the rh[+] factor

Philly drivers ranked worst in nation

HELL ON WHEELS
By DAN GERINGER
Philadelphia Daily News

ON THE HEELS of winning No. 1 rankings as Most Out of Shape and Ugliest city dwellers in America, Philadelphians have just won another national dubious-achievement award - Most Dangerous Drivers.
After studying its policyholders' car crashes for two years in cities with more than a million residents, Allstate Insurance Co. named Philadelphians the nation's most reckless drivers.

Just in time for Fourth of July weekend!

Titled "Philadelphia Drivers Skid In Among Worst," the Allstate report found that Philly drivers averaged 6.6 years between collisions in 2005-06, making them 50 percent more likely to crash than the national-average of 10 years between collisions.

"You know how men are always blaming it on women drivers, and older drivers are always blaming it on younger drivers?" said Tracey King, Allstate communications manager. "Well, in Philadelphia, it's everyone."

In the Allstate survey, Philly's collision numbers were found to be equally dismal among males, females, pre-baby-boomers, baby boomers and Generation X-ers - and even scarier among Generation Y-ers (4.9 years between accidents).

New York City drivers average two years longer between collisions. National-best Tucson, Az.? Fuhgettaboutit! More than 10 years between crashes.

Broad Street distractions

What gives?

Responding by cell phone on his way to teach a class yesterday, Frank Farley, Temple University professor of educational psychology, said: "I'm driving down Broad Street right now and it's a crazy street. I mean, are they nuts?"

Farley was referring to the median merchants hawking their wares to passing motorists who swerve over and stop suddenly to do business, regardless of traffic.

"I've been in a lot of places," Farley said, "and I don't know of any other city where they got this middle lane thing going on with people walking around selling things to drivers.

"People are in the middle of the street selling your wonderful newspaper to drivers who stop their cars and get their money out, regardless of the traffic coming up behind them.

"Other people are flogging flowers and, around Temple, pies and bottled water," he said. "I've seen drivers get very distracted when they suddenly decide they need to get some flowers without letting the drivers behind them know.

"Are the distractions on Philadelphia streets like Broad Street above average? Does this affect the collision rate?"

Farley said that when you add double parking to the mix - "I have never been in a city that allows so much double-parking" - and the habitual running of red lights in anticipation of them turning green, you've got a recipe for Philadelphia leading the nation in collisions.

"We also have a lot of old, narrow streets and one-way streets," he said. "It's tricky navigation in Center City. It's easy to get hit. Bing!"

At A Confident Driving School in Bala Cynwyd, which advertises "Results Without Yelling," an instructor identifying himself as Mark R. said: "They used to have the serpentine course in the drivers-license test, but no more.

"To drive that snake pattern between the cones without knocking them over," he said, "you had to visualize where the back of your car was. You kind of developed eyes in the back of your car.

"Now, a lot of people are only driving the front half of the car. They feel like the car is driving them. They are not in control."

Mark R. also blamed driving schools that "just teach you how to pass the driving test instead of teaching you how to pass the real test, which is staying in one piece once you get your license."

Sing a new song

It's been a while. Let's not talk about it. Wasted energy, dontcha know? Anyway, I'm back... in some form and frequency that has yet to be determined.

I am doing some new work writing and composing Mass settings in a variety of American idioms like blues and jazz. Not like the typical Jazz Mass that so many of our churches do -- the kind that just plunks the jazz into the midst of a 1970s Rite 2 liturgy with no relation to anything else (they also do this with far too many U2charists, but that's another post entirely). My work is altering the entire ethos of the liturgy so that everything relates, most especially the vocalized portions of a sung Mass, to work well within these genres.

Imagine the Eucharistic Prayer fully sung in a blues progression. Amazing stuff! My hope is to provide the resources that make it possible for even our smallest churches to achieve while also expanding the resources to utilize professional choirs and instrumentalists and more into a full communal celebration.

Anybody want to help me publish?

