Arriving in Bovara and lunching with Ettore

Our agriturismo is in Bovara – bigger than Bald Creek but only just. It is called I Mandorli and our apartment is downhill. There’s a set of twenty steps and then six or seven more down before the four up to the apartment door. We have a lovely view of the grounds out our windows. We can hear the church nearby ring the hour, quarter hour and sometimes three quarter hour. Oddly, we seem to miss the half hour! Last night, it rang continuously for a few minutes but we didn’t bother to see if there was an emergency as we were feeling very lazy.

After we arrived and unpacked, we opened a bottle of wine, pulled out the cheese and salami and bread that our hosts had left us and feasted in the backyard. By the time we had polished off all the food and two bottles of wine, we simply went to bed. Lee is still working through his cold so he was first in but the rest of us followed not too far behind him.

Thursday morning, we lazed around the apartment until it was time to meet Jo-Ann a little ways down the road at Ettore’s farm – that’s Eh’ tore ay. We are the only Untourists in Umbria this two weeks so we had a mini-orientation as we already know about road signs, parking lots and using the right kind of fuel in the car. After Jo-Ann talked, Ettore showed us around the farm. It has been in his family for four generations, having started life as a convent. He grows spelt, olives, organic fruits and vegetables and tobacco – yes, we had a hard time believing that last one and were too polite to stop his lecture by telling him we already knew about curing tobacco. He also keeps chickens, sheep and four cows. Three of the cows are Chianina beef and one is a milk cow. He grows enough grapes to make wine for his family and his brother’s – both families live on the farm. His wife, Lorella, made us a wild asparagus omelet for part of our lunch. Ettore made bruschetta over the fireplace coals and used his own olive oil on it along with salt. That’s all real bruschetta is supposed to be. More than that is crostini. We finished the meal with a wonderful blackberry tart, all home grown right down to the flour and lemon.

Our trip to Italy

Greetings! We have been to Italy, Umbria mostly with a few spots in Tuscany as well, and have returned home to warm Spring weather and a swine flu outbreak. Well, no swine flu here yet but it certainly is the hot topic - the only good news being that the Church is recommending hugs instead of handshakes at the passing of the peace.

I kept a travel journal on the trip but it is too lengthy to post all at once (12 pages!). So here's a summary and then I'll post pieces with pictures which will, in fine computer style, be posted ahead of this post. The last shall be first....

Overall, we had a wonderful time in Umbria. Our agriturismo - the best way to see Italy is to stay at one of these and do day trips, I am convinced - was in Bovara at the foot of the town of Trevi. The weather was cool and more often than not also rainy. That only stopped prolific picture taking but not our travels. We went to Gubbio, Trevi, Montefalco, Orvieto, Spoleto, Bevagna, Bettona, Spello, Deruta, Assisi, Florence, Montalcino, Buonconvento and Sant' Antimo. We also spent a fair amount of time just resting in our apartment with a lovely fire in the corner fireplace, a bottle or two of wine and local cheeses and meats. We found some really wonderful little restaurants - the one in Trevi was so good, we ate there twice in one day and came back two days later - lots of goodies we simply had to buy, and fell in love with some of the local wines, most notably the whites which none of us usually drink at home. The day of the worst rain, we saw a double rainbow and then had about a half dozen more rainbow sightings even as the sky grew darker and darker.

The people of Italy continue to charm us and my Pimsleur Italian really did come in handy more than once. Sitting in the airport Wednesday morning waiting for our flight, I eavesdropped on a conversation behind me and discovered that I could understand some of what they were saying. This doesn't mean, of course, that anyone there would have understood me!

One of the renewed insights, though, is the marked difference between a church that is active and one that is merely a museum. There is such a different feel and smell to those places where people still gather for worship. It affects the whole space, even the art on the walls and the statues in their niches, bringing life to what would otherwise be rather dead. The loveliest painting in a museum cannot hold a candle to a fading fresco in a church where candles are lit in prayer, music is sung and liturgies are offered. None of that will likely come through in the pictures we took but it is a sense that we will always remember when we look at them again.

He is risen! Alleluia?

“Terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone for they were afraid.”

