*The title of this article is taken from the CREDO Eclectic article title by Herb Gunn. His article in that newsletter (on Facebook) inspired my thinking along similar lines.
Background: Sir Isaac Newton's first law of motion: An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.
Retirement is an interesting endeavor. Since I have never done it before, the only references as to the experience comes from those who have and are retired. I am quickly learning that retirement is like fingerprints -- no two are alike. For those not yet retired: it is okay to listen to the experiences of others, or to watch those experiences emerge in others; but don't believe it will be the same for you. It won't.
The first two months (July & August) were spent at a near frantic pace as we changed our entire plan for being settled in our Lee's Summit, MO home and community and shifted to the purchase of a not-yet-built townhome in Sarasota, FL. This was not on our familial radar until literally days prior to my date of retirement.
By the end of July, we had had made two trips to Sarasota -- the first at the very beginning of the month to look at opportunities and existing condos, villas and townhomes -- the second at the end of the month to finalize the contract on a townhome, which is part of a final phase of a condominium development. In between, we completed enough paperwork to reforest the Amazon basin; spent countless time on telephones and emails; got to know the FedEx office folks on a first name basis (overnighting parts of contracts and mortgage initiating docs); had work done and did work ourselves on our current home to prepare it for the real estate market; divested ourselves -- room by room -- of thirty plus years of accumulated materials that did not meet our mutually agreed criteria: do we absolutely love it; have we used it in the past two years; when we move, do we want to take it with us to the new home? In the end, we are probably a good 2,500 lbs lighter in our earthly load. I have to readily admit. I don't miss anything and the house feels much larger and more peaceful.
The work of July continued into August. Work on our current home moved outside. While we have kept the house and yard in very good shape over the past eight years, fine-tuning, reworking and replacing schedules suddenly became compacted into these first two months. While it placed a fair strain on the budget, we managed to complete about 95% of what we planned. The other 5%? They comprise our two basement storerooms. We have a finished basement that is multi-use. Off of it, there is the mechanical room with a lot of storage space and another room that could be made into almost any kind of space, but is used to store things that belong to our two daughters and items which have been categorized "undecided" in our sweeping simplification of life and belongings project of July/August. We figure three days work max to complete the entire project.
We are now approaching mid-October. Folks are looking at our current home, but no offers yet. They have poured the foundation for the building of which our townhome will be a part in Sarasota (they send pictures almost weekly of the progress). I have done Sunday supply occasionally, and we have worshipped in parishes in Lee's Summit and Independence. We made a trip to South Bend, IN to co-host an engagement party for our younger daughter and her fiance. I spent nine days in the Black Hills doing interviews that will, hopefully, lay the platform for a book I want to write (part of my original retirement plan). I was accompanied on this trip by my dear friend, Don Palmer. It was sacred time and space to be sure, as I showed him parts of the Hills not seen by tourists...but known to current Native Americans (Lakota, Cheyenne, and others) and indigenous peoples for at least the past thousand years. Denise and I just finished a four-day trip to St. Louis for time together and sightseeing in celebration of our 30th wedding anniversary. Oh, and I went to our diocesan priests' conference in between the Black Hills trip and our St. Louis trip.
So, my experience thus far of retirement has not included anything like "puttering about," or quiet days of reading, or even sleeping late for that matter. Lethargy has not been a word to be applied to my experience to this point. HOWEVER, there is something unsettling about this particular manner of sustained motion. It wobbles!
I never experienced a consistent routine in 33 years of parish ministry. Parochial life has a certain rhythm, but it is regularly broken by the unexpected, the crisis, the emergency, or the issue that mark most days. One really has to be a priest to know what a priest enounters. Regardless of the jokes about "working only one day a week," a parish priest's life is not really his/her own. After three months of not being in parish work, I look out the back door of our home, while sitting at our breakfast nook table and see the same scenes I have seen countless times in our eight years here. BUT, it looks very different. I realize that, for the first time, I am REALLY seeing the details, hearing the sounds of life, smelling the fragrances coming to me on the breeze wafting through the screen door. I am engaging my environment. I am becoming mindful.
I actually realized I was spiritually lethargic while on sabbatical in 2008. My mentors, Ben Rhodd (Leading Eagle), Lyle Noisy Hawk and Martin Brokenleg patiently opened my eyes, ears, nose and heart to the vastness of and engagement with creation...as the Creator wants us to experience it. I lived those three months of June-August 2008 in what the Celtic Christians called the "thin place" -- where heaven and earth touch. It is vastly transformative. It is also easily lost.
The expectations of daily life in the current culture do not recognize nor much permit walking in this thin place...even in the Church. It is considered non-productive. However, deeper exploration of scriptures and tradition show us that it is exactly the place God would have us live. It is the place of transformative growth. I thought I had lost that place after sabbatical. I suddenly realize it has always been here. It was I who was lost to it!
My forward movement is being impacted by forces that are actually balancing in nature -- contrary to Newton's first law of motion. My lethargy has not been one of lack of motion but lack of mindfulness -- non-attention to the deeper realities around me.
Folks I regularly engage tell me that my eyes are brighter, my walk is more relaxed, I laugh more easily, and I have a more laid-back attitude. My friends who work at the local Starbuck's have started calling me "The Dude." My hairstyle and demeanor remind them of the Jeff Bridges character in "The Big Lebowski" (a Cohen Brothers movie that has re-emerged as a cult classic for young adults). I have promised to wear my bathrobe over my clothing on Halloween...and I will do it. My hair is now touching my shoulders, I've dropped a few pounds of weight. Mostly, I am becoming the real me...the one God knows, and I am getting to know again. Welcome home Fred!
My love in Christ,
"The Dude"
At Large and Running Amok
Lee's Summit, MO
13 October 2011
30 August 2011
Remembering: Reflections on 9/11/01
Like everyone else, I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I learned that airline jets had struck the Twin Towers in NYC. I was Dean of St. James Cathedral, South Bend, IN. It was one of those bright September mornings that had just a hint of the approaching fall. I had just finished a breakfast meeting with my Bishop....planning activities for the coming months that would involve the cathedral's leadership and resources. Our business and meal completed, I was heading to the cathedral office, when I got a call from one of our parishioners. He was nearly breathless, and I first thought he was in a personal crisis. Finally, he was able to ask me, "Are you the only person in the United States who doesn't know that we are under attack?!!!."
