Go Grow Roses….

Telling this paradigmatic story of my journey through life, I got back in touch with some deep truths that have come my way. I have told this story before, in sermons, in this column, but this time it was to a friend and colleague during the recent retreat I was co-leading for clergy. It feels right to tell it again, as a re-minder to me of a deep truth that was given to me in a particularly painful moment. Plus, it’s a hell of a good story.

I was serving as the Canon Pastor at the Episcopal Cathedral in Atlanta. Part of my duty was to celebrate the Eucharist (holy communion for those of you South of God) every noon in our lovely little chapel, with usually ten to thirty people who would show up, whether they needed to or not.

Elizabeth Dickey, the cousin to Deliverance’s James Dickey, almost always was there, a resident at our retirement facility, the Cathedral Towers. She was so faithful, one of Dave’s Faves, but always about a beat behind in her articulating the words of the liturgy. She sat in the same pew every day on the lefthand side of the chapel.

Another parishioner, Phil Sapelo, was also there most days, sitting on the front right pew. Phil was a bit overbearing in his opinions, even before the current culture wars, and was one of those people sent by God on a special mission to train me in my spiritual discipline of patience. He was always about half a beat ahead of the normal rhythm of our liturgy, which made the service a bit tricky for the celebrant. “Cacophony” would be too strong a word, but “disjointed” barely approaches the feel of confusion,.

One day, I actually broke down and tried to train them, like an orchestra conductor, to be conscious of that rhythm, and it worked for a minute, but soon we returned to the syncopated liturgy. It turned out that I was more of a conductor on a train, headed for the proverbial train wreck. I smiled, and accepted the lesson in my early days of priesting.

During my time, I would notice the people who showed up for this service. For some, it was a daily habit that provided a structure to one’s day. Many times, it was a moment of convenience as one was out shopping and just dropped by for a spiritual pause in their day. Other times, a crisis had occurred and the person was literally on their knees, seeking guidance. It was an opportune time for me as a priest, to greet the person at the door in the back, giving them an option to engage. And some would take advantage of the moment, while others would scurry back to the world, as I honored the unique role of the Cathedral to provide a safe space for transition, a moment of liminality, a valuable pause in our social network.

Early on in my time beginning to take on this duty, I noticed a handsome, distinguished older man, who sat midway on the right side. He wore a black blazer, not the more common navy with brass buttons. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, with a cord around his neck, securing his spectacles conveniently.

He was there almost every day, but whisked out before I could greet him. Finally, one day, I rushed to the back and caught him. going against my normal rule of leaving people alone who wanted their privacy. I said that I noticed his regular presence and was glad to see him. He introduced himself as Gary Garnett. I asked if he would like to grab a cup of coffee, an old Episcopal ploy. Over the steaming cup of coffee that Christine had made, he surprised me by telling me that he was an Episcopal priest. He had been a “fast track” priest in North Carolina. He had burned out and had left the parish ministry, something I was beginning to understand. He went on to tell me that he was gay, and had partnered with a man with whom he had a business. We continued to meet weekly, exploring his original calling to priesthood, the things he loved about the work, and the things that made that role problematic, eventually causing him to curtail his formal exercise of that office.

It began with a simple offer. Would you ever like to celebrate the daily Eucharist in the chapel? His eyes lit up, like I had flipped a switch. And so it began. He began to take a day in the weekly rotation in the chapel. Soon, I invited him to provide a limited number of hours, serving as our hospital visitor, as he would drop in on parishioners at Piedmont Hospital. To cut to the chase, I wound up asking him to come on my pastoral care staff, as he became a full-time priest on the Cathedral staff. Truth is, Gary became one of the most beloved priests at the Cathedral, using his considerable pastoral skills while visiting folks in the hospital, Plus, he did not have to deal with all the administrative “stuff” that I had to mess with. It was perfect for him. and he thrived.

Gary became a treasured colleague, but even more a friend. I would often end my day by going to his condo on top of a building behind the Cathedral. We would sit in his roof garden, enjoying the view of the Atlanta skyline, sipping spirits, and solving the problems of the world, the challenges of the urban reality of Atlanta, and the Cathedral in particular, even the rhythm of the chapel liturgy of Elizabeth and Phil. Actually, we often found that it was humor that helped us make it through the times. It was a holy space for me, a place of communion.

One day, Gary came into my office, shutting my door behind him. Through tears, he told me of a diagnosis of lung cancer that was advanced. He would undergo treatment but the prognosis was not optimistic. We prayed, sat in silence, and then talked until closing time.

That night, I had a dream during my sleep. It was vivid, different from most of my dreams, but it was not the first elaborate dream I had on occasion. My witchy grandmother McBrayer once told me that it ran in the family, this dream “thing”. She admonished me to pay attention. She said her father, John Columbus McBrayer, had had a dream of the death of his wife when they lived in the black dirt soil of Waco, Texas. And the vision he had, of her dying during childbirth came to pass. My grandmother said that she also had dreams that pointed to things coming. I remember her telling me one day, as an impressionable little boy, “Pay attention to your dreams! It is God speaking to you!”

Now, science and the Enlightenment had knocked most of that mystical stuff out of me. I prided myself in my scientific perspective, although I had begun to play with the role of dreams in the unconscious as explored by Carl Jung. It still felt spooky to me, but I had experienced strong intuition and had a tremulous dream on the night I was on retreat at the Trappist monastery before my ordination to the priesthood, which I have recounted here in South of God. But this dream was different.

So this particular dream happened the night after Gary told me of his cancer diagnosis:

I was standing on the ridge of a small mountain, overlooking a valley. It reminded me of a location on Pine Mountain, at Dowdell’s Knob where President Franklin Roosevelt would picnic on visitation to Warm Springs. It was a place my grandfather would take me as a boy.

The sky was dark and stormy, the way it gets in mid-Georgia during the summer months. Tornado time. I was standing on the mountain, shaking my fist at the sky, and I was screaming/crying: Damn you, God! How could you do this to Gary? He’s found himself, recovering his sense of vocation, serving as a faithful priest, loving Your people, and now you are going to strike him down? I don’t get it. This makes NO sense. Gary does not deserve this. Damn you!

In my dream, a kind, even-toned voice came from the sky:

David, you let me take care of Gary, and you go grow roses.

That was it. What the hell did that mean? I woke up, wrote down the dream on a pad I kept by the bed, and reviewed it the next morning. In fact, when I awoke in the morning, I thought I had dreamed about writing the note down, but there it was, this vexing dream content of my outburst at the Almighty, with God’s quiet reply.

What was I to make of this? I called my Trappist monk spiritual director who grew bonsai trees in the monastery greenhouse. I never will forget his laughter when I told him, he was trying so valiantly to not laugh at his young perplexed friend. I asked what he thought, and he responded, “If I were you, I’d grow roses!”

The story gets even more strange. I called up an old church member from Decatur who was a renowned rosarian in the Atlanta botanical world. I didn’t feel comfortable telling him about my dream. I simply asked him to tell me how to grow roses….my admirable habit is to consult the best.

Beryl Brown began to tell me much more than I wanted to know. First, you dig out the Georgia red clay from the beds where you are going to plant the roses, three to four feet down. You install French drains to help with the moisture. You amend the soil with peat moss, sand, and perlite. You install a drip irrigation system to precisely water each individual plant. As he is droning on with his masterful lecture, I stopped him and asked him if all of this was really necessary. He paused at the end of my question and I imagined the contortion of his face. “You ASKED me how to grow roses. I am trying to tell you!” he said, with no attempt to disguise his disgust.

Got it. Three to four feet, huh. Really?

So I ordered 70 bare-root roses from Oregon. Dug out two beds, one by the side of the house, the other in my Peachtree-Dunwoody virgin forest backyard. I built a raised bed out of railroad crossties. Amended the soil as prescribed. Planted these things that looked more like sticks than bushes. Installed a drip irrigation system that, to my utter surprise, worked! My house did not explode with water shooting out my chimney, as I had imagined. And, the plants began to grow just like the man said. Beryl even gave me a secret tip, a mystical concoction of alfalfa pellets, water, and other secret ingredients that I would have to kill you if I told you. I mixed it up in a large rubber trash can, witchily stirring the brew with my granddad’s old boat paddle. The smell would knock you naked, as my old friend Ron Lane would say. But, by God, or Beryl, it worked.

Roses grew abundantly. I worked hard, caring for my roses, leaving Gary’s fate to God, learning to trust in a new way. It was sacramental, as I experienced a visceral reaction to the sweat, muscle soreness, escaping blood, and earthy smell that was a part of my piece of Eden. I would carry roses to the staff at the Cathedral, especially Gary, giving me an occasion to express my love for him. It was quite a season for the roses, and for me.

I wish my story had a fairytale ending. The chemo took out some of the cancer, but exacted a terrible price on Gary’s body, though his spirit remained valiant.

In the middle of this cosmic drama, I received a call from an amazing parish, Christ Church, in Tyler, Texas, curiously known as the City of Roses. Surprisingly, I accepted the call, took my young family across the Mississippi River to my grandmother’s native soil, and began to do the hard work of growing people in that part of God’s Creation, staying a decade in the fields of East Texas.

As I left Atlanta for the Rose City, I said my goodbyes to a fine colleague, and even better friend, the Rev. Father Gary Garnett. We both knew that day, it would be the last time we would see each other, as we shared an embrace. Our farewells were watered with tears, but I was able to give my friend, Gary, one last red rose, knowing that the God who gave me an enigmatic charge, would take care of His end of the bargain. It was off to Texas for me while the journey of my friend was drawing to a close.

Go grow roses. Oh my.

A Passion for Transformation

It’s impossible for me to tell you how exciting it is to witness a life being transformed, with dreams emerging, passion flowing, and eyes opening. The experience rivals watching the birth of my children, which makes sense as transformation is much like a birth. Messy, some pain, but the promise rules the time and space.

This week, I am involved in a gathering of people who happen to be minister types: clergy, priests, pastors., oh my! They are a strange lot… I should know. They fascinate me as they talk about their call from God, some boldly, some hesitatingly, some with a whisper. The group I am working with this week come from a variety of traditions: Presbyterians, Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists South of God, community churches, and, yes, even Episcopalians.

The event is called a Spiritual Leadership Development Intensive and is meeting over the course of a week. It has clergy with varied experience: some who are just getting started, fresh to their first congregations; some who are mid-career; some nearing the finish line; and others who are retired, looking for their next chapter. They come voluntarily, not sentenced by their adjudicatory boards or bishops. No, they come looking for something: clarity, fresh winds for their sails, inspiration, a word, perhaps. But they have come of their own volition.

The ingenious format for this gathering is the product of my friend and colleague, Dr. John Scherer, who has been doing this work for almost forty years. John began his work as a Lutheran pastor, but he morphed into a leading consultant in the field of applied psychology and organizational development. In the past, John’s work was mostly in the business sector, engaging folks from the corporate world, inviting them to discover the spirit that is within each person in the work they do.

I attended an event thirty years ago, in Idaho, with a bunch of corporate types, me as the lone priest among the heathen. It was a life-changing experience for me as I clarified some of the things that were driving me to do what it was I was doing, as well as to face up to some of the parts of me that were getting in my way. Literally in the shadow of a white-supremacist militia camped in the beauty of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, I found a freedom that I had somehow lost along the way.

