Clergy Family Confidential

We stumbled into a “children’s service” at a local church on Sunday morning. I’d like to say I researched and then lovingly chose a family friendly eucharist for the benefit of the boys. But it was dumb luck.

One of the things I’ve learned on sabbatical is that getting the boys out the door to church is a nightmare. I have new-found respect for Bryna’s heroism as a single parent on Sunday mornings. This week we fought with Ben and Zack about everything from getting dressed to putting on shoes to wearing jackets to buckling seat belts. In the background was the constant refrain, “I’m not going to church!” I know they didn’t sign up for my sabbatical practice of going to different churches but as much as they usually complain about going to church, they can’t wait for my sabbatical to end so they can return to “our” church.

Of course once we finally got there, they were great. I wasn’t exactly in a worshipful frame of mind after pleading, arguing, threatening, and yelling all morning; I could have used a stiff drink. But they were little angels, following along in the bulletin, singing the hymns, putting money into the collection plate (without trying to pocket it).

As annoyed as I get with families at the parish who are on the one or two Sunday a month plan, I have to give them credit for just getting out the door. It’s not easy. Even when you resort to bribes about going out to brunch afterwards.

The service itself was blessedly short — well under an hour. This was perfect for the average child’s attention span. Certainly for my children’s attention span. For the sermon, all the kids were called up front and a woman read “Horton Hears a Who” by Dr. Seuss. And, while it captured their imagination, I have no idea how it related to the gospel. Sure, “A person’s a person no matter how small” but what does that have to do with Jesus and the woman at the well? Uh, not much.

As I mentioned in a previous post, we’re having the kitchen redone at the rectory. Note to self: the next time you take a sabbatical, don’t simultaneously renovate the kitchen. Progress is being made, however, and we once again have full use of the washer and dryer. Hauling laundry to my mother-in-law’s house across town got old. Okay, I only did it once but that was enough.

Fortunately the tiny new sink in the mudroom has been installed because the only other one in the house — the upstairs bathroom — is now clogged. I’m waiting for the plumber to call me back. And, yes, I tried one of those drain clearing products yesterday to no avail. I even tried shoving a bent hanger down the drain to clear it. That was after I tried to plunge it with the toilet plunger — not effective. And please don’t tell Bryna about the plunger; I’ll deny it. No one ever accused me of being handy.

Why am I sharing my plumbing issues? Because it’s all scriptural of course. Haven’t you been paying attention in church recently? The gospel passage last week was Jesus and the woman at the well. This Sunday Jesus tells the blind man to wash in the pool of Siloam. Lots of water! Water, water everywhere and I can barely get a drop.

Fine, that’s a weak connection. But the good news about my sabbatical is that no one will be subjected to a sermon illustration that involves the plumbing at the rectory.

An odd thing about being on sabbatical is not knowing where you’ll be going to church come Sunday morning. Last night I basically took out the Yellow Pages to figure this out. Okay, I wasn’t so desperate that I consulted the phone book — I know the local Episcopal churches. But I did have to check the web page for service times. I settled on St. Barnabas in Irvington http://www.stbarnabaschurch.org/. Although I’ve passed the church a slew of times — it’s about 20 minutes away on a major thoroughfare — I’ve never had occasion to go inside. Charlie Colwell, the rector, is a very gentle and learned man. He’s the longest serving rector in the Diocese of New York having started at St. Barnabas in 1972; he recently announced his impending retirement.  

It was great to be back in an Episcopal church after a two-week hiatus. A good reminder that you can quite literally hunger for the sacrament when you go without it.

I snuck in for the 8 o’clock service alone since Bryna had to leave soon after to go into NYC. I couldn’t drag the boys out with me at that hour without waking up the neighborhood. But before taking them out to brunch we did a little cyber worship. I found an online Stations of the Cross appropriate for kids http://frpat.com/stations.htmand they took turns reading the stations (without crucifying one another). We concluded our devotions by clicking onto one of Matthew Moretz’s great youtube videos — the one on Baptism  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLBRujWQc6c. They got a kick out this! Especially Fr. Matthew’s touchdown sequence (you’ll just have to watch it). And 15 minutes later we were enjoying “Coffee Hour” at The Patio.

Happy Presidents Day! No one’s ever greeted me this way as they raced out to the mall to buy a discounted shower curtain at Bed, Bath and Beyond. But let me be the first to wish you a happy and healthy Presidents Day. I wonder what George W. is doing today. “No, Laura I will not take out the trash. It’s Presidents Day for God’s sake. Have some respect. Make Jenna do it.”

And what about all our former Vice Presidents? Why isn’t a day set aside to honor their service to God and country? I think we need a day to celebrate Agnew, Quayle, Cheney, Mondale, Gore, etc. Since they get no respect they should at least have their own day. Plus, we need more three day weekends in this country to give people additional excuses for skipping church. 

Maybe I’ll put this day to good use and teach the boys the names of some former presidents. I just have to remember that Ben Franklin never occupied the Oval Office.

Went to a nearby Episcopal church for Ash Wednesday services yesterday. I’m really not a very good parishioner — I get distracted by too many things. Especially during the “reverent silence” before the start of the liturgy. Yesterday’s highlights included an older couple sitting behind me arguing about whether the husband’s hearing aid was turned up too high (it was whistling at various intervals). Then the priest inadvertently turned on her wireless microphone five minutes before the service was to begin. That meant listening to her conversation with the acolyte as they discussed where he would sit.