It’s not exactly the “happily ever after” ending we want it to be, is it? But if you hark back to the first Sundays of this liturgical year, you will recall that the beginning of Mark takes us by surprise as well. He jumps right into the story declaring, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ the son of God." There is no genealogy, no birth narrative, no laying out of plot.
In fact, there are two things that characterize Mark’s gospel more than any others. He uses the word “immediately” a lot; and Jesus is always telling people to keep quiet about what he has done for them and who he is.

The ending of his gospel, then, seems to be in keeping with the rest of it. Of course, the young man dressed in white does give the women a message for the disciples: “go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”
And it is that last phrase – just as he told you – that is the key to it all.

Jesus had already told them exactly what was going to happen as well as that, when it did, he would wait for them in Galilee. And how do we hear, how do we see what happened when the disciples found him there? Because that’s what we want, isn’t it, to be flies on the wall when the disciples see the risen Christ?

Well, we have to go back and begin reading the Gospel of Mark again. “Jesus came to Galilee,
proclaiming the good news of God.” Now that we have seen the crucifixion, read the ministry and teaching of Jesus again.

“What do we see when we read the Gospel of Mark again, this time with post-resurrection eyes,” asks theologian Tom Long? “We see Jesus healing and teaching and casting out demons,
but always being misunderstood, even by those closest to him. In other words, Mark is telling
us that the saving action of God in the world is always hidden, ambiguous, sealed off from the obvious explanation. We go back to Galilee, and the second time around every story in the Gospel of Mark is a post-resurrection appearance. What we see is a God who surprises us at every turn in the road, a God whose power is expressed finally in weakness.”

The Gospel of Mark begins with a bang and it ends with a whisper. But, oh my, how that whisper changed the world. And if I had to guess, I’d say that those women couldn’t stay quiet for long. Because the good news of Jesus Christ simply has to be told. We can no more keep it quiet than anyone in the Gospel managed to. Whether we shout it or whisper it, the good news demands to be told.

And when we’ve said our alleluias and passed the peace, then the Gospel demands one more thing. We have to go out into the world and proclaim the gospel in everything that we do.
We have to leave the comfort and safety of that upper room and head for Galilee. Because Jesus is there waiting for us and I’ll bet he’s even made lunch.

(thanks to Thomas Long's sermon "Dangling Gospel"
@ www.religion-online.org/showarticle.ask?title=3392)

Palm and/or Passion Sunday

I have wondered most of my adult life why we give a cursory wave to the triumphal entry that Palm Sunday celebrates before we rush to the crucifixion in the very same service. Surely, said my hopeful self to my cynical self, the only reason is not because most everyone stays home during the week and would thus miss the Good Friday events if we didn't include them on Sunday. More often than not, my cynical self wins that argument, by the way.

Our Lenten program this year was reading the last five plays of the radio series A Man Born To Be King, by Dorothy Sayers. We really got into it, even those who were sure they would never read in public were asking for parts. The plays helped us "be" in that time, living the events with Jesus, the disciples, the Sanhedrin and everyone who was in Jerusalem that fateful week. It made me begin to think about time.

Have you ever noticed how time can stand still and rush by seemingly at the same time? Of course, time is terribly regular with every hour having sixty minutes and every day having 24 hours but sometimes a day can seem about six hours longer than normal and other days don't seem to have nearly enough hours. And the 24 allotted to that day often seem about 30 minutes long.

I remember when my dad was dying, time went by too fast but there were parts of the day that seemed to drag. When I remember those ten weeks, they seem about a month long. Do you suppose that's what it was like for the disciples and Jesus? Were there hours in those last five days that seemed interminable while others flew past and then - suddenly! - dinner was over an the guards were arresting the Master?

I think that's part of why we rush to crucifixion on Palm Sunday. It would be so easy to relax into the celebration of palm branches waving and people cheering, to want to stay in those moments as long as possible. But Jesus' reality was never the Hosanna parade and always the parade to the cross, complete with jeers and cries of "Crucify!"