All are welcome!

Let us build a house where love can dwell and all can safely live.
A place where saints and children tell how hearts learn to forgive.
Built of hopes and dreams and visions, rock of faith and vault of grace.
here the love of Christ shall end divisionss:
All are welcome,
All are welcome in this place
~Marty Haugen (b. 1950)

Our bishops have spoken in a remarkably generous and Spirit filled way. They have affirmed a desire to remain in the Anglican Communion but have also made clear that if we must choose between our baptismal ecclesiology (all are welcome) and a type of church unity purchased with the lives of a few (didn't Jesus already do that?) then they are ready, able and willing to lead this church through that wilderness. We will not sacrifice the vision we believe God has given this church to a crisis that we believe has been manufactured.

Stunning!

I've read the bishop's statements several times over by now. What is capturing my attention most this morning is their conviction that the church is not theirs (or anyone else's) to divide. In the third of their three resolutions they say:

It is incumbent upon us as disciples to do our best to follow Jesus in the increasing experience of the leading of the Holy Spirit. We fully understand that others in the Communion believe the same, but we do not believe that Jesus leads us to break our relationships. We proclaim the Gospel of what God has done and is doing in Christ, of the dignity of every human being, and of justice, compassion, and peace. We proclaim the Gospel that in Christ there is no Jew or Greek, no male or female, no slave or free. We proclaim the Gospel that in Christ all God's children, including women, are full and equal participants in the life of Christ's Church. We proclaim the Gospel that in Christ all God's children, including gay and lesbian persons, are full and equal participants in the life of Christ's Church. We proclaim the Gospel that stands against any violence, including violence done to women and children as well as those who are persecuted because of their differences, often in the name of God. The Dar es Salaam Communiqué is distressingly silent on this subject. And, contrary to the way the Anglican Communion Network and the American Anglican Council have represented us, we proclaim a Gospel that welcomes diversity of thought and encourages free and open theological debate as a way of seeking God's truth. If that means that others reject us and communion with us, as some have already done, we must with great regret and sorrow accept their decision.

This the Episcopal Church I remember. This is the Anglican vision that first drew me in from the rather dreary Protestant evangelicalism of my youth (hey, it was the 1970s). This is an expression of the faith I'd sign up for all over again.

How about you?

I'm also taken with their clarity of history and our Church's place within it.

Third, it violates our founding principles as The Episcopal Church following our own liberation from colonialism and the beginning of a life independent of the Church of England.

Fourth, it is a very serious departure from our English Reformation heritage. It abandons the generous orthodoxy of our Prayer Book tradition. It sacrifices the emancipation of the laity for the exclusive leadership of high-ranking Bishops. And, for the first time since our separation from the papacy in the 16th century, it replaces the local governance of the Church by its own people with the decisions of a distant and unaccountable group of prelates.

Most important of all it is spiritually unsound. The pastoral scheme encourages one of the worst tendencies of our Western culture, which is to break relationships when we find them difficult instead of doing the hard work necessary to repair them and be instruments of reconciliation. The real cultural phenomenon that threatens the spiritual life of our people, including marriage and family life, is the ease with which we choose to break our relationships and the vows that established them rather than seek the transformative power of the Gospel in them. We cannot accept what would be injurious to this Church and could well lead to its permanent division.

I'm also taken with their generosity. They issue invitations rather than ultimatums.

We invite the Archbishop [of Canterbury] and members of the Primate's Standing Committee to join us at our expense to three days of prayer and conversation about these important mattters. We belive there is an urgent need for us to meet face to face.

Lastly, I'm especially taken with their ability to hand the anxiety back to the Primates who try to demand that a crisis on their part is a crisis on our part. Rabbi Freidman would be proud.

With this affirmation both of our identity as a Church and our affection and commitment to the Anglican Communion, we find new hope that we can turn our attention to the essence of Christ's own mission in the world, to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to liberate the oppressed, and to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor (Luke 4:18-19). It is to that mission that we now determinedly turn.

