When I was at the airport last week I picked up Smith's recent book, "Just Kids," a short memoir about her relationship with Mapplethorpe and her own coming of age. I had heard wonderful things about the book and I am trying to read more memoirs, so it seemed like a fitting thing to do. For the course of my day spent in airports on aboard planes, I simply could not put the slim volume down. I gorged myself on it. By the time that I got home I had to convince myself to read the rest of the book slowly, savoring each paragraph and not rushing through. I finally finished "Just Kids" last night, having to take deep breaths and not choke on my own tears as I lay in bed. It was that beautiful. 

What surprised me the most about this book was how normal Patti Smith comes across in it. I knew that the writing would be good and that the story would be compelling, but I did not expect Smith herself to be so easy to access. Her reflections on growing up, falling in love, becoming an adult, and grieving, could have been pulled from any woman's heart. Part love letter, part elegy, this short book says everything about what it is like to build a life, to work hard, and to love tenderly without regret. 

I recommend that you read the most recent paperback printing, because it includes a beautiful and surprising little postscript at the end, which I do not think is included in other editions. 

In Nebraska, you feel the seasons on y0ur skin instead of marking them on the calander, an existential shift that I am still adjusting to. In the Bay Area, it pretty much felt like early spring all the time. You could always count on wearing a scarf in San Francisco, but you could also keep the same wardrobe all year 'round. Out here, though, the seasons are real, which is actually a great (though sometimes mournful) way to mark time. Not ready for summer to be over? Too bad says the smell of the wind. Suck it up.

Like most things, I like the changing seasons because of the synapse-snapping memories that come alive in scents and sounds. This season--the very particular Midwestern version of this season--reminds me of the first time I arrived in Omaha, as an intern in the fall of 2005. So much has happened since then, and yet the  air smells the same. This is the time of year when I like buying coffee at gas stations early in the morning because that is what you do on cross-country road trips. Maybe I just really need to go on a road trip.

Twelve months, four seasons, fire and ice: I have been living in Omaha, Nebraska for almost exactly one year. I used to marvel in disbelief when I heard older people say things like, “Hasn’t this year just flown by?” Or, “It seems like Christmas was just yesterday!” Are you kidding me? Time doesn’t fly, it creeps, it slogs. When I was in school (for a rough total of twenty-one years), days and weeks and months passed slowly because they were always marked by deadlines. Seminary felt like a lifetime spent in limbo (have you seen Inception yet?), where I managed to grow into an old woman while maintaining my youthful appearance. There was nothing fast about it. But now that school is behind me and I no longer mark time by papers that are due or tests that are taken, I understand what all those people meant when they remarked on the quick passage of years. I really do feel like I just moved here.

This has been a big year for me: spiritually, psychically, emotionally, a lot has happened. Almost all of it has been remarkably positive. I was ordained a priest and celebrated a whole year of “firsts” (first Eucharist, baptism, wedding, funeral, etc.) in one of the healthiest, most vibrant communities of faith imaginable. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better parish with which to begin my ordained ministry. After years of living in a cinder-block cell, I finally had the opportunity to make a home for myself, something I have been fantasizing about and craving for a long time. I even learned how to cook. Of course there were the tough times, too, most notably a winter that tested my emotional resolve with face-smacking temperatures, and an uncomfortable growth spurt incurred by sad events. Like I said, it was a big year.

This year I learned how important place is to me, and after one cycle through the loop of bold Midwestern seasons, Nebraska remains a bit of an enigma. By “Nebraska” I mean the place writ large, not the people (whom I mostly find delightful) or my day-to-day life in Omaha (which is very pleasant), but the identity of this particular stretch of prairie, its location in the makeup of America’s psychic character. What is Nebraska? What does it mean? And why do I care?

I guess I care because I keep ending up here. As a person who believes in a God who calls, I feel strongly compelled to at least seek to understand why I have landed in Nebraska. What does this place have to teach me, I wonder? Why do I keep coming back?

