Twelfth day of Lent: And three cents

3/22

Walking to the church from breakfast at Marsha’s. We reviewed last night’s Centre Team meeting. Disappointment over having to delay our gala. But still planning  a 100th anniversary celebration for June. Open house, concerts, maybe more. The boiler issue still dragging on. But the drain and roof work starts tomorrow and phone and water soon to follow.  Progress. Pushing to interview and hire a much needed Administrative Assistant. Insurance maelstrom. Much to talk about, much to prioritze...

Sunny. Warmer, but still cold. As I walk down 86th, not too far in front of me a short gray grizzled man in a gray poncho decorated with llamas walks up to the church, touches the red sandstone with his fingers and then his fingers to his lips and continues on his way. An empty Palo Viejo rum bottle, broken. Lottery tickets. Matches. A bag of pretzels. And three cents. I add it to my collection. I sit and read Jim’s proposal for a historic drama about the church.  Note his clever use of Broadway songs. Sense of story. And humor. Part of what he uses everyday in his work at ABC radio. 

On the way back, I stop at Councilmember Brewer’s office. Constituents are struggling with a rent situation. I talk to her community liaison person. Tell him I need a meeting. It's been too long again. Things need to move, faster.

Second Sunday in Lent: Born Again

3/20

Sunny but cold again. March. My cell rings. It’s Hope. She’s a half block from the church. With Norma. I stop at Barney Greengrass. Ask Gary if today is Purim, the feast of Esther, the Jewish version of Carnival. He laughs and says yes. I tell him he needs a mask or at least a three cornered hat. He says “Moe had one,” referring to his father who was not only a restauranter but a magician as well.  Gary wishes me a hag purim and I’m on my way. 

Andre is waiting for me. Then Hope and Norma. It is good to see Norma , to have her with us after Kelly’s death. By eleven, almost everyone is there. They’ve taken my Lenten  challenge to get there on time. And today we will ordain and install elders and deacons.  During announcements, Hope talks of having  joined the picket line with the Saigon Grill workers and encourages us to join in the big rally scheduled for next Saturday, when several of us will have to be  at a Presbytery meeting. 

As usual, much to talk about.  Look, Gaddhafi’s slaughtering of his own  people was despicable. But now we’re bombing Tripoli? Hugo looks despondent and says, “This foreign policy, no different than Bush. Or Clinton neoliberalism.” And he reminds me of the  cynical western rehabilitation of Gaddhafi’s image in recent years. And now we’re jumping in. What happens to the legitimate people’s movement? 

And of course continued anguish in Japan?  

I start my sermon with a challenge.  What does it mean to be born again?  I tell them that  back in the day, when  I had weekly sermon titles, just  to be provocative, I put Born Again out on the sign board. Almost immediately I began getting phone calls from members. Their comments ranged from being  careful that   no one get the wrong idea to we don’t do that here, we’re Presbyterian. I’ve touched on being born again before but today I want to go deeper. 

So we begin with the father of all born again stories, Abraham. (Genesis 12: 1-4a.)Common parent of Muslim, Christian and Jew.  In order to receive what is new, he must give up all that is old, familiar, known.  He must let go. Be emptied.  A friend in my lectionary study  brought up Japan.  The moment to begin again. And Libya. But, as I pointed out,  those radical changes were imposed, not voluntarily taken on. It’s different. Though it is true that you can still grow from wheat you do not volunteer for, for what you never wanted or expected. Like in  Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, it’s not the experience itself but how you experience it. How you choose to experience it. The meaning you give to it. It’s about leaving identity, kinship groups. About taking a leap of faith. 

The Abraham story is a  good passage for leaving. But wait a minute. We’re coming back.We’ve been called to beginning again in the same place, well, it’s not the same, but...let’s just say we’re  beginning again in place.  

And now the ultimate born again passage.  John 3: 1-17. Jesus and Nicodemus.Where  this  language cones from.And our new translations show the confusion. The phrase γεννηθῆναι ἄνωθεν can mean born from above, or born anew, or born again?  No wonder Nicodemus is confused. 

