Upcoming Sabbatical!

As you may know, I'm taking a four-month sabbatical from March through June. Which means I'll be hitting the pause button on parish ministry six weeks from now. I'm excited about this upcoming time of spiritual renewal and thought I'd share a bit about what I'll be doing while I'm away -- especially since many of you will be subjected to the ensuing social media posts. 

What is a clergy sabbatical?
Unless you're in a profession that routinely offers sabbaticals (and I wish every industry did), you may not know why clergy are offered the opportunity to take time away. Here in the Diocese of Massachusetts, our bishops recommend full-time clergy take sabbaticals every five years. They view them as "an opportunity for a time of sabbath [hence the word sabbatical], for a renewal of spirit and a reaffirmation of life with God." Being a priest requires full engagement with heart, mind, body, and soul and renewal is critical to effective and long-term ministry. At various points in his own ministry, even Jesus took time away for prayer and reflection. He returned with renewed energy and perspective and that is the hope for a clergy sabbatical.

When did you last take one?

It's been a decade since I last took one. I was rector of All Saints' Church in Briarcliff Manor, New York (20 miles up the Hudson from New York City) at the time. It was for two and a half months and I referred to it as my "sabbatical on training wheels." We had young kids at home and when people would ask, "Where are you going on sabbatical?" I'd answer, "Um, where exactly would I go? And who would tell Bryna I left?" Basically I spent the time at Coffee Labs Roasters in Tarrytown, drinking coffee and writing my first book What Size Are God's Shoes: Kids, Chaos, and the Spiritual Life. It was helpful to have a short break and I think it's healthy for both priest and congregation to spend some time apart occasionally. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

Who's paying for this?
For my upcoming sabbatical, I applied for, and received, a coveted Lilly Clergy Renewal Grant to help fund some of my time away. In addition to the monetary award, the lengthy application process demanded that I give some serious, prayerful, and intentional thought to how I would structure my sabbatical. The question at the core of the application encourages applicants to ask the question, "What makes your heart sing?" Thus, in planning my time away, I focused on three of my passions: faith, family, and coffee. The first two were rather obvious. I will tie in the third through another passion of mine: writing.

What will you be doing?
Maybe some people can spend several months navel gazing or star gazing, but I need a project to focus on. So I'll be writing a book on the intersection of faith and coffee titled, naturally, Holy Grounds. This project, a mixture of coffee history (it was discovered by 9th century Ethiopian Muslims and used to fuel their night prayers!) and personal narrative, will be published by Fortress Press in early 2019.

In support of this, I will be traveling to coffee farms in Nicaragua and El Salvador during harvest
season, spending time soaking in coffee culture in Seattle (and catching up with a childhood friend whose lived there for 25 years), and visiting an Orthodox monastery in Pennsylvania where the monks roast and sell their own coffee under the name Burning Bush Coffee.

I'm particularly excited to visit a coffee farm for the first time -- it feels very much like planning a pilgrimage to a sacred site. My guide will be Mike Love, the owner of Coffee Labs (see above) who's a pretty big deal himself in the coffee industry. I reached out to Mike and his wife (and business parter) Alicia asking if they knew of any farms I could visit and they invited me to tag along with Mike on one of his regular visits to Central America. I'm still amazed this will actually happen!

The family portion is important to me as this often gets sacrificed in parish ministry. I will be spending some time with both my boys individually (including a trip to Florida for Spring Training with Ben and a jaunt to Chicago to attend a gaming convention with Zak), with just Bryna, and then we will be taking a 10-day family trip to Europe in June. We'll be going to Rome (touring religious and historical sites) and Amsterdam (pursuing Schenck family history) and soaking in European coffee culture.

For all of these mini-trips, I will be spending the majority of my time in Hingham writing, reflecting, playing, praying, and (obviously) drinking coffee.