While I sometimes feel at loose ends when it comes to my ability to connect to the ground beneath my feet, I do manage to feel strongly connected to the sky above. I have written a lot about my love of Nebraska weather, or, if not love exactly, appreciation. The weather here resonates with me. The sky feels significant in a very real way. This spring and summer has redeemed a little bit of last winter, mostly because the long stretches of cold and snow forced me to focus on survival rather than catharsis, and thunderstorms and bold sunsets are nothing if not cathartic.

Here’s a little secret about me. It’s not really a secret, just a thing that nobody else knows because nobody else is there to see it. When I am awoken by a thunderstorm at one or two or three o’clock in the morning, I get out of bed, make a cup of tea, open all the blinds in the apartment but leave the lights off, and watch the sky like it’s a blockbuster movie. Sometimes I sit on the back porch where the humidity makes my hands slick and the lightening gives me static goosebumbs. I don’t care that I lose sleep; I don’t care that I feel and look a little crazy. Something in my spirit is closely hewn to all that electricity and pressure and water, and I wouldn’t have known that had I never lived in Nebraska.

photo/source

The Healing of the Gerasene Demoniac

Our text from the gospel of Luke this morning/today is often referred to as “The Healing of the Gerasene Demoniac.” The Healing of the Gerasene Demoniac. Here we are, right away, with at least two words that don’t make sense to our modern ears: What is a Gerasene? What is a demoniac? Allow me to offer this astute theological explanation: Don’t worry about it. Don’t trouble yourselves with those words. They don’t really matter.

Almost every time I have heard a sermon preached on this text the preacher spent a good few minutes describing the first century Jewish worldview and how it understood demons, how it understood pigs, and the precise location of Garesanes, the town where today’s story is set. But as you all know, my sermons tend to be short, and I don’t want to waste your time, so just know this: For the purposes of understanding this gospel, Garesanes is “the other side of the tracks,” and a demoniac is a person living in the absolute depth of human suffering. We don’t need to develop a theology of demons to know what this man was going through.

When we meet Jesus today, he has just stepped out of a boat with his disciples, having travelled to a town quite different from Galilee, a town populated by Gentiles whose main subsistence is swineherding, cultivating those animals that Jewish tradition deemed as distinctly unclean. As soon as they moored their boat and sloshed out of the sea onto solid land, they are encountered by the town outcast, a man so troubled—so consumed by that which is not God—that he lives in the wilderness, naked, and scorned.

We know this man. Or, maybe we have been him. If our troubling lack of identity, our inability to find control in our lives, did not lead us into an actual wilderness, it may have led us very close. And how many of us have watched, confused, helpless, as a friend or loved one struggles to gain footing after despair has swept them out to sea? We know the Gerasene demoniac, and Jesus knows him too.

The man approaches Jesus and his disciples and the demons inside of him beg not to be tormented. They beg to remain, untouched, living as hosts inside his body. But Jesus, in his quick-thinking compassion, casts them out and allows them entrance into a herd of pigs. The pigs, frantic, rush in a single movement toward the edge of a cliff and finally, into the sea, where they and the demons perish.

Imagine the chaos in Garesenes at that moment. A group of unknown strangers landing on the seashore. The town’s primary outcast approaching the group and falls to his knees. Voices begging, pigs squealing, finally a whole herd of livestock sacrificed for the health of one man. Only Jesus remains calm. Only Jesus is unflinching. The text tells us that the swineherds, having witnessed the event, high tail it into the town center where they share the news of what they have seen. People begin to gather around Jesus, his disciples, and the former demoniac—probably hesitating to get too close—and fear overtakes them. They ask him to leave. They run him out of town.

Like many of the gospel stories, this one provides us with a couple options of entry. There is the demoniac himself, whose life appears to lack meaning, whose whole identity has been stolen from him, replaced by something that he cannot understand, that he cannot overcome. As I said earlier, whatever you believe about demons, all you need to accept is that this man is suffering. Perhaps he is suffering like we have suffered? Or like someone we know well?

