Unorthodox and Unhinged

Tales of a Manic Christian


The Last Can Be First: The (Almost) Billion Step Program

First off I will tell you that I was last both times. And both times I survived.

A few Novembers ago, I went trailblazing with an Alexandria Meetup Group. We embarked from Fort Ethan Allen Park. The hike was described as of moderate difficulty, with a few water crossings, and rock scrambles, and elevation changes. It promised a scenic overlook of the Potomac River. Only five and a half miles in just under two hours.

Piece of cake.

I almost died.

At an early water crossing I slipped on a rock and fell flat on my face into the stream. I hit my head and bruised my left shin. I was soaked head to toe. My shoes and socks were sopping wet. It was 35 degrees. My lips turned blue. To avoid hypothermia, I stripped down to my skivvies in front of fifty of my new best friends. A handsome stranger lent me his dry coat and warm gloves.

I should have turned back. But…

It seemed there was just one dangerously steep hill to descend and then I would be back on solid ground. A transgendered park ranger held my hand all the way down. (I would love to thank her but I forgot to get her name.) I thought the worst was over.

I was wrong.

It turns out “rocks” meant “boulders” and “scrambling” meant “scaling” and a “few” meant “way the hell too many”. The hills turned into cliffs, breathtaking, death dealing cliffs.

I prayed for a helicopter.

God-in-three-persons answered my prayer, namely three handsome (and sadly married) guys: Gordon, Joe, and Luke. One in front and two behind, they took turns literally holding my hand and guiding me each and every step of the way – “Put your foot here, grab a hold there”. If I looked down, I was a goner. Instead I looked to them. I listened to them.

Thanks be to Gordon, Joe, and Luke, I came in last. Exhilarated, shaking like a leaf and kissing the ground, I came in last.

But not for the last time.

Just one week later on Thanksgiving Eve, I finished the Real Girls RUN Half Marathon in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The race started in Crozet, a picturesque village in the horse country outside of Charlottesville. The field of 100 plus runners quickly outpaced me. I was blissfully left alone with my thoughts to walk the course: 13.1 miles of serious hills but no cliffs and no boulders!

(But hills, lots of hills!)

Piece of cake.

When I was finally in sight of the finish line, a fellow racer – who had long ago finished herself – cheered me on from her car window. “It’s my very first one,” I told her, “and I am coming in last!” She pulled over and walked with me the last half-mile. “You may be last” she said, “but you finished the hardest damn half marathon in in the state of Virginia. That’s a first!”

I recovered from the five-mile hike. I recovered from the 13.1-mile walk. But more importantly, in the process, I recovered myself. Not an overnight process for sure. But with every little step I took, I got a little bit of myself back – body and soul.

(And since I have completed two more half marathons and planning on the fourth!)

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Coming in last, Real Girls Run, Nov 23rd

Looking back, I see that I took thousands of steps long before I ever strapped on that first pair of size 7 ASICS. Steps that did not seem to matter. Steps that were daunting. Steps that were awkward. Steps that were clumsy. Steps that were steep. Steps that were halting. Steps that were scary.

Steps forward. Steps backward.

The Million Step Program.

The (Almost) Billion Step Program.

So far I have been in the program for fifteen years. I will be in it the rest of my life. It’s about lifelong recovery. Not recovery from bipolar disorder. I will never not be bipolar – nor would I ever want to be. The program I am in is about embracing the gift of my bipolar self.

To help quantify what it takes to get with the program and keep up with the program, I compiled a few statistics from just this last year. Holistically speaking, I’ve done pretty well.