He told me what he knew as I raced to the cathedral office. Once in my office, I booted my laptop and turned on the television we had connected to local cable. The images were graphic, and I stood motionless for a long time watching what I could only describe as a surreal unfolding of events. Then, the unthinkable began to happen. First, an airliner entered one side of the Pentagon at almost ground level...like a bullet fired from a gun. Then, one tower collapsed. Then, the other tower collapsed. Then, the news of the airliner diving into a field in rural southeast Pennsylvania. My thought at that time: 'life as we know it has just changed dramatically.'
For us at St. James Cathedral, the day very quickly shifted out of its relative normalcy (nothing is really ever "normal" in parish ministry), into a modality of response. Within eight hours, we had developed a full liturgy for gathering the community, notified television and radio stations of the time of worship that evening, gathered our personnel resources and prepped them for what we were about to do and designed the high altar and chapel altar to reflect what we seemed to be experiencing (beyond the numbness). As soon as I had gathered enough clarity of the implications, I had called our Bishop (whose office is directly upstairs from the Dean's office) and told him what I thought needed ot be done. He readily agreed, and we began marshalling the resources. To this day, I do not know how we did all that we accomplished between 10am and 7pm that day.
That evening, the cathedral was full...not just with our parishioners but with people from all over the South Bend metro. The next 90 minutes embraced sacred time that seemed to cement our diversity into a single cry for peace, understanding and the souls of all those lost. I only remember the opening words of my homily: "My sisters and brothers, this day we have entered the surreal..."
In the days that followed, the cathedral joined with our Christian, Jewish and Muslim urban communities in daily prayer...each day in a different house of worship. The Cathedral Chapel remained open 24 hours with persons in prayer around the clock -- martyr lights burning on the Altar (large, red glass candles that burn for 8 days) -- one candle for each tower, one for the Pentagon and one for the crashed airliner in Shanksville, PA.
On Saturday morning, 15 September, I was part of a representative clergy group that gathered on the south parking lot of Notre Dame to pray for a team of EMTs and fire department personnel from South Bend and four other area communities that were heading to Ground Zero to provide assistance. The University of Notre Dame had a number of programs linked to businesses with offices in the NYC Twin Towers. Friends and family were among those whose lives were lost that day. We realized that it was really close to home; and that this was probably true for hundreds of communities around the country.
For months following that fateful Tuesday in September, we engaged in pastoral counseling, reflective teaching and preaching, special times of prayer -- all while trying to find that place of normalcy that seemed so elusive. It did slowly come, but the toll on our individual and common psyches was larger than we perhaps realized.
Just four months prior to 9/11/2001 the North American Conference of Cathedral Deans had convened in Oklahoma City, OK -- hosted by the Cathedral for the Episcopal Diocese of Oklahoma that year. Our focus was on the terrorist bombing that destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on 19 April 1995. The explosion lifted and moved the entire roof system of the cathedral, which was five blocks away! People who were injured or lost loved ones in that tragic event spent the weekend with us -- sharing their experiences and the work of healing in their lives and in Oklahoma City itself. Without knowing it, we were experiencing a preparation for what would soon take place and would rock our entire country to its core.
Remembering is not simply thinking back and touching on points of pain. Think about the word: re-member. In the New Testament, this word is anamnesis and means "to make present again." Why would we want to do this? To engage again on a seminal level is to incorporate and learn in the experience. The National Geographic Channel is running a week long series leading up to 9/11 that engages the tragedies of the day itself; the experiences of NYC and national leaders; the stories of those who were involved on many levels of the events and recovery; and the story of those who promulgated the acts of terror and subsequent attempts.
Remembering isn't just the day and those hours but all that surrounded it and followed from it. It continues to unfold. It is part of who we are -- both individually and as a culture. We can only be whole as we sit in the moment. It is the experience of Christian Eucharist and contemplative prayer. It is also the experience of Buddhist meditation, Oneness Deeksha, and other spiritual disciplines. In the Lakota tradition, the opening and closing of prayer with Mitakuye Oyasin ("All My Relations" or "We are all connected") embraces making all things present. It is a common thread of prayer that binds humanity and all creation.
To remember is to bring healing and to burn away the anger, pain and fear. Once all that is is gone, what is left are the acts of love and selflessness that define true human nature...that created in God's image. In Christian Eucharist, Christ Jesus becomes present to us in the act of re-membering. That presence heals, restores and sharpens our focus on what it means to be truly human.
I sit in the midst of the flames, destruction and cries of the suffering and dying. I connect with all that is in that moment...embracing it with love, seeking forgiveness and restoration of peace, remembering so I might be renewed.
Blessings,
Fr. Fred+
He told me what he knew as I raced to the cathedral office. Once in my office, I booted my laptop and turned on the television we had connected to local cable. The images were graphic, and I stood motionless for a long time watching what I could only describe as a surreal unfolding of events. Then, the unthinkable began to happen. First, an airliner entered one side of the Pentagon at almost ground level...like a bullet fired from a gun. Then, one tower collapsed. Then, the other tower collapsed. Then, the news of the airliner diving into a field in rural southeast Pennsylvania. My thought at that time: 'life as we know it has just changed dramatically.'
For us at St. James Cathedral, the day very quickly shifted out of its relative normalcy (nothing is really ever "normal" in parish ministry), into a modality of response. Within eight hours, we had developed a full liturgy for gathering the community, notified television and radio stations of the time of worship that evening, gathered our personnel resources and prepped them for what we were about to do and designed the high altar and chapel altar to reflect what we seemed to be experiencing (beyond the numbness). As soon as I had gathered enough clarity of the implications, I had called our Bishop (whose office is directly upstairs from the Dean's office) and told him what I thought needed ot be done. He readily agreed, and we began marshalling the resources. To this day, I do not know how we did all that we accomplished between 10am and 7pm that day.
That evening, the cathedral was full...not just with our parishioners but with people from all over the South Bend metro. The next 90 minutes embraced sacred time that seemed to cement our diversity into a single cry for peace, understanding and the souls of all those lost. I only remember the opening words of my homily: "My sisters and brothers, this day we have entered the surreal..."
In the days that followed, the cathedral joined with our Christian, Jewish and Muslim urban communities in daily prayer...each day in a different house of worship. The Cathedral Chapel remained open 24 hours with persons in prayer around the clock -- martyr lights burning on the Altar (large, red glass candles that burn for 8 days) -- one candle for each tower, one for the Pentagon and one for the crashed airliner in Shanksville, PA.