The wind blows where it chooses...these words are always helpful to me. They follow up the Genesis story we spoke of last week. They speak to God’s radical freedom. God’s spirit will do what God would do...( And as of this morning there are only 16 more Presbyteries to go to approve 10a...to finally open the doors to inclusion...after all these years..)  The wind blows where it chooses. 

Andre speaks up, “so was that what Bob Dylan was talking about? Blowin’ in the wind?” That’s it, Andre, exactly, the  Holy Spirit, the ruach, the pneuma..The wind blows where it chooses....And no one can resist...well, we try, we try. 

Working on this last night, these words came to me from an old Judy Collins’ album. (Showing my age here...) from Hello, Hooray on the Who Knows Where the Time Goes album...

Hello! Hooray! Let the show begin

I’m ready

Hello! Hooray! Let the lights grow dim

We’ve been ready

Ready as the rain to fall, just to fall again

Ready as a man to be born, only to be born again, and again and again and again

(Which may also be the only Judy Collins song ever covered by Alice Cooper)

It’s about parting oneself from one’s baggage....is it even possible? It raises some hard questions...

.What if our system had to stat over? It’s broken, not broke. As Michael Moore said in Wisconsin, the US is not broke. WIsconsin is not broke. New York City is not broke. It’s where the money is and who controls it. And that those who came close to destroying the world’s economy continue to want us to pay for it.

. What if the PC(USA)had to start over? Stop the annual cutbacks,trying to make a broken system work and just start over? 

. Or New York City Presbytery? 

. Or..take a breath...West-Park Church? (And I hear Andre’s voice  say, I thought that’s what we’re doing? And I smile.) It means being open to new realities, new people, new ways of doing things. It can’t just be bricks and mortar. 

. And you? We have to do it all the time. Some of our moments, our turning moments  more dramatic than others...Others are more subtle. But sometimes decisions change lives.

I shared with them the story of Captain John Riley and the San Patricio batallion. Most had never heard it before. 

I talked about the concert I heard last night at Symphony Space. A klezmer clarinetist squeezing out despair and joy,the sparkling dancing sounds of an armenian zither, an oud player celebrating el andaluz where spanish, arab and jewish culture all came together in a golden age....that’s what I want church to be like...

So this is our time. A season for intentional spiritual exploration. Leaps of faith. Risk taking.  Born again.

I remind them that those who would be ordained and installed today do so not as a board of directors but so people who have been called by God to leadership. To lead the people . To lead the people with creativity, imagination, but most of all, love.

Following the offering, they come forward. Stand in front of the table. Answer the questions. And then all who have preceded them come forward for the laying on of hands. And the connection of hands goes on back through the 100 years of West-Park. And before. All the way to the beginning. We sing Here I am, Lord. We hold hands in a circle for the benediction. Sing Amen. And then share Ana’s cafe con leche. 

Ninth day of Lent: The decay. The ruin...we can use that

3/18

An even more beautiful day that the one before. But things piling up. Progress frustrating. And with each just one more thing, I want to announce, “ok, it’s official. I’m overwhelmed. I surrendur.” I find a broom on the steps. Wonder if Deacon James left it there. Turns out he did. It broke.  He’ll get a new one. 

As John and I are waiting for the Woodshed theatre people to arrive, another neighbor who’s never seen the doors open (sigh) comes in for a look around. I give him the whole architectural run down. The social history. Turns out he’s from the La Farge family, as in John La Farge the late  19th Century stained glass artist. Our guest can actually read and understand our glass. He had been involved in an effort to save a church in Rhode Island, but it didn’t succeed. I tell him the depths of the challenges financial and otherwise we face in this journey. Take down his name to keep him informed. 

John and the Woodshed folk are already underway. They’re going room to room deciding what they want to paint or change for their immersive (using the whole building) production  of the Tenant, a dramatization of the novel by Roland Topor (and Polanski’s movie of the book). Over and over looking at torn away ceiling, exposed skeletal parts, peeling paint, I hear, “wow. The decay. The ruin. I love it. We can use that...” At one point we joke about the church house  being an ideal set  for a sequel in the Saw series. 