  • 48 weekly visits to get my head examined (Thank you, Sondra!)
  • 4, once a quarter trips, to my psychiatrist (aka Mr. Rogers!)
  • 3 x 365 nightly vitamins for my brain
  • 24 hikes round Huntley Meadows
  • 52 walks on the river front
  • 104  tours (2 miles each) at the Library of Congress
  • 389 tunes “Folk Rocking Down the Highway” (Thank you, Spotify!)
  •  29 blog posts (so far)
  •  a baker’s dozen of sermons
  •  6 score (120) services planned
  • 2 times, twice over, on the Story District stage
  • 1,095 cups of coffee
  • 400 pieces of toast
  • 4 dozen books devoured
  • 1st book written
  • “2” much time on my couch
  • 5 new dresses and just as many shoes
  • 1/2 dozen new pairs of pajamas
  • a few sleepless nights
  • and maybe more than just a little mania

But…

I lost track of the calories. I lost track of the miles. I lost track of the steps.

But I am stepping up my game and getting it back: a new Fitbit, an actual scale, a stair stepper to step on, and resistance bands. Walking clothes and shoes always at the ready. Back in the pool for a little aerobics. Even a bike ride, now and then.

It took me a dozen of years of coming in last — to finally count myself as first. And what is true for me is surely true for us all.

There is no magic pill or miracle program or magic bipolar wand.

But — bipolar or whatever – you can recover yourself one step at time. Walking this way may seem ENDLESS. Yet every step may take you places you never thought you would go.  And on this road, miraculous people you are likely to meet.  Neighbors turn into friends; coworkers become companions; and strangers – wilderness guides along your way.

Like the  park ranger, like Gordon, Joe, and Luke, like the woman who walked with me that last half mile. God in all these persons witness to the truth.

The last can be first.

Just take it one step at a time.

JoaniSign


With Apologies to Paul McCartney: When I’m 84

As I get older, hair going gray
Many years from now
Will I still be searching for my Valentine
Not counting birthdays but bottles of wine

Will I still stay out ‘til quarter to four
(Where are the keys to my condo door)
Will I still be free, will I still feel glee
When I’m eighty-four

The earth grows older too
And if the world but says the word
I will dance anew

I could be brilliant, penning a book
With tales I’ve never told
I would write away by the fireside
Weekday evenings go out with the tide

Dreaming the future, unearthing the past
No more of the universe can I ask
Will I still find God, will I still know God
When I’m eighty-four

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64 + 20 = 84 (Painting by nickel8 on DeviantArt)

Most every season for multiple reasons
My wardrobe still grows a drawer — or more.
(Who me, scrimp and save?) Credit card, debit card
Dropping money on stuff I crave

And on holidays, my head above the clouds
I stuff stockings for the lost and the found
Making magic for the grown and the grand
Not so little ones, two times three

So…

Send me an email, drop me a text
Spill your worldly news
I’ll try to respond with honest words
All that I think — in fading ink

Here are my answers, I’ve filled in the blanks.
Truth, forever more.
Yes, we’ll be free;  yes, we’ll feel glee
When we’re eighty-four

JoaniSign


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Mighty Widows, Grandma Peacock & Dorothy Day

My Grandmother Peacock found herself a widow at just 42 years of age. To support her two young boys, she worked as a bookkeeper at Skinker Brothers & Co. – way up on Connecticut Avenue. It was basically a full-service gas station with a mechanic on duty and tires for sale.

To make ends meet, Grandma Peacock also ran a boarding house, of sorts. She rented to a roommate, but family often too were non-paying guests.

And when I got my turn to board there,  it was absolute heaven to me.

I am one of six Peacock sisters and brothers. Grandma’s Anacostia row house was safe harbor – a refuge away from the scary house, in which we actually lived. Once a month or so, each  of us got a chance to go on the equivalent of a Club Med vacation — a weekend at Grandma’s — a chance to be an only child.

Grandma’s Anacostia home was a fairy tale castle. There was a bathroom with an enormous footed tub and a telephone closet on the first floor. There was a dining room AND a breakfast room. Downstairs was the best. There was an upright piano – painted bright red and a workshop with all kinds of gadgets and tools and little jars filled with all kinds of widgets and screws.

In my tea-totaling grandmother’s house there was a built- in bar with a brass rail and swizzle sticks.  The downstairs shower had four showerheads! (Who knows what went on down there in the Roaring Twenties?!)