On Saturday morning, 15 September, I was part of a representative clergy group that gathered on the south parking lot of Notre Dame to pray for a team of EMTs and fire department personnel from South Bend and four other area communities that were heading to Ground Zero to provide assistance. The University of Notre Dame had a number of programs linked to businesses with offices in the NYC Twin Towers. Friends and family were among those whose lives were lost that day. We realized that it was really close to home; and that this was probably true for hundreds of communities around the country.
For months following that fateful Tuesday in September, we engaged in pastoral counseling, reflective teaching and preaching, special times of prayer -- all while trying to find that place of normalcy that seemed so elusive. It did slowly come, but the toll on our individual and common psyches was larger than we perhaps realized.
Just four months prior to 9/11/2001 the North American Conference of Cathedral Deans had convened in Oklahoma City, OK -- hosted by the Cathedral for the Episcopal Diocese of Oklahoma that year. Our focus was on the terrorist bombing that destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on 19 April 1995. The explosion lifted and moved the entire roof system of the cathedral, which was five blocks away! People who were injured or lost loved ones in that tragic event spent the weekend with us -- sharing their experiences and the work of healing in their lives and in Oklahoma City itself. Without knowing it, we were experiencing a preparation for what would soon take place and would rock our entire country to its core.
Remembering is not simply thinking back and touching on points of pain. Think about the word: re-member. In the New Testament, this word is anamnesis and means "to make present again." Why would we want to do this? To engage again on a seminal level is to incorporate and learn in the experience. The National Geographic Channel is running a week long series leading up to 9/11 that engages the tragedies of the day itself; the experiences of NYC and national leaders; the stories of those who were involved on many levels of the events and recovery; and the story of those who promulgated the acts of terror and subsequent attempts.
Remembering isn't just the day and those hours but all that surrounded it and followed from it. It continues to unfold. It is part of who we are -- both individually and as a culture. We can only be whole as we sit in the moment. It is the experience of Christian Eucharist and contemplative prayer. It is also the experience of Buddhist meditation, Oneness Deeksha, and other spiritual disciplines. In the Lakota tradition, the opening and closing of prayer with Mitakuye Oyasin ("All My Relations" or "We are all connected") embraces making all things present. It is a common thread of prayer that binds humanity and all creation.
To remember is to bring healing and to burn away the anger, pain and fear. Once all that is is gone, what is left are the acts of love and selflessness that define true human nature...that created in God's image. In Christian Eucharist, Christ Jesus becomes present to us in the act of re-membering. That presence heals, restores and sharpens our focus on what it means to be truly human.
I sit in the midst of the flames, destruction and cries of the suffering and dying. I connect with all that is in that moment...embracing it with love, seeking forgiveness and restoration of peace, remembering so I might be renewed.
Blessings,
Fr. Fred+
03 August 2011
Billy the Chameleon
In the process of weeding out my files and moving my remaining office materials home at retirement, I ran across the file that contained all the liturgical materials for my ordination to the Priesthood on 29 December 1978. One document stood out in that file: the text of the sermon preached by Fr. C. Lee Gilbertson at my ordination. Lee was the Rector of St. Paul's, Winter Haven, FL (where I grew up) during my teen years and most of my college years. He was my mentor during the early stages of my vocational journey...mainly the years prior to seminary.
In that ordination sermon was a story about a rather unusual chameleon named "Billy." His owner -- an English farmer -- was very proud of Billy, because he had a rather special gift. No matter what color upon which the farmer placed Billy, the chameleon would quickly change to match that exact color....not just the greens, browns or grays; but any color.
The farmer delighted in taking Billy to pubs in the evening. He would place Billy on the bar and invite anyone to place any color cloth on the bar. Billy would scoot over to the cloth, settle in the midst of it and -- in the time it took to blink twice -- he would shift to that exact color. The brightest blues, reds, purples; it didn't matter. There was no color Billy could not acquire. Tourists and visitors would make bets, and the farmer always won.
Until one fateful night. The farmer entered his favorite pub with Billy riding in his shirt pocket -- head poked out and taking in the view. The farmer ordered a pint of his favorite bitters and settled down. Very soon, a group of his buddies came up with a stranger in tow. Would he be willing to show this stranger Billy's rare gift? The farmer readily agreed and placed Billy on the bar. The chameleon puffed out and made himself ready. A line of brightly colored cloths were laid out in a line along the bar. Sure enough, as Billy settled on each piece of fabric, he would change to that color. Things were going swimmingly well, and there were hoots of joy and clapping as Billy moved along the bar.
The stranger looked awed and, toward the end of Billy's act, asked if he might put his own cloth down for the chameleon to walk on. The farmer allowed as to how that would only be fair. The stranger had a thick, Highland Scottish brogue. From his jacket pocket, he pulled a brightly colored neckerchief -- in the tartan of his clan. It had five different colors in an elaborate pattern typical of ceremonial tartans. He laid his neckerchief on the bar for Billy.
True to form, Billy walked onto the neckerchief and settled near the center. Then something very strange happened. Billy began to breathe heavily and rapidly. He puffed up and then let go. He raised himself on his legs and twisted -- first one way and then another. His actions became wilder and more erratic. Finally, Billy heaved in a spasmodic convulsion the likes of which completely startled the farmer. Then, in an instant, poor Billy simply burst and died.
There was an erie silence in the bar. The Scottish visitor as aghast and tried to utter apologies through stutters of shock and dismay. He had meant no harm. He had fully expected to see Billy become the most beautiful blend of tartan colors imaginable. But this?! There were no words possible.
As his astonishment abated, the farmer took on an unusual visage of circumspection and calm. After many moments, he finally spoke in the otherwise silent pub. "Billy was the most special and admirable of his species," he reflected. "I know what has happened here. Billy always did his best with his rare gift of changing to any color of the rainbow. One by one, he could become what was needed at that moment. However, when he settled down on that lovely tartan, poor Billy couldn't become all those colors at once. Try as he might, his body just couldn't respond appropriately. Finally, in a valiant effort, he tried to make all those colors appear -- and, as you see, it just caused him literally to come apart." With that, he reverently gathered up the remains of his beloved chameleon, wrapped him in his handkerchief and left the pub to bury him in the garden of his cottage.
While I knew at the time what the moral of this story was all about, it took me a number of years to really embrace and own it for myself. In my vocation, the parish priest is the last of the true "generalists" in our culture. At given moments, we are theologians, psychologists, educators, preachers, liturgists, contemplatives, business persons, managers, historians and several other roles. We take these on in succession -- sometimes rapid succession. We can meet the unique needs of individuals in a variety of pastoral circumstances. None of us are good at all of those things, and we may have great gifts in one or several of them.
