did delight, however, watching my boys go up and receive communion. Not just because it was sticking it to the man (which it sort of was) but because they were able to commune with Jesus on an important and meaningful day for them. The best part? Zack receiving the host in his hand and then wandering around looking for the non-existent chalice bearer to get the wine. Communion in one kind, baby.

Coffee Wanderings, Part II

Red Eye Roasters' freshly painted coffee cart

Still no sign of a decent coffee shop on the South Shore BUT I’ve discovered a wonderful local roaster in Hingham. Bob Weeks is the owner/roaster at Redeye Roasters. I met Bob at the Hingham Farmer’s Market this morning where he parks his nifty coffee cart every Saturday morning. Not only did he serve me up a deliciously smooth cup of Guatemalan coffee, he personally grinds the beans and brews the coffee right before your very eyes. It doesn’t get any fresher than that.

Bob’s hand-crafted, small-batch roasting reputation actually preceded our meeting. A member of the St. John’s Search Committee introduced us to his coffee last month. Even better, he told me today that he met Mike and Alicia from Coffee Labs in Tarrytown, New York, at some sort of coffee conference or summit. If Coffee Labs is my own personal mecca, Bob’s been to the mountaintop!

The only problem with this is that Red Eye Roasters doesn’t have a coffee shop. We need to encourage Bob to open one in Hingham! I told him I’d be his own personal evangelist and use my powers of persuasion to get people there. Of course I only know about three people in town at this point. This will all change when I start work next Thursday and end my stay-(at home and unpack)-cation.

In the meantime I’ll be seeing him on Saturday mornings to pester him about putting out a shingle. And buying a cup of coffee, of course.

Coffee Wanderings

Wandering is a major theme in Scripture. Moses and the Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years on their way to the Promised Land. Abraham, the father of monotheism, is identified as “a wandering Aramean.” Jesus himself proclaimed that “foxes have holes and birds have nests but the Son of Man has no where to lay his head.”

Not to be overly dramatic but I’ve been wandering the South Shore of Boston searching for the perfect coffee shop. The one where I’ll write my sermons, articles, and books. The one where I’ll become a regular. The one where Delilah is welcomed. The one where the coffee is freshly roasted. The one within ten minutes of my office. The one where the baristas are tattooed and pierced perhaps but friendly and knowledgeable. The one where the refills are free. The one where the seats are comfortable. The one where the background music is a mix of alternative and blues. The one with free Wi-Fi. The one that’s independently owned. In other words, the perfect coffee shop.

Okay, so I’m still mourning the loss of Coffee Labs in Tarrytown. After wandering around the past week and a half I’ve lowered my sights. I’m only looking for about half of the above criteria and I still haven’t found it. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve been begging Bryna to open up her own coffee shop. To my amazement she hasn’t completely ruled it out but I think she’s just humoring me.

Right now I’m sitting in an air-conditioned coffee shop just down the street from the church. In some ways this would be ideal — at least location-wise. The coffee’s not horrible and they have Wi-Fi. I can even overlook the name: “Brewed Awakenings.” Unfortunately the music stinks. Or, to put it more delicately, it’s not at all conducive to writing sermons. I don’t mind distractions — I welcome them in fact. Which is why I prefer to write in coffee shops. But listening to soft, cheesy “rock” is not an option. It’s hard enough blogging to Bryan Adams and the Bangles let alone writing anything with substance.

So the wandering will continue. Until I find the right place to write, I can’t take responsibility for the quality of my output. If this situation continues I may have to put a disclaimer at the bottom of each week’s service bulletin:

** The quality of Father Tim’s sermon this Sunday is a direct result of his inability to find a decent local coffee shop. Please excuse any grammatical shortcomings, uninspiring content, and/or heresy.

On the Move

A few thoughts based on our family’s move last week from Briarcliff Manor, New York to Hingham, Massachusetts:

1. It’s amazing how many random coins our old house contained. As we started the slow process of tossing our life’s belongings into boxes, the one constant was the overabundance of loose change. It’s everywhere. And not just in the standard places — on top of your dresser, that small dish where you dump your keys, under sofa cushions. I found coins under rugs, radiators, the refrigerator; I found coins in toy bins; I found coins in the garage; I found coins in medicine cabinets. I even found a few pennies lying around the house after the movers had taken everything out of the house and after I’d done my final sweeping. Whatever’s left (and I’m sure there’s something) I’ll just consider a tip for the next rector. And, no, this won’t come up the next time I preach on the Parable of the Lost Coin.

2. On the other end, I have a knack for losing scissors, box cutters, and knives — basically anything used to open and/or collapse cardboard boxes. Next time (and I hope that doesn’t happen for a VERY long time) I’m tying a pair of scissors around my waist. Either that or I’m hiring Edward Scissorhands as my personal moving valet. As I wandered amid the myriad boxes searching for a sharp object, I started daydreaming about inventing a switchblade-like moving aid I’d call the Jack in the Box Cutter. That’s when I knew it was time for more coffee.

3. Moving and blogging don’t mix. At least for me. It’s been over a week since I last wrote a blog post. It’s not that I wasn’t connected — Bryna had the Verizon guy out here the day after the move (for the record he looked nothing like the hip Verizon guy in the ads; more like the sad-sack cable installer dude). I just haven’t had the energy or inspiration to do anything but open boxes (when I could locate the scissors), hang pictures, eat, sleep, drink coffee, and give the boys some sorely needed attention. Oh, and go to the beach a few times since Hingham is on the water. But blogging, writing, etc. just wasn’t happening.

4. I’ve discovered the joys of the town dump. Sure, it’s officially called the “transfer station” (you transfer your trash and recyclables) but everyone here calls it the town dump. It’s a beautiful thing after a move because you can take all of your broken down boxes to the dump. Which means you don’t have to trip over boxes for two weeks until the next recycling day. More about the dump in the days ahead but it’s now my favorite place in Hingham. I mean besides my new church. Keep your eyes peeled for the first ever “Dump Eucharist” in the history of the Christian Church. Just kidding. As far as you know.

5. God bless anyone who is a professional mover. I can’t stand hauling my own stuff around let alone someone else’s. We had a great team of guys — we kept them hydrated and fed. But still, I can only imagine they’re ruing that 10% clergy discount after all the books they had to schlep around. Which reminds me that I really should recycle some of those books from college I’ve been carting around the country since 1991. I didn’t read them then; no reason to think I’ll crack them open now. At least the town dump has a dedicated section for books.

That’s all I’ve got for now. We’re still trying to settle into our new home — the St. John’s rectory is a beautifully restored 1789 farm house. My first Sunday is August 23rd. Which means there’s plenty of time for me to locate that box cutter.

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…