Six-Month Break

Week 26 of 26: Endings and Beginnings

2008-08-11T03:48:00.000-07:00

It new and old being back on the grounds of First Parish for the rehearsal Friday and the wedding Saturday. Much was familiar, and some things were very new. The Remembrance Corner exists! This is a project that had been underway for years, and had gotten more focused in the months before I left, thanks to some very dedicated church members. It’s quite an addition. The gardens around the church are also looking really good.

I still knew my way around, and I was also aware that I was a visitor. I no longer had keys to the building, the copy room, the office that I once called mine.

The wedding itself was lovely. It was good to see some of the familiar and friendly faces I knew from my years at the church, and to see the bride and groom and their families so happy together. The weather was agreeable, too -- after a deluge Friday evening, Saturday was dry and warm, but not unbearable, as it often is this time of year.

In the evening, I went with a friend to see the one-man show of Stan Strickland, one of Boston’s resident jazz musicians. It’s called “Coming Up for Air”, and through it he tells his life story through music and song. Very engaging to see. It was playing at a new theater in Cambridge on Mass. Ave., but that was the closing night. His next stop will be Edinburgh.

Sunday morning was leisurely. I took my time getting out of bed, and gathered my things to be checked out by noon. There I was, on the fifth floor of the parking garage about to pull out of the hotel, and I noticed just how brilliant the partially cloudy sky was. I took some time to be with it, before getting into the car and driving away. Coming back over to Roslindale, I had to take the long way around, as the (Caribbean Festival?) was happening in Roxbury, and there were many police blockades.

I paid some attention to how I moved around the snarled traffic. I like that, at least where driving is concerned (and I’m not running late), I’m at ease with changes in route or plan. I had to go way around Roxbury – all around Franklin Park, through Dorchester, Mattapan and Hyde Park – to get to Roslindale. But I felt my way, watching the signs, and learning to trust the moments of uncertainty. And I got where I was going just fine.

And now, the break is truly over, exactly six months from my last sermon at First Parish of Arlington. I have a check-up with my doctor of the past seven years tomorrow, and the movers arrive Tuesday afternoon. I will make my way down to New Jersey at that point, too, and I start work Friday, August 15.

Some have asked if I will be blogging after my leave is over. I’m going to take a break from blogging, though I suspect I will resume at some point. For those who have been reading this one and would like to be alerted when a new one starts, please send me an email at smithcarel@aol.com and let me know.

And to those who have read and commented on Six-Month Break, thank you. I’m glad to know that you’ve been interested in the journey enough to follow along. The format really gave me a chance to make a record of my travels and share as the path unfolded.

Many of you know that one of my goals when I set out on the break was to finish the novel that has been in the works for about the past two decades. That didn’t happen. I can see that I didn’t create a context for myself to support that work. What the novel needs is consistency: of my attention, and of location. With the blog and with my morning pages, I’ve established the consistency of a regular writing pattern. In New Jersey, with a place to call home for the next several months, I will have a consistent location. I look forward to seeing what emerges from that.

And, I’m glad for the book that has emerged in raw form – the memoir of these several past months. I remember being frustrated with myself when I was in Provincetown those three weeks late in the winter because the novel wasn’t what was coming out. When I stopped berating myself for not doing what I thought I was going to be doing and just got with the flow of what was happening, I was able to relax into the process and appreciate it for what it was.

Now the whole six months seems like a dream, part of the longer dream of my whole life, where nothing stays for very long. I guess long-term relationships are like that. Where do we return to, in hopes of not being alienated? I have been re-reading Laura Kipnis’s searing polemic Against Love in recent days. Is she ever adept at skewering the sacred cow of romantic love in modern Western culture. However, I think she missed the deeper need that romantic love serves. In a world of changing faces and places, I think such attachments fill the need for constancy, and serve as a kind of a guard against loneliness and isolation.

I asked myself as I drove from Cambridge, and the wedding party that knew me, to my friend's house in Roslindale, "If I were to get in trouble right here – an accident, an aneurism, a blown-out tire – who would know who I am?" There’s a quality of life that seems to be about shuttling from safety zone to safety zone, to hold back the unpleasant and unpredictable aspects of existence. I haven’t had a consistent place to stay over the past several months, but I have had regular pay-checks, and access to health care, and a reliable, paid-for vehicle that I own to drive. Out of that relative stability emerged a six-month adventure now closing as quickly as it began.

I am left with sense of providence. I’m not always reliable to follow my intuition, or to act consistently with what I say are my best intentions. I can’t always rely on people to tell the truth, or to behave in ways that promote honor, integrity, love and peace. But I do find that the universe is providential. The old folks used to say, “The Lord will make a way somehow.” Even older folks said, “The Way doesn’t do anything, but it leaves nothing undone.” What is necessary is somehow always near, always available – What is necessary is often not what I think it is. Oh, for eyes to see, to truly see.

Week 25 of 26: Trespasses, or Back to Boston

2008-08-11T03:30:00.000-07:00

I left Easton Mountain shortly after my light breakfast in the Lodge Monday morning (July 28), and after saying goodbye to the staff and fellow volunteers who were close by. It was a clear day, a good day for driving through the gorgeous and extremely green New York countryside. I did have the sense of turning away from the part of my leave that was oriented towards being on-leave. Time to resume the thinking and mind-set of a parish minister again … not that it is ever far from me. As I said to someone recently, that identity is part of my core now, as much as being United Methodist or a native Mississippian. Like the trunk of a tree, there might be lots of other rings that grow around the core, but that core doesn’t change.

“Lead-foot” might be another one of those core identities. Every few years, I get a speeding ticket while I’m just zooming along I-95, or I-40, or in this case, the MassPike. I didn’t even see the state police, or if I did, I was in a state of denial. By the time he pulled me over, he said to me, “Not only did you pass me, but then you get right in front of me, going (insert excessive mph here)!” I couldn’t argue. I was trying to make it on time for an appointment, and stopped paying attention to my surroundings. I didn’t put up a fuss, and he knocked five miles off the violation he clocked me at. Still, a three-digit fine seemed silly to have earned, especially since, even with all that, I still made it to my appointment with time to spare.

Afterwards, I said to myself, No need to delay. Just pay the fine and be done with it as quickly as possible. I couldn’t find my checkbook, so I walked to the nearest post office, got a money order and mailed it right away. Done. Great. I walked back around to my car on a side street off Mass Ave, and there was a ticket under the windshield wiper for my expired inspection sticker. It became invalid at the end of June, while I was still in Florida. I knew that as soon as I crossed over into Massachusetts, it would be in violation, but I thought I wouldn’t get caught the very first time I parked on the street. I was wrong. Forty bucks worth of wrong, to be precise. But I couldn’t get mad. You drive too fast, you get a ticket. You let your sticker expire, you get a ticket. These things are almost natural laws. Still, I was feeling nostalgic for being out in the woods, with no need for locks or state patrol officers or sticker inspectors … can it be that it was all so simple then, just that morning?

I was reentering urban life, and not particularly enjoying it.

Parking on the campus of BU for the Transitional Ministry Training was pretty stressful, too, especially because I forgot to arrange for parking when I registered. I got it worked out Tuesday, but not before missing my lunch and being late for the afternoon session that day.

The training itself was very valuable. About 30 colleagues were there, including Rev. Alma Crawford, who I haven’t seen in years. She was actually my introduction to UUism back in the early 90s in DC, when she was serving a small congregation on Capitol Hill, and we were both seminary students at Howard. In fact, this is the first time we were in a classroom environment together in 16 or 17 years. That seems unreal to me.

What a great context to get focused on the work that lies ahead in the fall, and to revisit some of those ongoing questions about ministry: What are my personal and professional boundaries? What’s appropriate ministerial attire at the church picnic? How do we establish credibility in a new congregation? What does it take to be a career interim minister? How do we guide and support congregations that have been traumatized? An added bonus is that these and other questions gave me lots to think about for future sermons. I looked out the window of the conference room and right onto Commonwealth Ave, to see men moving dresser drawers, young people jugging, people waiting for buses, in the midst of lots of asphalt and concrete. Mountainsides full of trees were not so near and prominent in my field of vision.

By Thursday, I had spend three and a half days straight in seminar mode, which ended up being more draining than I thought. A non-UU colleague put me up overnight in Roxbury, and my housesitting for a friend in Roslindale began Friday afternoon, with a little glitch: I had forgotten the passcode for her alarm system. I thought the clue for how to disarm it was by the control panel, but I couldn’t recognize it as it was disguised among some other numbers. Thirty seconds later, the alarm want crazy. Incredibly loud, long (10 minutes stretching into eternity), painful and violent. A neighbor vouched for me when the police came, and things calmed down.

Still, after that incident, I didn’t step outside the house until Monday afternoon. I needed some down-time, and more than I thought. I did manage to watch the documentary Chisolm '72: Unbought and Unbossed on dvd, about Congresswoman Shirley Chisolm’s presidential bid. It’s amazing to me that so little is said this year in particular about this woman who paved the way for the first black male likely to be elected, as well as the first white female. Chisolm was ahead of her time, and has gone largely under-appreciated for her contribution to this new era of US politics.

One week left. I’ve got some running around to do, but the date is set for the move with the moving company next Tuesday, and the wedding is on track for this weekend. Now’s the time to reflect on the meaning of all these six-months, and the break itself.

Week 24 of 26 (addendum): Praying for Unitarian Universalists and Their Neighbors and Friends in Knoxville

2008-07-28T19:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends:

I was alarmed to hear that there was another church shooting in our country yesterday, and then my jaw dropped to find out that it was the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville that had been attacked. My reaction was equal to what people say in some neighborhoods when a crime occurs: How could this happen in our denomination? I asked myself. And now the reality sets in, that UUs are no less vulnerable to hate crimes, or being drawn into a sick person's externalized psychodrama than any other faith tradition. Just because we see ourselves as nonthreatening doesn't mean that others hold the same view.

The details are still unfolding, and I am watching our denominational website, www.uua.org, to keep posted myself. We can be thankful for the heroes and heroines who lept into action to mitigate the violence done, especially usher Greg McKendry, 60, who gave his life when he stepped between bullets and helpless church-goers. I hear the other person who was fatally wounded, Linda Kreager, 61, was a visitor that day, there to see her grandchild perform in a version of the musical Annie.

Let our thoughts and prayers be with those families who have lost loved ones, and those who anxiously wait to know how their lives will be different after this senseless act. And, if you are so inclined, I invite you to join me in posting a word of encouragment on the blog set up by the UUA for the Tennessee Valley UU Church. I'm very appreciative of how our UUA President Bill Sinkford, members of the UUA Trauma Response Team and other representatives of our wider movement are speaking and acting out our values on the ground. My heart goes out as well to my colleague, Rev. Chris Buice. I can hardly imagine what he must be going through at this incredibly sad and painful time in the life of his congregation.

Here at the Transitional Minister Training at Boston University, my colleagues and I are remembering the people at TVUUC, and asking ourselves, Could it happen at my congregation? What would I do? Can I understand the motivation of someone to act out so viciously? Could I forgive? The questions are endless. I pray that the grief of those most effected by this heinous crime is not.

Week 24 of 26: A Cabin in the Woods

2008-07-28T06:01:00.000-07:00

This post is going to be brief: I am within an hour of leaving Easton Mountain in upstate New York on my way to Boston University for an Interim Ministry Training that starts this evening.

I moved into my cabin a week ago today. I really loved it ... for me it was the perfect marriage between being in the great outdoors and having the creature comforts that were essential. It rained almost all week long, and not just light sprinkles. Big buckets of torrential downpours. And it was magnificent to watch it, the flashes of lightning through the big windows in the night, the fireflies flashing here and there, the sound of the frogs on the pond, and the birds in the morning ... and often heard footfalls around the cabin, too loud and heavy to be a squirrel or chipmunk, unlikely to be another human ... rather than to be afraid with only a window screen separating me from the forest, I chose to think of them as the sound of my spirit guide or guardian, keeping watch for me in the night.

The young people seemed to have enjoyed themselves during Queer Spirit Camp. I mostly stayed at a distance, tending to the tasks that were mine regarding the functioning of the place. Monday night, I did have a chance to go into Troy with some of the other staff and volunteers, to a knitting/spinning circle that some of them belong to in Little Italy, that meets at a coffee shop called Flavours. A nice spot.

Okay, that's it for now ... next stop: Beantown.

Week 23 of 26: Out in the Sticks, and Deeply Grateful

2008-07-22T12:12:00.000-07:00

Monday morning (July 14) began with yoga. Tim, who I understand is the longest-term resident here at Easton Mountain, led it every morning this week. My first experience of yoga goes back to PBS in the 70s, when I was a child, watching Lilias, Yoga & You, but I haven't had any kind of regular practice since then. Maybe this is an opportunity to bring this aspect of self-care and mindfulness back into my life as I begin my service at a new congregation. I don't enjoy all of the positions -- somehow I dread downward dog -- but at the end of it, when I've made it through the full hour, I feel awake and alive.