However, none of us -- aboslutely none of us -- can be all of those things at the same time. Absolutely none of us are able to meet everyone's expectations for what priest "should" or "ought" to be doing. There is no benchmark, I learned the hard way. There was a time -- a number of years ago -- when, like Billy, I almost burst in a metaphorical manner. Trying to meet all the needs and expectations at once led me to the very edge of an ugly abyss. It was a place God had never intended me -- or anyone -- to be.
The final decade of parish ministry for me was one of doing each job in succession and "majoring" in the areas I was best suited with my particular vocational gifts. Anger often ensues in folks who demand a veritable tartan of actions -- all at the same time.
I speak from the perspective of my own life and work. Needless to say, almost any vocation has a tartan of expectations. In our increasingly mobile and information driven society, we are expected to be more present, more informed, provide more answers, cover more ground with greater speed and alacrity than anytime in history. Is it surprising that we consume more pyschotropic medications and suffer from more stress related illnesses than any other time in human history?
One of the "graces" of retirement -- even after a month -- has been simplifying my life and taking on only one project at a time. And, I have been quite busy. My goal is to be a voice for the responsible simplification of vocational life...no matter what vocation is may be.
Next: Simplification
In Christ's Love,
Fr. Fred
Retired -- At Large and Running Amok
Lee's Summit, MO
In that ordination sermon was a story about a rather unusual chameleon named "Billy." His owner -- an English farmer -- was very proud of Billy, because he had a rather special gift. No matter what color upon which the farmer placed Billy, the chameleon would quickly change to match that exact color....not just the greens, browns or grays; but any color.
The farmer delighted in taking Billy to pubs in the evening. He would place Billy on the bar and invite anyone to place any color cloth on the bar. Billy would scoot over to the cloth, settle in the midst of it and -- in the time it took to blink twice -- he would shift to that exact color. The brightest blues, reds, purples; it didn't matter. There was no color Billy could not acquire. Tourists and visitors would make bets, and the farmer always won.
Until one fateful night. The farmer entered his favorite pub with Billy riding in his shirt pocket -- head poked out and taking in the view. The farmer ordered a pint of his favorite bitters and settled down. Very soon, a group of his buddies came up with a stranger in tow. Would he be willing to show this stranger Billy's rare gift? The farmer readily agreed and placed Billy on the bar. The chameleon puffed out and made himself ready. A line of brightly colored cloths were laid out in a line along the bar. Sure enough, as Billy settled on each piece of fabric, he would change to that color. Things were going swimmingly well, and there were hoots of joy and clapping as Billy moved along the bar.
The stranger looked awed and, toward the end of Billy's act, asked if he might put his own cloth down for the chameleon to walk on. The farmer allowed as to how that would only be fair. The stranger had a thick, Highland Scottish brogue. From his jacket pocket, he pulled a brightly colored neckerchief -- in the tartan of his clan. It had five different colors in an elaborate pattern typical of ceremonial tartans. He laid his neckerchief on the bar for Billy.
True to form, Billy walked onto the neckerchief and settled near the center. Then something very strange happened. Billy began to breathe heavily and rapidly. He puffed up and then let go. He raised himself on his legs and twisted -- first one way and then another. His actions became wilder and more erratic. Finally, Billy heaved in a spasmodic convulsion the likes of which completely startled the farmer. Then, in an instant, poor Billy simply burst and died.
There was an erie silence in the bar. The Scottish visitor as aghast and tried to utter apologies through stutters of shock and dismay. He had meant no harm. He had fully expected to see Billy become the most beautiful blend of tartan colors imaginable. But this?! There were no words possible.
As his astonishment abated, the farmer took on an unusual visage of circumspection and calm. After many moments, he finally spoke in the otherwise silent pub. "Billy was the most special and admirable of his species," he reflected. "I know what has happened here. Billy always did his best with his rare gift of changing to any color of the rainbow. One by one, he could become what was needed at that moment. However, when he settled down on that lovely tartan, poor Billy couldn't become all those colors at once. Try as he might, his body just couldn't respond appropriately. Finally, in a valiant effort, he tried to make all those colors appear -- and, as you see, it just caused him literally to come apart." With that, he reverently gathered up the remains of his beloved chameleon, wrapped him in his handkerchief and left the pub to bury him in the garden of his cottage.
While I knew at the time what the moral of this story was all about, it took me a number of years to really embrace and own it for myself. In my vocation, the parish priest is the last of the true "generalists" in our culture. At given moments, we are theologians, psychologists, educators, preachers, liturgists, contemplatives, business persons, managers, historians and several other roles. We take these on in succession -- sometimes rapid succession. We can meet the unique needs of individuals in a variety of pastoral circumstances. None of us are good at all of those things, and we may have great gifts in one or several of them.
However, none of us -- aboslutely none of us -- can be all of those things at the same time. Absolutely none of us are able to meet everyone's expectations for what priest "should" or "ought" to be doing. There is no benchmark, I learned the hard way. There was a time -- a number of years ago -- when, like Billy, I almost burst in a metaphorical manner. Trying to meet all the needs and expectations at once led me to the very edge of an ugly abyss. It was a place God had never intended me -- or anyone -- to be.
The final decade of parish ministry for me was one of doing each job in succession and "majoring" in the areas I was best suited with my particular vocational gifts. Anger often ensues in folks who demand a veritable tartan of actions -- all at the same time.
I speak from the perspective of my own life and work. Needless to say, almost any vocation has a tartan of expectations. In our increasingly mobile and information driven society, we are expected to be more present, more informed, provide more answers, cover more ground with greater speed and alacrity than anytime in history. Is it surprising that we consume more pyschotropic medications and suffer from more stress related illnesses than any other time in human history?
One of the "graces" of retirement -- even after a month -- has been simplifying my life and taking on only one project at a time. And, I have been quite busy. My goal is to be a voice for the responsible simplification of vocational life...no matter what vocation is may be.
Next: Simplification
In Christ's Love,
Fr. Fred
Retired -- At Large and Running Amok
Lee's Summit, MO
30 July 2011
Are the Ideal and the Practical Mutually Exclusive?