The same thing is true about our Christian life. We cannot spend it all at the font with a - hopefully - smiling baby. We cannot relax into confirmation and the good feeling of taking our baptismal vows ourselves. We have to put down the prayer book with our name on the front and the Bible with the page in the front that says, "This Bible was given to_____ in honor of her confirmation." We have to have our hands free for the moment when we will pick up our cross, free to take and drink out of the same cup our Lord did.

So as much as we need to celebrate that wonderful day when Jesus rode into Jerusalem, we simply have to spend more time focusing on the part of the week that shaped our life in Christ. It is good for us to hear the Passion Narrative read more than once, maybe even three times! Hearing it on Palm Sunday does not excuse us from our obligation to continue walking through every day of that last week, the one we now call Holy. It may seem strange to begin the journey by hearing about the end of it, but then time does strange things, doesn't it?

Friday Five - Holy Week sanity

Today's Revgalblogpals asks these five questions as we continue to prepare for a busy week. For me, it is ten days beginning with a prayer vigil by the youth group tonight. So here are my answers.

1. What restores you physically?
If the weather cooperates, I will spend a fair amount of time walking, with or without the dogs.

2. What strengthens you emotionally/ mentally?
Reading something totally unrelated to Holy Week helps. Sitting in silence does too but happens less often as my mind is usually churning with last minute stuff. Fortunately, my secretary is highly organized and has the bulletins all done so I have fewer last minute fears. Leaves more time for wondering what God would have me say about these lessons we read every single year!

3. What encourages you spiritually?
Singing! Holy Week is full of opportunities to chant and sing wonderful hymns. And I am practicing the Vaughn Williams Mass for the Civic Chorale concert, a truly glorious piece.

4. Share a favourite poem or piece of music from the coming week.
It is hard to choose just one or even two. I suppose Ah, holy Jesus and Were you there are my favorite hymns of Holy Week. I'll have to think about the poems.


5.There may be many services for you to attend/ lead over the next week, which one are you most looking forward to and why? If there aren't do you have a favourite day in Holy week if so which one is it?
We are doing a full Tenebrae service again this year. Being a little better at it than last when we made some last minute vocal substitutions - I hadn't planned to sing half the psalms! - I am looking forward to experiencing the service more and leading it less.
But my favorite service of the week is probably Good Friday. The solemn collects, walking the way of the cross, emptying the aumbry of reserve sacrament. It is a day when all of the symbols seem to speak louder, be more visible.
And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the little liturgy for Holy Saturday, the time when the tomb is sealed and no one is there except the guards. It is the quietest time of the church year and reminds me of the silence of exhaustion after the birth of the one sealed in that tomb.

Being different

The other day, I heard someone on television say that only nine percent of the population are left handed. I remember another someone at my first General Convention some thirty years ago submitting a resolution asking that we remove all references in the Book of Common Prayer that discriminate against left handed people, too. I thought it was a strange request.

But there have been times, recent times, when those who are left handed have been persecuted. When I was a child, many teachers would try to force them to conform, to be just like all of us normal people who, sensibly and correctly, wrote with their right hands. Changing what is natural and right for a left handed person is cruel and unjust. I don't think it happens anymore but I don't know for sure. I'm not left handed so I don't keep up with left handed discrimination. It doesn't make the news.

But other kinds of discrimination do make the news, particularly gay/lesbian discrimination. The gay/lesbian population is said to be roughly ten percent of the overall population. There are more gays than left handers! And we know there are lots of programs that claim to reorient or "heal" these people. We know they are treated differently, looked on as deviants from the norm. They are, in short, persecuted.

Being left handed and being gay may sound like an apples/oranges comparison. While it is possible to choose to be left handed - I mouse with my left hand thanks to carpal tunnel in my right, for instance - it is terribly difficult to completely reorient one's entire life to left hand dominance. We are born right or left handed. Parents watch their children from a very early age to see which hand will be dominant. Right handed parents may have left handed children and vice versa. They cast back in their family histories trying to remember who else was left handed. "Where did Jimmy get that trait?" they will ask just as the short parents of a tall kid will wonder where she got her height.