Also Monday, my work in support of the upcoming programs began in earnest. I agreed to take on the laundry room, and see to it that the towels and sheets were cleaned, sorted, folded and ready to go as needed onto the beds, outside the sauna and by the hot-tub. It took the better part of two days to get it handled, but with the help of others working on it, we managed it. I couldn't help thinking of a show that I saw and loved at the Boston Center for the Arts, and that was Caroline, or Change, an extremely moving musical by Tony Kuschner. Jacqui Parker, who I know from my days with the Boston African American Theatre Festival, was great in the title role. Caroline felt oppressed and stifled by her laundry work, and I didn't at all last week -- it was of my choosing, which I think made much of the difference. And, unlike Caroline, I'm not trying to raise two children on a meager income, I have health insurance and access to good medical care, I live and grew up in the United States in the post-legalized segregation era ... and I thank the generations of women, in my own family and beyond, who did such work because they had limited employment options. They secured a future for me and so many others, such that we can choose from a wide range of possibilities, including laundry work as meditation and an expression of solidarity, rather than an economic necessity.

Wednesday, Dexter* arrived for a few days from metro New York. In addition to being someone involved in the creation and leading of worship, he also is a composer and lyricist. I had a chance to hear some of the pieces that he's been working on that may one day end up as show-tunes on Broadway. He encouraged me to go forward with a project I'd been rolling around in my head for some time, and that was to write lyrics for a musical based on the novel that continually moves and inspires me: Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Friday, when I wasn't loading and unloading the washers and dryers, I was trying to tease out rhymes and tunes, with mixed degrees of success ... still, I had three rough drafts of songs/scenes worked out by noon Saturday, and I'm glad for that.

My work shifted later in the week to the care of the lower level of the lodge, which is the main house on the grounds. Before I began, some of the other volunteers and members of the EM residential community had gone through and cleaned it after the departure of the guest from the previous week, and I can feel the difference. It's fresh, renewed ... similar to the experience I would have after we did 'spiritual housekeeping' at First Parish in Arlington. My goal is to have that experience of freshness be sustained through my attention to how the place looks, and to its sense of order and purposefulness.

There were two groups of a dozen or so men each who came: one that started Wednesday, focused on healing the spirit, and the other starting Friday, for men who do various forms of bodywork (massage, reiki, yoga, etc.). There was good energy among them, and at the same time I found myself verging on speechlessness at some points at the subtle and overt racialized language white men directed at me and the few other 'men of color' on the grounds, and even the attacking language that one man of color can use on another. For certain, I'll leave paying even more attention to my own speech, and the power I have to affirm or undermine other people's experience of wholeness and inclusion simply by the words I allow out of my mouth.

And, when I perceive such sleights, it becomes another opportunity to practice forgiveness and cultivate my sense of humor. Every situation, as far as I can tell, holds the possibility of being workable and/or transformative.

Saturday, I went for a walk in the garden, where a good amount of the produce that ends up on our plates here is grown. It seems to be guarded by a few very vigilant and aggressive flies and bees, so it's a little bit like going through a gauntlet to get there. It is lovely, however -- quite varied with both flowers and food-bearing plants, and laid out in a labyrinthine way that includes some of the meadow's original growth. And there, at different points throughout, were wooden placards with handwritten quotes on them. The first one I saw and drew me in enough that I went back to write it down was this one from Goethe: "What is the hardest thing of all? What seems the easiest to you: to use your eyes to see what lies in front of them."

Both Saturday and early Monday, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for my eyes, my lifelong friends, so often taken for granted, and even abused through overuse or strain. And yet they have always been there, making the life I know and love possible. I can see ... I can see. Every morning I open my eyes, and the miracle begins again, whether acknowledged for what it is or not. Glory -- glory in the highest.

By yesterday morning, most of the men from the previous week's programs were gone, and the young adults for Queer Spirit Camp had begun to arrive. And I started to pack for my move from my room (with private bath) in the guest house, to one of the woodland cabins -- which is pretty close to Thoreau's abode on Walden Pond, including not having electricity.

* a pseudonym

Week 22 of 26: (Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and) New York States of Mind

2008-07-14T13:27:00.001-07:00

Stayed with my old friend Bertram* in Baltimore for two nights, and at last, sat down to work on the wedding I will officiate the second weekend in August.

I got up early Wednesday morning and drove up to Philly, to meet with Kermit*, a brother in the spirit who does sacred healing and ritual work in the west side of town. In fact, he was in the middle of a ritual when I got there, so we didn't actually meet until a bit later. That worked out fine: I was able to hang out in the window-corner at the Green Line Cafe, a very pleasant spot to eat one's pain chocolat and sip on a latte while checking email and journaling. Around mid-afternoon, when he was finally free, I drove him out to Pendle Hill where he sometimes stays while leading workshops. It was good to have the chance to talk with him, and get his take on some of the ideas and questions that have been turning over in my head these past several weeks.

It rained on my way back into West Philly for my evening dinner with the bride and groom. We went to the neighborhood Eritrean restuarant, which I imagine at one point was an Ethiopian restaurant. I'm happy that they like the draft of the wedding. I'll get their adjustments back in the coming days, and we'll soon settle on the final version of their ceremony.

I left around 8:15, which gave me time to get up to River Edge, New Jersey, before it got too late ... I was glad I googled all my directions for the week while I was in Baltimore. I got to the Central Unitarian Church parsonage around 10:30, and my departing colleague Justin Osterman was the perfect host. He walked me through my next home (as of August 11 or so). I liked the space and the improvements he'd made. The guest bed was very comfortable, and I fell into a deep sleep at the end of a full day.

After breakfast, Justin toke me over to the church, where I meet the church administrator, Shailja, for the first time. We'd talked on the phone a few times before, and I can see why Justin enjoyed working with her so much. She's very personable and conscientious of her work ... able to anticipate needs and concerns well in advance. A great skill to have in church life! The two of them helped me lighten my load for the balance of my leave. Where I started out five months ago with a full trunk, full back seat, and full passenger seat, that Thursday I was almost down to just a full trunk. I told Shailja I would be back Friday morning to lighten up more. Later, when I would park my car near my old friend Jaime's* apartment in the South Bronx, I didn't want to even have to think about emptying out the cab so no one would be tempted to break in.

Justin took me on a driving tour of River Edge, Paramus, Oradell, North Hackensack and Ridgewood. We ended up having afternoon coffee at on of the Starbucks at one of the ritzier malls out of the many malls in Paramus, along the very developed commercial strip. I'm glad the church and the parsonage are on streets that are a bit removed from all the six-lane traffic and retail busyness for which the town is known.

That night, I went to a book reading and discussion at Gay Men's Health Crisis downtown on 24th Street. Jaime invited me. The author, Terrance Dean, is fielding questions about his memoir Hiding in Hip-Hop: On the Down-Low in the Entertainment Industry. I introduced myself to him afterwards and congratulated him, and I told him I was working on a book or two myself. When I told him one of my projects is a memoir, he asked me if I had read Eat Pray Love. I replied yes, and that the first of the books I expect to publish will be based on my own journey over my sabbatical leave (What would be a good working title? Hmm ... maybe The Six-Month Break?). Jaime and I went to dinner with two of his friends and then called it a night. I headed back out to Jersey.

Friday, I said so long to Justin, and dropped more things off at the church. Shailja had already created new letterhead, with me listed as the Interim Minister. Like I said, she's one step ahead. I go down and visit with a friend in East Orange, then end up parking in Harlem. I head downtown, and, after I tend to some outstanding business and Jaime is free, we catch the train back up to my car and drive over to his place. Saturday afternoon, I got a rush ticket to see Passing Strange, the Tony-nominated musical about a young African-American man from San Francisco who goes off to find what is real in life in Amsterdam, and then Berlin. The production was (and is) closing in a few days, so that was the only chance for me to catch this show on Broadway (though Spike Lee is said to be making a film of it). I loved it. It's crazy, kaleidoscopic, funny and a touch manipulative, but in a forgiveable way. I'm very glad a god friend recommended it to me. I had a great theater companion, Karen*, who was behind me in the ticket line. She is also a writer and travel-lover. I hope we are able to stay in touch.

And, five minutes after I stepped out of the Belasco Theatre, who came breezing down 44th Street but Jaime? I was supposed to meet him in Brooklyn at the Audre Lorde Center for a monthly meeting of Adodi, the black gay men's spiritual group he belongs to. Riding out with him was better. The discussion was about black gay men and depression. I had an insight while the conversation was going on -- maybe one of the friends I reached out to while I was in DC wasn't just ignoring me: Maybe he's withdrawn and depressed. Something to follow up on.

We went to a restaurant down the street and around the corner in Ft. Greene, and as it turned out, there was drama about the check at the end of the evening. I hate drama about the check at the end of the evening, which seems to be a given when you have eight or more people on one tab. I was glad I had paid my portion and was standing outside talking on my cell phone when the confusion started. Jaime and I didn't get back to his place until almost 2:00 a.m.

Still, I managed to get myself up and packed, and I drove down to the Fifteenth Street Society of Friends in the East Village for my first Quaker Meeting by 11:00 a.m. I've been thinking a lot about the Quakers lately, especially their encouragement toward simplicity and trust in Spirit to open doors along life's journey. This was absolutely the least ornate worship hall I can remember entering. It was along the lines of the colonial style that has become so familiar to me after six and a half years in New England, but with pews on all four sides facing the center. I did have the experience of anticipation, not knowing from which mouth Spirit might speak ... from the other side of the room? The person behind me? Me myself? ... the possibilities were as numerous as the 70 or so people who drifted in over the hour. I fell into deep silence ... and was half asleep for much of the time. I hope I looked like I was meditating. Four men and one woman spoke, on themes of love, community, reconciliation, contributing to the lives of others -- and I did leave feeling refreshed and connected. I thought about how different this was from ecstatic dance, the drumming circle, the rock band and the ordained minister-led services I have participated in over the past several months -- none any more or less valuable or valid than the other, and all expressions of communion with That Which Is Beyond Ourselves.

I left the church, and drove up I-87, all the way up to Albany, and out to Easton Mountain, the rustic retreat center that I'll be assisting at over the next two weeks. I found out last night that next week will be third time EM has been host to a camp for queer young adults, ages 18 to 25, from a spectrum of locations, ethnicities and gender identities. I'm glad to know that I am part of the preparations for this week-long event, that will provide a sense of connection and community. I'm contributing to the prevention of depression among queer young adults, and that's something to feel great about, especially having been in their shoes myself 20 to 25 years ago.

* a pseudonym

Week 21 of 26: Up from the South

2008-07-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

I got to Savannah early in the evening Monday. I hadn't been there in sometime, and forgot how wonderfully mossy the trees were. I stepped out of the car and into the sticky air. I couldn't stop sweating from the heat or itching from the mosquito bites. My host, Lenoir*, greeted me warmly. He was out on the spacious front porch with his partner's son's girlfriend, Lili*, and his partner's son's daughter, Katia*. Lili, I found out later over a dinner of pig feet, big beans and rice, was half-native Hawaiian -- her mother was part of a Hawaiian touring group, and they met in her father's home state of Tennessee, where she was raised. She went back often to Maui, but hadn't been to the Big Island in a while. Jack*, Lenoir's partner, came home late from a drama rehearsal, and we had a chance to talk before he turned in for the night, very tired from a full day.

Late the next morning, after Jack went to work, Lenoir took me over to the beach on Tybee Island, where we went bike-riding. The sun was high and bright, and there was precious little shade, but it was much cooler by the water than it had been in town. I was surprised that the white sand was fine, wet and compact enough to ride on. It was very wide, too, like the beach at Ogunquit when the tide is out. We rode a few miles north, then came back down through the main street. I noticed they had a turtle culture there, too -- specifically green turtles. I was tempted to stop and buy mementos, but then I realized Lenoir had my wallet in his knapsack -- I didn't have any pockets -- and he was too far ahead of me to get his attention before we'd passed all the shops. I treated him to lunch at Huey's, a sweet New Orleans-style restaurant on the Savannah River among the historic buildings. Have I been here before? Not really, but it sure does bring to mind Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Back at the house, I load up the car and begin the drive up to Hickory, North Carolina.

Again, I arrived late in the afternoon. My hosts, Paul* and Silas*, lived in a very large and beautifully restored home. Wednesday morning, Paul and I had coffee (Silas is at work), and Paul made several suggestions of things to do in the area. I made the 35-minute trip to the town of Blowing Rock, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The road twisted and turned as the elevation increased, and it was cooler up there than it was down in Hickory. It's another resort town, with with lots of quaint shops, beautiful scenery and people out on a sunny day. On the way in, I sampled salted fried peanuts ... who knew that they wouldn't be greasy, and you could eat the shells? I had a late lunch of cajun-spiced trout at the Speckled Trout Cafe'. Walking back down the street, I was really struck with the beauty of the Presbyterian Church. I picked up some sweets from Kilwin's (including dark chocolate-covered rice crispy treats -- *yum*) to take back to Paul and Silas. I also visited the Blowing Rock itself, which has an "Indian legend" attached to it, of a brave who falls (or jumps?) off a cliff, but because of his woman's love, the wind blows him back safely into her arms. When I get back to Hickory, I go dining with my hosts at the Tap Room downtown. The next morning, I pack up, say goodbye to Paul (Silas is already at work) and head over to the Hickory Furniture Mart. For furniture shopping, I've never seen anything like it. Dozens of quality furniture sellers with acres and acres of floor space in one very large complex. One could spend days there -- not unlike trying to see everything there is to see in the Louvre or the Smithsonian. Shortly after I began looking around, I realized that I didn't have the dimensions or colors or even a sense of the parsonage for Central Unitarian Church, so I couldn't even begin to browse with any seriousness. I window shopped for about an hour, then hit the road heading up to Lynchburg to connect with David and Katy.