Then a funny thing happens. In the old children’s room, the guys start noticing the characters in the murals painted by Abie Nedelka years ago.  ‘Look, there’s the hungry hungry caterpillar...” “And look there’s bear and his umbrellas.” “And, there, my God, it’s Paddington..” So one by one our young male theatre guys are namechecking their childhood friends. “And there, Curious George, though in those stripes that one looks like Curious George goes to prison.” And soon enough, someone namechecks the Brooklyn punk group, Furious George. John seems somewhat puzzled by all this. We all agree the murals need to be photographed and saved before being painted over. 

While we’re in the chapel, I get a phone call from Gary about another annoying “fall down”  law suit. Complicated by our insurance company having gone  bankrupt.  They just don’t stop. When I come back from the phone call, everyone seems to be gone. 

So I head to Starbucks to do some internet and there are  the Woodshed guys. We talk about the ruin. The decay. How it’s not just post apocalyptic chic. It’s about doing a production rooted in a place. Specific to that place. The layers of exposed paint showing layers of history, years. A production that’s in dialogue with  its surrounding  space and with the space’s history. Of course,I say, and recall my last visit to Berlin. The exposed layers of Weimar, World War II bombings, DDR social realism all open in conversation with each other and with those who encounter the spaces. . The amazing performances held in such places. Yes. My vision again. It’s right here, right beyond my  grasp.

I compliment Teddy on his Ruth era Yankees hat. Point out out that I’m wearing  a Negro League Crawfords hat from the same era. We shake hands. We can already see the production happening. John calls to tell me  he forgot to turn out the lights. OK, I’ll go back....

Eighth day of Lent: Vivan los san patricios

3/17

St. Patrick’s Day. The most sunny, warm, nearly perfect day of the year so far. 

Steps almost empty today. Just a black plastic knife. But Amsterdam Avenue is awash with a steady stream of people in green returning from the parade on Fifth Avenue. The pubs south of 86th are overflowing onto the sidewalks. A bus pulls up in front of the Dead Poet, (the place Amanda calls the office, much good work done there) emptying out a band of pipers in green plaid kilts. 

                                                  

One block down 86th from the  church, in Euclid Hall, the home of the West Side Federation for Senior and Supportive Housing, (yes, birthed at West-Park)is the Parlour.     More than an Irish pub, it’s a Celtic bar. That is, a home for the New York fans of the Scottish Glascgow Celtics, the traditional Catholic football club and arch rival of the Protestant fan based Rangers, though both teams are filled with all kinds of international players. Green and white striped Celtic jerseys fill the walls. While other neighborhood pubs are showing the NCAA March madness, the big screen here has English Premier Football. Right across the street from SPSA, it’s been a good place for church gatherings when we had no place of our own. I order a Magner’s Irish Cider, for Amanda, watch Kentucky’s last second win over Princeton on one of the smaller screens.

I’m thinking today of the San Patricio Battalion. That group of several hundred mainly Irish but also German and Scots draftees in the Mexican War of 1846-48 led by Captain John Riley. When they got to Mexico they looked around and said, wait, they’re Christians, we’re Christians. They’re Catholics, we’re Catholics. They’re poor, we’re poor. It’s their land, not ours. We’re on the wrong side here. So  after refusing to shoot at the Mexicans, they switched sides. 

After defeat by the US army, most of the  captured san patricios were tried by military tribunal, without defense, and hung, in violation of the Articles of War.  In Mexico, los san patricios are remembered as heroes.  Streets named, statues. The Mexican  name Obregon is a latinazation of the Irish O’Brien. But in the US, the story remained buried for centuries. 

Each Easter morning, West-Park gathers  in Central Park at the site of the All Angels Church in Seneca Village, the community of African-American, Irish and German immigrants there before Central Park. We gather there because All Angels was a multicultural church and we honor that heritage. Their story, too, was buried. Given the draft laws of the day, who knows if Irish immigrants from Seneca Village may have been among the san patricios.