So why, then, don't we treat being gay/lesbian like we do being left handed? Or tall? Or green-eyed? Why do we single out this ones genetic trait as being the worst of the worst when, in fact, they are all merely the ways our genetic soup happens? I know the answer, of course, but it makes me sad. For all of our intellectual advances in the last 100 years, we are still small minded people. I wish it weren't so.

A story about my least favorite creature

This was told yesterday morning at our church by one of the staff for the African Childrens Choir. It was part of the childrens' morning devotions and, perhaps because the storyteller and I had talked about this week's Old Testament reading (Numbers 21:4-9), it works for my sermon tomorrow. Here is the story:

Once upon a time, there was a village at the base of a high mountain. The people who lived in the village, as so many peoples do, had a special ceremony to mark the time when a boy child became a man. When he was deemed ready, the boy would leave the village and climb to the top of the mountain - about a day's journey - taking nothing with him except what he wore. He would spend the night on the mountain and return the following day whereupon the whole village would hold a big celebration to mark his transition from boy to man.

There was a boy in the village preparing for this rite of passage. Finally, the day came when he was ready to climb the mountain. Everyone saw him off early in the morning and began preparations for the next evening's celebration. He strode off in confidence to find his own trail for, you see,, there was not a marked trail for him to follow. Each boy was expected to find his own way.

As he walked, the boy thought about life, about childhood and putting away childish things so he could be a man in all senses of the word. He thought about what it means to be a man, how there are challenges that children do not have to face and the lessons to be learned in manhood are harder than those of childhood. He thought of his parents and gave thanks for all they had taught him and for the love they had for him.

But mostly as he walked, he was acutely aware of where he was and what might be there with him. He had to take each step carefully because there were many kinds of snake on the mountain. He needed to look for edible berries and bark so that he would not go hungry. He had to find streams so he could quench his thirst. And he became aware that the higher he climbed, the colder it got - not just because it was higher in the air but also because the day began to die and night was coming on.

At last, he reached the top of the mountain. It was almost dark and he barely had enough light to find some branches to make a shelter for himself. When it was done, he crawled into the shelter to go to sleep.

But he began to hear a rustling noise just outside his shelter. He tried to ignore it but it wouldn't go away even when he thought good thoughts about his family and the village. Then a snake put his head under the edge of the shelter!

"Please, little brother," hissed the snake. "It is very cold up here on the mountain and I have no heat as I am a cold-blooded animal. I know that your kind fear my kind but I promise not to bite you if you will just share your body heat with me. If you don't, I will surely die from the cold."

The boy thought this must be a test of his manhood. He knew well that the snake could kill him in an instant. But he had been raised to be a compassionate man, helping others when he could, and so he agreed to allow the snake to sleep beside him. And so they slept side by side all night and the snake did not bite the boy.

In the morning, the boy jumped up to begin his journey back down the mountain and to the village waiting to celebrate his coming of age. The snake was still there and very slow to move. Even though he had some heat from the boy during the night, it was still very cold. So it asked the boy if it could ride down the mountain on the boy's shoulders, at least until it was warm enough to move easily on its own. Because the snake had kept its promise not to bite, the boy agreed again to help the snake.

And so they started the journey down together. By noon, it was much warmer and the snake was beginning to stretch and writhe as snakes are wont to do. Still, the snake asked the boy to carry it a little farther. After awhile, the boy was so used to the snake's weight and occasional hiss that he didn't even know it was still there.

Just before they reached the village, the snake lashed out in an instant and bit the boy. Immediately, the boy began to feel the poison enter his body and his limbs grow numb. As the snake began to slither away, the boy asked, "Why? Why did you bite me when I had been so kind to you and helped you live?"

And the snake said, "You knew when you let me sleep with you what I was. I am a snake. I cannot change who I am or what I do."

And the boy died.


Now, several of us hearing this story were horrified to hear the ending. But the storyteller went on to say that sin is like the snake. It cannot change what it is and we know when we decide to take it in what it is and what it will do to us. Even though we rationalize our bad choices or think we will only do them once, they slither their way into our very being and will kill us.
And she is right. What seems like mere whining and complaining by the people in the wilderness will, if they keep it up, destroy them from the inside, will kill them as it becomes their way of life. So did the Lord send the snakes or were they already there, waiting to bite those who harbored them?