I arrived a little after six in the evening. It was great catching up with David and Katy, who were already married when we were the US contingent at the World Council of Churches Ecumenical Institute outside Geneva, Switzerland in the fall of 1992. We were 48 students from 33 countries around the globe, some of whom have recently begun to reconnect on Facebook. David now is the pastor of a church in Lynchburg, and Katy works for a nonprofit there. They have a highly creative and gifted 10-year-old son, who I met for the first time on this trip. We dined at WaterStone, a new pizza restaurant down on the James River. They took me on an night tour of the town. It's very picturesque, and from some vantage points of the hills sloping down to the valley, I began to think of it as a miniature San Francisco, but with a jet d'eau in the river similar to the one in Lake Geneva. The Unitarian Church is also on an incline, with a beautifully incorporated addition behind it.

Friday morning, David made excellent omlettes, as we listened to the voices of NPR's on-air personalities and reporters read the whole Declaration of Independence, which is one of their rituals on the Fourth of July. We went by the gift shop of the point of honor, and David graciously showed me the cemetery and other places of interest before I got on the highway to Washington. It rained a good stretch of the way. I arrived in DC a couple of hours before dark, and have been with family friends since. I marvel at how my nieces and nephew in my extended family have grown since I saw them the last time I was in town, back in March. Today I went with a dear old friend, her son and a playmate of his, to see the movie Wall-E, a family film that worked well on a number of levels. Before the film, that same friend and I went to All Souls Church in Washington, where I know just about all the ministers there from other periods in my life. I'm thinking more and more about taking up the work of ministry myself again in about 35 days.

Tomorrow I leave for Baltimore, then on up to Philly and New Jersey, before a couple of weeks in upstate New York.

*a pseudonym

Week 20 of 26: Generally Assembled in South Florida

2008-06-30T07:32:00.000-07:00

The Monday evening before the start of General Assembly, I went out with my host Paula* in Ft. Lauderdale and a friend of hers, Bill*, in North Miami on Bill's four-seater boat, docked behind his house on a canal. It was very cloudy, and the coulds got darker while we were out. The travel advisory on his radio was telling everyone in our area to stay inside, and it was the case that almost no one else was on the water. We passed by very humble homes and estates valued in the tens of millions of dollars as we made our way out. At one point, the waters got very choppy, and it seemed it could rain any minute, big bucks of rain ... and then there were a few drops, and then ... nothing. our outing was about 45 minutes, but in the end, the biggest problem was (were?) the mosquitoes that bit at us as we were boarding. The sky was fantastic in its ominousness, though. I would share pictures, but I've misplaced the cable to download pictures from my camera to my computer. Once I can do that transfer, I will share some ...

Tuesday morning I out to Hollywood, where I was hosted by Miguel*, a native of Spain via Argentina. He has a beautiful hound named Segundo* who shared the guest room with me. I spent about all that day and evening getting set up for General Assembly, ironing my clothes, doing some cooking so there would be something to eat late nights when I came in. I cooked, in fact, the last of the kidney beans I brought back from the countryside of western Kenya, which had been grown and given to me by the mother of a friend born there. I claim her mother as one of mine now ... I made a vegan chili that turned out well.

Wednesday afternoon, I arrived a GA, which was in the convention center inside the Port Everglades. They make you show your government-issued ID to get in the port area and the center itself, only barely glancing at it -- a security measure that would seem only to detain those not bright enough to get fake IDs or to take the GA shuttle bus from the hotels, for which there was no security check upon disembarking. Anyway, I was glad to have a message from Kim, one of the members of Central Unitarian Church of Bergen County (NJ), for me posted on the message board. I met her at the volunteer office, and a little later, at the in-gathering for the Metro New York District, I saw her again, this time with Mary Fran, the President of the congregation. When I got me badge-necklace with "I (heart) Metro New York" all around it, it was a bit like arriving in Hawaii and receiving a lei. It seemed to say, "Welcome. You belong here with us now." I like that feeling.

Mary Fran, Kim and I dined at a very pleasant Thai restaurant a few blocks from the convention center, getting to know each other a bit and discuss the church. At the line-up for the Banner Parade, part of the opening of GA every year, I met Britt again. She's CUC's Director of Religious Education, and had been so friendly helping me get oriented when I preached there in March. Mary Fran and Kim carried the church's new banner in the parade. It was really something to see all of those banners from hundreds of congregations across the country passing through the midst of the thousands of people gathered. Churches can seem so isolated from each other at times, and this was a visible affirmation of the connection between them -- between us -- from coast to coast and beyond.

It was good to catch up with friends and colleagues, and to meet some new ones over the course of those five days. I enjoyed hearing the inspirational stories of the breakthrough congregation -- those that have experienced dramatic growth in recent years -- and attending the worship service, including the Service of the Living Tradition, which honors those transitioning into and out of professional ministry, and the large Sunday morning service. The biggest highlight this year for me was the Ware Lecture, this year featuring Van Jones, co-founder of the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights in Oakland, Cal. He's doing tremendous work and has a powerful and prophetic vision of environmental advocacy as it relates to socio-economic justice. He challenged those of us gathered to prepare to lead, because in this transitional time in our country and in the world, when it's clear that we can't sustain the level of consumption and mindlessness that we've indulged in for the past few generations, the planet needs those of us who have been protesting "the system" to actually become part of the transformation of the system. He was funny, engaging, passionate, informed ... think a younger, hipper version of Barack Obama. In fact, the adulation of the audience at the end of his lecture Saturday night was not unlike what one sees at rallies where the Democratic Party nominee speaks.

I stayed up most of Saturday night packing. I left Miguel's condo at 5:00 a.m., the same time he did as he was heading out to work. I went to IHOP for breakfast off Rte 1, near the convention center, and found a quiet 3rd floor lookout point inside the center. I watched as the banners came down, noting that they really did bring an abundance of color, personality and softness to the otherwise sterile interior of the building.

Sunday afternoon, after worship and after an afternoon workshop, I drove from the convention center up to Palm Beach Gardens. My colleague Pallas was willing to put me up for the night, as she and her partner Lloyd are packing up to move to Santa Cruz. I helped stack and rearrange some of the boxes in their moving pod before she, Lloyd and I went for dinner at the Waterway Cafe, and she and I went for a walk on the beach nearby. She and I stayed at the home of a gracious friend of hers a few minutes away from her close-to-empty house, and Lloyd stayed behind. We're all back now. They are packing, and I'm about to get on the road to ... Savannah.

* pseudonyms

Weeks 13 through 19: Thumbnail sketches!

2008-06-23T09:28:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have been waiting on an update on this blog, thanks for your patience! I allowed myself to get quite behind. Part of it is that with all the possible bells and whistles that can be added (i.e., photos, links, videos), I found myself daunted by the idea of sitting down to pull all those components together. Technology is a wonderful thing, but I keep hearing Brother Thoreau saying, "Simplify, simplify." So that's what I'm doing now.

So, paying attention first to language to describe some of the highlights of the past seven weeks, here's what's quick and easy to share:

Week 13 of 26
May 5-11: The Search Is Over (New Jersey in the Fall)
On Saturday the 10th, I had a phone interview with the Interim Search Committee for the Central Unitarian Church in Paramus, New Jersey. At the end of the interview, they said they wanted to present me as their candidate for Interim Minister starting this fall. I gladly accepted, three months to the day I completed my last service at First Parish Arlington. The 10th also now falls almost exactly in the middle of my leave -- I will begin work August 15. Sunday afternoon, I made it down to the black sand beach for the weekly dancing and drumming circle, which is where this photo was taken from. There were about 200 people there, enjoying the waves, the music, the sun, the wind, the energy ... I realize that I'm in the midst of a loose tribe of people, brought together by different circumstances and at least some shared interests in this breath-taking location. Thinking about encroaching development, I wonder how long it will last, but it will always last, I think, even if seekers and dreamers have to find a new place to live simply in such natural beauty.

Week 14 of 26
May 12-18: Aloha, Hawaii - Aloha, San Francisco
I gave a reading at the Cafe at Kalani of material I'd been working on from the start of my two weeks there. I was most encouraged because some of the twenty-somethings among the 20 or so people gathered said that they were inspired themselves to put some of their reflections and experiences on the page. I went snorkeling for the first time Tuesday, and Wednesday, a friend and I went to where the lava field meets the ocean in Kalapana and up to Volcanoes National Park, in part to make beautiful offerings of fresh fruit and leis to Pele' and her sister, the goddess of the ocean. A glorious final day in Hawaii. Thursday was all day traveling, Kona to Honolulu, Honolulu to SFO. Stayed at the Fools Court of the Faithful Fools in the Tenderloin for a night, went and stayed with my late Uncle Bud's girlfriend in Oakland Friday night, then back at the Fools Court Saturday. Sunday morning, Alan, the friend who had made offerings with me in Hawaii, was back home in SF, and we went to Glide Memorial Church, a short walk from where I was staying. After the service, we went to Cafe Gratitude in the Mission -- highly recommended for all souls into spiritual affirmation, raw/low-heat delicious food, transformation and possibility. Later in the afternoon, I met one of Alex's friends, Todd, who lives in his own South of Market lighting/music studio. He asked me if I would like him to play something for me. I thought he was going to put something on the speaker system but instead he shared a lovely original composition:

Week 15 of 26
May 19-25: Home to Holly Springs/Return to the Big Easy
Up early in the morning Monday to make my flights, SFO to Denver, Denver to Memphis. My nephew picked me up and drove me to my mom's in Holly Springs. The moon was rising very big in the east (that's it in the middle of the image) as we were about to turn into the driveway. Friday, I took the bus from Batesville down to New Orleans to pick up my car from Alex. She was trying a new beautiful hairstyle and was settling into her new place of off Tchopochoulas on Harmony. Saturday, we go to an outdoor festival known as the Mid-City Bayou Boogie. It was extremely warm, and there wasn't much shade. I remembered that when my six-month break started, I was in the freezing cold of Cape Cod, with snow on the ground. In that moment, it seemed like a very long time ago in a place on another world. That evening we went to an ensemble performance at the Ashe' Cultural Arts Center. Sunday night, after dinner, we went for a humid, mystical walk on the Meditation Path under luminous moonlight in Audubon Park.

Week 16 of 26
May 26 - June 1: Remembering and Speed Racing
Monday, Alex made breakfast, and played Quincy Jones' A Soulful Messiah. It was an occasion to reflect on the meaning of Memorial Day and shed tears for war-dead men and women, and those in harm's way now, and martyrs like Medgar Evers and Dr. King, with a prayer for Barack and Michelle Obama. The IMAX theatre showing Hurricane on the Bayou was closed, so instead went to see the latest Indiana Jones movie ... it was entertaining enough, and we were both glad to be in an air-conditioned building. I got up very early Tuesday and drove back to Holly Springs, and went straight to lunch with Ricky, my old grade school pal who now lives in Wareham, Mass. Saturday, I went out to Millington, Tenn. where the Memphis NASCAR track is. About a dozen laps around the track was my cousin's gift for her husband for his 50th birthday, and he seems to have enjoyed it a lot. He had three bonus laps that he gave to me. I rode with an experienced driver, who went 100-105 mph in the straight-away, and 85-90 in the cuve. Exhilarating. Like skydiving, it wasn't high on of my lifetime to-do list, but when the opportunity presented itself, I rolled with it. Glad I did. Went to my brother Edwin's church in Oxford Sunday.

Week 17 of 26
June 2 - 8: Letting Go, and a Close Call
Much of these days were spent working with my mother on clearing out some of the many possession she accumulated over the past 50 years of living in the home she and my father made together. We discarded several very large garbage bags full of stuff, from the back porch, the kitchen cabinets, a closet, the freezers ... I felt some what nostalgic especially when we got to the travel souvenirs, but we kept pushing through. I went to my childhood ophthalmologist to get a prescription for new eyeglasses and see what could be done about the irritation in my eye Friday in Memphis. Saturday morning, we got word that my niece, Joani, who is expecting her first child in July, and her boyfriend were in a car accident caused by an unlicensed and uninsured fellow motorist in Memphis. My mother, aunt and I went over to the Med to see her in the afternoon. She was shaken up and bruised, but thankfully nothing was broken and the baby is fine, though they kept her in for observation for four days.