When the service began, the priest used the wrong entrance rite for Ash Wednesday. Perhaps a minor detail in the grand scheme of Lent but annoying to me. Fortunately, a thoughtful and nicely presented homily helped me get over the minor irritations and brought my focus back to the invitation to a holy Lent.

The rest of the liturgy was smooth except for a bizarre incident coming back from communion. The 80-year-old man sitting behind me paused before getting back into his pew. I could tell something wasn’t quite right and asked if he was okay. Suddenly he crumpled to the floor — I helped break his fall. He was conscious but clearly struggling. Someone called 911, a nurse who happened to be in the congregation took control, and the paramedics burst in a moment later. So keep a gentleman named Fred in your prayers; to my layman’s eye it looked like a mini stroke.

On the way home I kept thinking, “Ashes, ashes, all fall down.” 

The sabbatical beard is history. After a two-week trial I shaved it off last night. Much to Bryna’s delight. The best compliment came from Ben who told me I looked like Brett Favre. That’s what a bit of gray on your chinny chin chin will do for you. My running partner and fellow Episcopal priest, the mustachioed Father Patrick Ward, told me, “If that’s the best you can do after two weeks, you’re a hopeless cause.” (There, I mentioned you in my blog; now get off my case).

Before shaving it, I went through all the possibilities — keep a goatee, maintain Elvis-like sideburns, shave everything but the “soul patch.” But in the end, it all looked lame. I just hope that, like Samson before me, I don’t lose all my super powers.

The crew came in to demo the rectory kitchen today. And it’s a marked improvement to what was in its place. Plus there’s nothing like adding a kitchen renovation to your sabbatical. I highly recommend this to any clergy out there seeking to have a renewing, peaceful, and prayerful sabbatical experience.

While the timing’s not great, it was long overdue. Like most rectory kitchens (and a lot of churches in general), ours was pieced together on the cheap. It’s understandable as we’re all on shoe string budgets. Church “improvements” are often done by well-meaning but unskilled parishioners. The problem, of course, is that this sort of short-sighted planning always comes back to haunt future budgets.

Our current kitchen was evidently put in about 14 years ago by the husband of a former rector. And it showed. Though I admit the time I opened a drawer and the entire facing came off in my hand made me feel quite manly. I flexed and grunted while Bryna just rolled her eyes.

In the meantime we’re all holed up in the dining room along with a slew of boxes, the kitchen table, a microwave, hotpot, and the refrigerator. Oh, and obviously the coffee maker. The only sink is in the upstairs bathroom and the washer and dryer have been disconnected. The boys like the adventure – it feels like camping. The dog’s merely confused. We’ll see how everyone feels after six weeks of this.

One of the disconcerting things about being on sabbatical is not going to your own church on Sunday mornings. While it’s refreshing to “be fed rather than to feed,” this may take some getting used to. It was strange to hear the bells ringing for the 8:00 o’clock service from the comfort of my own bed. Strange but nice.

This is one area of my sabbatical that very much impacts the family. Bryna’s glad not to be a single-parent on Sunday morning but she’s not a big fan of going to new churches every week. We did this together for the first two years of seminary and she got sick of it. People would see a young couple wander in and virtually attack us. “Where you from? Are you looking for a church? Join the Altar Guild!” We were treated like rock stars. But only until they found out I was just a visiting seminarian; then they’d drop us like a bad transmission. Sometimes Bryna would stay and worship at “St. Mattress” while I’d trot off to an early service by myself.

Part of the challenge clergy face when attending other churches is the need to over-analyze the liturgy. It’s a professional hazard. So you find yourself critiquing the sermon rather than letting it speak to you; being distracted by the poorly trained acolytes, questioning the choice of hymns, and getting steamed about the typos in the bulletin. I leave the Coffee Hour critique to the rest of the family.

While the boys were annoyed that they couldn’t go to their own church on Sunday (I’ve never seen them so passionate about going to All Saints’!), they did very well on Sunday. This was much to Bryna’s relief and annoyance since they often don’t well with her in the pews. My saying, “I don’t know what the big deal is” didn’t help. But I recognize it’s tough for them — they’re too comfortable at All Saints’, Dad’s up there but not accessible, and the anticipation of our rockin’ Coffee Hour is tantalizingly palpable.

Oh, and the four of us were treated like royalty. At least until I was forced to admit I was a priest on sabbatical. 

Like Conan O’Brien and David Letterman before me, I’m growing a strike beard. Okay, it’s a sabbatical beard but it’s the same concept. I just started a ten-week sabbatical and as I struggle to live into it — the early days have felt like parish ministry detox — I decided to stop shaving. I’m just tired of it; the same routine every day. Now this probably won’t last very long since Bryna thinks it looks ridiculous. And when it comes to facial hair, your wife is the final judge and arbiter.

But it’s day five and it lives. Who cares if it doesn’t connect on one side where the mustache and beard should meet? So I couldn’t grow a fu manchu. I think my new look gives me a certain rugged gravitas that I’ve been lacking. You might think I look like Crockett — or was it Tubbs? — from Miami Vice. But I’m pretty sure people pay a bit more attention to me now when I speak. Or they just may be staring at me wondering about that odd growth on my face.

But as I hang out in my favorite coffee shop putting the last few edits on my manuscript, I feel like a writer. Sure Hemingway had a fuller beard. But give me time — I’m just hoping to make it a whole week.