When you stayed over at Grandma’s there was always plenty of food. She was no great cook — she was big on cornflakes and Cool Whip as condiments. You could fault her on her cooking — but never on her generosity.

On Saturday night we’d go to a film at National Geographic. On Sunday we would go to Saint Theresa’s for 8 o’clock Mass.

For ninety-six years Grandma Peacock (It seems disrespectful to call her Agnes — even now) made room — enormous room.

In the seventies, Grandma downsized and moved to an apartment. Still her welcome mat was always out.

In our rebellious years, we regularly showed up on her doorstep uninvited. She’d be ready to feed us in a heartbeat from whatever she might find in her fridge. We caused all kinds of trouble in our adolescence — which I will not embarrass myself with here.  No matter what we did, though, Grandma never turned us out.

I never heard her speak ill of anybody although I’m sure she did entertain some not so nice thoughts. At least in my hearing — she never let them out.

Grandma’s apartment was a shrine of Catholic kitsch: plastic statues of Mary and the Infant of Prague and pictures of the Pope back to John XXIII. Rosary beads draped over her bed post and an Ave Maria playing music box hung on her wall. It all meant something real to her.

Faith was not just just something she believed. Faith was something she did.

Grandma Peacock kept faith with us in so many ways — she was my salvation. For three short days I would be loved the way all God’s children should be loved — all the time.

She was a mighty widow, an icon of the poor woman in the parable of the Widow’s Mite.

Her generosity came out of her very meager means. Generous with us to a fault, Grandma Peacock was a skinflint when it came to herself. She wore the same wardrobe as long as I could remember. The towels in her bathroom were threadbare and scratchy. And she would eat the leftovers of the leftovers of everything until every little scrap was gone!

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So, who else comes to mind? Who else might you name or claim as a mighty widow – an icon of God’s grace?

A more famous one, you may have heard of is the Blessed Dorothy Day. She died more than thirty years ago, a remarkable single mother who hit her stride in the 1930’s during the Great Depression She was a radical journalist who launched a newspaper, The Catholic Worker, with just $57. The paper sold for just a penny a piece.

In her columns, she often wrote how Jesus would identify with the down and out:

It is cheering to remember that Jesus Christ wandered this earth with no home of his own. ‘The foxes have holes and the birds of the air their nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.’  And when we consider our fly by night existence, our uncertainty, we remember that the disciples wandered through cornfields picking ears from the stalks wherewith to make their frugal meals.

Dorothy founded Houses of Hospitality for workers and the unemployed.  The very first Hospitality House was her very own apartment on East 15thSt in New York. From the Catholic Worker’s fledgling proceeds, she opened another: St Charles House in Greenwich Village. It had room for staff, workers, and guests: a meeting place, an office, a kitchen and a free clothing room.

Dorothy’s biographer writes:

The Worker way of life seemed to be one of permanent crisis, mostly because of daily collisions among troubled humans (like us all) living under the same roof: fights over food, injuries, sickness, breakdowns, drunkenness, clashing personalities, empty bank accounts, theft of other people’s stuff, fires, evictions….  A day without at least one crisis was rare.

(Doesn’t  this sound a bit familiar, maybe? Maybe like some of the houses in which you have lived?)

Dorothy Day challenged everyday Christians to set aside a Christ Room to welcome those in need.

Every house should have one.  It is you yourself who must perform the works of mercy not some agency. Maybe you can only give enough money for a meager meal or a cheap hotel. Or maybe you can literally take off a garment to warm some shivering person.  But we must act personally and make a personal sacrifice.

 The amount does not matter but generosity does.

Jesus sat down opposite the treasury and watched the crowd putting money in. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny.

 Then Jesus called to his disciples and said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.’

 There are genuine mighty widows among us. We may know some. We may be one or want to be one – regardless of gender or marital status, regardless of means.

Might we inventory our bounty – whatever that might be?

Open up our hearts, pocketbooks, homes – to those who are not as mighty as we? The least of these, Jesus calls them in Matthew 25.