There's more to come with a press conference today at 3:30 pm CDT, and with the blogosphere most likely about to explode with reaction and analysis.

pax [+]

caught between vows: proposal for a new "fast"

What bothers me most about the current Anglican crisis (and I do believe we have ben thrust into crisis by the Primates-- the question remains whether or not we will allow a crisis on their part necessitates a crisis on our part) is the human factor. We can argue over doctrine and polity all day long, but where those things really matter is in their incarnational praxis.

I've been asked if I could find a place within myself to willingly consent to the kind of "pause" our presiding bishop suggests we are being asked. How can I possibly answer that question knowing that I speak as an insider? I am a priest who is gay and partnered and who made it through the machinations of the curch to claim the place I now hold within it. Insiders have the kind of voice and power that such a pause necessarily prevents for others. To be asked to use that power over my brothers and sisters is untenable. It potentially places my ordination vows and my baptismal vows in direct conflict with one another. It is a deeply painful place to be.

You know what surprises me? I am surprised by what this crisis brings forth for some of my straight friends and parishioners. I've been surprised by their very clear conviction that if our church does not have the courage of its convictions then they will seek God elsewhere. They don't say it as a threat. They say it out of a deep belief in their baptismal vocation-- a vocation that we gave them-- that all are made one in Christ Jesus and now that that work is done our task is live into that reality. This crisis for them is not about people like me (as much as they may love me and wish to protect me), it's about people like all of us.

They believe the church is less about preserving things like buildings and doctrines and traditions, and more about allowing the love of Christ to set us free from those things that bind us. They believe that closing the door to changes in buildings and doctrines and traditions (things we might choose to do out of love for our traditions and communities) may actually close the door on the Holy Spirit.

I'm also caught by the predicament of our gay seminarians, postulants and candidates for Holy Orders. For some reason I'm in more constant contact with several of them since this mess began. When asked why they should continue on this journey I can only tell them that the "call" is about them and God but the ordination process is about them and the church. They must never confuse those two and learn to discern the limits the latter sometimes places on the former. We're all learning about that right now but I must confess I prefer this side of the collar to the other in which almost all the power is over you rather than even a little with you.

The incarnational power we may lose is with these folks, the ones I call the 2nd generation. Many of them have had the courage to consider ordained ministry because they first experienced the church through the ministry of the first waves of openly gay clergy. Not unlike young girls who felt the undeniable affirmation when they experienced a woman at the altar for the first time, gay folk have claimed their own incarnation as God's children in part because of the visible witness of gay clerics the church has offered them.

I remember back in Memphis when my own baptismal community raised me up for ordained ministry, seeing in me things I could not see in myself. I've used that experience as I've raised up others to consider discernment toward Holy Orders. Most often I see gifts in them that make my own pale by comparison. That's as it should be. The 2nd generation holds the potential for something different for the church in this regard. I long for the church to benefit from their ministries with and to us all. I confess it's a very personal longing, for I fear that we (I) may have lied to them about who and what the church is. We've taught them that baptism is the foundational ordination from which all else flows. We never taught them that subsequent sacraments sometimes call that foundation into question.

If we're not clear what kind of baptismal community we are offering, then I suggest a necessary "fast" so we may get our houses in order and stop the unintended spiritual violence we may cause some in our number. Until we are clear that we, like Jesus, invite everyone to God's table and to full participation in the life of the His body, then we are no longer able to baptize new ones into the household of faith.

I believe that makes crystalline the crisis we now face.

Is anyone else feeling trapped?

Making the call

St. John's Seminary & School of Theology in Collegeville, Minnesota is running a new advertisement to attract prospective students.  The ad is at left.

If I didn't already have my professional degree, I would call them immediately.  This is my kind of place.  I think they've got it exactly right.  Learning theology is not the same as knowing God.  There are large differences between those two things.  Both may be necessary and while I admit they can be related toward a common endeavor, it is the former that is at the heart of parish ministry for me.