What about Lent Madness?
Oh, relax, Lent Madness fans. There is no such thing as a sabbatical from Lent Madness -- the penitential show must go on. With Easter falling on April 1, my sabbatical will overlap with the season of Lent for about a month. It may be challenging to run the world's most popular online Lenten devotion while slogging around the mountains of El Salvador but we'll figure it out. 

So that's the deal. I'm excited about this and immensely grateful to everyone who has and will help make this sabbatical happen. This is a unique opportunity and I'm still, frankly, stunned that this is actually happening. And while it will be hard to be away from people I love, I will look forward to returning with renewed passion for ministry at St. John's and a rekindled and caffeinated relationship with our Lord. 

Serendipity strikes again

Serendipity is not only a fun word to say, it's a joy to experience. It's generally defined as "fortunate happenstance" or "pleasant surprise" but when serendipity actually happens it's more a feeling than a definition.

My mother shared a serendipitous experience with me via the U.S. postal service and I thought I'd pass it on. Why? Because it's my blog and I can be serendipitous if I want to.

It turns out that the choir at her parish in Baltimore, the Church of the Redeemer (the same parish that sponsored me for ordination), will soon be singing the Bruckner Mass in E Minor. I guess it had been awhile since they sang this setting because one of the singers found an old service leaflet in his copy of the music.

Anyway, the bulletin for the Fourth Sunday in Advent in 1977 listed my late father as the Conductor of this special musical offering. When we lived in Baltimore, where he was the Associate Conductor of the Baltimore Symphony, he would occasionally lend his gifts in this way to the parish. As I think about it, what rector wouldn't love to have a symphony orchestra conductor in the congregation?

So they did the Bruckner Mass with the Redeemer choir, musicians from the Baltimore Symphony, and some singers from the Baltimore Symphony Chorus, which my father also directed. (Fun Fact: Bishop Carol Gallagher sang under my dad as a member of the Baltimore Symphony Chorus).

In looking over the service, I have to admit that from a churchmanship perspective, the liturgy gave me retroactive agita. They sang the mass settings as part of Choral Morning Prayer. Sigh. But from a church geekery historical perspective, it was fun seeing the congregation directed to the texts in the "New Prayer Book."

It's been 23 years since my father died so this was a particularly meaningful find. Indeed he's still there -- bodily at least -- in the columbarium at Redeemer.

Oh, and by the way, if you are an awesome priest, Redeemer is seeking a new rector at the moment. It's a special place which you can read about here. The former Bishop of Maryland, Bob Ihloff, is serving as interim. Plus, as a special perk of the job, you'd get to provide pastoral care to my mom when she complains that I don't call her enough.

Lost and Found: A $20 Odyssey

What would you do if you found $20? This isn't some existential question I've been waiting to ask a mountaintop sage. I actually did find a lone $20 bill on North Street in Hingham yesterday and I've been wondering what to do with it ever since. Granted you can't change the world with $20 nor can you enter the monetary stratosphere of the 1%. But I was curious about what I could and would do with my new-found windfall.

The first thing I did, of course, was pose the question to my friends on Facebook. I got lots of advice including but not limited to: save it, invest it, buy 20 lottery tickets, bury it, buy the family ice cream, give it to charity, give it to the church, give it to Bryna, buy pizza, and take a parishioner out to lunch.

Well, since I'm on vacation anyway, I decided to use the afternoon finding ways to spend it around town. The first thing I did was, naturally, head to Red Eye Roasters and buy myself a cup of coffee. Specifically a steaming mug of black coffee from beans grown at the Java Kayumas Estate in Indonesia. Delicious.

That left me with $17.50. After putting $1.50 into the tip jar for some of the best barristas this side of the Charles River, I was left with $16. Now, I'm not big on the whole concept of "paying it forward" since I don't really understand what it means and I'm pretty sure it's a phrase coined by Oprah, but I gave Julia behind the counter a five dollar bill and told her I'd pay for whoever came in after me.