And then there are the townspeople. Normal agrarian folks, Gentiles, working with livestock, who may as well be a world removed from Jesus, his Jewish context, his identity as Messiah. In an immediate society where Jewish Temple culture defined the important structures of the day, this group of people were certainly on the fringes, outcasts themselves. And the one person that they could claim authority over, that they could say with certainty that they were better than, lived alone in the wilderness, naked and possessed by demons.

And along came Jesus.

When hearing this story, one might wonder why the townspeople were so eager for Jesus to move on. Wouldn’t they be amazed by his healing powers, we wonder? Wouldn’t they want to be healed too? Surely someone’s child was sick at home, someone’s brother was dying or mother was unable to make ends meet? Wouldn’t they want Jesus to stay awhile and spread his miracles around? After all, if he was able to heal the lowest member of their social structure, they must have recognized that he could do just about anything else.

It is for all of these reasons that I can identify with the townspeople when I enter this story. Maybe you can, too.

As I have gotten older [LAUGHS], I have noticed a strange phenomenon, one that I am willing to bet has been around since the beginning of human communities. I have noticed that oftentimes, when a person gets well, gets their life back on track, the people around them—their families, their friends—can sometimes have an incredibly difficult time accepting their newfound health.

Here is an example that is particularly timely considering our economy. A family is in debt. They are so far in debt that they are considering having to file for bankruptcy, something that they never imagined having to do. They are ashamed. They are afraid. For years they have been making decisions that they knew were not financially responsible, but they had trouble stopping. They built a life for themselves that swelled well beyond their means—buying things they could not afford from houses to cell phones, cars to computers. Their life became confusing. The debt was so large that it didn’t make sense anymore, so it seemed impossible to turn around. Their marriage is strained, they have trouble sleeping, they are overwhelmed. Somewhere along the way, they realize, they had lost a sure sense of their identity. They hit rock bottom.

Through the counsel of financial advisors, this family is slowly able to start getting their life together. They learn about their debt—they stare that big number in the face and they don’t look away from it. They set boundaries. They consolidate loans. They sell cars. It takes time, but they start feeling in control again. They are proud of their good decisions. They can see a very bright light at the end of the long tunnel that had held them captive for so long. While they still have a long journey ahead of them, they are in the process of being restored to wholeness, to health.

Now, wouldn’t you think that the people surrounding this family—the friends and loved ones who have known them the longest—would rejoice in this newfound freedom? Some do, certainly. But others are immensely uncomfortable. Their own feelings become confused. Deep down, their own shameful realization: They resent this family’s new health. Not because they wanted them to continue to suffer—not at all—but because the boundaries of their community just changed.

Psychologists might call this family the “identified patient” in their social circle. Things aren’t going well for them, so everyone else gets to focus their attention in that direction, effectively allowing them to not look too closely at their own problems, issues, demons. When the identified patient gets well, the structure around them has to scramble and re-orient itself. Suddenly and uncomfortably, friends and family have to look within themselves at their own need for healing. This can be an awkward and painful process.

We can see this pattern play out in a variety of healing narratives. The alcoholic who gets sober, the abuse survivor who can finally tell her story. While we rejoice in wellness, we chafe against the discomfort of a new person, filling a new role.

The man in Garesenes begs that he might stay with Jesus. He is well now, and this is his escape route. He can leave town and start a whole new life for himself. No one will remember him as the demoniac hiding in the woods, no one will know where he came from. But Jesus has something else in mind: “Return to your home,” he says, “and declare how much God has done for you.” In other words—tell your story. Go and tell your story, even to those people who knew you before, the people who mocked you, who feared you, who pitied you. Tell them the good news of what happened here on the shore, and in time, others will be brought to wellness, to healing, too.

The good news—the gospel—in this story is found in two parts: First, the incredible, complete, full way in which Jesus can heal us and bring us to wholeness when we submit our lives to him, and second, the way that our own health can transform our communities, and first awkwardly but ultimately gracefully.

Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you, Jesus says. So he went away, proclaiming throughout the city how much Jesus had done for him.