I was blessed with a remarkable education at Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, Mass.  Yes, that school, the one many Episcopalians love to hate.  What I've grown to truly appreciate about the education I received is the ability to make theology practiceable.  I am what is called a practical theologian.  I am trained to turn what can be esoteric theological constructs into accessible faith practices.  My years of parish ministry have convinced me that if you cannot practice it, then it has no purpose.  So much of Christianity has become mind candy.  We've lost touch with the faith as a path to be walked, a way of life to be lived.

The only relevant church for me is the one that helps us to ask questions rather than to rehearse answers.  Our work is supposed to break down those false walls we've erected between the (so-called) sacred and profane, and to hold them in the creative tension that is already present.

I love this small excerpt from Dying Church, Living God by the late Chuck Meyer.

...the Bible is a strange collection of conflicting accounts from different traditions at differeing times in history, from different cities and different cultures.  Like other holy books, it serves up inconsistencies, different accounts of the same events, from the differing creation stories in Genesis to the differing admonitions of Jesus and Paul and Peter on various issues from divorce to the relationship between faith and works.  Although it can be argued that the current biblical canon was the result of a political and theological compromise worked out around 400 CE, it can also be argued that the document we have is exactly what God had in mind-- inconsistency.

What is the result of incongruent statements from different biblical figures?  The result is that we who are looking for certainty can't find it.  The result is that we are forced to talk, argue, exchange views, and ferret out the truth of the moment, knowing we may get more data tomorrow that would change that truth to a new one.  The result is that we are given a model of interacting with God and one another based on a dialogue rather than doctrine, collaboration rather than certainy, process rather than perfection-- quite a different model from the structured hierarchy of belief and personnel we have cemented into the current God-box.

During the drama around the 2003 General Convention of the Episcopal Church, columnist George Will of the Washington Post wrote about a conversation with an Episcopal bishop who said that he was tired of being asked "What is your opinion?  What matters," the bishop said, "is theology, not opinion." 

Where did we ever get the idea that theology is something other than opinion?

As we approach the next General Convention in a matter of mere weeks, I plead for us to get off our theological high horses and come down closer to where God lives.  Let's get real, get dirty with Jesus.

Just my $.02 on a stunningly beautiful Friday afternnoon in Phildelphia.

pax[+]

still don't fly with me

There's more.  On the return flight, we were delayed boarding the plane because they needed to change a tire on the landing gear.  They did that.  We boarded.  I got my favorite seat, Row #1 right in the bulkhead.  No better seat for me on the plane.  All seemed okay.  But then again, this is me.  Something has to go wrong.

You know that tire they repaired?  Well it blew on take-off.  Yep, that's right.  It blew.   Sounded like what I imagine a missile entering the fuselage might be like.

The captain was great.  Really great.  He assured us nothing was wrong.  We were in no danger.  The tower had us flying in a low altitude circle so they could do a visual inspection to determine if we needed to land right then or if we'd be okay proceeding to our destination.  They determined the later.

They also  determined that the landing gear should stay down.  Apparently they were worried that if the gear was retracted it might not make it back down thereby forcing us into a crash landing on the belly of the plane.  I applauded their decision even though it made for a rougher flight.

The flight itself was uneventful.  Couldn't believe I was actually having a great flight-- in spite of the obvious.  Everything continued to be fine until we were ready to land.  Remember that captain that was so wonderful?  His wonderfulness included not telling us that with one blown tire, we had to prepare for an emergency landing.  Yep.  That's right.  Crash positions.  You know how wonderful that bulkhead seat is?  Well, scrap it for crash positions.  There's nothing between you and the galley and all those burners and such.

I glanced out the window and saw a sea of flashing red lights.  Looked to me like every fire department within 50 miles must have been there.  I know that wasn't the case but....  The danger is that the other tires might not be able to bear the brunt of the plane's weight and force on landing.  If not, then the plane could be forced onto its belly.  You get the picture.

