FATHER O.S.A

I'm meeting a lot of people in Sheridan and VC. Not always remembering their names, but that is slowly coming. I know that Janet is my VC senior warden, Jan is the deacon in Sheridan, Janet has a husband suffering from emphyzema, Janet is the school secretary at the elementary school, Jane is a Sheridan parishioner, Joanne is the VC librarian, and Jan is the mother of a new friend of The Kid. And yes, these are all different women. Not to mention that Shelly owns the best bakery in VC and Sherry works there.
So if I greet any woman as Jan, the odds are pretty good that I've got the name right.

I went for a walk last night while Mrs. Ref was out scrapbooking. There was a lady walking up the street and we started talking. Her name is Judy. For variety. She asked if we were fixing up the old house. "Yep."

"What do you do," she inquires.

"I'm the new priest at the Episcopal church. I also have the one up in VC."

You know, sometimes it's just easier to tell people that you are the new priest. "I'm the new transitional deacon" just doesn't do it. Then you have to explain the three orders, why you have to be a deacon before you can be a priest, what the whole transitional thing is about, what's different about the two, and on and on.

So, although not really true or correct, I simply introduce myself as the new priest in town. People can understand that. And, with any luck, I won't scare them away with details and maybe they'll come visit.

And with apologies to AKMA, there are times when you really do need to take the less complicated path.

Peace

A DAY
 
And what a day it was yesterday.  One of those days when you want to scream.  One of those days when you wonder "who the hell [you] are."  One of those days when you look forward to that big-ass meteor slamming into your city.  One of those days when you need a beer and a hug.  Or maybe just a beer.  Or maybe just a hug.

Started off when I realized that a very important document is not where I thought it was and I can't remember where I may have put it and I hope that it shows up in one of my unpacked boxes.

I began moving more of my stuff into the Sheridan office, which required pretty much destroying the office as is and starting from scratch.  It now looks worse than when I got to town.

It continued when I locked my keys in the office.  Tried to open some windows to ventilate the house, but they are all swollen and painted shut.  Realized that none of the windows have drapes ('nuff said about THAT -- Jane, your card is about perfect).  Cranky Kid, cranky Mrs. Ref, late night moving the last few items from the cabin into the house.  Realized I didn't do anything for Sundays liturgy.

That, however, is a good thing because I decided to use the exact same hymns that we used last week.  That might help the people who have complained to me already that we need to sing some familiar hymns rather than these newfangled ones we've never heard of before.  Parish reality came quick.

Today is better.  We spent our first night in the new house.  I'm learning where I can and can't get dressed.  There was no commute into Sheridan.  The day here in VC is decent.  We are having dinner tonight with my assigned mentor over the hill in Ennis tonight.  He asked me to think about things that concern me or that I might need help with.  I think I'll ask about music.

I wonder if Bob Finster wants to retire to the Ruby Valley?

We also had the phone guy come in and activate a jack in the office.  We are six feet and 150 boxes away from having our computer at home up and running.  And the cats are busy getting lost in the new mansion.

As for the daily grind, I had one distraught women in my office in VC two weeks ago.  I immediately thought of the Salty Vicar's stalker.  And I talked with a young woman about a possible marriage -- not me to her, but she and her fiance in the church.  That might be promising, since she is also considering getting baptized before the wedding.  Time will tell.

I'm also slowly learning some names of people around town.  That's a good thing.

Time to run and close up shop before we head off to Ennis.

Peace

YEAR C - PENTECOST VIII - PROPER 12
 
Prayer.

That word conjures up all sorts of images.  From the Lord's Prayer of today, to Jesus in the garden, to night time prayers with children, to prayer circles, and even to bartering with God.  Prayer comes in many forms and people who pray have a variety of skills.  Yes, prayer is a skill.

I'll be honest here, if I were to rank myself on a prayer scale of 1 - 10, I'd put myself at about a 4.  I'm not one of the better ones, and I envy those people who seem to have a "strong" prayer life.  Maybe if I was better at it, it wouldn't have taken me so long to get here.  Who knows?