I preached the second one last weekend (June 6), Proper 5. You can read both sermons after the jump, or listen to the audio of the first one (the second one should be up soon) here. 

Of Mice and Jesus

(Easter 7C, May 16, 2010)

“What must I do to be saved?” (x2)

This question, asked of Paul in today’s reading from the book of Acts, rings throughout history as a common cry of humanity. What must I do be saved? What must I do to truly feel free?

Today’s account of Paul and Silas as they evangelize their way through Europe is really a story about slavery and freedom, captivity and redemption. Here, we find accusations of ownership, real jail cells, shackles, and a quest on all sides to either strengthen or loosen the ties of oppression. It is a story in two parts.

First, the slave girl with a gift of “divination,” or fortune telling, who followed Paul and Silas for days, proclaiming, “These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.” Slaves to God, followed by a slave of men. For days she trails after them, proclaiming the truth about Paul’s slavery—proclaiming the gospel, really—until Paul has had enough. The text actually says that he was annoyed. Turning around, Paul rebukes the spirit living inside the girl and casts it out.

This is, at first glance, one of the least sympathetic stories that we have about the life of Paul. Something about it just rubs the wrong way…probably the overt use of the word “annoyed,” which seems to devalue the plight of this young woman and further build Paul’s reputation as a bit of a show-boater. He casts out a demon because he was annoyed?

But while Paul’s motives may have been a little selfish—trying to rid himself from a tagalong—God’s grace remains self-less, and by freeing her of the demon that made her tell fortunes, God liberates the girl from at least one aspect of her oppression. No longer can her owners cart her around town like a sideshow act, making money from the demon inside her. While she remains a slave—a category of Roman society that was systematic, deeply entrenched, and tightly hewed to the empire’s economy—she regains her humanity. Without the oppressor dwelling inside of her, the slave can experience a freedom she has never known.

Which leads us to the second story. The young girl’s owners are so angry with Paul and Silas for casting out the demon and effectively making lame their cash cow, they appeal to the local government to have the two men arrested, which they are, on charges of subverting the power of the state and undermining Roman order and Jewish customs. These are the same charges that led to Jesus’ arrest not long before.

While in jail, Paul and Silas sing hymns and pray to God—all within earshot of the other prisoners, for whom captivity is a lived reality—until a massive earthquake breaks their chains and opens the prison doors. While it seems that the natural reaction would be to make a run for it, all of the prisoners stay put. The guard, awaking to find shackles broken and doors flung open, is driven to drastic measures—afraid of the fate that awaits him when he tells the authorities that all the prisoners escaped—until Paul points out that everyone is accounted for.

Here, another insight into captivity and freedom. I imagine the guard’s shock and confusion. It seems so unnatural, so unlikely, for prisoners to not rush to escape as soon as they are able. But, for Paul and Silas at least, we see here how the culture’s understanding of captivity and freedom is of little consequence. As far as they are concerned, they are free. Even when they are chained to an iron bar in a prison cell, their true freedom in God means that they don’t have to go anywhere to know ultimate liberty. The jailer, on the other hand, who by social convention is an utterly free man, is so bound by the pressures and conventions of his role within the state that he is ready to take his own life when he thinks that me made a mistake on the job.

He throws himself on the ground and asks Paul a simple question: What must I do to be saved? What must I do to be saved?

Saved from what, we wonder? Saved from the wrath of the higher-ups in the Roman bureaucracy?  Saved from a particular bondage, from an empty life, from the struggle to be something that he is not? Whatever it is that is chasing this man, holding him down, making him less free than the prisoners he guards, he knows that he is at a crossroads now and he is ready to choose real freedom over everything else. The kind of freedom that Paul and Silas seem to enjoy.

As Americans, we talk a lot about freedom, so much so that the word itself has become tied to our patriotic identity. The type of freedom that we enjoy—political, religious, economic—is a rarity on the face of the planet, and it should be celebrated. But is it possible, at times, to confuse freedom and captivity?

