More Knoxville

OK, I agree -- it probably doesn't make any more sense for liberals to blame conservative talk show hosts for the shootings in Knoxville than it did for Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell to blame liberals for the attacks on 9/11. Enough with the finger-wagging already. Stilll there is something profoundly wrong with the soul of this nation, and until we teach ourselves how to come together armed with something other than firearms and righteous indignation...

But lets face it . Subtlety is not exactly the forte of talk radio. Nor, for that matter, is intelligent discourse, ambiguity of opinion, sophisticated analysis, or just plain old common courtesy. If we value these characteristics, we need to look to a forum which is not only willing to "speak the truth to power," but also "to preach the truth in love." In short, we need to look to the traditional strengths of the free pulpit, and those values of freedom, reason and tolerance that have historically characterized "Our Liberal Movement in Theology."

Voices like those of my colleagues

Victoria Weinstein,

Gary Kowalski,

Dan Harper,

Candace Chellew-Hodge

and finally Annette Marquis, District Executive of the Thomas Jefferson District (TJD) of the Unitarian Universalist Association (UUA).

For those of you not already following this thread on the UU Blogosphere, enjoy!

Knoxville

Apart from my own personal feelings of shock and sorrow, I have nothing especially unique to contribute to everything that has been written lately about the terrible shooting Sunday at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church. But this particular posting by Sara Robinson deeply moved me, and so like so many others have already I share it again with all of you.

Tim

The Peripetatic Couch Potato Stands Again...

And the plain truth of the matter is that my father is entirely too excited about all this, but today in physical therapy another nice milestone: long periods of standing unassisted, plus a few circumambulations (with the help of the walker) of my living room. All RELATIVELY pain-free. And then later in the afternoon we actually took the show out on the road...or at least out into the hallway, where I walked halfway to the elevator and back. Small steps, I know. Especially on the same day that the movers are starting to pack up my apartment furnishings to move them into storage before my lease expires at the end of the month. But it sure did give my dad a lot of pleasure to see me "up and about" again. So I guess that's some sort of consolation.

It really is mostly about the pain. Put enough narcotics in me, and I could probably walk just about anywhere you asked me to. Could be wrong about that; but I'm not much in the mood to find out either. I can feel the muscles getting stronger, and I'm getting much better on managing both the baseline and the breakthrough sciatica...so as long as I am persistent, and continue to practice, and don't let myself get derailed by overexertion or a silly injury...I should steadily improve. Progress, not Perfection. That's the ticket. Progress, not Perfection.

Meanwhile, lots of other things on my plate here at the end of the month as well. Bill, reports, overdue e-mails. Just when I'm starting to feel like I'm ready to pick up my pallet and walk, suddenly life is calling me to spend a helluva lot more time at my desk. What's THAT about anyway?

Lazy Summer Sunday

Forty-Four again in church today for another inspiring, high-quality lay-led summer service, featuring the music of jazz accompanist Gay Pearson and our five-voice ad hoc pick-up First Parish Summer chorale ensemble. Just delights me so much to see how the worship committee has risen to the challenge of year-round services, and inspires me also with a growing restlessness to return to the pulpit myself in September.

And then when I returned home, an e-mail from a seminarian acquaintance of mine looking for information about Henry Ware Jr. for a paper she is writing for a class offered by Rob Hardies this summer at Andover Newton. Best I could give her was the listing for my dissertation in the Harvard Divinity School library catalog, (although someone recently told me that the manuscript is actually missing and presumed stolen from the stacks). An odd form of literary immortality, to say the least.

Finally, a spur of the moment invitation to a simple backyard picnic lunch with my neighbor across the street -- salad, quiche, fresh fruit and fizzy water...light, yummy, seasoned with great company...even if we did end up talking way too much about church, and a recent USA Today article about why men are missing from the pews, and what to do about it. Old news to me, and a far more complicated prescription than "more cowbell." But maybe summer is the time to be thinking about these things too.

So much to do, so little time. Tomorrow the rest of the world is back about it's business, the 44 faithful souls who worshipped together at First Parish among them, hopefully inspired to confront whatever challenges the world may great them with, or at the very least with a song in their head to serve as a touchstone of their connection with our community. "We extinguish this flame, but not the light of truth, the warmth of community, or the fire of commitment. These we cary in our hearts until we are together again...."