Week 18 of 26
June 9-15: Seeing Clearly, Remembering and Renewing
We went back over to the Med in Memphis to see Joani Tuesday. She was sitting up and the neck-brace she was wearing before was off. She expected to be released as soon as the doctor came and gave her the all-clear, and within a few hours, she was out of there. We are all very glad for that. Friday afternoon, I went to a mall in Memphis to get fitted for and order my new glasses. Once back in town, Mother and I drove over to the football field for Relay for Life, an American Cancer Society community event, that is brilliant in its design. It brings people together to raise money and awareness of cancer, while commemorating those loved ones lost to the disease. Mother bought memorial candles (put in paper bags with the names of the deceased) for my dad, her parents, and her brother. I was heartened because I could see the generations passing, and people coming together across black and white lines in my hometown, which has so much racialized tension woven into its history. I think my dad would have been very happy for to see this annual event is thriving.

Week 19 of 26
June 16 - 22: On the Road Again -- Beinvenido Fort Lauderdale
I finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert's book, Eat Pray Love. I can see why so many people recommend it and enjoy it. At the top of the week, it was getting to be time for me to pull up from Mississippi and start making my way down to Ft. Lauderdale for General Assembly. I thought I would come back to Mississippi after it was over, but I knew what actually made sense was to keep going up from there to New York, New Jersey and Massachusetts. Fortunately, my glasses were ready in short order, and I picked them up Wednesday. I washed clothes Thursday and helped Mother get her organize a few last things, and then Friday I was back on the road. I stayed overnight with a friend in Chattanooga, then drove down to Atlanta and gave my new Godmother a ride to a luncheon she was going to (our only chance to visit), and got on down to Orlando by sunset Saturday. I had a great 12 hours there, before getting up and driving down to Ft. Lauderdale. I went to worship with the friend I was staying with, and the speaker that morning was actually someone I met through my younger brother Lee, who used to live in South Florida years ago. Tiny, tiny little world. Last night, my host, a very strong environmentalist, took me with her as she went to monitor loggerhead turtles hatching and making their run for the sea. It was a nest that had already hatched 15 the night before, but Sunday night, there were two more! What a holy sight to witness. They seem to have been thrown off by the (unlawfully) illuminated crown of a tall building about a mile away ... they instinctively follow the light of the moon to the ocean, and can be misled by man-made lights. So MaryBeth had to pick them up eventually and put them on the right path to the ocean. When they get close enough, the tide caught them and carried them away. Only one in a thousand live to be adults. Bye, bye, little turtles! May you be the ones that live long and prosper!

Week 12 of 29: Leaving Kohala, Arriving in Puna

2008-05-19T10:42:00.000-07:00

Monday, April 28
In the morning, Tragom does an aromatherapy consultation with me. He mixes up a powerful concoction that is a combination of 12 essential oils -- including lavender, ancient lime, manouka and tobacco -- plus jojoba oil. But first, he asks what my intention is. After some struggle to articulate it, I settle on this: “To manifest the spirit of aloha and freedom in my interactions and in my writing over the duration of my two and a half weeks left in Hawaii.” In the afternoon, Beth, Tragom and I go walking down to the lighthouse nearby. It’s incredibly windy. Brutal and beautiful coastline. Not much of a place for doing anything in the water, I don’t think, because the water is so choppy and dangerous, and so far down, but an excellent place to feel the force of Mother Nature, who conjures up all sort of things over here.

Tragom, Beth and I go to pick up our winnings from the home of one of the organizers of Saturday's auction. We call Peter, from whom I won the two-night rental, and he can’t make it work for tonight. However, he will have it ready starting tomorrow night. Peter, in fact, was one of the people who introduced himself to me at the auction. We talked about change, and my concern about the impact so many "newcomers" were having on the life of the island and the descendants of those who were first there. Peter, an older, silver-haired gentleman said, "Change is coming whether we want it to or not. The question is how do we have it be change that we want instead of change that we don't want?"

Tuesday, April 29
I get up and start to breakdown the room and pack: Deflating the air-bed, folding the sheets, washing my clothes. I go to drop my things at Peter's place up in the hills. The guest studio is beautiful and spacious. Vog covers the horizon in the distance. Late in the afternoon, Tragom and I go to the beach by the resorts in Kona, and then meet Beth and her sister Elaine for dinner at Merriman’s. Beth treats -- she's just closed with one of her clients on a property.

Wednesday, April 30
I go to Kevin's (he's friend/hairdresser to Beth and Tragom) in Waimea. We met briefly at the Sweet Honey concert Saturday night. We go to the grocery store, and he buys our sandwiches for lunch. We head for the beach. Not so many people out there. I see someone I want to meet, who is with someone else, and I don't press it. I note the wave of attachment that swept over in in such a short time, though ... After I leave him around the middle of the afternoon, I head down to the King Kamehameha Royal Hotel in Kona, where I'm going to my first luau. The meal is good, though I don't understand what it is about poi that Hawaiians like so much, other than it is a familiar staple to them. I bet some of them would say the same thing about my mother's cornbread, which I love.

The show, while entertaining, informative, well-paced and colorful -- is clearly a presentation intended for it's largely mainland/mainstream "family values" US audience. A dance in honor of US military personnel and veterans -- dancers performing in tee shirts and jeans to a contemporary patriotic song -- seems to be the equivalent of the expectation that Barack Obama would wear a flag lapel pin. While we call Hawaii the 50th state in the Union, we could also call it an invaded and occupied nation, not so different at all from other nations the US has invaded in recent and forgotten times. Nothing against military personnel, but the mere acknowledgement of what's so.

This conundrum surfaces regularly, in subtle and overt ways. The big, tall Hawaiian host at the gate of the luau apologized as we patrons were entering for having to sell flower leis. "We want to give them to you for free, but since we don't own our land anymore and can't afford the taxes, we have to sell whatever we can to be able to stay here." He gives a little chuckle, but he and anyone paying attention know this is no laughing matter. He went on to say, "And if you didn't like the traffic coming here -- Guess why we have traffic? That's right: because you're here." Cue the laugh track again.

I'm glad to be here. And I wonder again, as I have been wondering, how does the spirit of aloha survive in such an inherently oppressive environment? Or does its essence thrive and become more radiant because the word as a symbol is so vulnerable to commercialization, trivialization and misuse?

Thursday, May 1
I get up and say farewell to Peter. He’s a very kind gentleman. I have lunch at the café across the way from Beth’s office. I see a beautiful bright green, spotted gecko on the floor by my table that if I could, I might try to put on as a bracelet (can't take a picture ... I left my camera in the car). Now to make the long drive down to Kalani. Winding roads and/or breathtaking scenery all the way. Make it all the way out to the retreat center in time for dinner, in spite of stopping at Pizza Hut in Hilo to get a snack. The stranger I saw at the beach works in the kitchen at Kalani. Small, small world. I’m feeling inspired.

Friday, May 2
Great to spend time with new friends Ron and Brad. We go out to dinner at Ning’s, the Thai restaurant in beautiful downtown Pahoa. They invite me to come to volleyball Saturday afternoon, and they will lead me there after I turn onto the road to Opihikao.

Saturday, May 3
I get there to the turn off, and there they are, just like they said they would be. The game is fun and funny to watch. I even get out and knock the ball about a bit. At some point, I strike up a conversation with Luther, a 25-year-old who is touring the world while working on farms. I invite him to the art/fashion extravaganza that is happening that night at Emax at Kalani. He comes over with me. I have dinner while he has coffee and gets to meet some of my Kalani buds. We go for a swim and enjoy the spa. I drop him off at his place on the farm.

Sunday, May 4
I went to the Farmer’s Market in Kea’au, just before coming back to go to ecstatic dance. It takes me a while to get into it. But once I release my inhibitions, I’m just as playful and sweaty and energized as anyone else. I can see why for some people, this is there Sunday morning spiritual experience and regular practice. The rain is spectacular here … usually big deluges with no thunder or lightning, and then the rain's over.

Week 11 of 29: Aloha, Hawaii (The Arrival)

2008-05-17T23:41:00.000-07:00

Monday, April 21
I’ve got five parish interim ministry options on the table. I feel good about these. I’m contemplating what it would be like to start a ministry "of my own" in the Memphis area, especially one that honored the history that has gone on there before. Victor was off from work today, and took me around to many areas … We went downtown, passing by City Hall, then over to the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angel s, a modern wonder of a worship space. Up toward the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Then around to the Watercourt at California Plaza, down by the Angels Flight Railway, and to the Grand Central Market for a lunch of gigantic chicken burritos. From there we catch the subway over to Hollywood and Vine, and see the Walk of Fame, the Chinese Theatre, and the McDonald/Wright Building of the L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center. We make it back to the house late in the afternoon. I am trying to set up an interview before I leave town.

Tuesday, April 22
Victor went to work, so Wayne and I are out and about today. We go to Earth Day on Wilshire Boulevard, and then he takes me over to LACMA, the LA County Museum of Art. Again, another spectacular place to view art, and their collection is modern and forward-looking, or at least the parts of it I saw. I get back to the house before Victor comes home from work and I pack and am ready to go. He takes me over to Linda and Barry's in Santa Monica. I have dinner with Barry, and turn in. I can remember back when the room over the garage was just beginning to be added on, and now that’s where I will be based for the next two nights. It’s very spacious, and with artifacts from ancient cultures along the Pacific Rim.

Wednesday, April 23
Linda and Barry’s cleaners come. I am at home just about all day, online, trying to put some things in order before I leave the mainland. I have an interview tomorrow morning for a position. In the evening, I have dinner with someone I worked with remotely years ago on a project, but never met face-to-face. We ate at the Lighthouse, a sushi buffet in Santa Monica that had some tasty options. It feels strange to be leaving for remote parts of Hawaii, when all the interim opportunities are heating up so quickly.

Thursday, April 24
As I am prepping for one interview today, I get calls from two other places that are interested in talking with me about a position, and one of them is a non-parish opportunity. I’m feeling quite flush. The interview goes well. Then it’s back to Barry and Linda’s to finish packing and make the dash to the airport. I never figure out where the FlyAway shuttle that Linda recommended is. Barry drops me off in the vicinity at the end of his lunch-time at home. I end up at the Santa Monica Youth Hostel, and it has a shuttle service to the airport. I am on the phone when the driver comes around the first time, and I don’t get that he’s my ride and he doesn’t get that I’m his fare. I go back in and ask the desk clerk to call again after he's pulled off. It's going to take at least 45 minutes for him to get back around. Over an hour later, I’m about to catch a cab on the street when he pulls into view. The traffic is horrendous, but after picking up another traveler from another hotel, we are on our way there. We make good time, and I am able to get on my Hawaiian Airlines flight with no problem. It is very warm and breezy in Honolulu at 10:00 p.m. or so. My cousin Fred takes me back to his place. I can’t believe I’m here.

Friday, April 25
Fred makes a full breakfast, then we hit the ground running. We take the bus downtown. He shows me the modern State Capitol Building, and the 'Iolani Palace where Queen Liliuokalani was held under house arrest. I bow at the feet of her statute. When I see that someone has left a lei at her feet, I wish I had brought the beautiful fresh orchid one Fred place around my neck last night, but it is in the refrigerator. On the palace grounds, under a gigantic tree, we stumble upon a mid-day concert of the Royal Hawaiian Band, established early in the 19th century. It’s a fine experience, emceed by (the current? a former?) Miss Hawaii, and with a beautiful hula dancer named Pi’ilani. From there to the tower at the port, and down through shopping districts and hotels. I bought a copy of What Is This Thing Called Aloha at one of the stores. I love it. It gets into the spirit of what I wanted to study here. We have a big lunch at Ruby Tuesdays, and go down through Waikiki listening to musicians play and watching dancers dance at sundown. It’s really idyllic. We take pictures at the statue of Duke Kahanamoku, the legendary surfer. Then we take the bus back home. I turn in and get up early to make it to the airport.

Saturday, April 26
The driver of the cab and I have a good talk on the way to the airport next morning. A man of Hawaiian ancestry, he’s looking at moving to Reno, a city where he will be able to afford to buy a house. Landing at Kona seems a bit like landing on another planet. I left behind the metropolis of Honolulu, and touchdown in the middle of a black, dry lava field that stretches far and wide as the eye can see. I get my luggage with no problem, and I drive from Kona up to Hawi. Beth’s directions are impeccable. I meet her at her office. We go to lunch across the street from the real estate office she works out of. Then we go by the house and chill out for a minute. She goes back to work, and I take a nap. In the early evening, we go to an auction (live and silent) for a very small local hospital. In addition to getting some great deals on gifts, I also bid successfully on three nights at guest houses: one night at $50 at one place, and the other at $25 per night for two nights. I couldn't have planned it better if I tried! From the auction, we go directly to the Sweet Honey Concert in Waimea. Fantastic. We go to greet Ysaye backstage afterwards. I’m delighted to be sharing this evening with Tragom and Beth.

Sunday, April 27
I am hanging out with Beth and Tragom for breakfast of lox, capers, cream cheese, bagels and egg. I have a preliminary interview with a member of a Search Committee in the Northeast. Beth and I are going to join Tragom later for a visit to the ManKind Project, a weekend experience for men that he’s been a part of for some time. Before we get there, though, Beth and I stop off at the pasture in the farm area in the hills where her horse is kept. I get to see and experience the beauty of “natural horsemanship” something Beth and her friend Chris and Chris’s beautiful children have been practicing for some time now. For example, rather than leading the horse to be ridden, the would-be riders go ahead, and let the horses follow them. And the horse(wo)men spend time building relationship, rather than just jumping on the horse and riding. It was great. The graduation at the ManKind Project was good to see as well. I’m glad so many men are finding ways to connect with themselves and with each other.