Is it possible, like the jailer, to think that we are free when we are really slaves?

Last night [on Friday night] I saw a production of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men at the John Beasley Theater in South Omaha. For those of you who haven’t read the book, the story follows two friends, George and Lenny, as they hop from ranch to ranch in Depression-era California. Lenny is developmentally disabled, and George, a longtime friend, has taken on the role of care-taker, trying to keep Lenny out of trouble as they are chased from ranch to ranch due to one misunderstanding after another. The two men are companions, a package deal, and while Lenny is unable to function alone in the world, George’s responsibility forever ties the two together.

Throughout the story, whenever George gets mad at Lenny, he tells him how much easier his life would be if he were alone. He would enjoy so much freedom. He could go out on the town, spend all the money he makes, never have to worry about the safety of his friend. He’s serious, too—he means it. Without Lenny holding him back, George would lead an utterly free life.

But each lone cowboy that they meet is strangely intrigued by—even jealous of—their companionship. In their utterly free life of spending their money, moving from job to job—the life that George dreams of—they find loneliness, restlessness. Through a serious of tragic events, George learns that the freedom that he yearns for is really captivity, that true freedom is found in the commitments he has made to the companionship and brotherly love of this one person. While Lenny appears to be a liability, it is really he that saves George.

I will spare you the details of the ending, which is honestly too sad to tell, but the point is that sometimes the sheer awesomeness of the choices that we are able to make, of the things that we are able to buy, of the allowance our culture gives for excess and flight, can be a prison sentence masquerading a freedom. In our society, we become experts at making choices at a very young age. What we need help with is the ability to make commitments, to find freedom in the denial of so many options.

This is the truth of the Christian life and that Paul and Silas make known to the jailer in today’s story. What must I do to be saved, he asks? The answer: Believe in the Lord Jesus. This is not a passive salvation, a magical incantation that will erase all the dangers and oppressions of this life. After all, the jailer is still subject to discipline by the Roman state, and the young woman is still a slave to her masters. But by believing in Jesus, by making a commitment to follow the way of Christ, to really believe and fashion our lives accordingly, Paul is showing us the way to a type of freedom that the material world does not know.

What enslaves you? What holds you captive? We all have something, and often times it looks a lot like freedom. True liberation is only found in something other than ourselves, in the belief that God has something greater in store for us. 

Hosting the Word of God

(Proper 5C, June 6, 2010)

What does it mean to be a host? For many of us, the word conjures up images of dinner parties and out of town guests, the opening up of our home to people other than those who normally live in it. Hospitality. Entertaining. If you are a scientist, perhaps you think of viruses or tiny organisms establishing themselves in host animals or host cells. Or, if you are Episcopalian, you might think of the Eucharistic host, the round circle of bread placed in your hands, feeding you with the Body of Christ.

The word “host” has a variety of definitions, and many of them find expression in today’s reading from First Kings. Here, we find that miraculous story of Elijah’s unexpected host in the wilderness—a widow whose family is dying of starvation—and the way that God continues to feed them by never allowing their supply of grain or oil to run dry. We also hear of the near-death of the widow’s son, of Elijah’s desperate prayers, how he hurls himself on top of the young man’s body as he cries out to God, and how God revives the boy and restores wholeness to the widow’s nearly dashed dreams.

As is often the case with the Old Testament, we need start with a little background. At the time of this story, Ahab was king of Israel. He was an evil king who introduced the worship of Baal, a false god who was said to control the rain, into the lives of the Israelites. Ahab is married to Jezebel, whose people worshipped Baal back in her hometown. Enter Elijah, a prophet with a clear message: Your rain god will not work. In fact, there will be no rain until I say that there will. Only the one true God, Yahweh, should be worshipped, and only Yahweh will fertilize your crops.