So what exactly is prayer?  Well, let's begin with what prayer isn't.  Prayer isn't a continual wish list of wants that you ask God to deliver.  Like a Christmas list given to Santa, a list of things that you think would make your life better or more fun.  "Oh God, please let me win the lottery.  Please give me a job (although that can be one, but you need to be careful of what job God will give you).  Please help my marriage.  Please help me be better.  Please whatever."

Nor is prayer a continual apology of sins committed.  "Oh God, forgive me for treating so-and-so poorly.  Forgive me for not tithing enough.  Forgive me for drinking too much.  Forgive me for whatever."

Neither is prayer a continual litany of praise.  "Oh God, you are great.  God you are awesome.  God you are good.  God you are wonderful."

Prayer, rather, is a combination of all of these things.  And that bears out in today's gospel.  Jesus, asked to teach his disciples how to pray, shows them.  "Father, hallowed be your name."  Praise.  Give us each day our daily bread."  Request.  "And forgive us our sins . . ."  Repentence.  Prayer is an honest conversation with God.  And it is a daily conversation with God.  That line, "Give us each day our daily bread," wasn't meant to be a one time request, but a daily request.

For those of us in relationships, which is just about everyone here, can you imagine talking to your spouse once a week?  Giving them a list of wants, needs, apologies, and then saying, "I'll talk to you again next Sunday."  Daily conversation is the core of prayer.

Jesus goes on from the Lord's Prayer to give a few examples.  Those examples aside, this daily dialogue comes in the form of Ask, search, knock.  You begin by asking.  This isn't the simplistic asking I mentioned above, but something different.  The more you ask, the more your question gets narrowed and focused.  "Give me a job," moves to, "Give me a job where I can work with my hands," to, "Can I help build houses?"  Eventually, that moves from asking for what I want to asking for what I can do to best help God.

Tied to asking is searching.  In my line of work we call it discernment, and it can take a long time.  You search -- how can I accomplish what I've asked for?  And through that search you will find an answer.  It may even turn out that you were asking the wrong question. 

Finally, you knock.  Your asking and searching have led you to a door that you are ready to knock upon.  And for those of you who think that knocking is easy stuff, go and knock on somebody's door this week and ask them to come to church with you.  But by the time you get to the point of knocking, you will be ready for it.

For those who need some type of example of all this, I offer myself.  In 1996, someone said, "You should be a priest."  I spent alot of time asking questions, of myself, of my family, of my friends, of other priest.  The only priests I had known of were parish priests, and I knew that I didn't want to be responsible for the eternal souls of the people in a congregation.  I mean, what if I got it wrong and these poor people went to hell because of me?  No way.  So I asked, and I found out all the different ways I could be a priest.

Then I searched.  What kind of priest would I be?  Where would I serve?  And the more I searched, the more I came to realize that being in a parish is really where I was called to be.  All of my asking and searching led me to a door.

And in my senior year, I was ready to knock.  I knocked in Oregon, and in Wyoming, and in Libby, and in Anaconda, and in Missoula, and here.  And eventually, the door to this community was opened up to me, and I entered.

Knocking is a risk, but you surround that risk with daily prayer and you figure out where you need to go.  And after all the time of asking and searching, the knocking really doesn't seem like that much of a risk.  But it is, and when you do knock, and the door is opened, you are ready to enter, and through that portal you will never be the same again.

So go ahead.  Pray daily.  Ask God questions.  Check in.  See how he's doing.  See how you're doing.  Say, "I love you."  Say, "I'm sorry."  But talk, ask, search, and take the risk.  It's worth it.

WE HAVE STUFF

Yes, it is here.  The driver called yesterday morning from Bozeman, got directions (go west on I-90, south on 55/41/287, right at the church).  He showed up about 10:30 and spent the day off-loading our stuff (with two helpers).  It went relatively smoothly.  The check-off sheet said we were missing three boxes, but two of the boxes we unloaded didn't have tags on them, so that means one was missing.  Maybe there was a third one without a sticker, maybe we missed it, who knows, but so far it doesn't seem important.  I'm sure it wasn't any of my books, so that's good.