Week 10 of 29: The Pilgrimage ... and Goin' Back to Cali

2008-05-07T01:41:00.000-07:00

Monday, April 14
I go to a bookstore where some of Alex’s things are stored to look up the phone number of her landlord in Gulfport. I write it down, and then go to deliver her completed application to the mailbox of the shotgun apartment she wants to rent Uptown on Lowerline. Then I spend some time in Audubon Park … what a lovely, lovely place. I got a little anxious when I saw all those cranes swooping around the lagoon by the golf course. I could see the inspiration for Hitchcock’s The Birds. We leave there and take the ferry over to Algiers for dinner – a big plate of fried shrimp and catfish for me, and that plus fried oysters for Alex. On the ferry back, Alex strikes up a conversation with a man who studied with the singer Rhiannon of the group SoVoSo. I heard them once and bought their cd, back in the Bay Area. Small, small world.

Tuesday, April 15
A day of last things, and starting to make the transition. I get caught up on all of Oprah and Eckhart’s A New Earth “webinars” except for one. I stick pretty close to home. I finish off the last of the andouille sausage for dinner.

Wednesday, April 16
I spend the day getting the house in order, making sure everything is spic-and-span for the return of the resident of the unit where Alex and I have been staying. She let me know a day or two before that the large desktop computer I brought down for her wasn’t going to work for her purposes, so I offered it to the man at the dry cleaners across the street. He gratefully accepted it and said he would give it to his teenage son. That freed up a lot of space in the trunk. I load up the car, and go to pick up Alex. We go by her new hosts, where she will be staying. They offer dinner of a spicy chicken stew for later, and we accept. But first we go to where I will be staying, in Metairie. We drop off my bags, and head back to Alex's new hosts, stopping off at Whole Foods to buy wine. It’s a delicious meal, made by a young couple that likes to cook together. I can taste the love in what they’ve made. We are getting to know each other, as we move in and out of watching the Obama/Clinton debate on ABC. I get back to Metairie, and my host has made prepared fresh Louisiana strawberries for me and Alex.

Thursday, April 17
My wonderful host, a member of Community Church of New Orleans, makes me breakfast. She hosted six other church members back when their homes were flooded during Katrina (she herself only got wind damage), and has very colorful and varied works of art throughout the house. She looks beautiful in purple as she gets ready to go to her bridge meeting. She takes me to the fabulous Jefferson Parish Public Library, where she is returning dvds and videos. Then she takes me by the church, and I have a chance to see the progress that has been made since Alex brought me there back in the spring of 2006. I spend some time talking to the church member there who has volunteered to be the office person that day. I leave and get lost on the way back to the house. I try to wait for my host to get back from bridge, but I need to leave by 3:00 to pick Alex up from her appointment. As it turned out, the she heard back from the rental agent for the unit on Lowerline, she got it! We scramble to get the deposit together and make it over to the unit, only to find out that there was confusion about what the deposit would be. It ended up not working out. We got water from Walgreens and hit the road. We went across Lake Ponchartrain to Slidell, and waited for probably 45 minutes to get two subs made. The guy behind the counter at Subway said they had run out of everything – national television ads are promoting a special deal that everyone is coming in for, but they have no more supplies to work with than in ordinary weeks. Finally got back on the road, only to realize that we were going the long way. Instead of across the Lake and over to I-55 straight up toward Memphis, we were going east, through Gulfport and Hattiesburg. The plan was that we would get there by 10:00 or 11:00, but we didn’t arrive until almost 1:00 a.m. It was an uneventful drive on sparsely-traveled highways and roads, so I was glad for that.

Friday, April 18
I get up and make breakfast for the my mom, Alex and me. It’s raining like crazy, but still we brave the weather and go to the Pilgrimage, Holly Springs’ annual tribute to the glory days of its distant antebellum past. This year was the 70th anniversary – if I’m not mistaken, this has been going on since the release of Gone with the Wind in 1938. When I was growing up, we never even thought about going, as black people – it was that charged just after integration back in the 60s and 70s. Now, with my dad having been the first black mayor for 12 years, and his being part of the welcome to the "pilgrims" coming to see the fabulous mansions, houses, estates and young and old white citizens in period costumes (of the ruling class, of course, not the enslaved), I felt like it was my birthright all the more. It was a good day. I’m glad that out of that troubled era in the history of the town, the state, the region and the nation, that the beauty of the homes is something that can be celebrated, not unlike the pyramids, the castles, and other remnants of past "civilizations" in other parts of the world.

We had lunch at Phillips Grocery, over by the old railroad tracks. They’ve been there since 1948 -- the building was a saloon way back before that, in the old, old days. Phillips is listed as one of the 100 best hamburger joints in the nation, and deservedly so. I tend to go for broke and order the Phil-Up Cheeseburger, a well-seasoned hamburger with cheese, bacon and ham. Total carnivore yum. And the down-home ambiance and everything-and-the-kitchen-sink décor are the real thing – what chains like TGI Friday’s and Appleby’s try to imitate starting from opening day.

In the evening, we go to a free concert at the Chapel of Rust College. This is the Rust College Acappella Choir, that my mother toured with back in the mid-50s. Like other historically black colleges, Rust sometimes depended on income generated by those tours to stay financially viable as a school. It was so moving for me. I can remember being a little child and listening to the choir on albums, and later in person, when I was in middle, jr. high and high school. The singers were so much older than me then. And now, I see these young people, who again, are old enough to be mine. And then I realize, Wait. They are mine. And I am delighted that they are still singing those songs, some that I sang in high school and many that I remember vividly – “I Here a Voice a’Prayin’”, “Didn’t My Lord Deliver Daniel,” and the Rust College alma mater, “College Mine.” Many of my mother’s peers were there as well, the adults who grew me up, now in their sixties and seventies. And yet the song continues … Hallelujah.
I stay up almost all night packing and getting organized for being gone the next four weeks.

Saturday, April 19
I’m at the airport by 5:00 a.m., and on my flight to Denver by 6:15. Alex drops me off and heads back down to Gulfport. I sleep all the way to Denver, and virtually all the way from Denver to LAX. My friend Victor is there to pick me up right at baggage claim. We get. He takes me by his house, and I drop my bags. His partner Wayne joins us, and we hit the ground running. They take me to the Cara Walker exhibit at the Hammer Museum, and then we go over In-and-Out Burger for lunch. Next, we are at the Fowler Museum at UCLA for the exhibits Mami Wata, Make Art/Stop AIDS, and one other. Back at the house, Victor, who’s got roots in Louisiana, made a delicious shrimp etouffe for dinner. I get a good night’s rest.

Sunday, April 20
Wayne makes breakfast. Victor and Wayne drop me off at Culver City at the Agape Spiritual Center, where Rev. Michael Beckwith is the pastor. He’s not there because the Annual Revelation conference is happening elsewhere in town. But the guest speaker, Ishmael Tetteh, is dynamic, funny and very engaging. I look around at the rainbow of cultures and colors in the crowd, feel the love in the room and hear music and a message that resonate with me and think, “What a great place. I can see why people love it here.” When they pick me up, we go over to the Getty Museum, a place I’ve been meaning to go when I’ve been in LA but not made it, until today. It’s fantastic, both as a work of architecture and as a repository of extraordinary art. In the evening, we go to the theater district and catch Great Expectations: The Musical at a black box theatre. I’ve not read the book yet, but now I’m going to. I have to say I related to the young man who sought to see the world, and later came to question why he had traveled so far when all he needed had been right where he started … at the same time, as the old saying goes, “I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey now.”

Week 9 of 29: Driving to Atlantis

2008-05-05T17:35:00.000-07:00

Monday, April 7
I got up and drove from Oxford over to Batesville, and then straight down I-55 to New Orleans. It was a great sunny day to drive. I was surprised, in a conversation I had on the phone with someone I met at the King observance, and just listening to talk radio, to have just a sense of how deep and strong the roots of hostility toward people who outside the presumed norm are, whether that is based on weight, sexual/affectional orientation, or other factors. Sometimes here, I find it hard to be with the ways that Christianity and the Bible are invoked to justify that hostility. It’s true that living in the places that I’ve lived, especially New York, the Bay Area and Boston – and often in Unitarian Universalist settings – I’m not often confronted head-on with such bitterness in the name of religion.

Coming across the elevated highways, I do have a sense of driving
to Atlantis, there’s so much water, and it seems so high. Touching down in New Orleans, I am feeling relaxed already. There’s so much I love about being here, and at least for this next week, I’m in a sweet apartment inside a castle in the French Quarter that has a swimming pool in the courtyard (but it was too cold to swim). We walked to a nice restaurant on Toulouse for dinner. I had crawfish etouffe … very tasty.

Tuesday, April 8
I drove Alex to work, and I got caught up on my blog.
[… and then I fell behind again. Now I’m at 33,000 feet over the Pacific Ocean for the next five hours … what a great time to catch up on my blog! As long as my battery lasts …]

Wednesday, April 9
Spent a good part of the morning straightening up the house, which was already in very good shape. In the evening, I spent some time exploring the Quarter.

Thursday, April 10
A very, very warm day. Didn’t venture out of the house much but when I did, I felt completely drenched. I met one of the organizers of the French Quarter festival events who was up from Florida. The energy of the city was beginning to buzz more, with people beginning to arrive for the weekend.

Friday, April 11
Another scorcher. I walked from the Castle through the Quarter, down to the Mississippi. I sat on its banks and listed to the great music of the French Quarter Festival playing down by the waterfront hotels in the distance. It was perfect there, as the sun was setting, and people were walking along the levee to be closer. After the sun went down, I walked back through the Quarter, down Bourbon Street. Some vignettes:

Vignette #1

Me, to a woman holding a coffee cup with a black lid on top: Where did you get your coffee?

Woman: This ain’ coffee, baby … (laughs) If you want coffee, you can go to one of the nice restaurants down the street and they’ll give you some coffee!

I get to the Krystal’s down on Bourbon near Canal. I’m waiting in line to order a hot chocolate and thinking, It’s 80 degrees out there. What am I going to do with hot chocolate? I go back to a cocktail stand and order a peach daiquiri instead.

Vignette #2

A woman in a strapless top is holding beads three stories above me. "Hey, you!" She hollers down. She gestures like she’s going to pull her top up. I shake my head, hold my hands in prayer pose and bow slightly. "Oh, come on!" she says. I keep walking. It is only later when I see a man flash his chest to a woman for beads that I realize what the woman who hollered to me wanted me to do.

Vignette #3

A string of four boys, the oldest not more than 15, is tap-dancing on the street. Each has a box in front of them. Patron of the arts I am, I put a $10 bill in the box of the boy that is nearest to me. As I am walking past the other boys, one of them says to me, “You not gonna give the rest of us any?”
“I thought you were all working together.”
“What did you give him, a five?
“Unh-uhn.”
I keep walking and sipping on my daquiri, but look back long enough to see him and the other boys gathering around the box where I had left my contribution.

Saturday, April 12
I hang out with Alex and her friends who are in town from Gulfport, to celebrate the birthday of one of them. Alex’s friends will go to The Vagina Monologues (Oprah is scheduled to appear!) later in the evening. Alex and I go looking for an apartment where she will stay once the beginning of May rolls around.

Sunday, April 13
Breakfast at the corner diner at Burgundy and Esplanade, a block from where we are staying. There’s a woman there that we I saw the night before as the door to our unit was open onto the courtyard swimming pool. We find out her boyfriend lives in the same building. She’s a self-described Creole Unitarian Universalist attorney, and we talk about what’s working and not working in New Orleans, UUism in the Crescent City, after we’ve finished our breakfast. Most interesting … and to think I wanted to walk out right after we got there because it was a smoke-filled room.

Week 8 of 29: Commemorating the Life of Dr. King

2008-04-09T00:10:00.000-07:00

Monday, March 31
Victory. I filed my state and federal taxes online. Glad to have that done. The rain was torrential, with loud thunder, like I rarely seem to hear in the northeast of the country. I tuned into Oprah’s “webinar” with Tolle on A New Earth. It’s a very worthwhile book, and her presentation of it is also well done.

Tuesday, April 1
I updated my ministerial record online, so now I’m ready to have my name sent to congregations I might serve as interim minister in the fall. This would have been my grandmother’s (i.e., my mother’s mother’s) 98th birthday. In honor of her, I did something to take care of myself, and went for a three-hour walk all around town after dark. Things have changed a lot … I think I can see the effect of the sub-prime mortgage crisis here, in that there are many houses that are available for sale here. And there are beautiful homes from the antebellum era … I fell back in love with the place again, in spite of all the things that make me crazy about it and seem not to change.