It was so powerful to me that I invited John to Tyler, Texas to do his thing with my Leadership Foundation of New East Texas, a project funded by the Pew Trust. Within my mix of Latino, black, and white leaders, who were training to lead in our quiet but conflicted East Texas town and region, John introduced some of the parts of this process, notably the notion of presence showing up with 110% of who you are. The effect on my group was marked as we were about the task of building the capacity of each of our participants.

And a few years later, I asked him to come to Atlanta to my new parish and offer a shortened version to some of the leaders of Coca Cola, Lockheed, and other major Atlanta corporate players who were members of the congregation. It happened to include my brother and his emerging group of healthcare consultants that became Galloway Consulting. John’s ability to invite engagement at a deep level was remarkable and his presentation skills were on full display there in Atlanta. John always delivers the goods, right on time for most folks.

John has worked with a variety of organizations with the intent of connecting folks to the deep Spirit within them. He has a bold approach that pushes one to come home to your true self. He is not hawking a typical self-improvement guru line, but rather, an abiding sense that you have everything that you need right inside of yourself, right now. The surprising good news that he delivers is that you don’t need to change yourself, but rather, come home to your Self. It’s a rich process of diving deep into who you are and rediscovering the passion and gifts within.

John offers five questions that form the structure for the work.

The first is “What is confronting you?” The work begins in the present, in that “now” moment, asking you to face the main thing that is confronting you in your life. He uses the imagery of a tiger as the creature that is engaging you presently. Playfully, John asks “If you are confronted by a tiger in the jungle, what would you do?” Naturally, your first instinct is to run. But, that is not a wise move, for the tiger is trained through the evolution of a predator to run you down and eat you for supper, a tasty treat. Counter-intuitively, you must face the tiger, not running, but looking directly at the person, issue, or situation that is confronting you. Adding reality to the mix, John reminds one that facing your “tiger” does not mean that you are going to survive, but at least you have a shot.

This “tiger” image captures the feel of the whole event: playfully serious, and seriously playful. It is so profound that I have a photo of me confronting my Tiger sitting on my desk from an event twenty-five years ago, It makes me smile as I glance at my figure, leaning into the exercise, and my “tiger”, sans my gray hair. There’s always a tiger prowling.

The second question is “What are you bringing?’ which invites you to explore your history, the blessings and curses that you have gathered in your life journey. This is the question that asks you to come clean about your presumptions, biases, and assumptions about the lay of the land in your world. How are you conditioned to see “this” and not see “that”? What are you missing in the scan of the situation that is facing you?

The third question asks “What is running you?” This may be the toughest question to face as you look to discover your default position, that is, how are you programmed to live your life, unaware of the standard operating procedure that drives you. You are asked to look at how you were trained, consciously and unconsciously, to live life. Who taught you to be the “somebody” that you are? Who is the “person” that you present to the world in order to get what you want, or crave? And, what part of yourself have you put in “cold storage” because you fear it would render you unacceptable, or lead to rejection. The polarity work of Barry Johnson is introduced as a way through the forest of tension that exists within each person, as one is given a model of working with the polar opposites that have vexed our lives and leadership. The promise is to become more aware of how you have been living in an automatic mode, with the promissory hope of becoming able to expand your repertoire of behavior intentionally.

The fourth question asks “What calls you?” This is a promising opportunity to look deeply within and see the particular and peculiar gifts that are inside of you. Some gifts will be familiar, while others you will discover, perhaps for the first time. Still, other potential gifts are locked away, dimensions of your Self that scare you and evoke anxiety and fear when considered. The quest is to become aware of who you are and your deep needs, the needs of others that compose your world, and a connection to a greater purpose that is worthy of your best energy. This is what John calls the “sweet spot”, and when you are there, you know it. The “sweet spot” in your Goldilocks moment: it feels just right!

Finally, the fifth question poses the challenge: What will unleash you? I love the feel of this question, and anyone who has labored under the constraints of a system that holds you back from your full-tilt Self, knows what “unleash” means. It’s exciting just to say the word. This involves the commitment to move from what was an “automatic” life to an authentic life that includes all of the richness of your true Self. This is what is meant by transformation, which is the goal of the process. It includes some letting of what was, accompanied by the pain that accompanies new birth. Transformation requires the deep desire for a new possibility, along with the willingness to “not know” the exact shape of the future. Finally, one is asked to lean into this new way of being with openness. What I am witnessing in these participants in the SLDI is a sense of liberation, a newly discovered sense of freedom, that one person described as “taking flight”! God, I love this work.

John has designed an experiential way of engaging these questions that is not a mere “head trip”. It involves the whole person: heart, mind, and soul. The process demands a lot from the participants, including honesty with one’s Self and others; a willingness to enter into intimate, collaborative dialogue; an exercise of curiosity; the courage to ask the deep questions; and a trust in the process.

As I said, John has been offering this process for executives for years in the corporate world. But about a year ago, we began to talk about a process that would be designed specifically for those who exercise leadership in the faith community. A team of clergy and lay persons began to meet every Saturday for almost a year to think through how we might fashion this experience, tuning it for this rare breed of person known as clergy. This current week, we are proceeding through our initial cohort group, testing and trying out the design, to make sure it is the best we can provide. It’s been a dream of John for years, and I sense his excitement it rolled down the runway, taking off into open air, as we bring this idea to flight.

As for me, it fits a lifelong passion for personal and leadership development for clergy. It began with my awareness of Interpreter’s House, a three-week process for clergy, designed by Carlyle Marney, my theological mentor. Marney was assisted in this work by a young Harvard graduate student, Jim Fowler, who was chasing his dream of understanding the mystery of faith and how that develops through time. It was in this funky mix of listening to ministers tell their stories around a fireside that the nascent forms of faith development emerged.

It was that relationship to Marney that initially drew me to Jim as he came to Atlanta to teach at Emory. As I was pursuing my doctoral work under him, I joined the staff at the Center for Faith Development at Emory University. Using Marney’s idea, but employing our faith development theory, we developed Pilgrimage Project as a week-long process for spiritual growth and awareness for clergy. I later developed a transition process for clergy who were moving from seminary to their first parish. This was in the Diocese of Texas, with my colleague, the Rev. Kevin Martin. I have been using pieces of all these modalities in my coaching of clergy over the years. In many ways, the SLDI work feels like coming home, again.

Getting a chance to work with John Scherer and the team gathered of Mike Murray, Kathy Davis, and Terry Rogers, is a dream come true. This group is an incarnation of the word “collaboration” and brings to reality the spirit of creative interchange.

The dream for this Spiritual Leadership Development Intensive (SLDI) is that it will provide a fresh modality and process for continuing education for clergy. It is not the typical seminar of new, trendy ideas, nor a workshop of training in a technique. Rather, it is an intentional, experiential engagement that clergy can decide for themselves to enter, for clarification and discovery of their gifts for leadership and ministry.

Our independence from any denominational agenda allows us to be free to focus on the development of the person in whatever way the Spirit is leading. It is my prayer that it will evolve into a process that will be life-giving for the Church and the world.

If you are interested in future events with the SLDI, you can contact me at drdavidgalloway@msn.com. John Scherer’s book, Five Questions, is available through Amazon.

“Don’t Screw Up My Easter!”

Moving from Baptists South of God to the Episcopal Church was a scary time of adjustment and risk, but I knew I was headed home.

After serving as a minister in two progressive Southern Baptist churches, I felt something was missing. I came from a history of stellar pastors, such as Carlyle Marney, Estill Jones, John Claypool, Bill Lancaster, and Tom Conley. Excellent scholarship, superb preaching, and vibrant personalities, these five pastors cut a fine image of what a pastor could be. But, four of the five were known for being “mavericks” within the tradition. And if I stuck around, I probably would follow their lead and become a maverick myself.

I had observed these guys from afar, as well as close up, and admired their courage and independence. But, I also knew the price they paid. I wanted my independence, but I also wanted to be a part of a community where I experienced a sense of being “at home”, not always playing the role of rebel. There’s a definite art, maybe even a trick, to keeping these two goals in a balanced, polar tension. But that was my intuition as to what I needed and therefore my heart’s desire.

Through my educational and training track, I surprisingly found myself at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, working in the counseling center and working with the homeless ministry at a time when psychiatric hospitals were turning patients out onto the street. My experience at St. Luke’s Episcopal, Atlanta gave me an experience of a community where I felt that sense of “home” where you are known and loved. I found both intellectual curiosity and honesty, with wide birth given to all ways of thinking. Inclusive rather than exclusive, Luke’s went out of its way to be invitatory to all sorts and conditions of people. For me, that was more reflective of the vision that Jesus had presented as the coming Kingdom of God. Luke’s pressed the bounds of what it meant to be Church, intentionally engaged in transforming the city of Atlanta. And the broader Episcopal Church was deeply embedded in the sacramental tradition, while intellectually free, following Truth wherever it led. I wanted some of that.

I began to explore the possibility of making the Episcopal church the base of my personal faith as well as the field for my work, whether as a lay person or as a priest. I began to inquire how I might make that move as my new wife and I began attending the worship of St. Luke’s on Sunday.

My first bishop was a form-setter in the church, Bennett Sims. Bishop Sims heard my story and my desire to be an Episcopal priest and responded enthusiastically, He offered a vision of my moving quickly from my Baptist ordination to priesthood in the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta. I was so excited.

But then I was introduced to a scary creature in the Episcopal Church known as “order”, or as I had come to know it as “bureaucracy”. There was a “meet and right” order to things, a process, I was told. The Chairman of the Commission on Ministry told me in no uncertain terms that I would have to go through about a two-year process to see if it was in the cards for me to be a priest. It’s hilarious that I was cast in the role of Chairman of the COM twenty years later. Irony follows me like a dog.

After I was told that a “hold” was placed on my process, I chaffed at the reins being pulled in on me. I made an appointment with the person who was in charge of the “process”, Caroline Hughes (later Westerhoff). She graciously listened to me review my seminary work, my doctoral work, my experience in two churches, and my clinical experience, as I piled them up high in front of her. I strategically added at the end that two other bishops had offered me a quick path that would forego this extensive “process”. At the end, she furrowed her brow ( a look I came to recognize, and eventually love) ‘splaining to me “how it was” in the Diocese of Atlanta. She concluded by saying that she understood the “rush” of a young man in a hurry, BUT, if I wanted to be a priest in the Diocese of Atlanta, I would have to go through the process.

The “process” at that time had two components. The first was sitting with a committee from your home parish who would help you explore your call to the priesthood. If this committee recommended you for pursuing priesthood, you would move into the second phase, the Vocational Testing Program, VTP we called it. There you would go to nine months of meeting with peers who were also seeking the Church’s blessing to move on in the process. The group would meet weekly with two supervisors, one clergy, one lay. My lay supervisor turned out to be Caroline, a gift that I had no idea just how great it would be.

I decided to go through the “process”, but with a critical self-understanding as to it being my own intention, claiming my own volition in going this route. It was MY decision. No one was forcing me to go through this process. I wanted to be clear with that so that I did not waste any time and energy rebelling, consciously or unconsciously, to the process. I wanted to dive into the process with everything I had, not hold back a pound, as Rudy Ray Moore might say.