Ahab does not take this message too well—he was counting on Baal to end the drought that was plaguing his people—and it becomes imperative that Elijah leave town. God cares for the prophet as he hides, giving him plenty of water to drink and sending ravens to deliver food. The drought worsens and even the ravens cannot provide enough sustenance, so God sends Elijah through the wilderness and finally to a place called Sidon, where he meets a widow gathering sticks for a fire. He asks her to bring him some water and some food. She can manage the water, she says, but she only has enough food to make one last meal for herself and her son.

I only have a handful of meal and a little oil in a jug, she says. I am going home to prepare it for my son so that we may eat it and die.

I am going home to prepare it for my son so that we may eat it and die.

This line jumps out of the text and begs to be reckoned with. We can only imagine the complete and total desperation of this woman, a woman who has already lost her husband, who has been ravaged by famine and knows with absolute certainty that she can only feed her child one more meal. She is going to die. Her son is going to die. She wants this stranger to leave her in peace.

This widow speaks to our lowest points, to our own tragic life events, our own seasons spent in drought and famine. In these times, we too may only bear the thought of being left alone, out of sight, away from strangers or even friends. Hers is, I think, a very natural reaction, one that we might have difficulty finding fault with. Why give this stranger food? Why now, when she and her son are so close to death?

Elijah quotes scripture to the widow, and eventually convinces her to share her food. And God provides. The meal and the oil never run out, and the entire household eats for many days. It is a miracle, but not the last miracle that God blesses the widow’s family with.  Later, even with the blessing of several more meals, the widow’s son becomes very ill and draws close to death. The widow blames Elijah, who takes the boy from her arms, cries out to the Lord, and covers the son’s body with his own. Again, God listens to Elijah, and the boy is restored to health.

Miracles. We use that word quite a bit. In popular usage, a miracle is something unexpected, even improbable, that brings about our most desired outcome. In classical philosophy, however, the definition of a miracle is much more specific. A miracle brings resolution not to the improbable, but to the truly impossible. A miracle defies the laws of science, it happens without any conceivable earthly explanation.

However we understand miracles, for people of faith one this is sure: they are the product of divine intervention. And in the story of Elijah’s visit to the widow, there are not two but three miraculous events at play. The never ending meal and oil, the recovery of the dying son, and a third—the very willingness of the widow to invite Elijah into her home in the first place.

Here is where our understanding of the word “host” becomes crucial. Hospitality is an important biblical theme throughout the Old and New Testaments. In ancient times, hospitality was an imperative. Travelling people were taken into homes, where the fattest goat was slaughtered and welcoming parties lasted late into the night. God is serious about hospitality. The whole city of Sodom and Gomorrah was destroyed when the townspeople could not honor Lot’s hospitality toward two mysterious visitors.

But hospitality did not end in Biblical times. As Christians, we too strive to be hospitable people. Our Welcoming and Evangelism Mission Team, for example, helps set an orientation toward hospitality here at All Saints. And we all know those people whose homes are always open to visitors, whose effortless ability to make us feel comfortable seems to be a gift from God. Being a good host is important for the health of our communities and of our own spiritual lives.

The widow in Sidon was a host. Perhaps miraculously, she allowed a dirty man wandering in the wilderness to share her home while she and her son faced certain death due to starvation. Her hospitality was unparalleled. It had to be more than simply a cultural expectation. Something else had to be going on.

When we are at our lowest points, like that widow, we hunger and yearn for miracles. We open our whole selves, every fiber of our beings, to God’s hand, God’s work, God’s prophets. What it means to be a host changes. We are no longer hospitable for the sake of the comfort and reception of the other, we are host to the other. Like a host organism, a host cell, we welcome God’s prophet, God’s word into our very selves, to go to work within us. The relationship is no longer one-sided, it is reciprocal, symbiotic. Our very selves host the divine.

It is a daring leap to host the word of God in our midst. But when we allow ourselves to go there, to truly welcome God to work within us, there are incredible consequences. The widow in Sidon took a chance by inviting Elijah home with her. Her whole self was ready, primed, open, for God, and God’s prophet received her invitation and the miraculous happened. At our low points, even at our high points, we too must dare like the widow did—dare to be open to God. 