We fed the crew lunch -- that made them happy.  And Joelene's rocking chair -- the one that was in the hallway looking like it needed to be burned rather than saved -- got broke.  As she was unpacking, we had one wine glass that broke and the decoration for the top of our wedding cake got broke.  So far everything seems to be okay.  She's home unpacking while I'm UP in VC working and catching up with some things.

Life is getting better.

JOIN US IN OUR CELEBRATION
 
Good news loyal readers.  I received a call from Atlas yesterday and they said that the driver would like to deliver our stuff this Sunday.

I was very excited . . . for about two seconds.  "That's nice," I said, "but I work Sundays."  I was dreading the response I would get -- maybe something along the lines of, "Oh, well, we can deliver it when he comes through Montana on his way back east." 

But no, the driver is able to wait one day and will deliver everything on Monday.  We are very happy.  We need to finish a few minor items in the house, but nothing that won't keep us from moving in next week.

Everybody smile.

UP SOUTH

Okay, I'm going to be fair here.  I've pointed out the foibles of Chicagoland for the last . . . well, since I started blogging.  Everything from their drivers, to their personalities, to the weather, to the claim that the lake is "just like the ocean."  Well, now it's time to point out a particular foible of the Ruby Valley that is driving me nuts.

Look at a map.  Any map.  Where's north?  Up.  North is ALWAYS up on maps.  Where's Australia?  Down under.  The north pole?  At the top of the world.  Antarctica?  The bottom of the world.  For as long as I have lived, north is up, south is down, and east and west are over or back (used interchangeably, such as "back east" or "over in Seattle").  But now, my astute sense of directionality has been, literally, turned upside down.

Out here, in the Ruby Valley, people give directions based on the flow of the rivers.  We all know that rivers flow downhill.  Therefore, anything upstream is referenced as "up" and anything downstream is referenced as "down."  Such as, "Up in VC" (because it's further up the mountain, and therefore further upstream); or "down in Sheridan" or "down in Twin Bridges" (because those towns are downhill and downstream).  This makes sense.  Sort of.

It turns out that, because of the mountains, rivers flow north here.  Therefore, everything north is "down" and everything south is "up."  This whole "down north" and "up south" thing is driving me nuts.  And with two offices to maintain, one here in Sheridan and the other one up in VC, I don't need any help in that department.

So, what are the particular foibles from your particular geographic location.

SINNERS WELCOME

Okay, not a Styx song, but this library link thing is really damaging my creativity == not to mention the time limit thing doesn't allow for much playing.  Anyway . . .

So I was getting caught up on some of the goings on with my blogger friends and came across Jane's post about starting a new church.  Check out the link, it's a good read.  Well, I'm not exactly starting a new church, but when the two parishes I'm serving haven't had a regular priest in 12 years I might as well be.  They've been doing what they've needed to to survive, and along come I asking all kinds of silly practical questions.  Most of the time, the answer is something like, "Whatever you want to do or however you want to handle it, Father, is fine with us."  Wow. 

The main gist of the linked post is that you need to be radical == radical hospitality, radical this, radical that.  Well, believe it or not, I'm exhibiting many forms of radicalness in this new job (vocation, call, whatever).  I'm finding it very easy to implement ideas, and I'm taking that and running with it.  You all saw my sermon for the centennial celebration; not what you would call a safe sermon, considering it was the second one I preached at St. Paul's.

So, here is St. Paul's, the staid Episcopal church in Virginia City, the one with the 100 year old building, the only church in town, built by all the proper people and attended by the . . . loyalists.  And here I come.  They have a reader board out front.  After the first Sunday, which read, "Come welcome the Rev. Todd Young," and after the second Sunday, which read, "Centennial Service 5:00 pm, Bishop Brookhart Presiding," I was forced to put up something normal.  So, I listed my name == The Rev. Todd Young (bizarre seeing that on a reader board), Office Hrs: T & Th, and our phone number.  That left me with a big gap on the board.  So, in the biggest letters I could find, I put

                                                                               SINNERS WELCOME

I'm thinking that that should stir up some talk around VC.  Who knows, I might even get some people coming to check us out on a Sunday.

NO PLACE TO GO AND ALL DAY TO GET THERE
 
Trying to stay with the Styx theme on all non-sermon posts, this was the best I could come up with at the moment.  For those of you who have followed the entire moving saga . . . It's not over yet!
 