And that is what I did. I have written about the process in another post if you are interested. It was one of the more transformational experiences of my life, with me receiving the imprimatur of my group, my supervisors, the Commission on Ministry, the Standing Committee, and finally the Bishop. Did I mention anything about “process”?

So that is the setup for my brief story around Easter.

As a newly ordained transitional deacon on Feb. 23rd, I was designated to have a special part in the Easter Vigil liturgy at the Cathedral, serving Bishop Judson Child, who was now the Diocesan Bishop of the Diocese of Atlanta. The deacon is designated to chant an ancient hymn called the Exultutet, which recounts the mighty acts of God in redeeming the people of Israel, bringing them out of slavery in Egypt, sustaining them through the wilderness, leading them to the Promised Land. It connects that Exodus journey to the Paschal Mystery of Christ going through death through crucifixion, waiting in vigil for three days for the cosmic redemption of death with the Resurrection. The Exultet is gorgeous poetry set to a series of tones that climb up and down the scale, a challenge to even an experienced singer. And yet, I was the one scheduled to do this, in front of God, a thousand of my closest friends…. and my mama. Lord, have mercy.

I began back in Advent, five months prior to the big day. I would go each morning to the organ in Mikell Chapel and play the notes of the Exultet, singing along in a slow chant, searching for tone and pace. Bob Simpson, the Choirmaster gave me time to coach me, generously giving me his skills in the vocal arts, pushing me for precision, but encouraging me along the way with reassurance. Sometimes, I felt like Bob was observing me as a drowning man in a roaring sea, as he encouraged me to keep at it, don’t give up! Gurgle.

The night of the Easter Vigil arrived, and I was a nervous wreck. I had gotten to the Cathedral early to go through the chant one last time. I put on my vestments early. I could not tell if the weight of the vestment was from the cloth-of-gold fabric, something we bring out on high feast days, or if it was just the weight of the moment. Probably both.

I was pacing, something I never do, but pacing, trying to gather my thoughts, using my old tricks of meditation to calm my young self down. Other clergy were slowly gathering, speaking softly, appropriate to the moment of this Vigil. And I continued to pace.

Suddenly Bishop Child appeared, with his gold cope (cape) and staff (crozier). I have never met another person who loved being a bishop more than him. It was his joy. I was so anxious that I would not do well, my pacing increased as he came into the vesting room, ready to go. He had taken on a father-like role in my life, having sponsored me, ordained me, and then mentored me in my formation to the priesthood. He provided funds for me to go to Sewanee to study with the leading liturgical scholar in the Episcopal church. I owed him big time.

He obviously picked up on my nervousness. He approached me on my right side, grabbing the sleeve of my vestment in his hands, pulling me toward him, firmly. He was right in my face, sort of like the proverbial Seinfeldian dreaded “close talker”.

I will never forget the pregnant moment. He looked at me piercingly with his eyes and then he said: If you screw up the Exultet, you will screw up my Easter. Don’t screw up my Easter!

Dear reader, know that I am cleaning up the specific word he used. It was shocking to hear that word come out of the Bishop’s mouth, particularly with the backdrop of this most holy day.

The effect of the message was first shock, and then hilarity. He and I both were laughing deeply, breaking the tension, I imagine, for both of us. It was true, at least for me. My nerves receded, I was able to be really present, ready to chant that Exultet like it had never been chanted before.

Truth is, Bishop Child knew me, the way I was wired, and took the time and energy and focus and risk to give me what I needed. He knew exactly what he was doing, and it worked.

We talked later about it, and he laughed as the characteristically rubbed his hands together as if the director of a play that went just as he planned.

As you can imagine, I think of that moment every Easter, particularly at the Vigil. In that moment, I sensed the hilarity of the disciples in the surprise of the resurrected Jesus, of life emerging from the tomb of fear and resignation.

But, more importantly, I knew intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually, that I, indeed, had found my home. What a blessing it was that day, and continues to be.

This Easter season, I would wish that for you, wherever you are lucky enough, or blessed, to find it. Blessings.

An Invitation to a Holy Experience

This is Holy Week.

From Palm Sunday, remembering the triumphant parade into Jerusalem, the gathering around a table, the ignominious public execution of Jesus, the “empty” day of waiting, to conclude in an Easter celebration.

The Church goes to great lengths to bring those historical events to those of us who find ourselves removed by hundreds of years. The genius of Holy Week is to put us in the middle of this mystical drama of life, death, waiting, and new life. As designed, it is experiential.

We owe a woman named Egeria for her description in letters to her friends of the events she was observing in Jerusalem. When I was researching this material, back before the Copernican revolution, she was thought to be a Spanish nun, who traveled as a pilgrim to Jerusalem to be there for the week that has come to be known as Holy. The time period is around 380, but little detail is known of her. She writes a description of the festivities and observances of the week in detail, giving us a glimpse into the detail and feel of the time. Liturgical scholars of this past century, looking to enliven and deepen this time, were gifted by her writings, as they attempted to return to a more representative version of the events.

Palm Sunday begins the week, remembering the hopeful entry of Jesus, proclaiming the Kingdom of God. Pilgrims for the Passover lined the way, waving palms, wondering who this one was who was passing by on a donkey. One of my first memories of a poetic image was that of “even the rocks and stones sang”, which was to indicate the cosmic level of excitement. And so the Church reenacts this pregnant moment into celebration in the now. Palm Sunday.

But the Church plays a sneaky trick….not the first. As soon as we have paraded with Palms into the worship space, while singing a robust hymn, there is a head-jerking shift. We overhear the story of Jesus’ sentencing by Pilate, the Roman governor, handed over by the religious leaders. It would not be the last time politicians and religious leaders conspired together in the quest for power. We listen to the Passion narrative, often read dramatically, as we come face to face with Jesus’ death. “And he breathed his last.”

The Church engineers this with a specific goal and conviction: You can not get to Easter without going through the reality of the Cross and Death.

Why does the Church insert the Passion narrative into this festive moment of a triumphant parade. The Church simply is being realistic. You might not make it to Good Friday services. It’s Spring and the weather is almost perfect, unless you’re in the wake or path of a Texas tornado. I was once in a tornado immediately following the Good Friday service, knocking down a tree beside the church, along with our power. It was out for a day and a half, causing us to do the infamous liturgical scramble. Not a pretty dance, I assure you. But power was restored right before the service…..a utilitarian resurrection.

Or, as Easter usually occurs providentially with the Masters golf tournament in Augusta. Was it Bobby Jones or God who had first dibs on Spring? For a Masters pass, I would readily opt for Bobby! Watching the Masters with resplendent greens, the fuschia of azaleas, and the stark white of the dogwoods, every golfer’s heart is tuned to go practice, and play. The golf sirens may call a wandering soul to the golf course, foregoing Good Friday on an Easter weekend. I know this all too well. Hell, they used to pay me to go to church on Good Friday!

Palm Sunday shifts to Passion Sunday to get you ready for Easter. What begins with a joyous hymn of proclamation ends in silence as you file out, just like those early disciples.

The rest of the week is filled with a variety of liturgies that remember the events in the last week of Jesus’s life. The point here is to offer you entrance into the existential and cosmic reality of Jesus who is making his way from carpenter to Christ. The question is whether or not you catch a glimpse of the historical Jesus, and at the same time grasp that he is you.

Maundy Thursday refers to “mandare”, Jesus’ command to recall his presence whenever we gather. He used ordinary objects, bread and wine, things used in his Hebraic rituals that he grew up with. And it was at a meal, one of the basic things we humans do in our life. On this particular Thursday, we recall those actions with Jesus, with holy communion taking center stage.

It’s odd to me, funny on some days, painful on others, that the Church majored in the meal of this night. But, the Church seemed to forget the other powerful symbol when weary desert travelers would gather for a meal. They would wash their feet, cleaning up for the upcoming meal. Often this menial chore was done by a servant for the house. And yet Jesus turns it around, as he washes the feet of his disciples, making the point that “service” is the mark of following the Christ, servanthood is the way of being in the world. Ponder why this was not part of the main liturgy of the Church. I have a few guesses, one in particular, but I’ll let you ponder.

In the renewed liturgy, most traditions have added this to the Maunday Thursday liturgy, though it tends to be “merely” symbolic. I remember the Bishop of Atlanta washing the feet of one of the young acolytes to make the point. I once went all Cecil B. DeMille, washing the feet of my good friend, Ledell, the black janitor of the parish. It’s debatable as to the effectiveness of such a symbol. But who knows? The sower sows the seed, and you just don’t know what will bear fruit. I rode that parable many days during my ministry. Who knows? It speaks of a humility about the efficacy of what we do, the seed we have sown, but also a recognition of the complicated nature of this life we share. Even Jesus faced that reality, as some received his good news of the Gospel, while others simply never got it.

In some churches, the opportunity is afforded to anyone in attendance to wash the feet of one’s neighbor. It’s somewhat of a logistical nightmare to make this happen. Can you say “pantyhose”? In fact, most times when I have participated, great lengths are gone to in order to emphasize the “voluntary” nature of this part of the ritual. What do you think this says to folks? We prefer comfort to transformation. And it’s way too intimate for most of us.

The other piece of Thursday that seems to miss emphasis is the event of Jesus in Gethsemane. He is seen in existential isolation, as his friends/disciples are sleeping as he prays to have this “cup” of suffering and death pass him by. To me, this is the crux of the whole drama. Jesus has to DECIDE that he will accept what is waiting for him. He has a sense of the suffering that is ahead, but he is not a puppet. He has free will. He chooses. This is crucial for his identification with our humanity, fully human, fully alive.

I often think of the only stained glass window in the church I grew up in, Oakland City Baptist Church, located in southwest Atlanta. The window was at the front of the church, depicting this moment of which I write, Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, kneeling at a rock, portrayed in scripture as sweating blood. This scene is found in more churches than just about any image. And, I am not puzzled by it, for it is our common predicament. Most of us do not face an actual Cross during our lifetime, though it is symbolic of death, which we all share. But the tension of decision, of deciding, is a part of the fabric of human existence. It’s there where I first got connected with this person, Jesus, this archetype, Christ. Funny that the critical symbol of my faith was in my infant/child’s eye. Why would the Son of God be seen struggling? That was my child-like takeaway early on, a question that drove me for a while.

Good Friday is observed traditionally between the hours of noon and three o’clock, the hours in which Jesus hung on the cross in his Passion. Again, the Passion narrative is rehearsed. In some churches, a cross with the corpus, the body of Jesus, is brought into the room, with an invitation to come forward to kiss the feet of Jesus. It is a somber time. At the Cathedral, we would keep the full three hours, with readings, reflections, and meditation. Again, without an embrace of the reality of Jesus’ death, it is difficult to find the true joy of Easter.

Holy Saturday is a quiet day. The liturgy is bare, sparse, as we wait, like the original disciples who did not know what was to come. I try to grapple, wrestle with this day, because again, this is the human situation as I know it. Waiting, unsure, leaning into the future, hopefully with faith.

My favorite tradition that Egeria helped us recover is that of the Easter Vigil. I first experienced it at the Trappist monastery in Conyers. We met after dark on Saturday in a nearby field for the “lighting of the new fire” of Easter. There, the Abbot went au naturale, using flint to spark the new fire in dry pine straw. He would then use this fire to light the Paschal candle, symbolizing the Light of the World which comes into the darkness of death. The symbolism is primal, and powerful. I would pause to note that I have actually witnessed a priest use a Bic lighter to replace the flint in lighting the first fire, with no thought of the symbol. Lost in translation!