Soon after, a guy entered the shop and was told his coffee was paid for. I think he ordered some fancy drink since there wasn't any change left over and if there was I trust it ended up in the "Instant Karma" tip jar. Fortunately, Julia didn't out me -- I wasn't doing this to be thanked and acknowledged.

Anyway that left me with $11. Not as flush as when I entered the coffee shop but still playing with house money. After doing a little writing at Redeye, I stopped by the local grocery store to pick up a small flowering plant for Bryna that set me back $6.36 with tax. Then I encountered a group of kids selling lemonade so I picked up a dixie cup full of over-sweetened pink liquid for .55 cents. I was refreshed; they were delighted.

I was down to my last $4.09. A stop at the "poor box" at church where I dropped in two bucks in accordance with the Biblical concept of the 10% tithe left me with a whopping $2.09.

Let's face it, $2.09 ain't what it used to be. But I had a final thought: I'm taking the family out for ice cream. So Bryna, Ben, Zack, and I headed down to Nona's for a quick scoop after dinner. I told them they had to stick to the "kiddie" size -- which actually isn't that small -- but, sure, get the sprinkles.

In the end? I lost $5.81. But I had a great day and it was totally worth it. The little things in life really do make a difference -- which is fortunate since that's often all we have to offer. I'm convinced that generosity begets generosity and there's no reason we must wait to stumble upon a small treasure to remember this.

Delts go Airborne

Maybe it's related to starting a long-needed vacation but it suddenly dawned on me that it was exactly 25 years ago this August that I completed the US Army Airborne School. Not only does it feel like a lifetime ago, it really was!

As I started going through some unpacked boxes this week (yes, I know we've lived here for five years), I stumbled on an article my college roommate/fraternity brother Paul Jarvis and I wrote for the "Greek Gazette" section of the Tufts Daily chronicling our experience.

Dated December 7, 1989, the article on yellowed newsprint is actually pretty funny. You get a sense of what we went through to earn our Airborne Wings but more amusing to me is the hint of Young Turk-like arrogance and the wry tweaking of the whole system.

This doesn't really qualify as an archival discovery of great worth but it was fun to come across this piece of my past and to think about a memorable three weeks spent in the sweltering Georgia heat a generation ago.

Delts go Airborne

By Tim Schenck and Paul Jarvis

Until you've stood in the door of a C-130 aircraft at 1250 ft. and thrown your body out into the wild

blue yonder, you just haven't lived. Or maybe you're lucky.

As Army ROTC cadets, both of us were fortunate enough to have a chance to attend Airborne training at lovely and scenic Ft. Benning, Georgia. And, we like to think that we've started a new trend at the Delt House. Beginning with DTD alumnus Lieutenant Jon Lidz ('86), we are the second and third Brothers to put our knees to the breeze and qualify as U.S. paratroopers.

As with most giant bureaucracies, the Army divides its training into distinct phases. At Airborne, the first week is known as Ground Week. The toughest week of training, Ground Week teaches the aspiring paratrooper how to properly execute a PLF, or parachute landing fall for you civilians. In addition, students learn the correct method of exiting an aircraft through training on the infamous 34-foot tower. Training on this apparatus allows students to confront their fear of height for the first time. After mastering exits and the PLF, cranking out thousands of pushups, and enduring verbal abuse from the caring Airborne instructors, you are ready to advance to Tower Week.

During Tower Week, more advanced PLF techniques are masters on the Swing Landing Trainer, or Slam Dunk. Suspended by harness, students are dropped to the ground by an instructor from a height of 4 to 8 feet off the ground. At this point, if you haven't mastered your PLF, you lose. Later in the week, if you've survived the Sam Dunk, you enjoy your first free fall off the mighty 250 foot tower. This final exercise instills confidence in your equipment and landing technique.