We heard from Atlas last week:  There's been a delay and your items are scheduled to arrive now between 7/17 and 7/27 (as opposed to the original dates of 7/11 - 7/17).  Mrs. Ref called Atlas this morning.  Found out that our goods have not even left the Chicago area; they are sitting in a warehouse in Elk Grove.  Apparently I'm the only person in the country moving to Montana this year.
 
We are thinking of doing a 50-50 fund raiser for the church.  Drop $5 on a square and guess when the new vicar's stuff arrives -- You get half the pot if you guess correctly.  I may actually have to do that.
 
I'm sure there's more that I want to blog on, but having to use the library's computer kind of puts a damper on my creativity.
 
Peace

YEAR C - PENTECOST VII - PROPER 11
 
Cool -- Blogger made some changes while I was gone.  I like it so far.  Okay, now for what you've really come here for.  I preached three times yesterday -- two normal sermons, and one for the centennial celebration of the building that St. Paul's worships in.  It was quite the service, the bishop came down, we had a packed house, lots of clergy from the Diocese of MT, relatives of the lady that donated the money for the building, and some good food afterwords.  So, here you go:
 
#1
 
This is not one of my favorite gospel passages.  On the one hand, we have Martha who invites Jesus and the gang to her place and spends all of her time rushing about trying to take care of everything; and Jesus tells her, basically, that she is doing the wrong thing.  This strikes me as problematic because for most of the gospel Jesus is trying to teach his followers about hospitality and servitude.  So why does Martha get it wrong? 
 
On the other hand, we have Mary, who plants herself at the feet of Jesus and does nothing but listen.  For years this was used to keep women subservient to men:  Sit down, say nothing, and listen to the man.  I'm not fond of either of these views, and I would rather not have to deal with this passage.  But, here they are.
 
It's funny how things work out though.  We have been here two weeks and our stuff still hasn't arrived.  We are still camped out at the Shackleton's cabin living out of suitcases.  One of the things we were able to do, however, was to go the the library and get our library cards.  So we are almost now fully legal residents of Sheridan.  While there, my wife picked up a book called, "Tuesdays with Morrie."  When she finished, she asked me to read it. 
 
If you aren't familiar with this book, it chronicles the last few months of the life of Morrie Schwartz, a former college professor of Mitch Albom, the author.  Mitch writes for the Detroit Free Press and makes appearances on ESPN.  Anyway, Morrie is dying of ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease).  It turns out that Mitch lost touch with his favorite college professor shortly after graduation, and just happened to come across a Nightline story about him.
 
One of the things that struck me in this book is that Morrie says, "You have to learn to die in order to learn to live."  You have to learn to die in order to learn to live.  Both I and Mitch struggled with that, wondering what exactly he's getting at.  And as I moved through the book, Morrie explained it.
 
Imagine starting every day asking yourself, "Is this the day I will die?"  And what would happen if it were?  Most people ignore their own deaths.  We know, on some level, that everyone will die and that nobody gets out of here alive.  Parents die, friends die, mentors die, and if we are lucky, we won't live to see our children die.  But we tend to ignore our own death.
 
How many of us have a will?  Have you made funeral arrangements?  Do you know where you want to be buried?  Have you gone through the burial service in the BCP?  I can only answer yes to one of those questions.  The point is, our own death isn't high on the priority list.
 
But what if?  What if you started each day asking that question?  And what if the answer was, "Yes."  How would your life change?  Would you write letters?  Feed the poor?  Call an old friend?  Shelter the homeless?  Try to mend some hurt feelings?  Or would you pay your bills?  Wash the car?  Dust the curio?
 
My guess is that you would do the former.  We all know what is really important in life, we all do.  And to prove that point, what's the first thing that people grab when their house is burning?  Pictures.  They don't grab the mortgage bill or the Pledge, but pictures.  We know what's important.
 
And that's what Morrie is getting at.  If we paid attention to our death, we would spend more time focusing on what's important:  Family, friends, etc.  I have a grandmother who invites people over for special dinners.  She spends all of her time running around making sure that everything is right.  So much time, in fact, that nobody sees her and we spend all of our time getting her to relax.  Just like Martha.
 