The 99 Names for Rain....

In truth, this is no doubt an urban legend; and if memory serves, we could only brainstorm something in the low 30's, despite having all grown up in Seattle. Light Sprinkles. Drizzle. Scattered Showers. Downpour. Cloudburst. Partly Cloudy. Partly Sunny. Freezing Rain. Mixed Snow and Rain. Cats and Dogs. A Gully Washer. And we've just scratched the surface. Unfortunately I've misplaced the list. My father insists on the distinction between "wet" rain and "dry" rain, -- one of which requires an umbrella, while the other can typically be braved in shirtsleeves, or maybe with a sweatshirt and perhaps a hat. Gore-Tex has made dry rain a lot more common than it used to be. And I can still remember as a newcomer to Boston, stepping out of doors into a soaked through to the skin thundershower which I was certain was "dry" enough to let me get to the corner store and back for cigarettes. Sigh. How much different my life might be now if I'd learned THAT lesson 30 years ago....

Some big steps forward in my life this past week. Was able to stand unassisted during physical therapy on Monday, and even took a few tentative steps forward and backward with the walker. Later that evening, tired of trying to eat my supper at eye level, I actually climbed into a barstool at Binga's -- that's one small step for a man, but a giant step backward for my diet. Especially after taking the plunge Wednesday and stepping on the scale for the first time in three months at the Doctor's office, and discovering that I've gained 20 lbs since the end of April. OK, let's just call it lack of exercise. Or lack of something.

In any event, as I said in a previous post, into every life some rain does fall...and as a native Seattlite, no one should know this better than me. How does that old song go? "Raindrops keep falling on my head....

Summer Stalwarts

I was still in the act of buckling my seat belt when I noticed the first few raindrops on the windshield. By the time we got to Deering Park, it was a full-blown downpour, but that eventually passed; and by driving the wrong way down a one-way road we were able to get to the rest of the now-soggy First Parish picnickers gathered around a lonely wooden picnic table in the all but otherwise abandoned picnic area. A quick repast, the obligatory group photo, a hurried clean-up and we were all on our separate ways again. And just as my Dad and I pulled back into the driveway again, the clouds suddenly cleared, and we were once more bathed in sunlight.

Don't ask me why. Sometimes the timing just isn't right, and it rains on our parade...just as it rains on the just and the unjust alike, and into every life some rain must fall. You can't take it personally. But I still feel badly for the people who planned this picnic, who came out in hope of better weather and a better time, or who didn't come out at all because, unlike me, they were smart enough to glance at the weather forecast first, or at least knew enough to get out of the rain.

The next morning, at church, I see many of these same faces there to help make the coffee and to set up for worship, to greet visitors ass they arrive, and hand out the Order of Service at the door, or singing in the "pick-up" choir which miraculously seems to assemble every week. Over 40 in attendance this past Sunday -- not bad for a congregation which until just recently (and for several centuries previously) shut its doors entirely from the middle of June until the first Sunday after Labor Day. And many still need that summer hiatus, so that they might return to our annual Ingathering Ceremony in the fall feeling refreshed and energized, eager to see their friends again and bearing water from whatever exotic destination their summer vacation may have taken them to.

But some of us will just have to settle for wringing the moisture out of our First Parish banner, before safely hanging it up to dry in anticipation of that first "real" Sunday in September.

Outward Bound

My father brought this poster for me from California; it's a well-known Norman Rockwell print picturing a boy, a dog, and a man I assume is the boy's grandfather (now-retired from the sea), watching from a rock upon a hilltop as the father/son's(?) schooner sails over the horizon. A small flock of gulls circles overhead, in anticipation of we know not what, while below the hill the rest of the village seems peaceably at rest.

This image now hangs just above my makeshift desk at 75 State Street. I know my father brought me this poster because it inspired him with its themes of the sea, and the two generations looking on -- one nostalgically reminded of his past, one in anticipation of his own future -- while the third generation which connects them both ventures out to earn their livelihood. But I can't help seeing this image without it evoking other connotations, similar to the ones expressed in this anonymous poem which I learned on Nantucket, and have often used subsequently as a memorial service reading:

"I am standing on the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and the sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, "there she's gone."