Here’s a promise....if we’re still here a year from now, I’ll invite  El Taller to join us and  do a concert of Irish and Mexican music in honor  of los san patricios. And maybe go to Gabriela’s for corned beef and cabbage burritos after.

Vivan los san patricios.

Now the army used us harshly

We were but trash to them

Conscripted Irish soldiers

Not first class soldier men

They beat us and they banged us 

Mistreated us you know

But they couldn’t make us killers in the sands of Mexico.

Our John Riley seized the day 

And marched us down the road

And we wouldn’t slay our brothers

On the sands of Mexico.

Ry Cooder

       

Seventh day in Lent: Today we were going to study Belhar.

3/16

Today we were going to study Belhar....

All day long the steps have looked like an  auxiliary movie set. Which is exactly what we’ve been. Photo screens, equipment, lights, food tables.  On Amsterdam, trailers for the stars, Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock. On 86th Street, restroom trailers (Should have  been our church.) Orange traffic cones keep passersby far away enough from Barney’s not to gawk. Extras and staff sit on the steps, waiting. Deacon James called me to alert me. Now I  see for myself. 

I interrupt my run at 5 to let Jim into the church. There are banners to hang, for Lent, for Holy Week. For Easter. I finish my run and return. I come back shortly before 6. Go to the  Israeli run copy store to get enough copies of our Belhar study for all who might come. 

At 6:30, only Jim and Hope are there. The window boxes have all been washed and cleaned. There are florescent bulbs in the light boxes to be changed and banners to hang. Jim and I climb up on the scaffolding on Amsterdam. Here and on Amsterdam I’ll bend and twist like a gumby or a participant in an aerial game of Twister. I’ll feel all this tomorrow. Jim keeps saying, it’s not that hard, but it is. Weird, professional banners and paper clips. People keep stopping  by and looking. Yes, we are open. Yes, we have a Lenten study going  on. Yes, we’ll be here Holy Week. That’s what the signs say. 

We finally finish. Go inside. Arcadia is inside the church  talking  to a young man named Greg from two blocks north. He’s been here for two years. Never saw the doors open. (That again.) He tells us how worried he’s been that the church was going to be torn down. That seeing the doors open felt like an answered prayer. 

He’s done an amazing amount of architectural research on the church. Knows almost as much as we do. Knows about the fire that took down the north tower. We listen to the story as he’s heard it, add our own information. The preservationists sure won the struggle to control the narrative. Yes, Romanesque. No, all Kilborn. Is the church house more historic? An Eidlitz building from 1884? No. Martin Weaver, the late dean of historic architecture at Columbia,  had said that anything of Eidlitz was obliterated by 1889. What you see is Kilborn, And yes, Eidlitz was eclectic, but this is still classic Kilborn. We get his name. Hope to keep him involved. He promises to come back. How do we harness all this energy, all this love that exists in the neighborhood for this building? Last Sunday a couple with a child walked in, looked around, left. What would have made them stay? How do we turn romantic longings into real action, real dollars? 

It’s  late. Too late to study tonight. I pass out copies of the Belhar Confession. THe 1988 statement out of South Africa. We’ll gather, study, discuss next week. My sciatica is acting up Feeling stiff already . They are still filming inside Barney’s. 

Sixth day in Lent: Thanks for small victories

3/15

Norma lives two blocks north and around the corner form the church.  Sofas and chairs with the traditional plastic covers. Walls filled with family pictures.  Her daughter Kelly died on Friday, March 4th.  This fills me with sadness, both for the loss and due to wrong numbers, etc., that I didn’t know until yesterday.

I had known her death was imminent. On New Year’s Eve, her sister had called and asked me to do “last rites.” I’d tried to explain that we were protestants, and she said, “Yes I know but we’re latino.” In our neighborhood, the lines between latino and catholic are blurred. So I called my parish priest, and my colleague Katherine, and did some online research and went and brought oil,did prayers and anointing. It hurts deeply not have been there at the end.