Finally, Jump Week arrives. The only thing  standing between you and the coveted Airborne Wings are five qualifying jumps from a C-130 or C-141 type aircraft (while in flight). You never forget your first jumps. Though impossible to describe the feeling, we'll do it anyway.

Close your eyes and imagine the inside of an aircraft. Remember, this is a military flight -- no stewardesses, movies, or complementary beverages (though a barf bag is provided). Now, listen to the engines roar. You can barely hear yourself think; the noise is deafening. The jumpmaster motions for your group to stand up.

Suddenly, reality hits you. You are about to willingly fling yourself out of a moving aircraft. Are you crazy? Don't answer that one.

You see the red light turn to green. As you shuffle to the door, there seem to be fewer people on the aircraft than originally boarded. The person in front of you disappears and…

It takes about 4 seconds between the time you exit the aircraft and the time it takes your parachute to

deploy. Considering that your body is traveling at 140 miles per hour, it is an odd few seconds. You hear the violent noise of the plane, the heat of the prop blast, and feel your body flying vertical to the ground. If you're lucky, your chute will open and you can enjoy the ride. It's a quick one though, and you had better be ready to execute a PLF because the ground comes up awfully quickly. Do this a mere four more times, and you've got your wings.

Airborne School was definitely an experience. You do more pushups, get yelled at more often, clean more more barracks, and shine more boots than anywhere in the free world. If you ever want to hear some Airborne war stories, we have plenty of them. So stop by, you know where to find us. AIRBORNE!

Things to do while your wife's at a Lady Gaga Concert

Bryna and a couple of her girlfriends are heading into Boston tonight to see Lady Gaga at TD Garden. Since this is my day off and have no plans other than watching reruns of Law & Order SVU, I thought I'd give some thought to my evening options in order to get into the Gaga spirit.

Here's what I came up with.

1. Buy sausage links and wear them like a necklace while walking the dog around the neighborhood. 

2. Wander around the house muttering nonsense syllables like "ra ra ooh la la" until the kids start getting nervous and consider calling 911. 

3. Get into a highly emotional debate with the Republicans across the street about the latest Supreme Court verdict but confuse them by keeping a "Poker Face" the whole time. 

4. Stand in the parking lot at Super Fresh with a camera and take pictures of random people putting groceries into their trunk while singing "Paparazzi" at the top of my lungs. 

5. Eat rancid beef then throw up on a canvas and call it art. 

6. Use the various rickety wooden ladders to climb the bell tower at church, stand precariously on top of it, and if anyone asks tell them I'm on the "Edge of Glory." 

7. Blog about former girlfriends, by name, under the aegis of "Bad Romance." 

8. Scour the phone book for people named "Alejandro" and ask if it's okay if I call them "Al" for short. 

9. Make a shoe out of bacon. Then eat it. 

10. Try to figure out what Lady Gaga actually looks like. After looking at a bunch of pictures, I really can't tell.

Well, these should keep me occupied for the rest of the evening. Thank God for Bryna's girlfriends so I don't get dragged to stuff like this!

Be My Valentine?

One of the great advantages of being a priest is that you can give your beloved leftover funeral flowers for Valentine's Day. Jam some candle nubs that don't really fit into your candelabra and set them on your table alongside some stale donuts from last Sunday's coffee hour and voila! A romantic, low-cost dinner. I'm kidding, of course. As far as Bryna knows.

But if you really want to spice things up with your Valentine tonight, try this: show up to dinner at that cozy bistro dressed as the martyred St. Valentine. He was evidently beaten and stoned before his beheading at the hand of the Roman emperor for marrying couples in the Christian faith. So, depending on how realistic you want to make this, it might get a bit messy. Perhaps a simple Steve Martin arrow-through-the-head prop would suffice. Though maybe you should just stick to the roses and either borrow a red cassock from the acolyte room or, if you're a priest, wear that seldom-used red chasuble hanging in the back of the sacristy closet.