In the struggle that raged within me about the possibility of becoming an Episcopal Priest, I most often had a romanticized picture in my head of what life in that vocation might be like. For a guy like me...immersed in the life sciences and heading for medicine or some kind of research...my initial fear was the relevence of being a priest in a culture that had, at that time, declared that "God is dead." In my own heart and head, I knew that to be a great falsehood. However, I did not know then how to square that with the world around me.
I remember a trip just after graduation from the University of Florida (1972), when I drove my mom to Miami to see her Aunt Esther (my great aunt). Mom's family comes from a long line of Anglicans...going back as far as they had traced...and Aunt Esther had done a great deal of geneology. It was one reason for the visit. Aunt Esther and Aunt Clarise (my grandfather's two sisters) both lived in Miami and were wonderful people to visit...even for a 21 year old recent college graduate.
.
Aunt Esther was very involved in her little Episcopal Church not far from her home. On our second afternoon with her, she took me with her to the church to deliver some material for a program they were having that evening. When I arrived, the place was a beehive of activity. The priest was in the courtyard preparing to climb a ladder to the roof with some shingles for the three parishioners who were doing repairs. When he came down, he introduced himself and proceeded to show me around the small but well maintained complex. He was what I had idealized as the quintessential parish vicar...doing ministry but having time to "putter about" the church, study, pray, write and effectively engage his particular niche in the surrounding environment. That visit helped "sell" me on life as an Episcopal Priest.
Three years and three months later, I was in seminary. The time between the Miami visit with Aunt Esther and my being in on the threshold of graduate studies in a seminary had been filled with an intense and rewarding life in the U.S. Navy Submarine Corps. I had been engaging the world in a rather unique way. I had emerged a good bit wiser for sure, but I was still embracing a totally romanticized image regarding the life of a priest. Seminary would not help that framed ideal. I loved academics and the seminary routine of study, prayer, writing and living daily with my fellow students. In fact, even though professors (most of whom were priests themselves) warned that seminary was a "laboratory environment," my image of working in the larger Church simply grew more idealistic. I would have this same routine "out there!"
Of course it didn't happen. First, the invitation to continue my studies, earn a Ph.D. and teach Sacramental Theology, was met with me saying I needed to have at least three years of parish experience before doing that. I never left parish ministry...for the 33 years that completed that cycle fo my life just a month ago today.
Second, parish ministry was nothing like I had convinced myself it would be. It didn't even match my observations. Was I wrong? No, but I was only seeing the parts that were presented at the various times I engaged the professional elements of that life. AND, it continued to change during the years I was actively engaged in that work.
My first six or seven years somewhat floated my ideal of the parochial life of a priest. I did a lot of pastoral work; taught classes in the parish and for the diocese; ran a diocesan institute for advanced studies (and preparing men and women for ordination to vocational Diaconate); celebrated liturgies; studied on seveal levels and preached -- often. There was a rhythm, though I found the capacity to pray at the depth and to the extent I had experienced in seminary limited by daily expectations. This troubled me ... and would for all the years leading to retirement.
As our culture devalued sabbath time and stores began being open on Sundays for shopping, the shift began to widen to include organized community activities that competed for the time that a faith community normally came together to deepen their common life through worship, prayer and formation. A reality emerged very different form the ideal held by a 21 year old freshly minted college graduate who had struggled with vocation.
This story is only a snapshot testimony of what has become normal for our culture. We see it happening momentarily in our federal legislative system. What allowed me to survive, thrive and adapt to the rapid changes of a culture in parish ministry was the ability to be flexible enough to find places to compromise and engage my parishioners on ground that could be called "mutual" rather than rigidly insisting on things being what they "should" be. Sure, I had moments of railing about it (still do); but the daily operational life of the parish adapted to meet the largest possible needs of an increasingly secular society.
Now, in Congress and the White House, we have folks who see society and legislative process as having a single ideal...which must be attained regardless of the collateral damage it might create or the well-being of the largest breadth of the balance of the nation. In this statement, I am not defending a particular political party or ideology. The entire system is stuck in a place of all factions wanting only their particular needs met without regard to the needs of any other group. The system certainly isn't taking in the concerns and needs of the average, "broad middle" section of our population.
Now that I am retired, I take more time to have simple, "what gives with you" kinds of conversations with folks in the grocery store, the bank, Starbuck's, the hardware store...anywhere there are a few moments to chat with good, average working folks. Very few of these folks occupy radical ends of the political spectrum (either end). They are working to pay their bills, take care of their families, raise their children, make ends meet on social security and medicare and have a decent sense of security in life.
Are the ideal and the practical mutually exclusive? No, not at all! They come together in a place called compromise. It happens in a parish when the vocational ideals that define a faith community engage the practical elements of life in the world in which people now live. We find ways to celebrate and honor both.
It comes together in our political/legislative system with ideals of the various elected groups engage each other to find the ground that serves the largest measure of the common good of the people the system serves. There is no waiting until the next election. It will simply be the same thing with a different set of faces and rhetoric. We need to learn how to find the middle and celebrate our common measure of life. If not, we risk losing what we have spent 235 years building.
Blessings!
Fr. Fred
Retired -- At Large and Running Amok
Lee's Summit, MO
I remember a trip just after graduation from the University of Florida (1972), when I drove my mom to Miami to see her Aunt Esther (my great aunt). Mom's family comes from a long line of Anglicans...going back as far as they had traced...and Aunt Esther had done a great deal of geneology. It was one reason for the visit. Aunt Esther and Aunt Clarise (my grandfather's two sisters) both lived in Miami and were wonderful people to visit...even for a 21 year old recent college graduate.
.
Aunt Esther was very involved in her little Episcopal Church not far from her home. On our second afternoon with her, she took me with her to the church to deliver some material for a program they were having that evening. When I arrived, the place was a beehive of activity. The priest was in the courtyard preparing to climb a ladder to the roof with some shingles for the three parishioners who were doing repairs. When he came down, he introduced himself and proceeded to show me around the small but well maintained complex. He was what I had idealized as the quintessential parish vicar...doing ministry but having time to "putter about" the church, study, pray, write and effectively engage his particular niche in the surrounding environment. That visit helped "sell" me on life as an Episcopal Priest.
Three years and three months later, I was in seminary. The time between the Miami visit with Aunt Esther and my being in on the threshold of graduate studies in a seminary had been filled with an intense and rewarding life in the U.S. Navy Submarine Corps. I had been engaging the world in a rather unique way. I had emerged a good bit wiser for sure, but I was still embracing a totally romanticized image regarding the life of a priest. Seminary would not help that framed ideal. I loved academics and the seminary routine of study, prayer, writing and living daily with my fellow students. In fact, even though professors (most of whom were priests themselves) warned that seminary was a "laboratory environment," my image of working in the larger Church simply grew more idealistic. I would have this same routine "out there!"