The Paschal candle is processed from the field, the faithful following the candle, to the darkened church, bringing a single light into the pitch dark of the space. Its flickering is poetic as the single flame emits a surprising power to interrupt the finality of darkness, dancing on the ceiling and side walls. As the members enter the space, this is the very definition of experiential worship.

Once everyone is in place, the ancient anthem of the Exultet is chanted, rehearsing the history of salvation from Exodus to the Resurrection of Jesus. This is a hymn of history and hope. Scripture readings follow, as the congregation sits in candlelight. At the conclusion of the readings, the Celebrant stands with a prayer. The lights, if done right, explode “on”, full tilt brilliant in what was darkness, again an experiential moment of participating in this holy mystery.

The Celebrant declares loudly: Alleluia, Christ is Risen! and the congregation responds, The Lord is Risen indeed, Alleluia!

It is Easter! The joy of that moment is amazing. It is the pinnacle of this architecture known as Holy Week, with its intention to bring you into an experience of this story. I often thought of myself as an “architect of experience” as I planned carefully and creatively as to how we would present this liturgy each year. There was no higher calling in my work as a priest. And I loved it.

I hope you will look to find an Easter Vigil service near you. Some churches offer it late Saturday afternoon, Saturday night, or early Sunday. The contrast of light and dark is the driving imagery, but the liturgy itself carries the moment.

Forgive me if I stop here. Sunday morning Easter services are joyful, full of pomp, orchestras, timpanis, brass, spendid choirs. Sometimes, it’s a family command performance, which precedes a big lunch. All of this is good, but can become mere performance. Cadbury eggs, Peeps, and bunnies compete for your attention.

As a preacher, I looked at Easter Sunday morning as “prime time”, that and Christmas as my biggest opportunity to be invitatory as to the value of a spiritual life. And so, Easter Sunday was important and got my attention. I worked hard to craft a sermon that was joyful and accessible to the casual visitor. It was another kind of challenge. However, it paled in my personal experience of Easter joy found at the Great Vigil.

It’s the middle of Holy Week, so I hope you will consider leaning in with a bit of expectation, not just mailing it in. Easter is all about connecting us up with the basic mystery of life that we all embrace: Life- Death- Rebirth….a transformative ride that we can embrace.

I wish you a joyful Easter, full of joy and wonder, as we celebrate new life, and rebirth. Spring is certainly cooperating as our stage manager. All that is left is for you to show up, and be present. I pray that you experience Easter this year. But if you miss it, remember that Thomas shows up next week for all of us who show up late to the party. My patron saint, Thomas.

Blessings.+

Not Quite Like a Bicycle

Thank you to so many kind people who kept me in their minds, hearts, and souls as they knew I was leading the worship this past Sunday at St. Athanasius in Brunswick, Georgia.

If you took the bet of me falling, you lost.

First off, it’s not quite like a bicycle. There are parts of the liturgy, the normal process of prayers that are stitched into your soul. A bodily sense of “this follows that”; phrases and sentences that have been etched on one’s heart, lodged in one’s mind, that surprisingly come back on the tip of one’s tongue, silver or tin. But there are slight variations in each parish, where there is a particular and peculiar custom that has been accreted onto the procedure that can trip one up. That happened to me on a couple of moments, but that was okay. The people of St. A’s were so gracious to me.

Secondly, the gift of the day for me was the preparation beforehand. First, it gave me a chance to spend a couple of hours with my new young clergy friend, DeWayne Cope. He graciously gave me time to walk through the service a week ago, to get me familiar with the “particulars” of which I spoke. I remember trying to learn “the way” of Christ Church’s liturgy after many years at a Cathedral. Moving from an aircraft carrier to a PT boat is an adjustment, but a happy one. And St. A has its own style, one that I love but slightly unfamiliar to me. Father Cope was so kind as he tried to familiarize me with the moves of this dance.

More importantly, it gave us the sacred space, sitting in the altar area, with no one around other than God, to talk about this profession we share. What a gift that was. This young, bright, committed priest who is in his first parish, fueled by a zeal for the work of the church, or what could be. I am betting that, other than his mother, I am his biggest fan. This gave us a chance to get real with one another, in the way clergy do when they get the opportunity for intimacy. By that, I mean putting aside the posturing that often occurs with clergy, comparing your measurements and metrics so that you wind up “bigger and better” in the assessment. I’ve played that game before, and now have the freedom not to play. Homey don’t play that!

No. Intimacy means sharing the passion, hopes, and fears of your heart with an “other”. There’s no pulling of a punch, no holding back. It’s rare.

Intimacy means sharing the deep thoughts of your mind with another competent person. You risk telling others of your wonderings, your imagination, your reflections without fear of dismissal. The other may not agree, but there is no sense in devaluing of the other’s concept.

Intimacy opens one’s soul to the other. A holy moment in which your journey is shared and valued by an Other, in the context of covenant with THE Other, God. It may be telling your story, your trajectory through time, this particular Holy Now that you find yourself in, or it may be scanning of the horizon as to what you are wondering about the future.

Intimacy is all of that, and it is what happened between DeWayne and me. That time, was brought about by his invitation for me to “sub” for him, and my desire to help a brother grab a break before Holy Week. That contractual transaction became the means of a spiritual connection.

Come to think of it, our time in the sanctuary area of the altar of St. A’s was what I do in spiritual direction with clergy, spiritual seekers, and spiritual refugees. And it is the gift and burden of this time in my life. I am grateful.

Thirdly, this experience afforded me a reason to move beyond the daily Bible reading that goes with the Daily Office, which is a part of my priestly vows, but also a part of my rule as a Third Order Franciscan. This week, I was messing with and being messed with by a portion of Scripture about Mary and Martha. When I am studying “for my life”, a.k.a. preparing for a sermon, I am a rigorous explorer. I had forgotten both the pain and the joy of that prep work. In the end, I was blessed by the labor of my research, learning more about the Gospel than I had previously known.

The original story of Mary and Martha, the one that is most familiar, is found in Luke. It’s the one where Martha is bitching about how lazy Mary is. They have become sort of the Odd Couple of the Gospel, Felix and Oscar. Bert and Ernie, Spock and Kirk. The Mary and David, to bring it home. Side note: this is the creative tension built in the human process to produce growth! More at another time, or see The Art of Intimacy by Tom Malone and Patrick Malone.

The Mary and Martha story, as I said, was in Luke. The story about the anointing of Jesus is in Mark and Matthew, but is the work of a non-specific woman, not named here as Mary. Also, the complainers about the spending of money that could have gone to the poor was attributed to all the disciples, not just Judas. By the way, the occurrence was placed in Bethany, a few miles from Jerusalem, but it was the house of Simon the leper, not the Big Three of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. Timing-wise, it was just before the final entrance into Jerusalem, and the week of what we now observe as Holy Week.

In the Gospel reading for the Fifth Sunday of Lent, the Church departs from its reading of Luke for the first four weeks, and rather, goes to John. Again, the timing is the same as Mark’s and Matthew’s, before the entrance into Jerusalem, but the place and the actors are different.

In John, the story of anointing is placed following Jesus coming to Bethany at Martha and Mary’s request to heal Lazarus. When Jesus arrives in Bethany, he finds his friend, Lazarus, four days dead in a tomb. He has the stone removed from the tomb, with the crowd commenting on the “stink”, confirming that Lazarus was not sleeping but decomposing. Jesus commands Lazarus to come out, and he does, still bound by the burial wraps. Jesus says to unbind him and loose him. So this is the “backstory” to the anointing. They are rightly throwing a party for Jesus raising the dead, namely Lazarus, as a sign of what was going to happen to Jesus soon enough.

John conflates the anointing with the known story of Martha throwing a party while Mary anoints. Prattling Martha gets a support role in this story, as the focus is on Mary who anoints the feet of Jesus, giving Jesus the opportunity to point to the prefigured anointing at his death and burial. This also gives John the chance to point the finger at Judas, who is cast as the sole complainer. John editorializes about the scofflaw Judas, with this protest as just a part of his role as a thief, scoundrel. and betrayer. This is good dramatic writing by John, pulling traditions together to tell the story a bit more poignantly. Once again, this is a dark shift to the conflict with the government and religious structures just days out.

What struck me, again, was Jesus’ words: The poor will always be with you. I played with the congregation, asking if they ever thought of words that they, wished to God, Jesus had NOT said. I confessed my wishing Jesus had gone lighter with the striking of the cheek, turning to offer the other cheek, in the wake of the Oscars. Or how about the command to forgive your enemies and pray for your persecutors. That has been a tall order for me, especially when someone that you thought was close, betrays you. I mentioned that there were a few so-called colleagues, even a bishop or two, that I had to view in light of this passage. I might wish Jesus did not say those things about Kingdom living in the power of Love, as Presiding Bishop Curry pushes, but Jesus did, and I have to deal with it.

But this “the poor will always be with you” seems like Jesus is saying we should just accept this reality. That’s just the way it is, people say, but is this what Jesus intends? That’s what I have heard some people bring up in the face of our work with the poor, the structures that rig the game, and perpetuate the plight of the poor. It bothered me that Jesus would say such a thing.

But my scholarship and digging paid off. There is a passage of Scripture in the Hebrew Bible, the Pentateuch. in fact, the Law is contained in the first five books of the tradition. The scroll of the Torah is trotted out every Sabbath, and read from, with honor, awe, and reverence, the listeners bending their ears and souls to the Tradition. In Deuteronomy 15:11, it gets real clear: There will always be the poor present in your land. Therefore, I command you to be openhanded toward your fellow Israelites who are poor and needy in your land.

Jesus was no doubt quoting the verse, which he had heard as a child, memorized in his formation, and studied as an adult. There is a recognition of reality, but with the admonition of an act of love in opening your hearts and purses to the needs of the poor. The ointment of nard had its function as a symbol of what is coming: anointing the dead body of Jesus at his burial, but it does not relieve us of the ethical demand to care for our neighbor. It is the basis of all the Law and the prophets.

I loved making the connection, which shamefully I had not made before. I just ignored Jesus’ “poor will always be with you” like I do with Uncle Charlie’s racist comments at the family’s Thanksgiving lunch. This unlocked it for me within the context of the Covenant that formed Jesus and provided the platform for his radical Kingdom ethic. I was a happy student that night, which should clue you in that it is not hard to make an old priest smile.

It reminded me of my first days in seminary, learning how to translate the original Greek New Testament. Accurately called Baby Greek, it began with the clearest construction in the letter of First John. It is relatively easy, compared to more challenging sentence structure and conjugations. I’ll never forget the first time I encountered it in Greek. It was so clear, so clean, right in front of you in the fourth chapter. The text says this in verse 20: If anyone says, “I love God.” and hates his brother, he is a liar, for if he does not love his brother, who he has seen, he cannot love God, who he has not seen. And this commandment we have from him, that he who loves God, should love his brother, also.

Now, this is hilarious. As I am looking at my old Oxford Bible, copying those verses into this South of God article, what comes on the radio. It is from that Jersey boy, Jon Bon Jovi, and his powerful song, You Give Love A Bad Name. Pure synchronicity. Those of us who say, even advertize that we love God, betray that commitment by our treatment of sisters and brothers who do not necessarily fit our “acceptable” categories. We give God a bad name.