Wednesday, April 2
Mother and I got up early and went walking around the perimiter of the basketball courts inside the Eddie Lee Smith Multi-Purpose Building, a place he saw as necessary for the African American community in Holly Springs, where there are relatively few places for large groups to congregate. When we came back, I made breakfast for my mom, as I have done for the past few days. I’m glad to be able to offer that to her, especially after the thousands of meals she prepared for us, her family, through the years.

Thursday, April 3
I got up and went to historic Mason Temple Church of God in Christ in Memphis for Tavis Smiley’s live radio show there. He was there to commemorate the 40th anniversary of Dr. King’s last sermon, which was given from that pulpit. He had several guests, including Cornell West, Harry Belafonte, and Dorothy Cotton, who was the Secretary of Education for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference back then. I have hardly been more inspired. It was glad to be in the midst of African American people, honoring our heritage, and talking about what could be done for the future of the children, which was the theme of the day. I bumped into two of my first cousins who were raised in COGIC, and other people and colleagues I know from other church-related contexts. Before I came back that night, I stopped off to see my uncle, who is at a nursing home just outside of Memphis.

Friday, April 4
In the morning, I had a meeting across the street from the Peabody Hotel in Memphis to discuss doing some contract writing and editing with an African American church-based nonprofit organization. I went to City Hall for the rally sponsored by Al Sharpton’s organization, the National Action Network. It was so cold and rainy out there! Then we marched down the street to the Lorraine Motel and the balcony where Dr. King was shot. As emotional as the day was, Dr. King’s daughter, Rev. Bernice King, seemed displeased with the circus atmosphere of the occasion. Not that she said anything – she just looked stoic and annoyed. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her, then or now, especially since the passing of her mother just a couple of years ago.

She and Martin III spoke on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel at the spot he died. He was powerful, and she was electrifying. They released a dove at the end … and then there were people who “had” to speak, like US Commerce Secretary Guiterrez, who represented President Bush. He was booed by some. I just walked away. I was so annoyed to have one of Bush’s people at the spot where Dr. King’s life was taken, in part because of his powerful stance against war, then to have someone speak on behalf of a president who started a senseless war that has left more than 4000 US troops and countless Iraqi and Afghan people dead. Very unnerving.

Saturday, April 5
Watch Memphis play UCLA with relatives. Memphis is going to the championship! We think they can take it all the way!

Sunday, April 6
I had planned to go to church at my older brother’s congregation in Oxford, but instead took my time and packed up for the first New Orleans leg of my trip. Went for a great walk with my younger brother, sister-in-law and niece (in her stroller) around a park near the older brother’s church. We had a great time. That evening, my older brother came over with his wife and visited. We prayed together before they went back to their house, and I went to bed, ready for the six-hour journey down to the Big Easy.

Week 7 of 29: Home to Mississippi

2008-04-08T23:21:00.000-07:00

This was the week I crossed the one-quarter mark – three-quarters of the six-month break remaining.

Monday, March 24
Had breakfast with a friend at Busboys & Poets, a great new performance and dining place on U Street, not that far from Howard. From DC, I drove down to Charlottesville, Virginia, and spent some time with a retired ministerial colleague and his wife. Then I drove pretty much straight down to Atlanta, to spend time with my friend Rosetta. Arrived at about 1:00 Tuesday morning … by far the longest stretch of driving on the whole trip.

Tuesday, March 25
Woke up with the sun streaming through the window. Met some of Rosetta’s lovely Trinidadian friends who are also in the same spacious and well-appointed retirement community. Met my friend Jurgen from Switzerland for lunch at a Thai restaurant near Georgia Tech in Midtown. In the evening, Rosetta and I went for dinner at Nickiemoto’s, a trendy place with good food also in Midtown.

Wednesday, March 26
I had my leftovers for breakfast, bought Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth on cd from Barnes & Noble, plus some other books, then gassed up and hit the road. I was going to pass through Birmingham, thinking I didn’t know anyone there, but then I remembered my history and made my way over to 16th Street Baptist Church. It wasn’t open, but there is a beautiful park with fearsome sculpture depicting the civil rights struggle, counter corner to the church, and the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute is just cross the street from both the church and the park. I’m so glad I made the stop, inspired by the memory of the four little girls who were killed when the bomb went off at the church in 1963 … the actual date, I found out was September 15, which was my parents sixth wedding anniversary.

At the beginning of this 90-second clip, the focus is on the 16th Street Baptist Church, then pans around the garden walkway to the statue of Dr. King that faces the church.

I felt a surge as I crossed from Alabama into my home state. I didn’t kiss the ground, but I had a sense of connection and relationship to this place that was new again. I’d never made the drive before from Boston before. It was the end of the journey that had taken me from the Deep North to the Deep South. I was grateful not to have been in an accident, or stopped by traffic or had a flat tire … It was truly a gift to have traveled those hundreds of miles, and with such safety and ease. I arrived at my mother’s house at about 8:30, after stopping off at the Wal-Mart just off the highway.

I had listened to Tolle talking about the pain-body and its manifestations in our lives on the drive down. Now I ask the question of myself when I hear unhelpful chattering in my brain, “Is that the voice of my true self, or is that the voice of my pain-body?”

Thursday, March 27 and Friday, March 28
Just getting settled in at home, and looking forward to upcoming trips: Bought my Sweet Honey tickets for the concert at the Kahilu Theatre on the Big Island, and connected with my friends in LA that I will be staying with when I’m there. I also tended to the mail that’s been accumulating while I’ve been on the road. I noticed that I’m adding on more weight than I want, and it’s time to do some serious walking.

Saturday, March 29 and Sunday, March 30
I got to spend time with my toddler niece, and with my younger brother and his wife. I’m just amazed at how she’s grown, that she’s walking so well and working on her first words … and just as beautiful and bright as anything. The same is true of my cousin’s daughter, who was christened at our home church Sunday morning. Afterwards, most of the family came over for dinner. I made mac & cheese … I hadn’t done that in a while, but it still turned out well.

Week 6 of 29: I Feel Something Drawing Me On

2008-03-23T21:17:00.000-07:00

This week I traveled down from New York to Washington, with stops to visit with friends in Philadelphia and Baltimore. A couple of times along the way, I’ve had occasion to think about going back to someplace I’ve already been on this journey. For example, I waited to late to make an appointment with the my primary care physician for my check-up in Boston, so I planned to come back up to Boston March 18, the Tuesday after my weekend in New York. By the time I left the Bronx, I’d already begun to reconsider. I didn’t want to drive all that way back up, only to have to come all the way back down again. I thought about riding up, either on bus or on the train, but there was the question of where I was going to put my car where it would be safe and not in anyone’s way, let alone all the getting in and getting out of both cities. So I got clear that I wasn’t going back to Boston for that then, and headed on down to Philly for two days, and two nights.

The day after I landed in Baltimore, I got a call from a friend and comrade I’d hoped to see in Philly who hadn’t gotten my message until after I’d left. The ride from Philly to Baltimore isn’t terribly far – it can be done in less than two hours – and I didn’t know when I would be through that way again. I thought about driving up to Philly for lunch and then coming back down directly into DC. As much as I wanted to catch up with my comrade, I chose to keep heading South.

In the Bible, as the angels of the Lord were leading Lot and his family out of Sodom and Gomorrah, Lots wife turned and looked back, and became a pillar of salt. No one knows what or who she was looking for – only that she was immobilized, unable to continue on the flight from the doomed cities.

I’m thinking about the many things in my life that I might choose to redo or undo. “If I could turn back time,” as Cher’s been known to sing. But so much of nature seems to be forward also. The rotation of the planet, the orbit of the earth around the sun, the turning of the seasons … all forward, without turning back.

To everything, there is a season, as is written in Ecclesiastes, and I’m training myself to bring discernment to the time to act and not to act. In a conversation a friend had with me shortly before I left Boston, he told me about the advice he had gotten from his grandmother. She told him to follow his soul, rather than his heart. The point was that the heart inclined toward sentiment and is capable of being swayed by circumstances and appearances. The soul is the home of clarity that sees what’s behind sentiment, circumstances and appearances. The heart often leads with some version of “you should”, where the soul, when we tune into it, has a clear yes or no. Often, it is a preverbal, gut response. Maybe not what the heart wants to hear, but in my experience, that’s all the more reason to pay attention.

So, I'm pressing forward. Sometimes without a clear idea of what the next stop is, but trusting in grace just the same. I'm completing a blessed weekend in the DC area, where I've reconnected with old and faithful friends, attended two Easter services -- one at the church where I had my call into ministry, and the other a Presbyterian church attended by some of my "home people." It's really amazing to have the experience of having stepped into a time warp. Very few of the faces I saw I my old church were familiar to me. My former pastors were still there, but just about everyone else I would have remembered seemed to be gone or absent. The last time I was at a service there was at least a decade ago.

The energy and vibrancy of the place, and passion of the community kept me coming back. It was good to be there on Easter Sunday, to reconnect with the spirit of generosity and inspiration that gave me my life in the ministry. Like Barack Obama in relationship to his former pastor, I don't agree with or believe everything my former pastors have to say, but I still honor them for the gifts they gave to me and their ministry, which extends to countless thousands of people.

I was just outside Philadelphia when Barack delivered his address on race last Tuesday. I admire the way he addressed the complexities of his life and put them in context, though I don't think it's fair that he is now the lightning rod for all of our country's anxieties, hopes, pain and frustration regarding some of the ugliest chapters in our history. Fortunately for us all, he's been exceedingly competent and respectful in the midst of so many attacks.

Week 5+: "How to Lead" Sermon

2008-03-23T21:02:00.000-07:00

After my March 16 sermon at the Central Unitarian Church in Paramus, New Jersey, I told one of the congregants I would post it online. She was very interested in some of the sources I quoted. If you are reading this and you made that request, please drop a line back to let me know you got it. Thanks!

“How to Lead”: A Sermon
by Rev. Carlton Elliott Smith
Central Unitarian Church
Paramus, New Jersey
Sunday, March 16, 2008

The reading I am sharing with you this morning is taken from a sermon given by Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., entitled “The Drum Major Instinct.” He preached it at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, February 4, 1968, just two months before his assassination on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis.

He begins the sermon with a reading from the Gospel of Mark, in which two of Jesus’ disciples, James and John, are asking to be seated at Jesus’ right and left when he is in his full glory, as King of Kings and Lord of Lords, one might say. Jesus tells them that he doesn’t get to say who gets to sit there, but that those choice seats will be given those for whom they are prepared. Jesus concludes by saying, “Whosoever would be great among you shall be your servant: and whosoever would be the chiefest, shall be servant to all.”
Dr. King describes James and John’s desire to be close to Jesus in his glory as the “drum major instinct.” The desire to be the center of attention, to be admired and held in high regard. He points out how from a child’s first cry, that instinct is present, and follows us through all the days of our lives. He talks about the implications of it in families, in communities, in churches, and among ethic groups, particularly among blacks and whites.
Then, he goes on to talk about the implications of the Drum Major Instinct on the international level. This March as we mark five years since the U.S. invasion of Iraq, I’m grateful for the powerful witness of Dr. King speaking to us through the decades, with astonishing pertinence.

What was the answer that Jesus gave these men? It's very interesting. One would have thought that Jesus would have condemned them. One would have thought that Jesus would have said, "You are out of your place. You are selfish. Why would you raise such a question?"
But that isn't what Jesus did; he did something altogether different. He said in substance, "Oh, I see, you want to be first. You want to be great. You want to be important. You want to be significant. Well, you ought to be. If you're going to be my disciple, you must be." But he reordered priorities. And he said, "Yes, don't give up this instinct. It's a good instinct if you use it right. It's a good instinct if you don't distort it and pervert it. Don't give it up. Keep feeling the need for being important. Keep feeling the need for being first. But I want you to be first in love. I want you to be first in moral excellence. I want you to be first in generosity. That is what I want you to do."
And he transformed the situation by giving a new definition of greatness. And you know how he said it? He said, "Now brethren, I can't give you greatness. And really, I can't make you first." This is what Jesus said to James and John. "You must earn it. True greatness comes not by favoritism, but by fitness. And the right hand and the left are not mine to give, they belong to those who are prepared.”

And so Jesus gave us a new norm of greatness. If you want to be important—wonderful. If you want to be recognized—wonderful. If you want to be great—wonderful. But recognize that he who is greatest among you shall be your servant. That's a new definition of greatness.
And this morning, the thing that I like about it: by giving that definition of greatness, it means that everybody can be great, because everybody can serve. You don't have to have a college degree to serve. You don't have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve. You don't have to know about Plato and Aristotle to serve. You don't have to know Einstein's theory of relativity to serve. You don't have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve. You only need a heart full of grace, a soul generated by love. And you can be that servant.