No one told us this until we needed to know.  I'm glad for that.  I use the same philosopohy when welcoming folks to my parish.  Don't tell people stuff they don't need to know until right before they need to know it.  In the case of visitors, you do it because they won't remember it if you tell them too earlyt.  In my case, you don't tell me because I won't forget and will obsess over it the whole time.

The landing was fine.  You couldn't even tell.  I swore never to fly for another year.

pax [+]

don't fly with me

I just returned from a 24 hour excursion.  I had to fly.  I hate to fly.  It's rarely a good thing.  A word to the wise from those who know me:  don't fly with me.

On the outgoing trip, I had to sit over the wing.  Anyone for whom surviving trubulence is a death defying act knows that sitting over the wing is one of the worst places to be on a plane in terms of a smooth ride.  This flight was no exception.  It was bumpy the whole way.

What was more interesting were the women sitting in the exit row immediately in front of me.  The talked the entire time.  More accurately, they talked non-stop.  I know this for a fact because once we boarded the plane, we sat on the tarmack for about an hour.  One of the women talked so much that the person sitting next to me-- who spoke German as her primary language-- found the English to say, "I wonder if she has an 'off' button."  Funny as hell.

Back to the story.  As we were preparing for take off the attendant came back and did his dutiful diligence in making certain they were prepared to assume the responsibility of sitting in an exit row.  Did I mention the talker was decked out in crosses?  She had a big one around her neck.  She wore two more as earrings.  Another was a ring on her finger.  Nothing like wearing an instrument of captial punishment as a fashion statement.  Anyway, when the steward asked if they would execute the emergency duties, the talker said, "Oh, it doesn't matter to us.  We're ready to meet Jesus any time, the sooner the better." 

There's more to the story, but here's the Reader's Digest version:  they were asked to move.  Their desire to meet Jesus was greater than their desire to value the other lives on the plane at least as much as they valued their own.  Isn't it ironic that those who claim to love Jesus best are also the ones who don't get his foundational teachings?

Right on!  It didn't make the plane ride any easier, and I didn't volunteer to take the exit row seats.  Given my luck, the Jesus freak lady might have booby-trapped the escape latch to get all of to Jesus a little bit faster.  As a priest, I could just see that headline too clearly.

pax [+]

chasing the bunnies into the light

CHELSEA HUDGEN-FINLEY
June 1988 ~ June 2005

Chelsea died on Wednesday, June 8, 2005 at 3:15 pm.

Losing Chelsea is a grief only seconded by the loss of my parents. Having to lose him while I was away at a conference is only seconded by knowing what my spouse had to go through without me here to help him.

You know how it is. We all have things we promise to do for our spouses. There are things only he does, that I rely upon him to do, and that give me some sense of comfort and stability knowing that those things will be taken care of. Likewise, there are things I do. This was to be one of them. I had prepared for it. I was ready.

But I wasn't there. Providence had something different for us to learn.

How like Chelsea to wait until I wasn't with him to enter new life. I was away at Credo 82 (an invitation-only enrichment program for Episcopal clergy) and so Allen was left on his own. We had kidded many times that this would happen when I was out of town, but it was only that-- kidding.

I knew the end was coming very soon when Allen called and held the cell phone so I could hear Chelsea's breathing. It was the distinctive breath of a body that was giving way so its soul could be loosed. Allen sobbed, needing to know that his instincts about what to do were the right ones. I sobbed, knowing what my family was having to go through without me. I felt so very guilty that I was letting them down. That's not true, I know, but the emotion is an honest one.

When I returned home, Allen noticed that I was not going upstairs. He was right. Chelsea had been confined to one bedroom upstairs for most of the past year. A baby gate guarded the doorway so he couldn't wander out and fall down the stairs. The baby gate was still up and Allen had thoughtfully done very little to the room. He knew that I needed to encounter that room as the only way I could enter into the experience of Chelsea's death.