Of course it didn't happen. First, the invitation to continue my studies, earn a Ph.D. and teach Sacramental Theology, was met with me saying I needed to have at least three years of parish experience before doing that. I never left parish ministry...for the 33 years that completed that cycle fo my life just a month ago today.
Second, parish ministry was nothing like I had convinced myself it would be. It didn't even match my observations. Was I wrong? No, but I was only seeing the parts that were presented at the various times I engaged the professional elements of that life. AND, it continued to change during the years I was actively engaged in that work.
My first six or seven years somewhat floated my ideal of the parochial life of a priest. I did a lot of pastoral work; taught classes in the parish and for the diocese; ran a diocesan institute for advanced studies (and preparing men and women for ordination to vocational Diaconate); celebrated liturgies; studied on seveal levels and preached -- often. There was a rhythm, though I found the capacity to pray at the depth and to the extent I had experienced in seminary limited by daily expectations. This troubled me ... and would for all the years leading to retirement.
As our culture devalued sabbath time and stores began being open on Sundays for shopping, the shift began to widen to include organized community activities that competed for the time that a faith community normally came together to deepen their common life through worship, prayer and formation. A reality emerged very different form the ideal held by a 21 year old freshly minted college graduate who had struggled with vocation.
This story is only a snapshot testimony of what has become normal for our culture. We see it happening momentarily in our federal legislative system. What allowed me to survive, thrive and adapt to the rapid changes of a culture in parish ministry was the ability to be flexible enough to find places to compromise and engage my parishioners on ground that could be called "mutual" rather than rigidly insisting on things being what they "should" be. Sure, I had moments of railing about it (still do); but the daily operational life of the parish adapted to meet the largest possible needs of an increasingly secular society.
Now, in Congress and the White House, we have folks who see society and legislative process as having a single ideal...which must be attained regardless of the collateral damage it might create or the well-being of the largest breadth of the balance of the nation. In this statement, I am not defending a particular political party or ideology. The entire system is stuck in a place of all factions wanting only their particular needs met without regard to the needs of any other group. The system certainly isn't taking in the concerns and needs of the average, "broad middle" section of our population.
Now that I am retired, I take more time to have simple, "what gives with you" kinds of conversations with folks in the grocery store, the bank, Starbuck's, the hardware store...anywhere there are a few moments to chat with good, average working folks. Very few of these folks occupy radical ends of the political spectrum (either end). They are working to pay their bills, take care of their families, raise their children, make ends meet on social security and medicare and have a decent sense of security in life.
Are the ideal and the practical mutually exclusive? No, not at all! They come together in a place called compromise. It happens in a parish when the vocational ideals that define a faith community engage the practical elements of life in the world in which people now live. We find ways to celebrate and honor both.
It comes together in our political/legislative system with ideals of the various elected groups engage each other to find the ground that serves the largest measure of the common good of the people the system serves. There is no waiting until the next election. It will simply be the same thing with a different set of faces and rhetoric. We need to learn how to find the middle and celebrate our common measure of life. If not, we risk losing what we have spent 235 years building.
Blessings!
Fr. Fred
Retired -- At Large and Running Amok
Lee's Summit, MO
24 July 2011
The Surreal Becomes Reality in Norway
Norway is not a newcomer to international tragedy. In World War II, the Nazi's used Norway as a major hub for launching their submarine warfare. While trying to maintain neutrality, they were pushed directly into the path of Nazi Germany's juggernaut of European domination.
However, for the past sixty-five years, Norwegians have known both peace and a kind of internal stability that keeps them well out of world news. Norwegians tend to be happy, healthy and friendly people. No act of internal terrorism has occured in over sixty-five years. Until Saturday, 23 July.
AndresBehring Breivik, 32, a native Norwegian, detonated a high yield explosive in front of the government offices in Osolo; then proceeded to an island youth camp, where he indescriminately killed and wounded a number of teenagers...most of them children of government workers attending a special week-long camp.
In a statement written before the attacks, Breivik reflects on the growing threat of Islam and the liberal European political systems that tolerate Islamic religion in established Christian cultures. One assumes that he sees his own government as being part of the problem -- and the teenagers as the future permissive group that will allow it to continue and spread. This is truly sick thinking and heinous action!
While not new to our culture, such moments come as a complete shock when they happen in cultures where the norm is debate or, at worse, a pie in the face. I was, frankly, shocked at the number of death threats Casey Anthony received when the sworn jury acquitted her of murder in the death of her daughter. Do I think she is guilty? I have absolutely no idea. Evidence presented by the talking heads of television had led me to believe she might be. Obviously a jury of her peers weighed the evidence and found it wanting in terms of her culpability. There simply was not the kind of irrefutable evidence needed to convict.
Now, in all the civics and political science books I have read, our system of government and justice rests on one being innocent until found (with substantiating evidence) guilty by a seated and sworn jury of fellow citizens. Yet, the media and many citizens had her tried, convicted and executed months before the real trial ever convened.
Spreading this out over history, group dynamics have played a powerful role in fostering reactivity of the kind that creates lynch mobs, character assassinations, death threats, and various manifestations of judgementalism. Even in the Church, these things happen with far greater regularity than one would be comfortable admitting. Recently, for example, a colleague was put through a terrible ordeal, when a member of his congregation accused him of malfeasance. He was almost forced to resign before an auditor was engaged to check the books. As it turns out, there was absolutely no evidence of malfeasance. Still, there are parishioners who remain convinced that my colleague is "guilty of something neferious." This is character assassination and, in moral theology, a grave sin.
Because I am both a son of the Church and a retired priest with 33 years of experience in these things, I long since accepted as a very sad commentary that the "Church shoots its wounded." I heard that indictment long before I was ordained and have, myself, experienced its truth on a few occasions. It is not the place one would expect to find such behavior, yet, I bring it up to show that the Church is a human community, and human nature seems to thrive on the pain and mistakes of others. Why else would Nancy Grace spend three years villifying Casey Anthony...without due process? While Casey and the whole Anthony family can be diagnosed as a "toxic mess," I think folks like Nancy Grace only reflect their own toxicity in the way she hounded that family.