Hospitality —  not the Martha Stewart kind but this biblical kind — is messy and uncomfortable and often hard. But it also comes with real blessings, a genuine kind of riches not easy to find.

Mighty widows, you know,  might just be  — entertaining angels unawares.

JoaniSign


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The Liturgist’s Dilemma: Translating Tragedy into Prayer

When asked what I do for a living, I no longer answer “clergy” or “Episcopal priest.” Frankly, lots of people just don’t know what to do with that. Stereotypes abound: that clergy only work on Sunday, that we are not allowed to drink, that you should not curse around us.

And because of stereotypes in the media, many assume Christian equates to fundamentalist or evangelical or conservative. When in all honesty, I am none of these things.

So, instead I tell people I am in the hope business. I am in the love your neighbor and reconciliation business.

 I was ordained to preach and to teach and to be a pastor.   And I make my living with words: healing, honest, provocative, faithful, hopeful, joyful, sorrowful, humorous, beautiful, life giving and insightful words. A professional wordsmith, I am both a writer and a storyteller.

I am also blessed to be the parish liturgist at Emmanuel on High. What the heck is a liturgist?  Well, it is something I never thought I would grow up to be, I am a big picture person, you see. And meaningful liturgy is found in the details and details have never been my best thing.  But now sweating the details of liturgy is my labor of love.

In an Excel spreadsheet, I map out Sunday services across the seasons, six months at a time. At Emmanuel, we cycle though the depth and breadth of every option the Book of Common Prayer has to offer.

And where the BCP allows the liturgy to flex, we flex.  Because meaningful liturgy is faithful not just to God.  Faithful liturgy speaks to the people in the pews. Faithful liturgy weaves together both the past week’s sorrow and joy into the Sunday prayers.

I am a translator of sorts. I have the sad but necessary job of translating tragedy into prayer. It is a ministry that means the world to me – quite literally.

And tragically, of course, there is no shortage of tragedy. Every week I scribble in colored pen the changes to the Prayers of People — keeping our intercessions in sync with the world as best I can – before the bulletin hits the presses on Friday.

Prayers after hurricanes: Harvey, Maria, Florence and Michael.

Prayers after mass shootings: Pulse nightclub, Parkland Stoneman Douglas High School, Las Vegas Route 91 Music Festival.

Prayers after Charlottesville.

Prayers after the Simpson Field tragedy, right down the street, in the very place where our very own children play baseball.

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And then, there was this week:

Word of Life, your words matter and so do ours. If we speak in the tongues of mortals but have not love our words ring hollow.  Words of love sow love. Hateful words sow hate. Out of hate, 14 pipe bombs were mailed to former presidents, Democratic leaders who have served our nation and a news organization. Out of hate, a gunman violated a house of worship on the Jewish sabbath, killing many and injuring more. We have no words but words of grief, sorrow, and contrition. Word of Life, grant us both the inspiration and the courage to speak words of justice, hope, healing and peace. The light of God’s Word shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 My Alexandria, Virginia church basks in the backyard of the Nation’s Capital, Washington, D.C. Mindful of the political views of the people in our pews, I work very hard crafting prayers to hew close to the truth but also not to offend. I do pretty well most of the time but sometimes I miss the mark.

Worshipful tight rope walking.

Truth, however, trumps good manners.

Prayer you know is not about changing God’s mind to help us out. Prayer is about God changing our minds to get up off our knees and do the good that God would have us do.

Phillips Brooks, the 19thcentury Bishop from Boston and rector of Trinity, Copley Square, famously said: The purpose of preaching is to comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable.

 Both pastoral and the prophetic.

And I am responsible for my words – especially my words from the pulpit.  And as I wrote above, I do so believe: Word of Life, your words matter and so do ours. If we speak in the tongues of mortals but have not love our words ring hollow.  Words of love sow love. Hateful words sow hate.

On Sunday, preacher and people, together wrestle with angels. Sermons, at their best, help us think, help us remember, help us dream, help us to believe —  that which truly matters most.