"Gone where? Gone from my sight -- and that is all. She is just as large in mast and spar as she was when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her; and just at that moment when someone at my side says 'There she's gone' there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, 'Here she comes." And that is dying."

It's a cliche, but none of us can ever know with any certainty what the future may bring. Life is a mystery, and living life a constant challenge to complete each day safely and return to the safety of our loved ones...including the dogs, who care little for the nuances of dread or regret, but know merely the anxiety of absence and the anticipation of return. Tail down or tail wagging, we know exactly what HE'S thinking!

The gulls are simply mindless scavengers -- or rather, mindful of the bounty that accompany the ship's return, they circle in anticipation of the feast to come.

The Old Man leans for the support of his cane on the one hand, and with the other both offers his support to the boy and is supported by him. No one knows better than he the dangers of the open ocean, and how quickly they can overwhelm even the most skillful sailor.

The Little Boy is blissfully naive of all these things. He knows only his fathers' strength and his father's courage, and looks forward to the day when he can join him upon the sea and possess those same qualities himself. The thought that his father may one day not return seems very distant and abstract. Yet the touch of his grandfather's hand upon his shoulder leaves him feeling strangely both reassured and restless...eager to make that first voyage outward himself, yet also fearful that he may never get the chance.

As I said before, none of us can ever know with any certainty what awaits us in the future. Still, each day we venture over the horizon brings us new surprises, new challenges,, and perhaps even another bounty to be shared with those around us. Add them all together, one day after another, and that is living. We just get the one life. Let's enjoy as much of it as we can.

A Little Fresh Blood

Went in yesterday to start my next full cycle of Chemo, only to discover that even after a week's respite my blood counts were WAY too low; so instead of a five hour infusion of chemicals, I ended up back at Maine Medical again (this time thankfully on the "Short Stay" unit) for a six hour transfusion. I was matched and typed, then received two units of blood before being sent home with another week's reprieve.

I've already decided that my donor must have been from another time zone, since I slept in this morning until 11;17, although only after first waking up around 4:30 AM and taking a shower. Fell back to sleep while sitting on my bed trying to get dressed; decided I'd "rest my eyes" for just a moment before trying a second time to get my basketball shorts on, and next thing I know it's nearly noon! So I suppose my transfusion could have also come from a teenager. I mean, what other living creature sleeps until noon and dresses almost entirely in college t-shirts, laceless high-top leather sneakers, and basketball shorts?

So far it seems like a lot of this month has been taken up with the ongoing struggle to find an effective level of pain relief that allows me a meaningful amount of mobility in the world, but still leaves me lucid enough to read and write and communicate effectively without feeling (and sounding) like a zoned-out space-cadet all the time. And that's just the start of it. But I won't go into all the agonizing detail. Let's just say that I've been awake now for four hours, and I'm already ready to take another nap.................

The Skipper, the Professor, the Millionaire....

Enjoyed a very nice day out on the water this afternoon after church, with my father and my little brother here to push me around -- something they rarely seem to miss a chance doing when the opportunity presents itself. Afterwards, I came home and took a nap -- they should have too, since later on during dinner at Bonobos they were both dog-tired and I was just starting to get my second wind. But no matter. Tonight they both get an early night, and I get a chance to catch up a little with my e-mail and my blogging: two things that always take a bit of a hit when my family is in town.

The ferry ride is basically just an afternoon excursion to nowhere -- we get on the boat in Portland, find a place out of the wind to stow ourselves and our gear, then ride along as the boat makes routine stops at four different islands. As someone in a wheelchair I not only get a discount ticket but my whole party gets priority boarding as well. It's a cheap and easy way to get out and see a little of the bay, and people-watch as well as sight-see on a lovely summer afternoon. It was Jackie's idea (she's the one who took the picture); next goal now is to get mobile enough to take the Downeast DUCK tour, and finally to get on to one of the commercial classic sailing vessels that make similar excursions into Casco Bay. Hey, I've got to have SOMETHING to look forward too, right? Even if it is just "a three-hour cruise, a three-hour cruise...."