In this latest and sickening tragedy in Norway, we see this dynamic played out in a way that reflects the actions of Timothy McVeigh in Okalahoma City (1995). Because one sees, experiences or hears about an injustice, it justifies the jumping to the conclusion that institutions and folks not even attached to those injustices are to blame and must be punished. Or, they clearly are not to blame, but the person passing judgement sees that group as a platform for setting an example for addressing the injustice. "At least it will get their attention," goes the thinking.
It is truly tragic and sad that we live in a world made unsafe more by seemingly regular people jumping to conclusions than by those who are actually equipped and bent on harm. Gossip, judgementalism and their attendant actions of jumping to conclusions and making threats (that often enough become a reality) have, throughout history, cost the lives of promising and talented adults and young people. They have ended or shortened the active careers of people whose gifts could have accomplished major good for many. I only point to Jesus for a truly tragic scenario that was made right only by the act of God -- who knew what human nature would do -- and entered into our moment of reality anyway in the person of Jesus.
While the work of salvation opens our hearts and minds to new possibilities, it does not change willful human nature determined to have its own way and exert its own control. Obviously, it is still happening on way too many levels.
Anybody want to take bets on a debt ceiling crisis?
Blessings,
Fr. Fred
Retired -- At Large and Running Amok
Lee's Summit, MO
17 July 2011
Last Ride
I left my empty office at St. Andrew's for the last time on Thursday, 30 June at 4:30pm. All I had with me was my briefcase containing my laptop and the materials with which I normally travel on a daily basis. All my office belongings had been boxed and taken to our home in Lee's Summit the day before by Two Men and a Truck. They were fast and efficient.
Retirement days are bittersweet (I learned). There is a strong feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction of stepping away after 33 years of parish work. There is a certain pleasure in knowing that certain parts of that work can now be left behind for others.
The other part is a feeling of sadness and disconnection. For a parish priest, the days, weeks and years have been defined by a routine of prayer, worship, pastoral care, teaching, preaching and program that becomes ingrained -- no matter what parish one is part of. It is a continuum that has consistent rhythm and cycles. I knew, as a walked from the church building to my car, that I would deeply miss this part of my life. I was ordained at age 27 and went immediately into parish work. At age 60, at one day longer than the day I was ordained in 1978 (29 June), I was stepping out of that rhythm and cycle.
When we came to St. Andrew's on 1 January 2004, we had purchased a home in nearby Lee's Summit -- in the southeast section of the greater metro of Kansas City. There were two primary reasons for the choice. First, we had a daughter still in high school. We were advised to live in one of the surrounding communities to get the best school experience for her. Then, there was the matter of housing. Close-in area costs for homes were inflated and beyond our comfort level of both what we could afford and what we needed. After an intense search in October 2003, we found what met an agreed, three-point criteria: a) Our daughter would like the school; b) all three of us would like the community; c) all three of us would like the house (style, size and cost). After making a "horseshoe" search that began in Olathe, KS and moved around the north of Kansas City, we found all three criteria met in the home we now own in Lee's Summit. Our elder daughter was in her first year of college and was not part of this journey.
There were folks who were concerned about the distance from the church. Truth is, the drive averaged 25 minutes from my driveway to the parking lot of St. Andrew's. If I timed my drives well, I was not part of the rush hour traffic. But, still, the occasional raised eyebrow, when I mentioned the commute, let me know that folks generally thought that was something of a long ride.
Two things happened on those drives. One was just the time to "gear up" or "unwind" -- depending on the direction. By the time I arrived at the office, the structured part of my day was already set and active in my mind. By the time I arrived home, I would have made internal closure, set some notes (I use a memory stick recorder or, now, my smartphone) and be ready to spend quality time with my wife.
The other thing that happened was prayer...informed prayer. I would habitually listen to either "Morning Edition" or "All Things Considered" on NPR. I would take in the news on the hour/half-hour, turn off the radio and spend time in reflective prayer...for the concerns of the world and those of my parish. This quickly became a much loved and anticipated routine. Over the 7.5 years as Rector I made this trip on the average of six days each week (excluding vacations or times away on business).
On this warm Thursday afternoon, on the last day of June, I began the last ride. I spent it giving thanks for parishioners, opportunities, experiences and all that had shaped the years here. I did not turn on the radio but made the trip in silence (which I had done many times) -- allowing my mind and heart to absorb the experience completely. This was a transition ride. It marked a distinct and dramatic shift in both my life and the life of the parish. I was moving into uncharted territory. The parish would make a transition to new leadership. This last ride was both a making and a breaking. Both are essential for spiritual growth. Change is good, and this change had been so carefully planned and competently executed that the ride seemed natural -- unfettered by doubt or negativity.
I write this from a perspective of having now been retired 17 days. Folks in the parish who have chatted with me have asked if I am enjoying sleeping late and relaxing. In general, my patterns have not changed. I have always risen early. I am a morning person. Not being a night person, I have enjoyed the absence of evening meetings and the ability to ease into a reasonable hour of going to bed. The days have been filled with many projects. I have a "Benedictine" personality. Building a daily routine that has prayer, study, work, exercise and quality family time has always been a goal. But, more on that another time.
Suffice it to say, life continues to be full. I still miss the commute/prayer time. I miss the liturgical and parish daily work cycle. Nope, sorry, I don't miss meetings -- especially the ones in the evening. It is time for a new balance and a new mantra, which I have adopted as part of my email signature line. I close with it.
In Christ's Love,
Fr Fred
Retired - At Large and Running Amok
Lee's Summit, MO
03 June 2011
Wisdom and the Pe Sla
As I write, I am sitting in my cabin on the campus of Borderlands Ranch and Spiritual Education Center. Borderlands is 253 acres of rolling prairie hills in the very center of the Black Hills in South Dakota. It is the highest elevation of the Hills at nearly 5200 feet. It is now completely ranchland or land owned by the National Forestry Service. It is covered with prairie grass and dotted with various trees…usually alongside the numerous streams that flow through the hills and down to the rivers at lower altitude.This prairie area can be seen from satellite photos as a bare area in the central part of the Black Hills. The Lakota call this area the “Pe Sla.” It means “Peace in the Bare Spot.” As with all the Black Hills, this is an historically (and current) sacred area. The Pe Sla may be the most sacred, because, for centuries it has been a place where Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho and other high plains First Nations groups came to worship, pray and “cry for a vision.” The latter is one of the Pe Sla’s central purposes. “Hanblecheya” means to “Cry for a Vision” or simply to make a “Vision Quest.” The Borderlands property has two places where Vision Quest has been made…archeologists say for at least 500 years. They are still used by Lakota leaders.