Martha has allowed things to determine the course of her life, rather than work on priortizing her life according to what's really important.  Morrie and Jesus are on the same path here.  For this one instant, Mary had an insight that Jesus was more important than anything else.  Jesus had something to say that was so important it would change her life.  Mary took the time to priortize her life around what's important, rather than allow "things" to priortize her life for her, like Marth did.
 
The point is:  don't be distracted by what the world says is important.  Work to prioritize your life according to what's really important.  And if you ask yourself, "Is this the day I will die," you'll know what is really important in your life.  So go ahead, ask yourself, "Is this the day?"  And then live like it were.
 
 
#2 -- For the Centennial Celebration of the church of St. Paul's
 
We are gathered here today to celebrate the centenial anniversary of the dedication of this building.  You will notice that we are NOT celebrating the centennial anniversary of St. Paul's.  And that is an important distinction.  For while we dedicate,  consecrate, honor and appreciate, in the end this building is nothing more than a pile of rocks and glass and wood and brass.  Beautiful, to be sure, but things nonetheless.  Much like our bodies are bones and blood and muscle and skin.
 
And like we are more than the components that make us up, St. Paul's is more than this building.  But Episcopalians are a strange lot.  More than any other denomination, I think, we value our buildings.  We appreciate good architecture and art and we want our buildings to exude a sens of the holy.  And this place does just that.
 
I have been in my office here a total of four days, and I have encountered many people who are both awed and totally at peace when they enter this building.  As well they should be.  The combination of quiet and coolness and darkness and beauty make this a true gemstone of the Ruby Valley.  And here I should pay tribute to Mary Elling who donated the funds necessary to construct and furnish this building.
 
Thne congregation of St. Paul's, however, dates back to at least 1868 when it was begun by Bishop Tuttle, a good 34 years befor this place existed.  Another reminder that St. Paul's is more than this building.
 
Although congregations are not, nor should they be, tied to places, places should be treated as holy.  We see this in the stories from today's readings.  In Genesis, Jacob meets up with the Lord, declares the place "the house of God" and "the gate of heaven."  He ultimately builds an altar in that place.  What Jacob originally treated as a profane place became holy.  And all of the action in the gospel takes place in the temple -- the holiest of all places in Judaism.  The difference her, though, is that decidedly un-holy actions are taking place and Jesus drives out the money changers and others participating in those actions.  This holy place is being profaned.
 
So holiness does seem to be tied to certain places.  But notice that peopole are not necessarily tied to those places.  God repeats to Jacob the promise originally given to Abram, "You shall spread to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and your offspring."  We too are the children of that promise.  But notice that God didn't say, "I will bring all the nations to you," but that "you shall spread abroad."  We are not called to sit in this place and wait for people to join up.  We are not called to sit in this place and wait for tourists to drop by.  We are called to go out and bring the good news of God into the world.
 
So if we are bing sent out into the world, what's the point of having a building?  Why not simply throw up a tend and start preaching?  Because the world is a hard place.  After all, Jacob used a rock for a pillow and the wrold ultimately crucified Jesus.  Going out into the world and spreading the good news is hard work.  And after a hardday's work, istn't it nice to rest in a holy place where you can relax and worship and rejuvenate?
 
This building is a rest stop.  A place to meet with God.  A place to garner our bearings, for those of us who are directionally challenged.  A place to meet fellow travelers, share stories and be comforted.  A place to go forth from, not to permanently stay. 
 
I give thanks today for Bishop Tuttle who started St. Paul's.  I give thanks for Mary Elling who donated the money for the building.  I give thanks for those members of this congregation who have kept it alive and kicking during the lean years.  But most of all, I give thanks for those people who recognize that we are called to go forth.  Amen.
 

JULY 11 -- YEAR C, PROPER 10

As urged by friends, I'm going to post my sermons. Here's my very first official one.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, you are to serve all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick and the lonley." These are not just any words or any sentence. This is part of the diaconal charge that my bishop read to me at my ordination, and I think it is particularly appropriate today.