The pain is multiplied for Norma because years ago, her only son died at a very young age from cancer. She feels  especially close to Hope because she was the nurse for her son at that time.  I remember my hospital visits to Kelly. Her strong spirit as the cancer spread throughout her body. And I remember that night, the gathered family, her teen aged daughter Brandy, now moved to her aunt’s in Hackensack, her estranged daughter Christina in the service in Texas and her son William.

I especially remember William. Norma recalls William and Brandy running all through the church, and smiles. I had seen William last night. He’s part of a group of acrobats and gymnasts that work as part of the New Jersey Nets NBA “hype team.”Just back from a trip with the team to London.  My son Dan and I had watched, big screen closeups  and all, in the Prudential Center, the Rock, as William did flips and somersaults across the basketball floor. And at halftime as he bounced off the trampoline to do high aerial twisting dunks. I smiled, knowing that he’d been introduced to the trampoline in the West-Park gym. By Rudy.

All of us are mixed bags. But this much can be said, a generation of inner city kids had their lives turned around in that gym. William got his job with the Nets through Ecko, another of our gym kids who credited the program with “saving him.” I see William, almost 21, strong, muscled, handsome and flying through the air.

Norma shares her grief. Her memories. Her smiles.We pray together in English and Spanish.  We will find time to go to the cemetery in the Bronx together. Yes, this is a season that focuses on mortality. ...From dust you come and to dust you shall return. 

I open the doors to find a circle of orange traffic cones cordoning off a section of sidewalk under the scaffolding. The location scout from Warner Brothers is sitting on the steps. “Hey man, I was just calling you,” he says. They’re painting a portion of the scaffolding green so it will disappear when they shoot at Barney Greengrass tomorrow. It’s a new film, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close with Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock. Adding to Barney’s resume of TV and films shot in their classic interior. 

He’s got a proposition. Needs a day for holding, for restrooms. I sadly say that they’re not ready yet. We lose again. They’ll be back in early May. Can we be ready then? He really likes us, wants to use us. I ask him to remind me of his name. “Robert,” he says. “Good name,” I say. “Yeah, same as yours.” He smiles. OK.This has gone on long enough. We need full court press to get that boiler going, now. Everything else depends upon it. 

P_____ calls. The day will end with her in housing court. Accompanying people with no money to court is like descending through Dante’s circles of hell. Her madness is no match for the labyrinthine and kafkaesque way the system treats the poor. We race from attorney to notary to courthouse trying to beat the deadline. Outside her courtroom, two Spanish women approach me anxiously with legal documents, asking me to explain what’s going on. I read the papers over and over. I can only understand that they are on the wrong floor of the court hosue. “Me siento mucho pero no me intiendes mas,” I apologize as I try to get them in the right  direction. 

I catch up with P_____. I have no idea what I’m doing. But somehow, we succeed in getting her eviction postponed until June. Three months to file a brief. Where can we find an attorney? She’s trembling with excitement. “My stomach was shaking all the way," she says. “When I kneel in prayer in church, people think I’m crazy. But Jesus is all that I have. He told me you would help. And you did. The spirit led you. God did it” I give thanks for small victories.

First Sunday in Lent: You think someone else is in here

3/13

The March winds blow.  Enough lions, waiting for the lambs.  Sunny and cold. Bandaids, butts and papers.  As usual, Jim and Holly are the first ones here. When the doors are open, a tall sandy haired man walks in. “I’ve never seen these doors open before,” he says. I’m getting really tired of hearing that. “But I saw the doors open and just had to come in.”

Bob and Juan

He’s from the Eastside. Goes to First Baptist at 79th and Broadway. Turns out he’s a sound engineer. Tells me he loves old churches. Asks me about the architecture and I tell him all about Kilborn and Richardsonian Revival and....He mentions the Prairie School. And I say, “But that was Frank Lloyd Wright.” And he says, “No, the one who gave Wright his first job.” And I don’t see the connection, but...