Faux Monster

The replica of Fenway's famous "Green Monster" which stands out in Left Field here in Portland, and gives our young players something to swing for.

So, we finally got a chance to use the tickets we'd won the other night in the Trivia Contest over at Bingas. Kurt and Lynne couldn't make it out again from Seattle (obviously), especially since they already had other plans to celebrate their wedding anniversary (number 27 -- as well as the first wedding eeremony I ever performed as an ordained clergyman to boot); but Erik drove up from Connecticut for a long weekend ahead of a meeting he has next Tuesday in Boston, and to round out our party I invited my soon-to-be-former Landlord from the walk-up West End apartment I love so much but am giving up at the end of the lease this month, along with the President of the Governing Board at church and her husband, the Building and Grounds Chair, and who just so happens to be the contractor who renovated my apartment and put me in touch with my landlord in the first place.

So it was a bit of a working outing, but not really. More like a quick summer check-in and catch-up. Erik and I arrived at the ballpark early to watch batting practice and make certain that we were one of the lucky 1000 souls who received a Justin Pedroia bobblehead on "Bath Savings Institution Justin Pedroia Rookie of the Year Bobblehead night." That made for a great opportunity later in the evening to practice an act of random generosity when I gave our spare bobblehead to a kid dressed in a Dustin Pedroia jersey (and ball cap and mitt) who had driven with his family all the way from Connecticut themselves in hopes of getting a bobblehead, but hadn't quite arrived in time. A lot of the Red Sox's younger players came up through Portland in the past few years: Pedroia, Josh Beckett, Kevin Youkilis and my personal favorite, Jacoby Ellsbury, who not only played college ball at Oregon State University (two-time college World Series Champions: Go Beavs!) but is also (I'm told) the only American Indian currently playing in the Major Leagues.

Anyway, I suppose on one level it was a good thing that the game itself was so bad: Sea Dogs were down 10 runs before they had a single hit, while our opponents (The New Hampshire Fisher Cats -- a Toronto affiliate) were hitting better than .500 against our starting pitcher. Don't know whether that statistic held up, since I ran out of gas and left after the seventh inning stretch, but it didn't look like our guys were going to pull it out any time soon. Still, it was a great outing: good weather, good company, food was (unfortunately) only OK -- even for the ballpark -- a disappointment that was compounded by the fact that I couldn't drink a beer (because of my narcotics). A sausage dog (which tasted a little metallic...a plain hot dog with yellow mustard probably would have been a better choice), some french fries (which were actually pretty good), a diet Coke and later, some soft-serve Ice cream topped with whipped cream and jimmies, served up in a small plastic Sea Dogs batting helmet. So between that, and the bobble-head, and my own Sea Dogs ball cap, I'll have plenty of souvenirs of the game. Even if I can't tell you the names of any of the current players, or what the final score was.

Is there some sort of profound spiritual lesson here? Oh, probably several actually. But don't ask me to spell them all out for you at this time of night. The thing I'm wrestling with right now is whether it is a mistake for me to show my vulnerability to some of my key lay leaders by leaving the game early when I started to feel run down, or if I'm actually demonstrating a different kind of strength by being comfortable with that vulnerability, and listening to it rather than trying to "soldier through" and paying the consequences later. I'm definitely going to try to do this again though soon, and as often as possible. "Take Me Out to the Ball Game...."

The (snail) Mailbox

I received two REALLY GREAT cards today, which (like most really great cards) simply showed up unexpectedly in my mailbox instead of bills, and inspired me in ways that I certainly wasn't expecting or anticipating. The first was from a current parishioner (and the daughter of one of my predecessors here), which both contained a very touching personal expression of appreciation for me and my ministry, and also sang to me "Day by Day" from the musical "Godspell" -- a song which I also have always loved, although a play which I'm ashamed to say I've never actually seen or heard all the way through... although during roughly that same period of my life I must have worn the groves of my "Jesus Christ Superstar" album down so far that playing it essentially evoked the memory of the music in my mind rather than actually reproducing it anymore.... The second card was even more unexpected, and came from one of my daughter's good friends in Massachusetts, who used to work as a cop in Springfield when Steph was in Graduate School there. On the front there's a picture of a dog with a stethoscope gazing out from a hole in a large apple, with the caption "Scientific evidence now indicates that an APPLE A DAY does indeed keep the DOCTOR AWAY" Open the card and read "the trick is hitting them HARD ENOUGH with the APPLE" accompanied by a drawing of a thrown apple bouncing off of the side of a very surprised Dog/Doctor's head. "OW!" Great stuff....