As we celebrate Valentine’s Day, it's helpful to reflect upon the real St. Valentine. Actually, there’s some confusion over this since there appears to have been more than one St. Valentine. The feast of St. Valentine was first established in 496 to mark the death of a St. Valentine on February 14th. But even then it seems to have been a day to mark several martyred saints sharing the name Valentinus (from the Latin valens meaning worthy).

Nonetheless, the modern feast day likely commemorates the St. Valentine who was a priest in Rome during the reign of Claudius II (260-270 AD). He was arrested for marrying Christian couples and assisting those facing persecution – a crime in those days. Valentine tried to convert the emperor and was put to death.

It wasn’t until 14th century England that the feast started to become a celebration of romantic love. The poet Geoffrey Chaucer is often credited with bringing together the romantic imagery of blooming spring and birds choosing their mates. In The Parliament of Fowles Chaucer’s was the first mention of St. Valentine in a love poem.

None of this should actually matter to Episcopalians since Valentine doesn't appear on our official Calendar of Saints. Indeed we commemorate Cyril and Methodius on February 14th -- a pair of 9th century Greek brothers who were missionaries to the Slavs -- rather than Valentine.

The good news in this for forgetful husbands/boyfriends is that if you forget to pick up flowers, you can always give your beloved a copy of War and Peace by Slavic author Leo Tolstoy or dramatically read a poem by Vaclav Havel.

Kick Off Music

Nothing gets a crowd amped up like the moments just before kick-off at an NFL or major college football game. These days every team has its own theme song used to whip the throngs of rabid fans into a frenzy. The adrenaline pumps, the faithful roar, the kicker boots the ball, and the kicking team races down the field like Kamikaze pilots in their final descent.

Here's a list of some popular choices used by a variety of teams:

Guns 'n Roses -- Welcome to the Jungle

AC/DC -- "For Those About to Rock"

White Stripes -- "Seven Nation Army"

Ozzy Osbourne -- "Crazy Train"

New York Giants: AC/DC -- "Hell's Bells"

Rousting Teens: The Impossible Vocation

After another morning of trying to roust Ben out of bed, I wrote most of this in the shower. The rest was written on the train into Boston this morning for a meeting at the diocese. I have to believe this just might resonate with some parents of teenagers. And if not? Well, maybe at least Bob Dylan will sue me.

There's a classic book on the priesthood called The Impossible Vocation. You can argue with that premise but, in any case, I think getting teens out of bed before 7:00 am qualifies.

It Will Never End

How many times must a man go in
to wake up his own teenage son?
How many times must I shake that poor boy
ahead of the bright rising sun?
How many times must I go up the stairs
threatening to take his iPhone?
The answer my friend, it will never end.
The answer, it will never end.

How many times must we have this same fight
when that alarm clock goes off?
How many ways can I badger you, son
until you get out of that bed
How many times will you ignore my requests
to open your eyes and wake up?
The answer my friend, it will never end.
The answer, it will never end.

How many times must you be late for school
because you can’t find your math book?
How many times must I tell you to make
your lunch before going to sleep?
How many times must you lose your left shoe
before you’re sent in wearing socks
The answer my friend, it will never end.
The answer, it will never end.

How many times must I have deja vu
of arguments I had with my dad?
How many times must the teenager cry
“Why can’t they just start school at two?!
How many years 'til the tables are turned
and he has a teen all his own?
The answer my friend, it will never end.
The answer, it will never end.

Church Press Conference -- Belichick Style

Bill Belichick press conferences have quickly become my favorite thing about football in New England. His gruff, non-answer Q & A sessions with the media are  comically absurd. "It is what it is" covers everything from next week's opponent to Tim Tebow to defensive coverages to Aaron Hernandez. In other words, Belichick (a Hingham resident I might add) has perfected the art of saying nothing by saying something. Not that clergy could every be accused of that...