Above all, I try at least to leave people with a little hope before they head out the doors and go back to their daily lives.

Getting my turn in the pulpit is a privilege. My turn to lift up the priesthood of every single person praying in our pews.

But imagine, if instead of praising the Leaves of Love: Refugee Family Fundraiser, I instilled fear of foreigners and immigrants.

Imagine, if instead of promoting Carpenters Shelter breakfasts and dinners, I railed about withholding help from our needy neighbors.

What if, instead of encouraging us all to strive for justice and peace among all people, and to respect the dignity of every human being, I insisted that we prioritize ourselves, the people who look like us and talk like us and think like us.

Well, I might get fired. Indeed, I should get fired.

And my pulpit is not a bully one.

It is election season and midterms are upon us. And lots of powerful political types are both using and abusing their bully pulpits.

Preaching xenophobic, homophobic, vitriolic, hateful, racist, vile rhetoric.

Words matter. Words of love sow love. Hateful words sow hate.

And believe it or not, we are baptized to vote. To vote out of love for our fellow human beings — not solely out of self-interest.

Whether for Republicans or Democrats or Libertarians or Green Partiers or Independents (or Others I am not aware of),  we Christians are  to vote for the greater good.

So, on Tuesday say a little prayer before you cast your ballot.  Let’s all do the best we can to vote the bums out and the good guys in!

JoaniSign


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The Haunting @ the House of the Redeemer

Boo!

I love a good ghost story, do you?

I especially love the ones with creaking floors and slamming doors, the ones that have to do with houses.

On yellow paper, Shirley Jackson typed  these mysterious words:

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

 The Haunting of Hill House is an interior tale of both home and mind. A sinister combination.

But it’s just a tale, brief and droll, maybe a three-day read curled up on the couch.

Uncanny glimpses of fear are best enjoyed when no actual ghosts are likely to appear.

I do not (or did not) believe in ghosts until the fall of the last millennium.

Late October 1999, after five years at Saint Luke’s, I was given a three-month sabbatical. On one of my ninety days’ adventures, I ventured north to NYC to visit a friend: Lisa who was a classmate from my Montessori days.

Hotel rooms in NYC were (and are) quite pricey and out of my reach. But there is a little known clergy perk. Being an Episcopal priest, I booked a room at the House of the Redeemer. Not for religious or spiritual reasons but because it was cheap.

There were no vacancies that weekend or, so I was told.

We’ll be very busy that weekend with a big group of  important guests, but we can squeeze you into one very small room at the top of the stairs.

 Now the House of the Redeemer sits on 95thStreet on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. A 19th century Carnegie brownstone, the four-story home was donated in the 1930’s to the Episcopal Diocese of New York. Donated by a very, very rich family who shall remain unnamed.

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House of Redeemer lit up at night.

I took Amtrak to Penn Station and then a cab to the mansion. Checking in with the desk clerk at dusk, he tells me how to turn on the lights and unlock the doors. Apparently, weirdly, I am the only guest there.

Rev. Peacock, your room is on the 4th floor at the top of the stairs. I’m sorry but you’ll have take up your own bag.

 No problem.

 But there was a problem. Just where are the stairs? Well, the stairs were non-contiguous. Like Alice in Wonderland, to find them I had to search for the right door on every floor. Stingy with the electricity, the house’s stairwells were dark. At each landing, I turned on the lights. As I climbed, I paused briefly to check out the rooms.

My hazy memory recalls something like this…

A parlour, a kitchen and a dining room on the first level. Bedrooms with shared baths on the second floor. A genuine medieval library on the third,  brought over from Europe during the First World War. Reconstructed book by book, the library even had one of those old-fashioned step ladders to climb the shelves.

Spooky, right?

And finally, on the fourth was my room. Quaintly appointed with a brass framed bed, hooked rugs on the floor, and an enormous old-fashioned footed tub.The first night passed quietly enough. I unpacked my things, climbed into my pajamas, read a bit of my book and turned out the lights.