And at times, the institution of Church, with a pressing concern for our own survival, the survival of the institution writ large, behaves in a manner that gives God a bad name. In this season of Lent, a time of repentance, may we look squarely at our failures to live out of that covenant, and turn, recommitting ourselves to this radical love, which gets messy and fails the expectation of perfect religiosity.

My concluding comment is to mark my renewed gratitude for not serving as the pastor of a congregation at this time in our country. It is tough duty. And if you are someone thinking to yourself, “It’s not that hard!”, you may be one of the ones that make it difficult. I am so grateful that I can be a bearer of grace and reconciliation, without having to deal with the bureaucracy, the budget, and the air conditioning of churches. As my main man, Jon Batiste, screams, Freedom!

When I move my body like this, I feel like Freedom! That’s the pregnant line from Jon’s Grammy-winning album. Now, just for fun, what do imagine how my body is moving when I feel freedom? How does your body look when you get a whiff of your innate freedom?

We’re heading into Holy Week this coming Sunday, prepping us for the celebration of Easter. I know we tend to get a bit more serious, maybe even somber, when we are in this pregnant time. But I would follow up my question about freedom by asking you if you might approach this year’s Holy Week, in the wake of Covid, war, and cultural strife, with some playfulness.

How might the Spirit be calling you to break out in some wild act of love toward your neighbor, your community, and God’s Creation? Do you dare raise the question in your heart, mind, and soul? It’s a holy time this week when heaven is brought down to our everyday existence. Or, maybe it’s that we lift up our lives to the Eternal, looking afresh at the gift and the call. Holy Week is a special time, a threshold experience where you can more fully recognize who you are, and whose you are. I am struck again by a powerful and paradoxical statement in the Book of Common Prayer, as it describes a holy and joyful life with a prayer for peace at the conclusion of Morning Prayer “in whose service is perfect freedom”. Freedom exercised in service to God and neighbor. That says it all for me. Freedom, indeed. This prayer in the morning, re-minds me of the mindset by which I intend to engage the world. How might I be of service in the creative moment of this new day?

Blessings as you dance your way through this Holy time.

From Zoom to Room

I moved from Atlanta to St. Simons Island, off the coast of Georgia, right after the first surge of Covid in 2020. It was not easy getting to know neighbors in the middle (midst, for religious types) of the pandemic. But that was the hand we were dealt. Back to the Gambler, perhaps. Know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to run.

A surprising gift of this problem was that I was able to attend all four of the Episcopal parishes in the Glynn County area. I was able to do this through Zoom, as each one had a cyber feed of their services, forced by the shut down of public services.

Some had a highly produced feed, with four cameras and a switcher, which smoothly changed the view afforded the viewer. Sweet. Others were a single fixed camera that never changed the field. And one, my favorite, used Zoom, which meant every person “in church” also had a square where their face could appear in full glory. The priest who was leading the worship had a single camera, but you could choose to enlarge him. It was like Hollywood Squares on steroids.

The conversation before and after the service was my favorite, as the members would share stories, recipes, opinions on the primo sausage in South Georgia, and their wondering about the Falcons. I would lay back and be contented with overhearing their conversations, as they checked in on one another. It was my powerful connection with the reality of community, and I was grateful for the gift each Sunday. Zoom Church ain’t too shabby.

As I said, there are four Episcopal parishes existing in the marshes of Glynn. Christ Church, Frederica is on St. Simons and is the church we would attend when we were on vacation. It has so much history, being the church associated with John and Charles Wesley when they landed with General Oglethorpe, founding the colony of Georgia. The Wesleys were Anglican priests at the time of the landing. Later, they came up with the remarkable structure that morphed into the Methodist Church when they returned to England. Must have been a bug they caught in the marshes of Glynn.

Christ Church has an amazing cemetery where some of the leading families from St. Simons are buried. I sometimes go there, late afternoon, to feed the deer, sit and think about life, and of course death. I find a crazy mixed vibe there, a funky marsh blend of Teilhard de Chardin’s mystical connection with a warm embrace of existential reality. It’s a “thin space”, liminal in my mind, a sacred piece of ground, blessed by the lives of the saints who live there.

Sometimes for grins, I go and sit at the tombstone of Furman Bisher, the former sports editor for the Journal-Constitution newspaper of Atlanta. We keep talking about the Falcons let down to the Patriots in that Super Bowl. His tombstone, which has a typewriter engraved on it, is inspirational as I think of his fine writing, and reminds me of the fleeting nature of what we conjure and write. Selah.

There are three other parishes. Also on the island is a parish near the Villiage, the Church of the Nativity. My favorite writer at the local newspaper attends there, and he went out of his way to invite me to attend when I first arrived to island time.

St. Mark’s is the downtown parish in Brunswick, a traditional structure that reminds me of my downtown church in Tyler, Texas, Christ Church. And literally two blocks away is another parish, St. Athanasius, a predominantly black church with a rich history. It was started in 1883 as a Sunday School class “for coloreds” led by one of my friend’s ancestors who was a member of St. Mark’s. Two years later, it was formally organized as an official mission of the Episcopal Church.

The initial building was destroyed in a violent storm in 1896, but was quickly rebuilt, in new Gothic style, using tabby construction, common in the low country. It is now one of the last 19th century tabby buildings remaining in Brunswick. If you are down this way, you owe it to yourself to make a visit to this gorgeous liturgical spaces. In all my travels to such structures where God’s people gather to worship, it is one of Dave’s faves. There is a sweet, sweet Spirit there that I used to hear about as a child. “Awesome” is a popular word that seems to be over-used these days. This space is truly awesome.

I have been able to “attend” all four of these parishes during the pandemic through the magic of Zoom, providing me an interesting look at the way each parish and priest responded to the disruption of the norm. I have now been “in” all of them in person and each one has it’s own unique personality and charm. Again, if you are down this way, take your time to check them out.

Father DeWayne Cope is the Rector (head pastor for the unwashed South of God folk) of St Athanasius. He is from Savannah, and was a member at St. Matthew’s church there. He began his career as a teacher, but various people, some in bishop’s purple, saw him as a potential priest. After some encouragement and consultation, DeWayne went to seminary at Virginia Theological Seminary, and now has returned to the Diocese of Georgia to serve at St. A. as it is lovingly called. DeWayne arrived about the same time I did, only I did not have to begin my life on the island as a new priest.

I have watched his services since he began, again by way of this thing called Zoom. Imagine what churches would have done without Zoom in the pandemic. The internet allowed us to connect in spite of the mandate to hunker down. My hope is that the Church, in the collective sense, learned something worthwhile in terms of reaching out to those who can not attend physically for a variety of reasons. That would put one in the “win” column against our Covid foe. I can tell you that I could feel the community at St. A. even through the electronic signal. And the member who I could see confined to a hospital bed in his Zoom square, probably felt the same as me. St. A. and Dewayne are really something.

From Zoom to the room, that is, St. A’s in Brunswick.

I had been in Atlanta for a birthday dinner for my son, who drove down from Nashville, meeting us halfway. Our dinner was at one of my favorite restaurants, The Optimist, and it was a grand time meeting Thomas’ new friend, Taylor, and enjoying the ambiance of this amazing Ford Fry restaurant.

On the way home on Sunday, on the monotonous drive from Macon to Savannah on I-16, I tuned in on my telephone on Zoom for the service at St. A.. I was paying particular attention this morning as DeWayne had asked me to fill in for him the coming Sunday (this coming Sunday, y’all! Light some candles!). I wanted to sear in my mind “how” DeWayne did the liturgy for the Eucharist so that I could deliver as close a facsimile as possible when it was my day.

During the middle of the service, my wife stopped the car in Dublin to get lunch. They went in, ordered lunch, got it, came back out to the car. My wife handed me a huge Diet Coke, thank you Jesus and my benefactor, Mr. Woodruff. And then my daughter shoved some package of food at me while I was concentrating on watching DeWayne’s manual actions of celebration at the altar. I wanted to get them just right. With my daughter’s insistent push of this package of fried gastronomical delights in my face, I became irritated, and responded in a very non-Christian way. I will let you imagine my expletive. I did not go all Will Smith on her, but I snapped back with some words that were hurtful. My wife later commented, as only a spouse can, that my reaction was truly ironic, seeing as how I was watching a church service on Zoom. Point taken, and given. There was no grace to be had for my poor showing sitting in the back of the Highlander. I was not even given a chance of offer a compensatory speech. Guess this is the closest I get. At least my outburst was not televised. Too soon?

That was Sunday. Today, Wednesday, I met with DeWayne to go over how I am going to manage on Sunday. I’ve been around the altar from back when Jesus was boy, but this Sunday will be the first time to serve as celebrant at an altar in a church since tearing my quad tendon. Most of you know, I tore my tendon, had two surgeries, the first by an Emory friend. When that failed, I was referred to the surgeon for the Atlanta Falcons. When people ask how the surgery went, I respond, “Did you see the Falcons play this year?” Nuff said.

I am going to hope that I don’t mess up too bad this Sunday, as my mobility is an issue. “Nimble” is a word that I love, and how I would have once described my movement on my sailboat. Today, not so much. I suggested to DeWayne that we could raise money for the church by having a betting pool on “when” in the service I will fall. And a side bet on how many times! “Broken bone count” would be gauche, a bridge too far.

Seriously, I am honored to be asked to “fill in” at this wonderful parish. And pleased that I can help a brother out by giving him the day off on a vacation with his family.

As I work with a variety of clergy as a coach, I am struck by what a difficult time this is to be a pastor. Many are honest in admitting to being distressed, a bit overwhelmed. In our deeply divided country, how do you maintain relationships across these divides while maintaining your integrity? How does a pastor say anything with any bite, for fear of it being identified with a right or left position? With social issues swirling within the so-called cultural wars, how can one negotiate the sensitive skins of folks that line up on opposite sides?

I remember when I was Rector (careful how you say that) of Christ Church in Tyler, Texas, we were a mostly Republican parish. Half of my church had George H.W. and Barb on speed dial. The Bushs would stay in some of my members’ homes. What was I to do when we went to war in Iraq with Desert Storm? Those are tough times for pastors who care about their parishioners, while also holding their own opinions, hopefully informed by the Gospel. This is not a new tension for ministers. Even Jesus found himself in tension with the Roman government, as he pushed Kingdom values over and against prime loyalty to Caesar. So, this tesnion should not be unexpected, but it seems to rub against our native preference for comfort.

I got lucky, or blessed, depending on your cosmology, that some of the Greatest Generation, who were the parish leaders at Christ Church, stood behind me and my right to have my own beliefs and opinion. When I was pushing the envelope hard on race relations, upsetting some in the community who wanted me to be a “nice” hush, or some who wanted me to get the hell out of Dodge, the Greatest Generation had my back and let me, and my detractors know that they were with me. Sadly, that generation is gone. Long gone. Gone.

The Boomers, my generation, is a group that was schooled in consumerism, even, and perhaps especially in religion. We live out of a rather loose affiliative style. “What have you done for me lately?” informs our sense of loyalty, and seems ready to go with a “better deal” if we can find it. I have seen people change churches because of preferences in programming and style. A loyal church person who will “stick” when there are disagreements is a rarity these days. This makes a pastor’s job worse than in the past, where every week is a referendum on your tenure. The pressure is high on clergy today and is prompting many to leave a calling that they have invested in with blood, sweat, and many tears, I am working with my best energy to help them find good reasons to “stick”.