I tell him we’ve been back since December. Worshipping every Sunday. He looks me square in the eye.  “Do you preach the gospel here?” he asks. “That’s what we’re supposed to do,” I say. “Yes, but lots of churches are just social clubs. Places people go on Sundays to feel good about themselves.” No argument there. “I know,” I say, “we may have differences in what we believe, fine points of theology and all, but everyone here is committed to following Jesus. And yes, I preach the Good News, right from  the Bible, every Sunday.”  He looks me in the eye again. “Good,” he says, “that’s good.”

He steps to the center, claps his hands, listens. “Beautiful, just beautiful. Deep and rich.” He tells me the natural acoustics are so fine, there’s little need for amplification. I tell him about our upcoming centennial.  He gives me his card. I give him the brochure. Amy and Juan have arrived. We shake hands and he’s off to the Baptist church. Rachel has arrived and taken her seat. Then Arcadia.

It’s after 11. People slow in arriving. I decide to begin. As usual, lots going on. The tsunami in Japan. The threat of nuclear meltdown. And the number of presbyteries approving full inclusion for lgbtq folk has grown to 67. Only 20 to go. This week we’ll pray for Seattle and West Jersey as they vote. This time, this time, the victory is getting close.

It’s the first Sunday in Lent. I lift up the cup from Wednesday, shift the ashes through my fingers.  Share what I learned about not counting Sundays. Recall my childhood  friends giving something up for Lent. Ask if that meant you were free from that promise on Sundays. My former Catholic friends have different traditions on that one. Recall the Friday night fish fries in the Catholic churches in Pittsburgh. Fish sandwiches instead of hot dogs Fridays at Forbes Field. 

Talk about how its a time for reflection, self-assessment. And how I like to focus on reconciliation. To repair,restore at least one relationship...or at least try...(And who will that be this year? The list is so long...)

This season raises for us the nature of temptation, the nature of sin. And so we begin at the beginning, with Adam, with the fall. The old Puritan children’s rhyme In Adam’s fall we fell all.  And how in the  in the Jewish tradition, it’ s not so much the fall, it’s  more like a coming to consciousness, an awakening, about becoming responsible.

The original sin has nothing to do with sex. In the Genesis story, the sin of Adam is  seeking to have the full mind of God...to be  like God. That’s what is at the center of the current church debate over 10-a, over lgbtq inclusion. Those who are so sure that they have the knowledge of the full mind of God...As opposed to the vision of those who came before us here, who believed in more light, that the holy spirit always brings more light to the scriptures. 

I think of the new Governor of Alabama who says only those who believe in Jesus are his brothers and sisters. I remembered debates over ministerial  candidates in Pittsburgh. Could anyone other than Christians be saved? And a tall steeple friend of mine saying that in the Reformed tradition, if God truly is all powerful, God can do anything  God wants, when God wants for whom God wants. And that God is not limited by our imagination. 

P____ speaks from her seat. That though she prays in the name of Jesus and lives by his power, that as a Caribbean Asian, she was raised Hindu and learned of God’s power and inclusion that way. The sacredness of all life. And that the fast from blood was in recognition of that sacredness. 

I mention Peter King, the congressman for Long Island. (And my members with Long Island roots groan.) His grandstanding  investigation of Muslims, this  former vocal  advocate for the Irish Republican Army.

No, it’s not a fall. Just the end of innocence...In our tradition, we all see, hear , speak evil...

Now as to temptation. It is the  Spirit that leads Jesus out into the wilderness, not the devil. The same Spirit that came to him in Baptism. The story raises tough questions about who the devil is, what kind of structure, cosmology we’re dealing with here.  Satan almost seems to be working  with, working for God. Like in Job, where Satan is the Accuser, the prosecuting attorney. .

In his amazing translation and commentary on Job, Stephen Mitchell  has God say to Job, “your problem is you think there’s some one else in here...there’s only me...” So if you want me to explain evil, well, we stare into mystery.