A friend of mine who is an executive coach recently introduced me to a concept of leadership that dovetailed nicely with our theme today. In January 2001, Jim Collins, published an article in the Harvard Business Review entitled, “Level 5 Leadership: The Triumph of Humility and Fierce Resolve.” In it, he presented the findings from a five-year study that he and his team of researchers did of companies that went from being good to great. Out of the hundreds of companies they reviewed, there were only 11 companies that met the criteria. While there were many factors that contributed to each company’s inclusion, the single common denominator among them was that each of them had a Level 5 Leader as its chief executive officer. A Level 5 Leader, as defined by Collins, is one that “builds enduring greatness through a paradoxical combination of personal humility plus professional will.” A full-fledged Level 5, also described as an “Executive”, incorporates all the other levels of leadership, though not necessarily in any sequential order. That’s to say, she or he is also a highly capable individual, a contributing team member, a competent manager, and an effective leader. But what is necessary for a company to transform from being good to great is someone at the highest level of influence with that combination of humility and fierce resolve.
How does that humility manifest itself among Level 5 Leaders? According to Collins, they shun public adulation, and are not boastful. They act with quiet determination, relying principally on inspired standards, not inspiring charisma, to motivate. They channel their ambitions into the company, not the self, and prepare their successors for even greater successes than they themselves knew. They take the responsibility for poor performance onto themselves, and don’t blame other people, external factors, or bad luck. When success comes, they give credit to other people, external factors and good luck.

Those who lead businesses are expected to have fierce resolve, to persevere toward their goals. That’s not surprising. But that the most exceptional leaders, the ones that take their companies from good to great, have great personal humility … that is something of a revelation.
By contrast, consider the celebrity CEOs or elected officials who turn companies around or do exceptional work for their constituents, and then being pursuing their own transformation. All of a sudden, they are on talk shows, promoting their books, and making a name for themselves, sometimes at the expense of those they were initially hired or elected to serve. The pull toward self-aggrandizement is immense, especially in a competitive culture like ours where personal achievement and individual accomplishment indicate our value, our net worth. Yet what would be available if instead of following the herd in the direction of self-importance and gratification, we heard Dr. King’s call to love, and to the words attributed to the Apostle Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians to heart? These words:

[I Corinthians 13: 1-13]
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.
If I give away all I have, and if I deliver my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love keeps no record of wrongs; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends; as for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away.
For our knowledge is imperfect and our prophecy is imperfect; but when the perfect comes, the imperfect will pass away.
When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became a man, I gave up childish ways.
For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood.
So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

There will always be the scandal of the week. There will always be a new opportunity for us to turn a judgmental eye toward our brother or our sister. Indeed there are times when we find ourselves in the midst of controversy, in the midst of cognitive dissonance between our professed ideals and what’s so about how we choose to live our lives. This past week is no different, as we saw another politician, this time the governor of the State of New York, caught in a web of his own making, the conflict inside his own heart played out on the national – and by extension, international – stage.
It’s a good time to reflect upon leadership, and to consider ancient wisdom handed down to us through the ages. One of the values of being in a Unitarian Universalist setting is the willingness to hear the ring of truth from whatever source it originates. As someone ordained and called to lead Unitarian Universalist congregations, I’ve become increasingly appreciative over the years of the wisdom to be found in the Taoist tradition. Lao Tzu, believed to have written the Tao de Ching more than 2000 years ago, is said to have been seeking a way of avoiding constant feudal warfare and the other societal conflicts of his time. He wrote to provide leaders with some framework, some context for how they might understand themselves in their roles and in relationship to those they governed.
Hear this translation of Cheng Hsuan’s commentary on being a true human, as quoted in Alan Watts’ Tao: The Watercourse Way:

For a long time it has been difficult to find examples of true humans. Only the superior human can reach that state. Therefore the superior human does not try to criticize people for what he himself fails in, and he does not put people to shame for what they fail in … One who is not a true human cannot long stand poverty, nor can he stand prosperity for long. A true human is happy and natural living according to the principles of true humanity, but a [merely] wise person thinks it is advantageous to do so … The superior human goes through life without any preconceived course of action or any taboo. She merely decides for the moment what is the right thing to do … the goody-goodies are the thieves of virtue.

Which, I think, delivers us to the door of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. In a few weeks, on April 4, the world will observe the 40th anniversary of Dr. King’s assassination. What made him a superior leader was that we remember him for his extraordinary commitment to the cause of justice and equality. We know now of his extramarital relationships, yet we do not experience him as a hypocrite, because he didn’t criticize people for what he himself failed in, and certainly didn’t call for their punishment.

Instead, we celebrate his faithfulness to the cause of justice and equality, not just regarding ethnic groups, but also with regards to the Vietnam War, even unto death. Dr. King has become an incarnation of what Joseph Campbell called the Hero with a Thousand Faces – like Jesus, whose passion story will be remembered and celebrated by Christians around the globe this week as we approach Easter. He was called to perform challenging work, specifically to lead a people into a new world of freedom and possibility. He encountered dangers along the way. Though he lost his life in the end, what he gave others through his life and death continues to be a gift to the world. His extraordinary contributions were possible because his speech matched his actions.

One way to lead is to lead through excellence.

In our present evolutionary state as a movement, as Unitarian Universalists we don’t venerate Jesus as any more divine or any less human than anyone else. We do acknowledge his ability to be an instrument of peace, love and forgiveness, and an exemplar that we can learn from.
Jesus was a servant leader. And where others might focus on the part of the story where Jesus is said to have risen from the dead three days after his burial in a borrowed tomb, I choose to focus this week on what he did before he was taken away to be judged, tortured and crucified.
The custom in ancient times was for guest in a home to have the dust washed from their feet after they entered a host’s home. Jesus, the leader of those 12 followers, put on servant’s clothes, and with a basin, knelt down to wash the feet of those he led. This really threw the disciples off. “Why are you doing this?” “I’m not going to let you wash my feet!” These were some of their responses. Their leader’s place was not to be at their feet. He was too good for that, or so they thought.

Yet that was Jesus’s whole point. If he as their leader was willing to be their servant, should they not then serve one another?

Those of us who would lead would serve. We would put aside our historic privilege, and in the spirit of gratitude, contribute to the lives of others, even in the humblest way. We would even put aside our historic oppression, based on gender, ethnicity, physical ability, age, sexual and relational preferences, and other factors, to have free space in our hearts for a love for others that transcends all our illusions of separation from one another. We would have what Martin Luther King, Jr., had – a heart full of love, and a soul generated by grace.

Lead through love.

One of my fondest childhood memories involves picking my father up from the airport. He was often away on business, and my mother, my brothers and I would go to meet him at the gate where the plane would land (back in the 70s, you could still do that). One time, we went to meet him, and there was a young man there at his side. The young man was an immigrant from the Middle East, I think Iran or Iraq, and somehow my father had met him in flight. He spoke maybe three words of English, but that was it. My father put him in the car with us, and we drove back to my house, where we called the man’s brother. After about an hour or so, the brother showed up at our house. He was very happy to see his sibling and grateful to my father for helping make the connection.

I never in all my life forgot this experience. It was an occasion for me to see generosity in action. There was no immediate benefit to my father of having reached out to the man. It was just his commitment to be true to his faith that had him act in that way. Within a decade or so, my father would become the first African American mayor of my hometown, and his leadership style would be the same. Not seeking his own gain or trying to grow his own reputation, but having a deep and profound commitment to providing service to the community and to the world. I know I could never repay him for what he showed me about how to relate to other people, but I will never forget, either.

Lead through generosity.
Lead through love.
Lead through excellence.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers on the nature of leadership and how it can be done. In the end, in fact, all I have are the words and examples of others that have inspired me, and made a difference in my life. And, in our tradition where we value questions as much if not more than answers, I have questions for you:

What would the world be like if the United States of America as a country was a drum major for love? How would the lives of children, women and men near and far shift if we Unitarian Universalists recommitted ourselves to excellence, and brought our convictions into greater alignment with our actions? Now quietly pause to think: What is one thing I could do today to express my leadership as a servant to others, though love, excellence and generosity? Am I willing to do that one thing?

You can be that servant.
You are the one we’ve been waiting for.
Blessed be, and amen.

© 2008 by Carlton Elliott Smith. All rights reserved.

Week 5 of 29: Who am I? Where am I?

2008-03-19T23:53:00.000-07:00

March 9. I’m grappling more with what it means not to be a minister at First Parish of Arlington anymore. I was glad to be at the [Sunday morning] service … Butch’s memorial service went well. The lights went out in the middle of it. “Butch?” I wondered aloud. It was just the kind of glitch that would happen on a Sunday morning, and he would jump up and find out what was going on.

March 10. I met with a colleague at a downtown nonprofit for an informational interview about employment options as I consider the possibility of not being in a parish this fall.

March 11. Moved some storage from one friend’s home to the basement where all the rest of my boxes are. Rearranged and repacked my bags, and was on the road by late afternoon. Arrived at friends in Connecticut right around dinner time.

March 12. A more or less laid-back day in Connecticut, grazing by the refrigerator. Learned all about the adventures of someone in my extended circle of friends now living in Rio. I would like to visit there someday … Also, I’m getting in touch with appreciation for Michelle Obama. I admire Barack’s intelligence, competence and vision, but I identify more with Michelle as someone born and bred thick in African American community and culture, who as an adult walks between and among a wide variety of communities and cultures.

March 13. I wash clothes, have breakfast and leave for the Bronx around 12:30. A friend helps me get my boxes and luggage from the interior of the car, as to leave it parked on the street with all those things in it might be to invite a break-in. Two and a half flights! I hadn’t though of this implication of traveling across country with a car full of stuff. I’m noticing how I keep folding up my life to fit into new contexts.

March 14. A late breakfast with my gracious host, then, after help lugging all those boxes and suitcases back downstairs, I head to my next stop.

March 15. Mostly a day of touring in New York, and I spend the evening fine-tuning my sermon for the next day. I wanted to shave my head, but I had forgotten to charge my clippers. I was scared the power would give out when I was only half done, so I didn’t do it.

Week 4 of 29: Farewell to the Cape/Back to Beantown

2008-03-19T23:18:00.000-07:00

Photo: Sunset at Herring Beach Cove, Provincetown (c) 2008 by C. E. Smith

One of the most immediately useful gifts I received as I was leaving Arlington was a Book of Days featuring quotes and photos of the pottery of Brother Thomas. I’m going to borrow from what I wrote there to “catch up” here, starting from the day after my last blog entry:

March 5: Today I met our neighbor, whom I’ll call Charity, an 80-year-old who lives in a house on the other side of the fence. She’s been there for 71 years. What a fount of wisdom and New England-style pluck. I need to do some writing just on the insight she dropped on me … I had a great bike ride all the way out Bradford, past the West End and into the National Park at Herring Cove Beach. Two of Tony’s friends from the coffee and dessert shop where he writes came over for dinner.

March 6: I got caught up from the past several days of not writing in this book. I went for another long ride, this time via Commercial Street to the wetlands and then to Herring Cove Beach. It was splendid – and cold. I needed gloves and a scarf at least, and was wearing neither … now it’s time for me to pack and move on. “Never harbor or port have I known.” The discovery of the day: Riding down Commercial, I heard this beautiful voice and music coming out of a little music store. I went in and asked the clerk, “Who is that?” It was Stacey Kent, and the cd was Breakfast on the Morning Tram. I bought it immediately. To get a sample, visit www.staceykent.com. Warning: I’m now addicted to this artist, and you may become an addict, too.

March 7: A very laid-back day for the most part. I ate breakfast, trying to help clean out the fridge … Tony and I dined at Ciro & Sal’s for our last meal on our last night. It was almost empty. I wistfully looked into the windows of the museums I hadn’t visited on Commercial Street that I wouldn’t see on this trip.

March 8: The rain poured all day long. I forgot and left my umbrella at the cottage, but I didn’t realize it until I was dropping Tony off at the Amtrak station at Back Bay. The good thing is that now, I can see an umbrella as a recurring metaphor/symbol to carry from the start of the novel until the end.

(c) 2008 by Carlton Elliott Smith. All rights reserved.

Herring Cove Beach, Sunset 6 Mar 08

Week 3.3 of 29: The Guest House

2008-03-04T09:53:00.000-08:00

photos by C.E. Smith, from inside the Provincetown Public Library, a converted church building that houses a 50% scale model of the Rose Dorothea, winner of the 1907 Fisherman's Cup

Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
-- Jalal ud-Din Rumi

I came across this quote in the margins of The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. I am looking these days at the cost of being clever, particularly as it pertains to whatever my next settled position or long-term work might be. If I trade in cleverness in pursuit of that work, I will be relying upon tactics that bring about results, rather than coming from a more heart-centered place.

Cleverness can sometimes be useful. I remember my extended stay in Paris after I finished my undergraduate degree. One day as I was walking down the street, I realized a man was following me from about 50 paces behind. I didn’t know who he was or why he was on my trail, but I knew I didn’t like it, and I didn’t want him following me to where I lived. How could I manage the situation that was honoring of my intention and the least confrontational?

I went down into the Metro, and a train pulled up to the platform. I got on the train, and he got on a few doors further back. Just as the horn sounded and the doors began to close, I stepped back out onto the platform. He didn’t react quickly enough, so I watched the train carry him off to the next stop while I went back upstairs out of the station to finish my walk home. Then in my very early 20s, I had impressed myself with my cleverness.