It makes me relish my role as a priest free of such political burdens. I can say, and have said, pretty much anything that is on my heart, mind, and soul. I’d like to think I exercised that freedom even before I cut free from the institution. I know some of the members of the parishes I served feel that I did, some happily, some not so happily. My man, Carlyle Marney, taught me to tell the truth, the best that I knew. I can say that, like Merle’s mama, I tried.

This Sunday, the lectionary throws me a fast ball on the outside corner, Mary and Martha. Will I serve up the standard sermon on the differentiation of the two, or press for some new insight, or as Chuck Yeager used to say, “push the envelope”? I guess we’ll find out on Sunday.

That is, if I don’t fall on my way down the aisle in the procession. The betting windows are open.

What are YOU Doing?

Turning the focus onto you, I am repeating the question my friend put to me last week: What are you doing with your life?

Responding to that simple question that he asked me caused me to remember an old mantra I used in the past: Stop, Pause, and Reflect. Not a bad thing, as it alerts you to some imbalance that may have crept into your life. How much time are you spending in activity, and how much are you investing in reflection on what you are doing? Most of us tend to get busy and forget to take time to reflect and build our self-awareness.

Lent, of course, affords one a time to correct this. It offers those who attempt to pattern their life after the Christ an opportunity to hold up the spiritual mirror to get a look at how they are doing. Recently. I was listening to a young woman talk about her “listening to God” and how that was the way she got direction for her life. I was reminded of how easy it is not to hear correctly, to hear what we want to hear, in a word, using God to confirm our prejudices. I asked if she minded me asking her a question about this process. She gave me permission, so I asked her about how she uses her community to explore the insight she has heard from God. Might such an engagement with other people of faith be helpful, to clarify, to question, even to challenge her position. She seemed surprised at my suggestion, like it was a fresh way to approach God. But to her credit, she was open to trying on this new way of thinking about listening to God.

For me, that is called discernment. It can be with a spiritual partner, or as we call it, a spiritual director, one who has been trained to ask questions of clarification. In the past, spiritual directors could be heavy-handed, insisting that their way is the “right way”. Thankfully, that kind of spiritual imperialism is mostly a thing of the past. Most spiritual directors are trained to listen well, to ask questions that clarify and get to the heart of the matter so that one is more prepared to make some intentional spiritual decisions.

In fact, I and most spiritual directors I know view the work as a “partner”, one who comes alongside the person who is seeking to gain clarity as to direction. This is a very traditional model. I have a spiritual director who I have been seeing regularly for over forty years. He is a monk, and quite wise and schooled in various modalities of prayer and spirituality. And, thank God, he has a great sense of humor, which is required for working with me.

He has been my regular “partner” and knows the “longview” of my trajectory as a person. But I have also engaged other people along the way for direction. When I was in Texas, I had a spiritual director who was a hermit, living by herself at a Catholic retreat house. I could only see her once a year as she lived in a desert region of Texas where I would go during Lent. But in that intensive time, she was particularly gifted at helping me to see my “rough places”, specifically my need to develop my ability to be receptive. I value greatly what I learned from her.

Nowadays, I have a fellow Franciscan with who I am in regular contact. I am with him every two weeks in a group we share, but try to focus in on my journey in a spiritual direction session about every quarter. These moments, these pauses, allow me the gift of having someone else take a look at what I am doing and how I am doing. I give away, that is, grant them the authority to ask me hard questions, to push me a bit. But, I also am grateful for the times in which they are the means of grace in my life, affirming me, reminding me of God’s love regardless of how well I am doing or how much I am mucking it up. Grace….it’s a good thing.

Anyone can be helpful to you, as they are bringing another perspective to the field, hopefully adding an “other” perspective. However, I have to say that I am particularly thankful that my spiritual partners are well trained. They do not fall into the temptation to “fix” me, nor do they go all “rah-rah”, telling me how great I am. This comes from training, so while friends are helpful, they may not be up to the task to, as my Scottish grandmother used to say, “calling a spade a bloody hoe!” Clarity and clear-eyed comments give one the mirror that any person desperately needs. If only I could see myself as others see me. You can’t. Get some help in lifting that hefty mirror of self-examination.

One other piece about this spiritual partner, which some of you will not like, as it runs counter to our cultural notion of marriage. I often hear of married people referring to their spouse as their “soul mate”, and I get that. However, it can be tricky, dangerous even.

Partners in marriage tend to be too “close” to be helpful, in that your lives are so intertwined that one’s self-interest may get engaged. I am needing a person who cares for me as a fellow-creature, but one who does not depend on me or has an agenda for me, like a spouse normally does. My growth, my development, may become problematic for one’s spouse as it may make demands that push the envelope. When Mary and I are talking about decisions that affect our household structures, we both come to that decision point with agendas that are clear. Hopefully, in the dialogue between us, our perspectives and values become clearer, allowing us to make a joint decision. When one is dealing with one’s spiritual soul, it is best to be able to have someone without a dog in that fight so that the exchange can be as free of bias as possible. Someone who has specific training is able to avoid some of the pitfalls of being heavy-handed or too directive.

My therapist, and teacher, Tom Malone, used to tell me that the reason I paid him so much for therapy is that he refused to tell me what to do. He said, with his Irish sprite spirit, that I should go to the street corner of Peachtree and Piedmont Rd. and ask the next ten people what I should do. He said he would wager that all ten would have an opinion. He would not. That’s why you pay me, he said, taking my check.

Truth is, as he reminded me, I had a bad habit of looking to attach myself to someone who would give me great affirmation in exchange for my soul. When I was young, I was “needy” in that way, for a lot of reasons you don’t need to know, in the clinical world it’s called overdetermined by our family history. But he broke me of that habit by caring for me with no strings attached. No promises, No expectations, which was a great gift to my psyche. It freed me to be my Self, not tied to approval. Handing over your soul to anyone, regardless how caring, is too high a price. It is one of the great temptations in the spiritual journey. Ask me how I know this.

One other thing about this thing of discernment as to what you are doing or are figuring out what to do. I have found a group discernment process particularly beneficial. Rather than just relying, and putting the burden on one person, I have found trusted groups particularly helpful in that there are more perspectives in play, by definition.

My model for this is the Vocational Testing Program of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta, fiendishly put together by Caroline Westerhoff. This was a mechanism, or as she would call it, a “process”, by which a person could discern whether or not one should serve as a priest. One was asked to engage in a series of activities that would expose your reaction to structure, lack of structure, chaos, pain, difference, authority exercised over you, you exercising authority. Hey man, I am just getting started. It was a bear. But it gave you a chance to see yourself as you were interacting with others in a variety of settings. Your fellow participants, your peers who were in that same process, helped you to see hidden dimensions and motivations in your actions. It was different than seeing a therapist or spiritual director as an individual caregiver but had a power that allowed me that rare opportunity to see myself as others experienced me, both the good, the bad, and the ugly. It changed my life.

Here, I am borrowing from my theological mentor, Carlyle Marney, who suggested that real church, not institutional church, is where you can submit your images for what it means to live faithfully for correction. That stuff is in short supply in the church as I see it in this country, but it IS out there if you have the persistence and courage, that word again, to look, and listen.

So how are you doing in Lent? It may just be another season of the year for you. You may not be a follower of the Christ and so you have no prompt for keeping Lent. But if you are reading this, you are a human, and therefore it would do you well to up your game of being aware of what you are doing, and who is doing you.

I hope you will take the time to Stop, Pause, and Reflect. What are you doing with your energy, your gifts, your time, your resources? How are you being spent as a person in this one crazy trip of life?

Get a free prompt from the historical Church, who, around Springtime, a natural time of rebirth and new growth, drops a question on people who will attend and lister: how are you growing? How are you living? What are you doing with this precious life that is particularly and peculiarly yours? Taking the time to pause, reflect, and answer may just help you get an insight into this thing we called life.

I don’t have an agenda for you other than for you to be aware, and live your life the way you decide. But, I am pulling for you, hoping for you to get in the game, on the field, ’cause we need you. The Dalai Lama calls it enlightened selfishness, as it ultimately helps us all. And God knows, we need it now. Blessings in this time.

What Are You Doing?

Hell of a question. Truth is, I ask myself this question several times during my week, searching for a cogent answer.

It’s one of the questions, self-imposed, that is usually connected to a particular way that I am spending my time. It’s not a new question to pose to myself. It’s just the urgency that tends to creep in when I start sensing that clock that is ticking. That’s true for everybody, I know, but I have noticed that the ticking is more distinct, more steady, and louder, reminding me of a fact that is undeniable: time is passing on this one precious life I have to live. This “what?” question prompts me to write poetry at times, or lyrics to a song on the wind. Other times, I find myself delving into philosophy on the meaning of life, namely about its purpose, my goals, my dreams, and yes, my fears. But mostly, it is a simple, innocent check on my Self.

However, this time the question is a fast ball over the outside corner, coming from an old high school teammate, golf partner from the famed College Park Golf Course, and fellow refugee from Baptists South of God. This guy was sincere in asking, really wanting to know what I was up to. He had visited me in all three of my parishes, two in Atlanta, and one in the Lone Star State. He knew that I had served as an Episcopal priest but wondered to himself, out loud, “Galloway, what the hell are you doing these days?” So a catch-up was in order.

By the way, this guy is one of those valuable people that you are blessed to come across in the course of your life, someone I call a “keeper”. Now, I know everyone is valuable, and of inestimable worth (only if you can pronounce it!). You are good enough, smart enough, and can complete this three-fold phrase either using the affirmation that I love used by Aibileen in The Help, or with the comedic take by pre-Senator Al Franken. It’s the truth, take it to the bank. But the “big but” is that some people seem to resonate with your frequency more than others. Those are the “keepers”, people you stay in touch with come Trump or high water.

My response, out of surprise at his question, was to default to my American definition of who you are, that is, what is your work? Literally, what are you doing? It was not an existential question as to how am I being in the world. I launched into a recitation of all the work I am doing right now at this time of my life, which made me tired, in and of itself.

I told him that my work these days involves consultation with folks who are on the front line. That front line includes the realm of the Spirit, the Body, and the Heart., In fact, I am finding that the “front line” winds circuitously around the field of play across America, from Boston, Austin, and Seattle, and now, even in the wide world.

In one field, healthcare, I work consulting with folks, mostly in the C-Suite, coaching in the area of leadership, although our firm works in clinical improvement as well. I have enjoyed coaching a few CEOs who are serious about providing value-based healthcare in the communities they serve. This pandemic has been a strain, one that will reverberate for years, with stretched staffs beyond the breaking point, particularly with the people who provide the most direct patient care: nurses. When I had my emergency quad bypass surgery at Emory, it was an amazing team of nurses that got me through. My surgeon, a classmate of mine, performed beating heart/open heart surgery that had me on the table for eight hours. He is singular in his skill. But I only saw him before surgery, and briefly afterward as he was on to other critical patients, It was the nurses that took care of me. I made a point to tell the CEO that at a Christmas cocktail party, that his nurses were the best brand investment he had….and I think he heard me,

I am working with one CEO who is trying to intentionally address the nursing shortage, which is hurting him in a metro system, but killing rural hospitals. We are late to this particular game, but his passion gives me hope as my generation is rapidly filling up hospitals with physical needs and demands.