The Rev. Linda Kramer is the owner of Borderlands. She is a “Hunka” of the Lakota…one who is not Lakota but adopted into the Oyate (family). Her Lakota father is Fr. Robert Brokenleg (now deceased) who was an Episcopal Priest and council leader of the Sicangu Lakota Council Fire (tribe)…one of seven Council Fires that make up the Lakota Nation. (btw, Euro-Americans may know the Lakota by the name given by the French in the early 1700s….”Sioux”.) Non-First Nations persons can be adopted into a Nation and be part of life and culture. Mother Linda (an Episcopal Priest) spent several years working in parishes on both the Pine Ridge and Rosebud Reservations of the Lakota.
I am not adopted into the Lakota Oyate (Oh-yah-teh). However, since 2007, I have been welcomed and accepted as both a friend and trusted sojourner among these gracious, generous and good humored people. I currently have four Lakota mentors. One is an archeologist and former professor of field archeology. One is an Episcopal Priest and psychotherapist living and working as co-director at the mental health facility in Kyle, a town on the Pine Ridge Reservation. One is an Episcopal Priest and Rector of the Lakota Parish (St. Matthew’s) in Rapid City. One is an Episcopal Priest & retired professor of developmental psychology and education and, until his retirement two years ago, was the Dean of Indigenous Studies and Vancouver School of Theology at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, BC. He still lives there.
How did I get here? It’s a long story. The key points: I was introduced to Mother Linda Kramer by reference. I shared my vision with her for a project, and she graciously invited me to make a retreat at Borderlands in August 2007. She spent five days of her schedule taking me to meet three of the four persons noted above, who would become mentors. The fourth (Fr. Martin Brokenleg in Vancouver, BC) I met via email and phone conversation that week. The archeologist, Ben Rhodd, became my chief mentor and spiritual advisor. He is an acknowledged leader within the Lakota community. In hearing my personal story…along with my project vision…he strongly suggested I make an Hanblecheya (Vision Quest) before any decision could be made. This suggests the depth of his own spirituality.
I made the Vision Quest in early October 2007…a three-day intense time of prayer, fasting and spending a day and a night “crying for a vision” on one of the spots where this has been done for centuries…at the far east end of Borderlands. In the end, the elders gathered in the sweat lodge (at the end of my time of fasting and being “on the hill”) spoke to the visions I had and the visions seen in their own prayers and welcomed me to engage in this journey. After further preparation, I spent most of three months in the summer of 2008 (sabbatical) either in the Black Hills or Vancouver, BC.
I was invited to experience the Sun Dance and have returned each year…until this year. I am at Borderlands for 6 days to accomplish a pre-retirement retreat (suggested by my advisor from Church Pension Group) and to spend time with two of my mentors. This time will form the vision for the next phase of what this journey becomes. It is a full three weeks before Sun Dance…and that week is my last week prior to retirement. These last 21 days before retirement will be critical.
Sitting here today, an Episcopal Priest, husband, father, friend and seeker of knowledge, 60 years and 6 months old, I have been slowed by a rather awesome wind storm. The sky is bright, deep blue with no clouds. The wind howls at gusts of at least 50 miles an hour. This has been going on for several hours. Down below, in Hill City (still in the Black Hills but about 2000 feet below us and 16 miles away), the wind may be only light with occasional gusts. This is part of life in the Pe Sla. The horses across the road are gathered in a bunch on the leeward side of a barn. They don’t like the wind either. It has been like an aviary here since my arrival Monday evening. I have counted 17 different species of birds that are very active. They are quiet and hidden this day.
The very deep, centuries-old spirituality of this place draws me into a contemplative space, and that is what I have mostly done over the past four days. I have taken breaks to walk the hills, drive to two other Pe Sla locations of Vision Quest and travel to Hill City to do email/phone business. There is no cell or internet connection here. Mother Linda has a phone and satellite dish internet connection (with television) in the “big house” (her house). I like the challenge of silence and its requirement that I listen, observe and experience myself and life on a very basic level. I cook my own meals in this cabin. It is a “complete” home in the sense I have all I need to have a daily life routine….kitchen, bathroom, living/sleeping room and a porch with a rocking chair.
Today, I experience and reflect on the wind. I cannot see it. It is invisible. However, I can certainly observe the emerging prairie grasses bending and shifting; the trees bending and branches moving wildly; dust from the gravel road; the manes and tails of the horses blowing briskly. I feel the wind in my face and hear it whistling through the eves of the cabin roof.
Wisdom is the same. It is not seen and cannot be contained or created. It moves, and we experience its impact in our lives. Knowledge comes by learning the elements of our craft, reading a book, hearing a lecture watching someone accomplish a task. Wisdom comes from engaging what we know and by experiencing both successes and failures; by conversation and experiences of others and taking those into our own experiences…thus expanding our horizons. Wisdom comes with time…age and embracing all aspects of life’s joys, sorrows and encounters. How we manage those moments, what we learn, how we incorporate past, present and future into our journey…all of these make for wisdom.
In Lakota culture, there is no word for “authority” or “war.” In strict, pre-reservation Lakota culture, there was a Council of Elders…older men who had experienced all life could offer and were of an age to give advice. They would meet to discuss and pray about issues and problems. At the end, they would share their combined opinions and advice on action. However, it was never as authority but as counsel. Because of their combined experiences (hundreds of years combined ages), the advice was usually taken.
Because of our revisionist history, we think of Native Americans as warlike people. War is not in any of the plains nations languages. One goes into battle to settle issues or fight over territory (land ownership was not known among Native Americans before reservations were forced upon them). A battle wasn’t won or lost. It was ended when the redress was made. “Warpath” is something Euro-Americans made up for our books and movies. No Indian ever went on a warpath. There were occasional renegades…just as there were/are among Euro-Americans (whites). They were dealt with handily by their Oyate.
I am here, because I am on the doorstep of being an elder by most standards. In general American culture, being an elder most often means being pushed aside for “younger folks.” Interesting to think, when one defines wisdom, just why our culture is in the mess it finds itself. We fracture wisdom rather than drawing upon it for the current moment and future of our culture. I am here, because I look for the next road of my journey and how the Holy One will use what I have learned, experienced and observed over these 60.5 years of life. Like the wind, I don’t see it, but I feel it. Such is the onset of Wisdom and encounter with the Spirit.
Blessings,
Fr. Fred+
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