The second day rising early, I turned on all the lights as I descended the stairs. Strolling the avenue, I park myself at a sidewalk cafe and drink gallons of espresso from demitasse-cups.   Late November, the days grow short as the night grew long. At sunset, I head back to my room to get ready for  dinner with Lisa, my Montessori friend.

But who turned out the lights? There were no other guests that I knew of, and the desk clerk had left the latch key under the mat. (And no, this old building did not have automatic light switches!)

I climbed out of my jeans and slipped on a dress. I pulled a hanger out of the closet to hang up my shirt. I closed the closet door.

And then it happened. The closet door opened and closed, opened and closed. Seemingly all by itself. Startled, I was sure there was a logical reason. I took hold of the doorknob and peered inside. A draft maybe? An uneven floor? I shut the door securely listening for the latch to catch.

And then it happened again. The closet door opened and closed, opened and closed. Seemingly, creepily all on its own. Turning on, once again, the turned-off-lights, I fled down the steps to meet Lisa on the street.

Over dinner, I told Lisa what I could barely believe. The closet opened and closed, opened and closed. There must be a simple explanation, right?  I confessed that it felt like someone, some invisible someone, did not want me to be in that room. I was unwelcomed there.

Would you like to spend your last night in New York at my place instead? Asked Lisa.

O my, yes, I replied.

Lisa came back with me to pack up my things and while we were there the closet door opened and closed, opened and closed.

 F-ing terrifying, we got the hell out of there. And the next day, via Amtrak, I headed back to Alexandria, to my un-haunted house.

Trying to make sense of it all, I relayed my story to a British friend, David Bird (also an Episcopal priest.)

I don’t believe in ghosts but let me tell you what happened to me in NYC!

 Now David recommended the House of the Redeemer. David, who on the down- low had incredulously confessed to me that he had exorcised a house.  (OMG! NO!)

Were you staying on the fourth floor? The room on the left at the top of the stairs? David asks.

 Yes, I was!  How, could you possibly know?

 The very rich owner of the mansion had a very unhappy son. A young son who ended his life — took his own life in that very same room.

 An invisible son who very likely did not want me to stay those three days: October 30th, October 31st, and November 1st.

All Souls Day. All Hallows Eve. All Saints Day.

Samhain, the Celtic Triduum, the time when the divide between this world and the other-world is paper thin.

The time of year that the living walk among the dead and the spirits of the dead walk among the living.

This is my true story, as true as I can tell it. And so, now I do believe in ghosts.

What kind of ghosts?

Fingerprints of lost family. Filmy impressions of lost friends. Faint voices etched in the memory. Glimpses of long-ago-lovers. Unsettled inhabitants of old houses  — still knocking about. Wandering spirits with nowhere to go.

So many ghosts trying to find their way home.

The creaking floors and slamming doors reflect the ghosts of our own making. The ghosts who haunt our interior space.

Every one of our souls could use a little exorcism from time to time.

I believe in these ghosts, I do. And maybe so do you.

Boo!

P.S. Join us for a “Ghostly Gathering” at  Emmanuel Episcopal Church located at 1608 Russell Road, Alexandria, VA. Saturday, October 27th at 7:00 p.m. Cocktails, nibbles, silent & live auction to benefit the Parish Foundation. Tickets $40 if you come in costume. And if not, its double the price! You can RSVP to me at the church office.


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Expansive Language; Enlarging Hearts

This is not my usual type of post. It’s not a story about me but news about the church I love. The church in which I labor in love. I make my living there with words and words matter.

The Episcopal Church is a liturgical church. We pray what we believe, and we believe what we pray: lex orendi, lex credendi. Our bedrock beliefs (interpreted in myriad ways) are printed between the covers of the Book of Common Prayer.The Prayer Book is common not because it is commonplace but because its prayerful words are shared across both space and time.

Anglicans are both catholic and protestantThe BCP is a direct descendant of the Roman Catholic Mass.  We worship God both in word and sacrament and read from Holy Scripture. Since the very first prayer book of 1549, the Book of Common Prayer defines what it means to be an Anglican, globally (and Episcopalian, locally.)