Another issue that is pressing is the psychological cost to physicians and clinical personnel after the intensity and volume of patient care in a pandemic we weren’t prepared for. I was working with one Emergency Room doc in New York at the peak of the first surge. He had served in Afghanistan in a combat unit, so he had seen a thing or two in terms of trauma. As he was telling me about the care he was giving with Covid patients in the ER, he stopped, caught his breath, and then began to weep, as he told of the body bags stacked in refrigerated trucks. His trauma is clearly not singular, and leaders in healthcare must find creative ways to address it in terms of building resilience and investing in the “healing of the healer”. The abatement of surges in cases of Covid is a positive step forward, but does not let us off the hook for the trauma our hospital staffs experienced. We must deal with it, creatively and proactively.

One of the CEOs I coach told me of being asked to serve as the Grand Marshall in a city-wide parade in a community celebration. He took an ordinary moment and turned it into gold by inviting the nurse managers from his hospital, to ride with him on the float. He said that the crowd, five people deep along the route, clapped, many yelling out to the fire engine serving as a float, “You saved my life” “Thank you for caring for me.” He said the the nurses were overwhelmed by the appreciative response. Of course they did! Good on him for having the creativity to turn a throw-away moment into sheer gold. My question now to him is how to pass that on to the larger staff. We’re working on it.

In the faith community, I am coaching a good number and variety of priests/ministers/bishops about how to be faithful in their leadership, particularly in this odd and precarious post-Covid time. Most seem to be anxious about whether people are going to return to church. Perhaps the convenience of not having to get ready to be presentable for church, being able to sip coffee while you are listening, maybe that will prove too attractive to church people who live in a culture where “convenience” is the coin of the realm. In a sacramental tradition, this question seems even more problematic. And yet, the creative folks that I work with are finding ways to keep the insights they got from the shut-down, and are now reinventing what they are offering by listening to their people. It has been a disruptive time of major proportions, but such is the time that makes change more palatable.

My work continues through time as a spiritual director, working with folks in their pursuit of an intentional spiritual life, namely in prayer, reflection, and focused action. The disruption of Covid has pressed deep questions in the minds of people who may have been in a default mode. People may be tired of the routine religiosity, but now ready to move into deeper waters.

And finally, I told my friend that I am writing, blocking off time in my daily schedule to “bleed into my typewriter” or computer, as the case may be. I am working on a manuscript on leadership with my peculiar take on the creative tension that drives an organization with vision and execution. And South of God threatens to turn into a respectable memoir, or a torrid tell-all exposes, once I secure my passport and lodging in Tahiti, or die.

The blessing is, I love it all….most of the time, which is about as good as it gets. I told my friend that I am busier than ever, and happier. So I got that going for me.

But, I remain in student mode, with my intentional “beginner’s mind”, following my curiosity and creativity, most times not knowing definitively where it’s going.

One piece of the creative work is a gathering of folks that I have come to love. Two are long-time friends, founding members of a discipline, “organizational development”, a discipline and art I have been involved in for over thirty years. It began for me with the pursuit of understanding “the process of change” in organizations, with the emphasis on transformaton. It started with looking at how marriages grow and weather the necessary changes; expanded into families and how they negotiate developmental transitions; morphed into congregations as to how they function and dysfunction, grow and decline: spun into corporations as to how they successfully initiate and cascade change down through the organization; and ended with how do we transform our cities into vibrant and supportive communities for ALL people. What a ride it has been, and I feel like I am just now hitting stride.

These two colleagues have been my guides, my inspirations, one from Austin, and one is living in Warsaw, Poland. Our team also includes a recently retired doc from Seattle, an operational pro who is a fellow Episcopalian in Houston, and a young teacher from a seminary in Minneapolis. We represent a variety of disciplines and backgrounds, which is our gift to one another. When we meet, the fires of life burn bright and we urge each other on into God’s future, with hopes of making a difference.

Through the magic of Zoom, we get together to conspire as to how we might assist in the birthing of a better way to do church, focusing on the spiritual health of those who lead such organizations.

We have been working for some time now to design a creative event for ministerial leaders, mostly clergy types, who are wanting to dive deep into their transformation path. We do this by building a trusting community of inquiry and discovery, asking some profound questions, five actually, as to who you are. We ground the work in the messy stuff of the present moment by asking you to face the very thing that is confronting you right now. We ask: what “stuff” are you dragging behind you? What is repeatedly getting in your way of achieving what it is you say you want to accomplish with your life? What visions and dreams push and pull you to the horizons of your future? And finally, what is needed to liberate you to get on with it in this one wild, precious, short life. It is more fun than humans should be allowed to have. This work and these people have become my “church”, and it is one of the highlights of my week when we gather to plan and dream. The Spirit is present, and moving.

My friend seemed overwhelmed by my answer to his question, innocent or not, He looked puzzled, wisely pausing before speaking. The silence was pregnant, as they say. His voice took on a strange tone, sounding to me like Sam Elliott, but that was probably just my cinematic imagination, once again, running away with me. But he stated, not asking this time, “I thought you were retired and living on some damn island!”

My response was slow, forming a punctuation to my long answer to his earlier question. “Do I sound retired?” And his answer was all Elliott, “Hell no!”

I told you that he was a “keeper”!

Know When to Hold ‘Em

Leaning into the space, I walked confidently into the cave-like structure, which was actually the tunnel leading to the Star.

The Star’s name was Kenny Rogers, who I had first heard sing a plaintive song about losing the love of a woman after a crippling war-time injury in Vietnam. The band was the First Edition, and the woman called Ruby. Kenny’s signature gravelly voice, pleaded to his love, “Don’t take your love to town”. She did, to the sound of a slamming door.

When I first heard him, he wore what was known as a leisure suit, with broad lapels. His hair had already begun to go salt-pepper and he curiously wore pink-orange tinted sunglasses, much more attuned to the more psychedelic song of “Just Dropped In”, another fave of Dave.

By the time of my charge into the tunnel, he had left the group and gone solo, as a country-pop singer. He had a string of hits, a number of killer duets with a variety of country women stars, but he was best known for a ballad, a great “story” song, The Gambler. I sang it once in a show, trying my best to imitate his whiskey graveled voice. Limited success would be a kind way of assessment.

My girlfriend had gotten choice tickets from a radio station, with seats right down front. I had learned, early on, that if you look like you know what you are doing, you can pretty well go anywhere you want. Worked pretty well for me as a priest. I went right up to Kenny in his entourage, waiting for their cue to enter the floor of the Omni. I shook his hand, welcomed him to Atlanta, as if I was an official greeter. Just call me Mayor.

Suddenly, a spotlight found my silver-haired friend and we were off together, walking through the crowd toward the stage. It was crazy as the crowd went wild, women reaching out to touch the hem of his garment, with me at his side. When we reached the stairs to the stage, I uncharacteristically wisely decided to hold back, staying on the floor for a minute, but finally returning to my seat where my girlfriend waited patiently. What a show he put on for us.

That was not my last time with Kenny. Far from it.

Many years later, after his career had crested, Kenny moved to Atlanta and bought a mansion. Not any old North Atlanta colonial mansion, but a big ass, ostentatious, nouveau riche ass mansion, with golden lions at the gate and all that. Kenny wanted you to know where the boy lived. And it happened to be near my church.

One day my receptionist called me in my office. I thought she was playing a joke on me. She said that Kenny Rogers was in the waiting area, wanting to talk to me. I could not help my response, telling her that he would have to wait. I was talking to Dolly Parton. Norma put a tone in her voice which told me I had better get serious. “Kenny Rogers is out here with his wife. They want to talk to you.” I don’t think I ever moved that quick.

There he was, The Gambler, in jeans and a casual shirt, open down about three buttons, about two buttons too much for an aging star. His young, did I mention she was young, wife was standing beside her man, lovely, straight from Central Casting. He wanted to inquire about his two young twin sons getting into our Episcopal prep school. They came back into my office, commenting on my wall-to-wall bookcases. “You read all of them?” Kenny asked. “Every one of them…. twice.” I lied. He knew right away not to play cards with the Rev..

His two sons were not old enough for our school at the time but I gave him and his wife the information they needed as well as the proper office that could take care of them when the time was right. I think I went out of my way to convey how pleased we would be to have them. I couldn’t help myself chatting him up about music, us both playing bass with mediocrity, and having some Nashville kin. It was a huge surprise, a pleasant one, to have Kenny Rogers in my office. I fought hard against my burning temptation to have him call my mom in Newnan. I had gotten her Bob Goulet’s autograph and a note when I wound up with him after his show in Minneapolis. But here I was, a priest in the saddle. It would not be kosher.

I thought that might be it, maybe my only chance to meet him. but I was wrong. I ran into him several times in early morning, both of us alone at the Waffle House on New Northside Dr.. He was more than kind, and shared some stories about the early days, which you know I loved.

On the last time we were together, he seemed to shift mood in the middle of the meal, between his pecan waffle and hashed browns. He asked me about my faith, how I had grown up South of God, and why I had chosen the Episcopal Church. I told him about the sense of presence I felt as a boy at communion, on the rare occasion that we “observed” it, maybe four times a year, “quarterly”, whether we needed to or not.

I told him that I remembered vividly those Sundays, coming into the “church house”, seeing the altar table down front that was normally bare, but on that day, covered with something that looked like a white bedsheet. It appeared as if it were covering a body laid out on a table, like I had seen on Ben Casey or Dr. Kildare. I came to know that it actually covered a series of trays stacked with individual communion glasses, filled with grape juice, and plates with small Saltine crackers. South of God communion, by God.

In spite of the uncomfortable formality, and the underlying feel that these folks did not know what they were doing, there was a sense of the Holy for this boy-child. Rather than being lectured from a podium “about” a distant God, or listening to music sung by a robed choir, or one particularly bad soprano or tenor, I was asked to participate. My spirit, even as a child, was engaged.

I sensed God’s presence in a way that caught my senses and imagination. I filed it away in my little scientist mind, that faith is about experience, not just learning facts or passive listening. It still is for me, I told Kenny.

It took me a while but I told him that I eventually learned that this holy meal was the last thing Jesus did with his disciples, to break bread and share the wine, promising them that when they did that in the future, he would be with them. Kenny seemed to lean in a bit. He surprised me when he reminded me of the other thing Jesus did on that last night with his disciples. He washed their feet, to make the point that they should be servants. I shot back that the church seemed to like the bread and wine a good bit more than the washing of feet. He laughed, knowingly and said, “Ain’t that the truth!” I later wished that I had asked him what made him say that, but it just didn’t seem right. That was the last time I talked to him.

It seems funny now, looking back. Here in my office, I have a favorite album cover next to my desk. It’s the album, Kenny Rogers the Gambler. It has Kenny, pre-facelift, staring straight ahead, standing at a card table, with a vest and string tie. He has women at his side looking up lovingly, wantonly. It’s a great album cover, from back in the days when that was an art. It’s my mother’s record. I took it before the estate sale, along with the Red-Headed Stranger, her two favorites. The old vinyl is still in the sleeve, with a coffee cup stain I am willing to bet is an imprint of my mom’s favorite cup, filled with Maxwell House coffee. I’ll make that bet, right now.