I lay on the bed clutching a stuffed bunny that my staff had sent me while in Florida. (They know me so well.) The blue blanket where he died was still on the floor crumpled just so, I could still make out where his body had been. I could also tell where Allen had laid on the floor next to him for endless hours. The room stank both of dog urine and pet death. I was glad for that. I was also glad for the presence of his dog bed, toys and food bowls all still in their place.

I was still on the bed when Allen joined me. We stayed next to one another, cried quietly and not so quietly, telling our Chelsea stories. That little creature carried so much for us. There is much witness to be born to the life we shared with him.

After a while we brought in McGee, our surviving Wheaten. We carried him to the bed to be with us, and he did dutiful service. He still won't walk on the floor of this room, nor will he come through the doorway unless invited. He knows the old man of the house is gone and is not yet ready to violate the space or make it his own. McGee is grieving, too.

After giving ourselves some time, we got up and went out to dinner. Returning home, I began the process of cleaning the room. Slowly. Deliberately. With great intention I picked up one piece at a time, gaving thanks for the ways it had served this creature which had the fullness of my love, and cleaning or putting it away.

Allen and I slept together in the room that night-- a first in over a year since the dogs didn't get along too well-- and because Chelsea was the real problem. We began to reclaim the room and returned to a way of life that had been ours with Chelsea, so even that felt like a rightful tribute.

McGee joined us for the night, but only on the bed. As soon as he jumps down he leaves the room. I understand the aversion, and it's his own way of loving Chelsea and grieving his death at the same time.

Not a bad model.

pax [+]

is there a heaven just for dogs?

All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small

I don't usually do this-- repost something I've written elsewhere for a different audience-- but my grief encourages me to do so. I wrote this for the June issue of our parish newsletter magazine. Of all the things I written over more than a decade of ordained ministry, this one little story has caused the greatest outpouring of response. If you want to see the entire issue, along with a photo of Chelsea, click here.

Our beloved dog Chelsea is nearing death. He’s nearly 18 years old and for a breed with an average lifespan of only 12 years he’s not just an old man, he’s ancient. Willard Scott should honor him on morning television for having survived this long. As with all things you love so very deeply, it is both a joy and heartbreak to watch him age and struggle with a body that no longer works the way it once did.

Chelsea has been with us since our beginning. He was my gift to Allen our first Christmas together. He’s what helped us to realize that we were forming a family for one another, all three of us. He’s been with us through it all, every step of the way we have made as a family. We lived in Michigan while I prepared for divinity school. I worked for the district and circuit courts of Washtenaw County. The animal control officer in Chelsea, Michigan alerted me to this beautiful Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier that had been brought in by his previous owners—hence his name “Chelsea.” One look and we were smitten. We never knew why his previous owners let go of him. He came to us in the first year of his life, knew voice and hand commands, and has been a complete treasure.

Wheatens are fully of energy—intense energy—and must have vigorous exercise lest they become destructive. I remember taking Chelsea to a cemetery not far from our home in Jackson. Thank God the place was fenced. He ran around the perimeter as fast as he could then began dodging the tall headstones, weaving back and forth. Finally, he started jumping the headstones all the while maintaining a speed which turned him to a blur of white fluff sailing through the air.

I remember taking him with us to the tennis courts while Allen and I played a game or two—he loved chasing the balls for us. One afternoon the confinement of the courts was just too much. He found his way out, took off at top speed, jumped into the air and landed perfectly in a baby carriage that was being strolled in the park. The mother shrieked while we made our way to the scene of the crime. (Short ending: all was well.)