This does not mean that Yahweh handed down the BCP from Mount Sinai on stone tablets or that Jesus celebrated his Last Supper with the Book of Common Prayer! Each province of the Anglican Communion has its own version of the BCP. The first American prayer book was published in 1789 and has been revised many times to reflect the times.

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We are now using the 1979 edition. Some “cradle Episcopalians” still call this the “new prayer book”! Though slow to change, revisions to the Prayer Book are considered at General Convention every three years.

My parish Emmanuel’s Sunday bulletin is the Book of Common Prayer – just printed on different paper. This allows us to fully engage the liturgical richness of our tradition – as we cycle through all it has to offer.

General Convention met just this past summer in Austin, Texas. The process to begin the revision of the 1979 BCP was debated. Episcopalians do things by committee: scholars, bishops, clergy, lay people, new members – all included. It’s a long process taking many years. (The BCP before 1979 was 1928!)

As an interim step, General Convention overwhelmingly approved Expansive Language changes to Rite II for trial use.

Emmanuel will incorporate the changes into our Sunday bulletin starting November the 11th.

Fair warning!

If you are a cradle Episcopalian and went through the previous revision, this process and these changes may annoy you!

On the other hand, being a cradle Episcopalian, you may celebrate the evolution of the liturgy.

And if you recently wandered into this corner of God’s kingdom, you might not even notice!

Here’s a sampling of the changes:

Opening Sentences: Blessed be God: holy, glorious, and undivided Trinity. And blessed be God’s reign now and forever. Amen.

“God be with you” instead of “the Lord be with you.”

 “Hear what the Spirit is saying to God’s people” instead of “the word of the Lord.”

 Nicene Creed now reads “was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary and became truly human” instead of “made man.”

 Sometimes “he”, “Lord” are replaced with “Jesus,” “Christ”, or “Savior.” (But not always!)

 Sometimes “Father” is replaced by “Almighty God”, “Holy One”, or “God Everlasting”.  (But not always!)

If you want to read more, check out this article at Episcopal News Service:Convention Approves Uses of Expansive Language Version of Rite II.

At Emmanuel, starting October 28th, paper copies of all the changes will be available in the narthex.

Comments?  Questions? All welcome!

JoaniSign

Note: And if you’re in town, come worship with me at 8 a.m.or 10:30 a.m. any Sunday at Emmanuel Episcopal Church located at 1608 Russell Road, Alexandria, Virginia. ALL are welcome! NO exceptions!


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Not (Not) Ready to be a Cat Lady

In a weak moment about a year ago,  I posted on Facebook:

“I am not a cat person. I am thinking of getting a cat.”

 Well, truth be told I am not really much an animal person.

Bailey, my youngest son’s half-Collie/half-Golden, lived out the latter of his fifteen years under my roof. My divorce decreed me all three animals – my children’s pets. Along with Bailey, there were two cats: Lucy and Katrina who preceded him to heaven.

And at each pet’s passing, I had to admit that I was a whole lot more attached to these fur-coated creatures than I imagined. Well, not nearly so much to the cats as to Bailey.

Bailey and I had this quiet comfortable roommate thing going on. And then he was gone.

It has been three years now. It is Bailey I miss. That particular golden-haired member of my household. Bailey who was afraid of soda cans and squeaky toys. Bailey who I used to drag around the block. Bailey, the dog who barely knew his name.

But with Bailey’s departure, I discovered the particular pleasures of the single life.

After work, I now could go wherever I pleased. No need to rush home. On rainy mornings, I could stay dry in my pajamas. No need to get drenched outdoors. Wardrobe wise, I could wear black and no longer need to stash lint rollers all over the place. No vet bills. No boarding costs. I had both the freedom and the funds to travel — free as a bird!

But I would still get a little misty eyed when I thought  about Bailey.

I did  not miss having a dog.

Well, mostly I did not miss having a dog.