I was initially attracted to the book because of Daum's short-lived relocation from New York City to Lincoln, Nebraska. I like reading about Nebraska transplants, mainly because native Nebraskans just can't understand my obsession with the weather and the sky out here. It's nice to read other people's reflections and know that I'm not crazy. 

image/source 

The Nebraska sections of the book are short and not entirely crucial to the story. What matters the most in this great collection is how external factors like where one lives--and how one's style is reflected in his or her surroundings--can overshadow the significance of how one lives. That is, your life will never be perfect just because you live in that house. Shelter magazines, design blogs...I am among that guilty group of people who get a thrill of aesthetic excitement (and oftentimes jealousy) from simply looking at pictures of how other people live in their well appointed abodes. My insistence on real hardwood floors significantly narrowed my options when searching for apartments, and those floors were only the tip of the iceberg.

Life Would Be Perfect is a funny,well-written, poignant exploration of what makes a home. I highly recommend it for your summer reading list. 

Well, the Washington tabs finally expired, so I bit the bullet and had the car registered here in Nebraska.

While it may sound silly, the transition has been a bit of an emotional ordeal for me. I liked the Washington plates. They were pretty, with a nice image of Mount Rainier emerging amid bold colors. I liked the old-school raised numbers, which made me imagine actual prisoners pounding on the plates with a level of skill instead of just a computer somewhere spitting them out. Most of all, I liked that they were from Washington, which is where I am from, and where my family still is. It was sad to pry those dented plates from their dirty spots on the front and back of my Ford.

But change happens, and now my car looks like it actually belongs here instead of shouting, "Hey! I'm just passing through." This makes sense, of course, because I'm not just passing through. I have a life for myself here in Nebraska and I guess it's about time that my car reflects that.

I am, however, thinking of framing one of the old Washington plates and giving it a prime spot on my office wall... 

At first, I thought of going to Lincoln (about an hour away) but realized that I wouldn't really know what to do o once I got there. For a long time I toyed with the idea of driving to Yankton, South Dakota, a town that appeals to me only because it is mentioned over and over again on the HBO series Deadwood. Finally, I decided to stick close to town and explore one of my favorite spots near Omaha, the Boyer Chute National Wildlife Refuge and the sleepy towns surrounding it. 

I did a lot of slow driving, a lot of walking, and some much needed sitting in the sun. I even took some pictures. All in all, a very relaxing morning. 

This month I am thrilled to be counted among the contributing preachers for Sermons that Work, a ministry of the Episcopal Church that provides free, public domain sermons for churches that do not have a priest or licensed lay preacher on hand.

I have long enjoyed looking through their website and often consult their sermons for inspiration while preparing my own. My sermon is for June 13th, and you can find it here.

Thanks, Sermons that Work for a fun and challenging experience! I hope we can work together again soon.
 

photo/source 

Outside my window...the sun is shining and a nice breeze is blowing through the trees. Kids are outside playing and the sound of lawnmowers and laughter is filling the neighborhood. This almost makes up for the trauma of the winter. 

I am thinking...about how to be a priest in my community as well as in my parish. Any thoughts?

I am thankful for...beautiful weather, good music, and a whole day off. Amen. 

I am wearing...Jeans and a tee-shirt. No shoes. 

I am remembering...Bellingham, mostly because I spent last night working on a project and listening to Robert Blake. I had a borderline-stalker crush on him in college and his music always takes me back to how much I loved that town. 

I am going...to continue working on the aforementioned project (secrets!), the Bible study, and then go on a nice long walk.

I am reading...the WPA Guide to Nebraska, which I finally found a copy of! I love these 1930's guidebooks...they take you back in time but also reveal how little things have changed (the description of West Omaha in 1938 is hilarious because it is still so true). 

I am hoping...that people enjoy tomorrow's Bible study and aren't too scandalized by it. Tamar is a pretty juicy character. 

From the kitchen...a pile of dirty dishes and the remnants of last night's impromptu dinner: roasted root vegetables with goat cheese toast. The roasting pan is soaking in the sink.