My mail service here hasn't been too reliable lately, and I'm really getting pretty upset about it -- now that I have the energy to BE upset! My big summer Amazon order made it all the way to the Eastland Hotel (only a few blocks from here, and where I still rent a private study) before the USPS decided that it was "undeliverable" and returned it to the warehouse rather than forwarding it here instead. I know that because I couild TRACK that package; there are still several others (used books from private venders) which have simple disappeared into limbo, and I have no idea even where to begin tracking them down. I've have issues with my internet/cell phone provider as well, but am SO tired of sitting on hold to talk to a person I can hardly understand who tells me that everything will be fine only to find out a month later that nothing has changed at all.... Tired of it!!! And yet -- well, I need to keep reminding myself that having the energy to feel angry and outraged is a GOOD thing... potentially even a HEALING thing... so long as I don't let myself get too distracted by the experience either.

And as for Laurie and Rose and everyone else who has written or e-mailed me privately, I know you're reading this blog, and I want you to know how much I appreciate reading your words as well. At least when they actually arrive! And thanks again for all your encouragement and support. It's truly what inspires me, and keeps me going. Day by Day....

I Want YOU!

And I knew the moment I saw it that this silly little Uncle Sam hat would come in handy one day. Recently I've been using it just to keep track of my keys and the mail, but it was nice to be able to dump all that stuff on the bed for a moment and use the hat for a quick Independence Day photo op instead. I'm still not exactly sure how I want to spend this day, which is the first day I've had in a long, long time without a single "obligation" -- no medical appointments, no church meetings no errands to run. I do still have a certain amount of "paperwork" to handle (including paying my first of the month bills), but that's something that can easily be procrastinated in deference to more important tasks, like reading, or napping, or writing in my journal. But what to read? What to write? And how long do I REALLY want to nap? And, of course, there are always mealtimes. Institutional life here at the Assisted/Independent Living facility tends to revolve around the cafeteria, just like it did when I lived in college dorms. It's a very odd full circle, at once both familiar and strange.

I heard today that the President is scheduled to be at Montecello to make an appearance at a swearing-in ceremony for a group of newly-naturalized citizens. And I'm almost afraid to hear what he has to say. Yet my illness also gives me a little "critical distance" -- my capacity for outrage is somehow muted by the intimacy of my awareness of my own mortality. I am deeply concerned about what is happening in the world right now: Climate Change, the "War on Terror," $150/barrel oil, not to mention all of the more familiar social problems of Race and Class and Justice and Violence and Poverty and Oppression and Opportunity...and, yes, even Health Care reform. But there is also a certain abstractness to my concern. So I find myself wondering: What WOULD Thomas Jefferson do? Or, for that matter, John Adams (who, like Jefferson, died on this day in 1826 -- the 50th anniversary of the Signing of the Declaration), or any of the other Founding Fathers? But then I also wonder: What does it matter? It's the PRINCIPLES they articulated, not the specific answers they might have arrived at to problems they could never have anticipated, that are ultimately important. Clearly the two are related. And discerning that relationship it the task of true Wisdom...which is why I'm so concerned about what is happening in the world right now....

I've been fascinated by the parallel Unitarianisms of Adams and Jefferson for a long time -- Adams, a life-long member of the First Parish in Quincy; Jefferson, who remained content to be "a Unitarian by myself," and who late in life predicted that Unitarianism would become the general religion of the United States. Jefferson's prophecy has remained notoriously unfulfilled, at least when measured against the membership roles of actual UU churches. Meanwhile, First Parish congregations like the one in Quincy continue to soldier along as they always have, facing many of the same struggles and challenges as they did 200 years ago. Can anyone honestly say today that one of them was more authentically "Unitarian" than the other simply because they belonged to a church? Or is the real question more along the lines of what can our church do to reach out to the majority of self-identified UUs who remain by themselves, yet who might benefit from a closer relationship with others who share their values and principles?