Temptation. Voices. Remember Little Red Riding Hood? How the big, bad wolf is in grandma‘s clothes? The line between temptation and call is so thin, you have to listen closely. What voice is that you hear? You have to  invite them closer to see what they’re made of..but they’re all yours, all from inside yourself. You have to listen closely to discern the one true voice...

Ultimately, this story is about who Jesus is, not who we aren’t...

Now as to Jesus’ temptations. The first is to escape hunger through compromise. You know, the end justifies means. But maybe not. It is Satan’s argument that God won’t provide, so you better take care of yourself. It’s about shortcuts.We face that over and over and over again...Just sign this statement saying something  you don’t believe in, we’ll give you the money you need.... 

But it’s not always easy. I read where non-violent revolutions have a 60% chance of success awhile violent ones drop to 45%. But what if you’re not Egypt? What if you’re Libya and the pharoah just mows you down? What then?

The second is to seek God in the spectacular, not suffering and dying. The truth of Jesus’ path is not in his miracles, but in his going to the cross. It’s also about not putting God to the test .But what do we do when it feels like  God doesn’t come through?  How much dying is enough before resurrection?

The last temptation, they said at my study group, is the temptation to power. But wait a minute, what I’ve learned in organizing is that the problem is not power, but the lack of power. I remember Pablo Richard’s critique of Northamerican Christianity. That we don’t understand power. That we believe that  if we walk away from what we have, things  will get better. They don’t. If we give up our power, the evil person, the evil power, simply picks it up and adds it to theirs.  Our call is to use what we have,organize what we have for the transfer of power to those who are marginalized. 

And its not just empowering. It’s not like others are empty vessels waiting to be poured into. It’s helping to awaken, uncover, draw out the power that is already there. Like your own ministry given to you at Baptism. 

And this, too, is true. The stronger we are, the stronger the temptations will be. The better our intention, the stronger the temptation. The closer to God we are, the greater the power of satan...It’s the voice that says, give up, you can’t do it, you’re too small, too old, too weak, be reasonable, be realistic, you can’t...You hear that, you say, get behind me satan...

It’s interesting that in the argument between Jesus and Satan, all the quotes from both (yes, the devil quotes scripture...quite well, in  fact) are from Moses’ last discourse. In Deuteronomy. His preparing his people for their wilderness experience. And so we prepare for ours. 

It’s spring training.....spiritual spring training. And we will learn what we will practice...

During the offering, P____ passes the plates, brings them forward. Then kneels in front of the Christ  candle, embracing it with her hands in deep prayer. 

It’s time to say farewell to Juan. He’s played guitar for us for fourteen years. Through first Milton and then Regi and Spanish services, the enlace de gracia multicultural services and now our joint services. Seen singers and pianistas and congeros and even an accordion player come and go. To SPSA and back. Failed attempts at tarjetas verdes and wasted dollars on shady abogados.  He’s not been home to Venezuela in 14 years. But now he’s on his way back with a waiting job with el sistema, the program that brings social transformation through music. That produced Dudamel (now of the Los Angeles Philharmonic) and the Venezuela Orquesta de los jovenes. 

Jim has gifts for him. A sports bag with the name SANTANA and number 57, for Johann Satana, the Venezuelan ace for the Mets, bad arm and all. And a Mets shirt and hat. (Well, some of us are Yankees fans, but Juan loves los mets.) Juan had wanted  to be baptized here, but I reminded him that we honor one church, one baptism. His catholic infant baptism counts.

We sing Jesus Walked that Lonesome Valley. I point out that there’s a difference between by yourself and alone. Yes, we each have a journey we must walk for ourselves, a journey no one else can take for us. Rooted in our own unique calls. But we do not walk alone. Jesus walks with us, always. And more so, we walk with each other. 

 So we make a circle around Juan. Place my hands on his head. Give a prayer of thanks. And blessing for his journey. It’s time to gather food and drink. And go to Hope’s.   To break bread together. To party. Yes, we fast. But not on Sundays. Not today. 

Jim and Juan

Juan and Hope