Tempted by a rebound relationship, I briefly considered adopting a little Bichon Frise pup named “Posh.” But someone else rescued him before I got there. The timing of which may have rescued us both from the canine equivalent of a one night stand.

My desire dissipated like vapor. Faded in the blink of an eye.

You see, I delight in the solitude of my sacred space. The freedom to stay in my pajamas till almost noon.  Curled up on my couch, befriended by books and lost in my thoughts.

I live on my own but that does not mean that I am  lonesome.

Living alone is not the same thing as being lonely.

Yet even the Queen in her Castle, craves companionship  from time to time.

On the human side of this equation, for the past couple of years, I have posted my endeavors here.  Blog worthy. Humorous, disastrous and less than successful.

Meanwhile, well-meaning people, kept encouraging me to get a companion of the four-footed kind.

“Get a cat. They are so easy!”

“A cat to keep you warm!”

 So last summer, I surfed the SPCA sites looking for a cat. Maybe a cat would be a better fit.

Crowdsourcing on Facebook, I posted:

“I am not a cat person. I am thinking of getting a cat. Please, advise.”

 And friends I did not know were friends – or friends I did not even know I had – commented, reacted, liked, and commented on the comments.

There was no shortage of replies:

  • Adopt a kitten.
  • No, kittens tear up your house.
  • Adopt a rescue cat.
  • Adopt a two year-old cat, already housebroken.
  • No adopt an old cat.
  • No, they have urinary tract problems.
  • Adopt a black cat because they get left behind.
  • No, adopt a special needs cat.
  • A deaf cat, a blind cat.
  • A cat with FIV (poor thing).
  • Better yet, get two cats. To keep each other company.
  • (Uh, aren’t two cats twice as expensive as one?)
  • Or adopt a Maine Coon cat, it’s almost like a dog.
  • Or a British Short Hair, Alice in Wonderland’s Cheshire cat.
  • Or maybe, just take my cat.
  • No, for heavens’ sake just get a kitten.
  • So cute.
  • So cuddly.

Hmmmm, no I don’t think so. My answer was a definite NO.

Until….

This happened. Two orange aliens from outer space invaded my place.

 

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August a year ago, Cheshire and Charlie came home from the Fairfax County Humane Society

Since, I have made, at least, a hundred trips to PetSmart for:

Litter boxes, litter, litter box liners, litter scooper, dry food, canned food, food dishes, cat carrier, pet gate, food bowls, cardboard scratching things, cat toys, cat bed, catnip spray, don’t-pee-here spray, don’t-scratch-there spray, no-odor spray, cat-stain spray, cat brush, kitten collars, cat collars, cat proof trash cans.

I’ve spent about a bazillion dollars, give or take a few.

The world, as we know it, forever seems to be coming apart. I wish I could save it — but of course, I can’t. So, I decided to save Cheshire and Charlie. It’s the very least I could do.

So, I am now a certified “certifiable” cat lady.

It’s like living with wild cats and drunk acrobats in my condo. Cheshire has spider-man tendencies and literally climbs the walls. Charlie, is a hunter par excellence, who ferociously tears up toilet paper rolls.

They are hysterical. Cheshire and Charlie bring a spark of life into my swinging single’s lifestyle.

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And this is how God intended it to be.

“It is not good for the human to be alone…”

So out of the ground the Lord God formed every animal of the field and every bird of the air, and brought them to the human to see what he would call them; and whatever the human called every living creature, that was it’s name. The human gave names to all the cattle, and to the birds of the air, and to every animal of the field…”

Feathered friends. Furry friends. Some slimy and scaly, too. Some that go “moo.”

And, of course, God made Adam a human friend too. 🙂

Our two-footed households runneth over with four-footed friends.

To walk along side us. Fall asleep in our laps. Chew up our shoes. Raid the trash. Wag their tails. Bark at the robbers. Catch the rats. Scratch the furniture. Make us laugh.

On the Feast of Saint Francis, let us give thanks for —

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,

the Lord God made them all.

JoaniSign