Know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away, know when to run. Good advice from my friend, the Gambler. I took it on more than one occasion. Funny that it was not on a train bound for nowhere, but a booth at a Waffle House that I sat across from that man, and listened to his talk, looking for an ace that I might keep. His words haunt as I go on down the line. Every hand’s a winner, and every hand’s a loser. The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

After my long Lenten article last week, I thought you might enjoy a good story. It was prompted by an ad I heard on the local St. Simons Island public radio station promoting a Kenny Rogers exhibition at the amazing Booth Museum in Cartersville, Georgia, near where a country strain of my kinfolk have resided. I hope it made you smile….and think a bit. See you at the Waffle House…covered and peppered.

Lent: The Pause and A Nudge

It’s Ash Wednesday, so what the hell are you going to give up?

That’s the way it was when I first entered the catholic orbit of Christianity: What you going to give up? “Hip” priests morphed the gig by going all Robert Schuller positivity and reframed, “Lent is a time to “take on” something new in your life. What are you planning to “take on” during Lent?”

Through forty years of life in the Episcopal church, I have come away with a few wisdom insights in the season known as Lent.

First, I love Ash Wednesday. Maybe it’s the residual Baptist South of God in me, but the Litany of Penitence (pp. 267-269, Book of Common Prayer) is one of the best liturgical forms I know. It leaves no doubt, as the coach says in Remember the Titans., You are kneeling in the goo that is you, perverse, self-centered, forgetful of the other….in a word, human. You are requested to take a good look in the mirror, and if you do, you come away with the recognition that there is work to do. Serious work.

Secondly, Lent gives you a playing field, boundaries, of Forty Days. Within this structure of time, you commit to a plan of self-examination and improvement. You look honestly at your weaknesses, or as they say in the business world of spin, your opportunities for improvement. Lent gives you a spiritual SWOT analysis, google it if you are not familiar, but that would point to one of your weaknesses, or opportunities for improvement. Forty days.

Thirdly, you get to decide how to spend these Forty Days. No government agency is monitoring it. It’s up to you. If you have a spiritual director, he/she may help you structure the time, prompted by their familiarity with your gifts and issues. But they will not, can not, should not monitor your work. For, my beloved readers, you can lie about how it’s going, what you are doing. Don’t ask me how I know this. I am writing after the season finale of Euphoria and I’m feeling a little Rue here.

To make it a Jungian quaternity, let me say fourthly, it is a time of creativity. It’s not giving up chocolates, or alcohol if you are an Episcopalian. That’s for Dry January. How’d that work out for you? Rather, it’s an opportunity to grow. And you might remember my 3-D model for growth:

  1. Grow in depth: dive beneath the surface of the waters of your existence. What are you dragging behind you, what’s weighing you down? What values do you hold deeply that drive, or pull, you forward?
  2. Grow in width: expand the range of who counts, who matters in your world. Who are you consciously or unconsciously excluding from your circle? How do you need to widen your view to include more of God’s Creation?
  3. Grow in height: commit to learning something new about the world we live in. What trail of knowledge did you stop following? What curiosity beckons from your soul when you quiet down long enough to listen?

For me, I make Lent a simpler time, intentionally building in pauses, and nudges. That doesn’t sound overwhelming or scary, does it? It is simply going to use this playing field of Lent, only Forty Days, to try on a bit of self-reflection which leads to self-awareness. And it’s only for Forty Days, so it’s manageable. You can do it! (hear it in my amazing imitation of Adam Sandler’s voice)

So here’s my suggestion in simple terms. You are wanting to set up a system of pauses in your regular day, so you are prompted to STOP, Pause, and reflect. This is called a discipline. If that word scares you, or offends you, simply call it a plan. No big whoop.

Let me preemptively answer your question, dear reader: Why should I do this? What’s the added value to my life? Good question.

My favorite Jungian interpreter is analyst, James Hollis. One of his famous images is of human types getting up in the morning. At the foot of the bed resides two gremlins: fear and laziness. Both gremlins try to convince you to stay in bed, not venturing out into the world.

The Fear gremlin seeks to convince you that the world is a scary place, and anxiety is the natural response to such a threatening environment. Better to stay where you are, where it is safe and comfortable.

The Lazy gremlin is more reassuring in tone, things are fine, no need to roll out of that bed you researched and paid so much for. Take it easy. You can get to these illusory demands tomorrow, or the next day. What’s the rush?

When I first heard Hollis use this image in a lecture, I laughed out loud, for like Larry David in his observational humor, it’s like holding up a mirror to my life. The truth seems undeniable, and my native defense mechanism was to laugh at myself.

But after the laughter abates, what insights might I grab from this brush with Truth?

The first thing I think about is the pace of life, of how fast things are happening, coming at me. The old, worn-out phrase of drinking water from a fire hose seems a bit dated, though still takes me back to the idyllic setting of a sandlot in the summer, playing ball, taking a break to drink from those ubiquitous green lawn hoses that tasted of rubber, but were such a supernatural gift as a young kid. A firehose takes me to news films of black protesters being sprayed by officials to stop their march in Alabama, with enough water pressure to knock them off their feet, sending them sliding. I still recall the men in the old Lee Street barbershop laughing at the sight, slapping their knees. Two images in tension.

However, the firehose is no longer adequate to the “overwhelm” most folks are feeling. Remember back to when you needed to contact someone, you would write a letter, mail it, wait for a response in a matter of days. The operative word here is WAIT. The convenience of email promised to speed up the contact process, and it certainly delivered. However, no one figured on the cost of the overwhelm, the flood of emails. Just one day out of the office literally floods my life with backed-up emails even though I have a prioritization app in play. What is one to do?

My first “overwhelm” came as I took on the role of Canon Pastor of the Cathedral of St. Philip, at the time the largest Episcopal parish in the United States, around five thousand parishioners. The pastoral care had a reputation of being good when it worked, but spotty and inconsistent. Coming from academia, such a huge number was not in my wheelhouse of expertise, so I enrolled in a Covey training program, which was basically time management on steroids.

I loved it, for it gave me a handle on how to overcome the “tyranny of the urgent” that seemed to plague my work. It was a good start to actualizing a system of managing my day, my week, my month, my quarter, my year, my long-term plans and goals.

I wound up teaching the system I evolved to new clergy in the Diocese of Texas as they moved from seminary to their first parish assignments, which can be a rather torrential flood of new work and relations. Many of those students tell me some twenty years later that it was the most practical and helpful training they received. Maybe they are just being nice to an old broken-down priest, but my hunch is that they are telling the truth. Being a parish priest is one of the last truly “generalist” jobs, as one has to do a lot of things well, and managing time becomes critical.

Currently, I coach a number of executives in healthcare as well as a good number of clergy from a variety of traditions and situations. It is my favorite time, giving me the thrill of coming alongside leaders actively engaged in influence, organizing, thinking, communicating, and caring: in a word, leading. When I finish a coaching session, I get the sense I am contributing to the world and am right where I need to be. That’s a good thing.

In this time of “overwhelm”, the rapid change associated with pandemic presenting a variety of new challenges and disruptions to leaders, the need for organizing one’s self is ever more pressing. Add to that the intensity of the work in clinical settings, the record amount of work that seems unceasing, the need for some help is flagged in a variety of ways.

I try to start people SLOW in the installation of a process. People who are already a bit compulsive tend to latch onto any system and outrun the horses. Those who tend to be loose with their schedule may chafe at structure, so I let them wade in slowly. Each person is different and presents different needs, so I wind up customizing a system, plus encouraging a continuous state of improvement of the way that best meets their style, while yielding productive results.

I personally began many years ago with the simple Daytimer system that my friend and colleague introduced me to. It was basically a calendar that I would carry around in a small pocket portfolio. It was an introduction, or rather, an initiation to adulthood, taking responsibility for showing up to where I said I would be.

As I said, as my life became more complicated, so did my system, moving to the Covey organizer that organized by weeks, using blocks of time, and paying attention to the variety of roles one played on life’s stage to make sure one was balanced. The system implied values that one would use in the planning one did. This was my basic plan I used and taught to my students and those that I coached.

Three years ago, one of my goals was to assess the plethora of “organizers” that were flooding the market. I bought almost every system, trying them out and seeing which ones worked, which ones were flexible for customization, which ones were rigid, which ones too complicated, which ones too simple. My personal preference for balance tended to skew my assessment.

I was impressed with the Daily Planner, put out in quarterly books by Michael Hyatt. It is a robust system using quarterly and weekly planning in a convenient single-book format. I have introduced many of my coaching clients to it, and its “ready to go” form is appealing. I used it myself for a number of years.

I wound up going back to my favorite steed, to a loose-leaf format of the Franklin-Covey group, as I keep the current pages in my binder, moving them to a storage notebook for each year. It allows me to add specific sections and forms that are aligned with my work, and to keep my old leather binder by my side. It also allows me to play by developing my own sections, not tied down to a pre-decided format. Everyone to his own taste, said the farmer as he kissed his cow… wisdom from my Texas grandmother.

It really matters less about the format than the fact that you have some system you are working.

The key basic components are to develop the habit of a Pause. How and when you do that is up to you and the variations of your occupation, lifestyle, and personality. Some people have developed a habit of beginning the day with a thirty-minute Pause to review the day ahead, making decisions as to how to approach the work to be done. Some add a significant Pause at the end of the day for a time to review what significant things happened, pausing to list and then journal. Others use that time to plan the next day. The key is to build in a Pause, or series of pauses, to pace your day, your life.

One of the most helpful developments for me was to develop the habit that I scientifically termed, The Big Pause, an homage to the Big Bang. It’s a once-a-week time set aside to review the past week, but most critically, to plan the coming week, employing Covey’s notion of scheduling blocks of time. The “tyranny of the urgent” never goes away. So to increase the odds of my getting to the “big” projects I am working on, I schedule blocks of time in one-hour increments. I literally “write” or draw these blocks in my organizer schedule to protect that time for the focus I will apply. These prove to be the Nudges that re-mind me of my commitments in the swirling vortex of my real life.

So here we go into Lent. Figure out how you are going to structure your Pauses. Then, design how you are going to have Nudges that will trigger your response. This will definitely improve your self-awareness, and may improve your productivity.

But, for those of you who share a Christ orientation, it is an opportunity to “get busy” in amending your life toward that of the Christ. Just before I posted this article, I came upon a quote from St. Athanasius. He said, God became man, so that man might become God. He was talking about the process of development that is a part of being intentional in your life.

Looking to the horizon of your daily experience for opportunities for compassion, care, even love. Being ready to go “the extra mile” in your relationships. Searching for those who might need an embrace of inclusion, those who feel isolated, though you have the gift and burden of knowing that this person is a child of God.

Forty Days of Lent. As I remind people, “forty” is a Hebrew idiom for “a long damn time”. It’s actually the amount of time that Jesus was said to have spent in the wilderness, facing three tempters. You and I have our own particular and peculiar tempters, demons that distract and confuse. But, thankfully, we have our own set of Angels who comfort us, encourage us, minister unto us. You can enter into this desert, wilderness time of Lent with confidence.

I hope you take advantage of this time of Lent. Forty Days to try on a Pause and a nudge.

Do it “your” way, but do it. Blessings.