I’m not always so effective in bringing about a desired result. What I see these days is that cleverness can simply be a way of controlling or attempting to control a situation when I feel afraid or vulnerable, rather than making space for the fear and the vulnerability and what they offer. Instead of trying to avoid them, I see the opportunity to sit with them, and be bewildered. Hm. I wonder what brings the two of you here today? And then being willing to listen patiently for a response.

Yesterday, I went for a nice long bike ride on Route 6A, from the East End of P’town to the junction of 6A and 6 in north Truro. The day started out sunny, with the light reflecting beautifully on the waves of the Bay. My face was to the wind, and it took effort and will to keep peddling up the hills, with the promise of some flat land (or even better, a declining slope) ahead. One of my childhood fantasies was to bike from one small town to another, and discover a community I’d never seen before. This was that fantasy coming to life. I came to a crossroads, where there was the Christian Union Church. A little further up the road, I stopped and sat on a bench, and I was going to write there for a while, but then, I started feeling afraid and vulnerable. The sky had clouded over -- What if it started to rain? I didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood. How would I get back?

So rather than rest, I began to peddle back. Then I remembered that there was the little post office, and just across the church was an old-time country store that was open where I might be able to take shelter. I kept on peddling, though, until I was back in my familiar East End surroundings.

Four days from now, we’ll be back on the road, and en route to Boston. I’m grateful for this time to catch my breath a bit, and get ready for what’s next. I’m glad for the freedom I’ve given myself just to write, not holding tightly to what I’m “supposed” to be doing, but giving myself the space to see what is emerging. Making space to be bewildered.

One of my favorite Rumi poems is “The Guest House”, which is a particularly relevant metaphor since I’ve been in this lovely condo these past two weeks:

This being human is a guest house, Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

Welcome, guides and friends … welcome to you all.

Week 2 of 29: Old Friends and New Friends

2008-02-25T07:31:00.000-08:00

The first full week on the Cape has gone differently from what I expected when I was planning this writing retreat. I thought I would be able to just take a couple of days to get set up, and then get into the groove of writing right away. That’s not been the case at all, in part because of the extraordinary events of my last weekend at First Parish. I learned of Butch Redding’s first stroke Saturday, February 9, just a few hours before the farewell dinner celebrating the work First Parish and I had done together that had been planned from weeks before. During the dinner, I got a frantic call from a friend from my New York days. I found out the following morning that her 27-year-old son died unexpectedly, probably due to some combination of painkillers and preventative medications he was on.

My friend’s son’s funeral was this past Tuesday. As I was on a bus lay-over in Providence, I talked to Millie and got the word of Butch’s imminent death, which was later that same night.

So I’ve been talking with a number of old friends these days: Two old friends in New York about putting me up for the Tuesday night I was there; my friend who lost her son; friends from and friends of First Parish regarding Butch’s passing.

At the same time, I’m grateful to be making some new friends out here on the Cape. My writing colleague and I are finding ways of working together and supporting each other on our respective projects, and I’ve been blessed to make some new friends here in Provincetown and Truro who have been generous with their time and hospitality, and have shown me some new sights and gotten me oriented to this part of the world. I’m truly glad for the gift of friendship.

Despite my intention to be somewhat regimented and focused here right off the bat, my soul seems to be saying, “Slow down – I need a breather!” I’m accepting that I must have needed more unstructured time to transition from the Boston area to being out here.

I’m enjoying the quiet and the slower pace. I can look out the window to the street that’s two backyards away and see a vehicle passing by every now and then. It’s different from the moderate busyness of Arlington Center and the unrelenting busyness that a got reacquainted with briefly while I was in Manhattan last week.

The busyness I am getting most acquainted with is that within my own mind. I remember being at a talk back in the fall given by Barbara Brown Taylor, the author of Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith. That evening, she was talking about the concept of sabbatical, and it’s erosion over the generations and decades. During the Q&A time following her talk, I mentioned my own sabbatical, and asked what her advice would be for me as one taking his first leave. She acknowledged that she didn’t know me, but that during my leave, I would become intimately acquainted with what drives me.

That’s what I’ve been paying attention to as much as anything this past week. I’m looking and seeing a lot of motivation emerging out of anxiety. It’s something like, “You better (fill in the blank), because if you don’t, something bad will happen.” Or I find myself avoiding doing something that I am doubtful will turn out in a way that I would expect and like.

Confronted with the task of finishing a novel, I am reminded of what it was like for me 30 or so years ago when I stopped practicing piano. I couldn’t bear to be with my beginner’s status, my place as a novice, especially when I knew other people my same age or younger who were much further along. What if I wasn’t any good, and would never be any good, as a musician? Rather than stay with that question and continuing to play, I stopped playing all together. Now when I reflect, I wonder what my life might have been like had I continued to practice. It’s never to late to start, it’s true, but there’s a way in which the past 30 years of not practicing can ever be regained. Not having a written a novel myself, I keep thinking about the masterworks of Zora Neale Hurston, James Agee, D.H. Lawrence, Alice Walker, James Baldwin and so many others, and coming up short. In her book The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron notes that emerging artists don’t compare their work to the beginning work of they favorite artists, but to the published works of masters of their craft.

I see the unfinished novel as an old friend who has been lounging on the couch watching television, while the finished novel is a new friend who is ringing on the doorbell, excitedly trying to enter my life. Will I continue to comfortably hang out with the unfinished, or will I muster the strength, courage and hope to get up, open the door and let the finished in?

(c) 2008 by Carlton Elliott Smith. All rights reserved.

Week 1.5 of 29: Remembering Butch Redding

2008-02-21T11:49:00.001-08:00

I found out last night that Butch Redding, the beloved Parish Manager of First Parish of Arlington, died after of a series of strokes and other complications he had had since February 8.

There’s so much that can be said about him, it’s hard to know where to begin.

When I applied to be the Interim Assistant Minister at First Parish in the Spring of 2002, Butch was one of the staff members I interviewed with. He thought I was too serious, and asked me, “Am I going to be able to make you laugh?” And with that I burst into laughter. That was the first of many, many laughs we shared over the five and a half years we worked together, facing challenges great and small with a sense of humor and of deep appreciation.

What an artist. First Parish of Arlington is full of wildly creative people, and Butch was among the most wildly creative and talented of all. He never ceased to amaze me with the things he created. Whether it was a fabulous costume for an evening soiree, a miniature golden arc of the covenant for the stewardship campaign, a beautiful imitation flaming log for the holiday pageant – it seemed there was little or nothing that he couldn’t bring into existence through his great imagination.

What a leader. For years, Butch has been one of the most active and dedicated lay leaders in the MassBay District of Unitarian Universalist Congregations. At First Parish, he led most of the New UU courses over the past six years, with great heart and warmth. Without a question, there were times when he was prickly – very prickly. He could get very upset with himself and others when things were not going smoothly or as planned. The work inside a congregation as vibrant and energetic as First Parish never ends. Over the years, I saw Butch evolve and grow in his ability to manage himself and his deep emotions when the work was its most demanding.

What a colleague. I gave the sermon the last Sunday in the 2007 calendar year. The title of the sermon was “Practicing Friendship,” and I had made a photocopy of the reading I was to do that morning. Unfortunately, when the time for the reading came, I could not find it among my notes. Butch could see me starting to panic a little bit, and while the congregation sang the song that was switched in place of the reading, he searched the pulpit with me. Then Butch dashed from the sanctuary, through the fellowship hall, back to the Religious Education wing to my office, where he found the book I had taken the reading from and brought it back to the sanctuary, and handed it to me just as the song was ending. I said to the congregation, “What a friend we have in Butch Redding.” They applauded. I caught my breath, and the service went forward. This is a tiny example of one of the countless ways and times Butch intervened and made a difference for the better at the church.

What a minister. Sometimes, when there was some glitch in the operation of the church, I would attempt to frame it in the light of an opportunity for growth, as an occasion to practice forgiveness. Butch would turn to me and say, “That’s why you’re the minister and I’m not!” But the truth of the matter is that he was a kind of minister in the parish. Because of where his office was positioned, he and our Office Assistant, Kim Tracy, were often the front line of pastoral care in the church. Though his own tender heart was often broken by the illnesses and deaths of friends, and the suffering in the wider world, he never failed to let it be broken again when tragedy struck the congregation. He responded with comforting hugs, kind words and healing tears.

He and I certainly had our disagreements, misunderstandings and disappointments with each other over the years. The constants through it all were shared love, respect and esteem.

I saw him the afternoon of my final service at First Parish February 10, and again last Friday before I left for my writing retreat on the Cape. Neither time did he see me – he was in an induced coma and healing, I hoped. Somehow, I sensed that he was in for a very long recovery at best, and that the Butch so many others and I had known and loved was already gone forever.

I’m glad that his beloved friends Millie and Patrick were there to accompany him to the point of his transition.

In the spring of 2003, Butch preached and led a worship service called “Swimming to the Other Side,” based on a song by Pat Humphries, which he led with his resonant tenor voice. Here are the lyrics, which express so much of his spirit:

We are living 'neath the great Big Dipper
We are washed by the very same rain
We are swimming in the stream together
Some in power and some in pain
We can worship this ground we walk on
Cherishing the beings that we live beside
Loving spirits will live forever
We're all swimming to the other side

I am alone, and I am searching
Hungering for answers in my time
I am balanced at the brink of wisdom
I'm impatient to receive a sign
I move forward with my senses open
Imperfection, it be my crime
In humility I will listen
We're all swimming to the other side

On this journey through thoughts and feelings
Binding intuition, my head, my heart
I am gathering the tools together
I'm preparing to do my part
All of those who have come before me
Band together and be my guide
Loving lessons that I will follow
We're all swimming to the other side

When we get there we'll discover
All of the gifts we've been given to share
Have been with us since life's beginning
And we never noticed they were there
We can balance at the brink of wisdom
Never recognizing that we've arrived
Loving spirits will live together
We're all swimming to the other side

What a friend we had in Butch Redding, our beloved one who’s crossed over to the other side. What a friend, indeed.

Week 1 of 29: Endings and Beginnings

2008-02-17T06:54:00.000-08:00

It’s 10:00 a.m. on the first Sunday since I completed my five-and-a-half year tenure at First Parish. I am sitting at a table in the upstairs of a cottage in the East End of Provincetown, looking over to the Monument to the Pilgrims, which I can see only because it’s winter and there are no leaves on the two or three elegant trees between it and me. The sun shines bright, and will be beaming through the ceiling windows soon.

I’m jumping up every few minutes to stir the enormous pot of spaghetti sauce that Tony is making so that as we are writing over the next three weeks, we won’t be so distracted by always having to go out to eat. My eyes watered and stung as he cut up the onions this morning. He’s gone to the gym now and to rent a bicycle.

We went grocery shopping shortly after we arrived yesterday afternoon, which was also bright hand chilly. After unpacking and putting the groceries away, we went to Napi’s, a local eatery that specializes in seafood dishes from the town’s Portuguese legacy. I could hardly stay awake I was so weary from the travel. The drive wasn’t a hard one, but so much of what’s happened over the past couple of weeks has been in preparation for this time – purging and paring down to the essentials – has been physically and emotionally demanding.

I’m so grateful for the friends I have who have supported me along the way: Those who helped me break down and vacate my apartment by the end of January, those that have welcomed me into their homes and at their tables, those who have given gifts and other tokens of appreciation, and written cards and notes and made calls, and done the many other things that have brought me to this present moment. Wrapping my mind around the blessedness of this time seems futile, so instead I will just be mindful of it.

I’m glad for this blog as an opportunity to bring mindfulness to this break. The historic bell that sits at the back of the sanctuary at First Parish reads, “Come to the house of prayer/Mark the flight of time.” Mark the flight of time. Time is so fleeting that it is unmarkable, like trying to tie water in a knot or keep the sun from setting. But maybe through little attempts at writing or painting or singing, through some act of creation, we can make an imprint. In time, all our creations and creating may be turned to ashes, dust, ether. Most of it probably will. I hope that even after memory fades, there will be something of the love of life in what we’ve done that remains and will be passed forward.

This past week was my farewell to the Boston area for the time being. I will pass through briefly to reorganize at the end of the sojourn in P’town, then head down South through New York, Philadelphia, DC and other stops, on my way to Gulfport. Last week, I took my car to the shop so it would be ready for the road, paid my last gas and electric bills, said my goodbyes, shed my tears. This week, I continue trying to stitch a cohesive narrative together from the fragments I’ve been collecting over the past 20 years.

At the end of the service last Sunday, I stepped through a beautiful saffron gate, patterned after Cristo’s Gates in Central Park three years ago. Just before that, the First Parish Jazz Ensemble offered it’s beautiful rendition of the song “Bridges,” written by Sergio Mendes and Kevyn Lettau. One of the verses I’ve been returning to over the past several days is

There’s a bridge to tomorrow
There’s a bridge to the past
There’s a bridge made of sorrow
That I pray will not last
There’s a bridge made of colors
In the sky high above
And I know that there must be
Bridges made out of love

I intend that this six-month break be a bridge made out of love, and that I constitute myself and the novel I’m completing to be the same.

Meanwhile, it’s time to stir the sauce again …

(c) 2008 by Carlton Elliott Smith. All rights reserved.