We've all heard the story of the Good Samaritan, and we all know it: Good guy happens upon a victim after a priest and Levite pass by, offers help, happy ending for all. In some ways, the Good Samaritan has become a caricature of everything good in our society. In fact, most states have Good Samaritan laws that keep you from being sued if you happen upon an accident and offer honest help in the best interest of the victim. But that's not how it was originally delivered.

To get a sense of that, you have to understand that Samaritans were a Jewish sect despised by the general populace. They didn't worship at the temple. They didn't follow all of the bible, only Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. They were separate and despised. To get a feel for how the lawyer probably heard this story, you have to say Ssssamaritan; with that little hiss of disdain in your voice. The same way that people today say, "blacks," "southerner," "Yankee," "homosexual," "Californian," "Iraqi." That's how the lawyer heard this. Someone despised who becomes the protagonist. And he's told that this "Samaritan" is a good neighbor.

What is a good neighbor? Is it the people you bbq with over the backyard fence? Someone who cleans up the neighborhood? Someone of a particular social status? According to Jesus, a good neighbor occurs when someone's need intersects with someone's willingness to help. Need intersecting with willingness.

Before I go any further, you have to understand that the priest and the Levite were really doing the right thing. They've gotten a bad rap over the years, but they were doing the right thing. The priest, because of cleanliness laws, couldn't touch the wounded body or he himself would be rendered unclean. And then he wouldn't be able to perform his priestly functions. Likewise with the Levite. But sometimes what we think is the right thing differs from what God thinks is the right thing. "In the name of Jesus Christ, you are to serve all peopole . . . "

So, who is your neighbor? In one sense, God is our neighbor. God looked down on humanity, saw our tendency to lie, cheat, maim, kill and leave each other for dead. God became man in Jesus and picked us up, healed us, took us to be cared for, and paid our debts so that we could become healthy again. God is our neighbor.

Neighbors are also those you know. We were in the middle of packing up to come to Montana, and everything was falling apart around us. Plans were ruined, stress was increasing, and we were in danger of being left for dead in Chicago. But our neighbors came to our help, picked us up, cleansed our wounds, and offered to finish what was left so that we could get on with our lives. That group of people at Seabury were our neighbors.

Or the episode of "The Jeffersons," where George is mistakenly invited to a rally to clean up the neighborhood, but it turns out that the rally is run by white supremicists and the "clean up" has to do with getting rid of the blacks in the area. The speaker has a heart attack and it is George who gives CPR.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, you are to serve all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick and the lonely." So, who is it you despise? Blacks? Southerners? Californians? Democrats? Republicans? Iraqis? Homosexuals? Pick your type, and then imagine them coming to your aid.

Who is your neighbor? When you figure that out, then, as Jesus said, "Go and do likewise."

22 YEARS

If I thought that the week between Award's Night and Commencement was long, it had nothing on the week before we left Chicago and headed to Montana.

The plan was to have everything boxed and packed and loaded by Wednesday so that we could leave early early Thursday. It was to be glorious . . . we'd be set to go, Jenni was throwing a goodbye party for the last senior to leave the block, we'd say our goodbyes and head off to Big Sky Country with two cars, loads of clothes, one kid, two cats and two Guinea pigs. That was the plan.

By the time Wednesday evening rolled around, we weren't even close. My carefully laid plans were falling apart around me. Things weren't packed. The apartment wasn't cleaned. We were locked into the rental car deal. The stress level was increasing. Mrs. Ref had homicidal thoughts while I had suicidal thoughts. From Monday to Wednesday did indeed feel like 22 Years.

And then Grace.

Our fellow seminarians and friends pulled us out, pulled us up, made us relax and enjoy ourselves, and offered the greatest gift they could give -- themselves. They would finish the packing and preparing our stuff so that it was all ready when the moving company showed up. It was amazing and we both cried profusely. There aren't enough "thank you's" to go around, but I'll try.

Thanks to Jenni for the party. Thanks to Stephanie for hosting the party. Thanks to Aune for taking charge. Thanks to Jane for knowing. Thanks to Wes and Mark and Cliff and Susie and everyone else whom I am forgetting for your willingness to bail me out of my own mess. Without a doubt, you gave the greatest gift you could give us. Love you all.