He was with us during divinity school, adjusting to urban life and the intensity that graduate school can bring to a family. He was with us when Allen moved to Nashville to begin his professional design career and I moved to Arkansas to care for my parents. He bounced back and forth between us until I realized that my father had, perhaps, a deeper bond with him than did either of us. As my mother died, Chelsea was always near Daddy, never letting him alone for too long. Daddy got into the habit of taking Chelsea with him each morning to either McDonald’s (where Chelsea got his own Egg McMuffin) or to the donut shop (where he got his honey glazed donut) as well as the attention of the older crowd that gathered there each morning. Daddy loved him so much that Chelsea developed an inflamed pancreas from all the loved-filled but really-bad-for-dogs food.

They were inseparable. The pang I felt inside of me each time I watched my beloved Chelsea enjoy being with my father rather than me was more than overcome as I witnessed this small unassuming creature ministering to my father in ways that he would not allow others to do. The night my father died, Chelsea went to my father’s favorite chair in the den of my childhood home, stood in the seat and howled. It is a moment indelibly marked in my soul.

Now Chelsea’s time for new life is approaching. We tease him telling him it’s time to “chase the bunnies into the light.” And it really is time, but his body is not quite ready to go there, but it will come. I know it will come. And when it does, we will be heartbroken. Each time I bathe his now tired and thin body, I wonder if it will be the last time I get to cradle him in my arms while he reaches up to lick my face. Such is the life we have shared.

My greatest consolation is knowing that whatever lay on the other side of this life for Chelsea, I know my father will be waiting there for him. I pray that we have served Chelsea in our life together as well as my father served me in his.

pax [+]

dancing episcopalians

There was so much going on, I wasn't certain what I was seeing out of the corner of my eye. Our parish's Maundy Thursday celebration is a real celebration. We call it the Feast of Friends and it's modeled on the earliest Christian eucharist found in a second century document called the Didache (or, The Teaching). Very communal. Communion is a table meal with real food and real conversation.

Most Episcopalians have never experienced anything like it. We clear the church, put up tables, and eat a complete meal together.

It was 7 o'clock. Time to start. All the tables were filled, but the people kept coming. We added an extra chair to every table, but the people kept coming. When everyone was settled, we began with the ancient blessing over the first cup of wine, broke bread and passed it around. During the meal we tell the story of Jesus washing the feet of his friends. I then tell a story of a time when someone unexpectedly served me and how that simple experience changed my life, if only for a moment. Then I ask everyone to share that same kind of story around their table.

The sharing is amazing. People were really getting into it. If we had done that for two hours it wouldn't have been enough time, so wonderul was the sharing. Those simple stories are our witness to the living presence of a living God. The vulnerability it takes to share those stories changes the energy in the room. The breath of God was palpable. I hated to interrupt but we had more work to do.

Then comes the footwashing. We have a large immersion font so we get in the font to wash feet. Yep, that's right-- in the font. It's wonderful and messy and chaotic. There were so many people there we did it in pairs and still it took over 45 minutes to get everyone washed. The Feast is filled with music, all sung to the beat of drums and other rhythm instruments. Our voices literally fill the room--some might say we shook the walls, too. I looked up to see people waiting for the font lined up and snaking their way around the room. Singing, chatting, moving to the music.

This footwashing thing is profound. You can't do it and leave unchanged. At our place, folks tend to hang out around the font as others get washed. Eventually everyone ends up crowded around.

That's when I saw it. A blur of palm fronds and arms and bare feet went by. Some of the women were holding hands, armed raised like in a Greek folk dance, waving the palms they were holding, and dancing! Spontaneous dancing! Unexplained dancing! Unfettered spirits! A blend of how much we love each other, how much we love God, and our gratitude for both. A distinctive blur of the holy and the human at its finest.

The dance line began to grow. Eventually it became a full circle. Then another formed behind that first one. It was so beautiful it took my breath away and my eyes filled with tears. As the tears rolled down my cheeks the Spirit that was in the room came full into me. There has been no finer moment in my ministry than this one.

Today, one of the newer members of our community emailed me. He told me that he had never experienced anything like that night in his entire life.

Me, too.

Click here for another person's experience of this same night-- with pictures!

pax [+]