Omigosh, look at the time! Better get down to the cafeteria for lunch!

Blogging Under the Influence

My friend Ted Anderson writes from Nantucket:

During the mediaeval period being a hero was not only an act of courage, it was terribly isolating. Secular, like Beowulf, or saintly, like George, the hero went alone to meet his dragon. Don't argue. I know Wiglaf went with his uncle to challenge the firedrake. Minor exception. George had a horse. "Truth, like an onion, wears many coats, all of which are hollow." Gilles de Vannes.

The truth is that fighting dragons is isolating. Standing alone to challenge his fate even the bravest hero may expect to experience the feelings you enumerated in your most recent blog: "helpless, abandoned, forgotten." Your actions make it clear that you are none of the above, but looking the dragon in the mouth those feelings rise intellectually unbidden; a reminder that in legend as in life, the mind is never in sole command when confronting a dragon.

Sankaty Sanctus, Ted


A very wise man, this Reverend Anderson. And yes, as he so aptly reminds me, I am well aware of the "heroic" isolation of dragon-slaying. And yet I'm also reminded of how many other people are fighting this same or similar dragons, and how we are all united in our isolation; and also all of the people who are fighting THIS dragon with me...in spirit certainly, or as closely as I can connect with them through this blog and other contacts. The "bad" days are simply part of the ordeal. Everyvbody has them. Without them, some say, the good days would seem pale and hollow too.

Meanwhile, I think I'm going to have to keep a better grip on my Greek Testament. This time it bounced open to Luke 22, where the the last half of verse 42 especially caught my eye: plen me to thelema mou alla to sov ginestho -- "...nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done." And it's making me wish I'd paid a little better attention in summer school 30 years ago, or at least that I had convenient access to my study aids. Because it sure looks to me like there are those same two words again from the Sheep Pool, only in a slightly different tense. "Are you willing to be made whole?" "Not my will, but thine, be done." What do we really want? How much are we willing to endure? What does it mean "to be made whole," and how much of that process is an act of assertiveness, and how much an act of acceptance? Pick up your pallet and walk. But walk where? periepatei Just walk around.

Also intrigued by the two verses which follow Luke 22:42, which apparently are omitted in some ancient manuscripts. "And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground." Sure sounds to me like those words were written by somebody who knows what they are talking about. Even if they do come with a footnote....

Sankaty Sanctus. Amen.

An important Message from the Commissar of Conviviality

The good days are all sweetness and light. I feel hopeful, confident, optimistic...smiles come easily, and the future seems bright and sunny. It's the bad days that are killing me. It's not so much about the pain, or the nausea, or the fatigue. Those things come and go as well...and if worst comes to worst, there is always another pill. It's really mostly about feeling afraid. Afraid that things won't get any better. Afraid of being helpless and abandoned and forgotten. Afraid of the bizillion other awful things the imagination can dream up when left alone to its own devices. And I've always had a very vivid imagination....

Meanwhile, the post office has lost two big book orders of mine, as well as a packet of medical bills MFW took with her to organize and return to me nearly a month ago now. Frustrating. Also this past weekend I was up at the Gibson again to receive outpatient heparin injections, which brought back all sorts of interesting memories of the month (more or less) I spent as a patient in that unit. Not exactly Deja Vu all over again, but close. And the pain. And the nausea. And the fatigue. Need to keep reminding myself that it's the cancer that is really hurting; that my "side effects" are actually just an echo of a dying tumor struggling blindly to avoid its own eradication? I like that image. I like that image a lot.

So, maybe it really is just that simple -- as simple as reminding myself it's all in my imagination -- just a bad dream -- and that I have nothing to fear but fear itself Truth is, I really don't have an answer to this conundrum. But I do remember this. The room always seems cooler in the dark. And it doesn't hurt nearly as much with the bright lights on.