Anyway, it made me wonder what would happen if clergy took a Belichickian approach to coffee hour. Here's what I came up with using (more or less) actual Bill Belichick press conference answers:

Q: What happened with the acolytes at the gospel procession? Are you actively recruiting new ones?
A: I'm only talking about the personnel we have. Anything else is speculation

Q: The readings appointed for today seemed to give you some trouble. Are you looking forward to next week's lessons?
A:  I don't decide what the readings are. I'm not going to comment on something I don't have control over.

Q: Are you disappointed by the lack of munchkins at coffee hour?
A: Are munchkins mentioned in the Bible?

Q: Is the vestry excited about the new adult education program?
A: You'd have to ask them about that.

Q: The new Sunday School curriculum looks really engaging. Are you excited about it?
A: We'll see how it goes.

Q: Did you know there are weeds growing in the church yard?
A: I'm responsible for every aspect of church life.

Q: Do you really think adding another service on Sunday morning is going to work?
A: We just try to do what's in the best interest of the parish.

Q: Did you notice attendance is down this year?
A: It is what it is.

Okay, back to post-church football watching.  Love this time of year!

'Twas the Night Before School

As Back-to-School Eve winds down, I thought I'd dash off a poem for the boys. They're going into 7th and 9th grades this year (even though I'm way too young to be the parent of a high schooler).

Blessings to Ben and Zack and students everywhere as they begin a new school year. As a parent, it's a privilege to watch children continue to grow and develop into the people God has called them to be. Even if they still sometimes drive us nuts!

'Twas the Night Before School

‘Twas the night before school starts and all through our home all the children were stressed out, with little shalom. The backpacks were placed by the front door with care, with dread that the school bus soon would be there.

The children were wrestled down into their beds, while visions of teachers danced in their heads. With momma in her nightgown and I in my cap, we knew we’d be stuck soon in that old homework trap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang to the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, it was only the neighbors holding their back-to-school bash.

The moon on the freshly mown lawn down below, reminded me of teachers from ages ago. When what to my wandering eyes should appear? But my old high school principal toting eight cases of beer.

With a little old man so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be Mr. Schmick. More organized than a Trapper Keeper he came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

“On pencils and crayons and highlighters too! On paper and binders and three types of glue! Buy it now, buy it now, buy it now all! Backpacks so full they can’t help but crawl!”

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, the principal demanding mathematical proof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney came Schmick all tightly wound.

He was dressed all in tweed, from his foot to his head, and his glare evoked that old sense of dread. A bundle of tests he had flung on his back, all marked with “F’s” as he sneered, “Here, take that!”

His eyes -- how they darkened! His dimples how scary! His cheeks were like roses from drinking that sherry. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, all set to lash out like a sword in its sheath.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, reminded me I really had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all those backpacks himself, the old jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang back to his desk, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like a back-to-school missile.

But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight “Happy School Year to all, and to all a good night!”

Guest Blogger: My Mother!

While most people blame their mothers for everything that's wrong with them (paging Dr. Freud), today I'm thanking my mother for something she shared with me: a passion for writing. Despite a fruitful career in residential real estate -- she always said that two people working in the non-profit world was one too many -- she's a writer at heart.

She did, in fact, author a terrific cook book in 1987 called The Desperate Gourmet. Yes, there were recipes but it was really a philosophy of life. With a symphony conductor for a husband, two children, and a thriving career the book was borne of necessity -- if you like great food but don't have time to prepare it you have no choice but to become a "desperate gourmet." I'm particularly proud that my cheesecake recipe ("Tim's Best of Show") made it in since that's really the only thing I can make that doesn't involve a grill.

What I find interesting is that the older I get the more similarities I see in our writing styles. This became even clearer the other day when she sent me a piece she had written about 30 years ago. She never did anything with it and I'd never even seen it before. But I think it's a great little piece of writing and told her I wanted to share it on my blog. It doesn't have a title since she never got that far but I hope you'll enjoy it.

Guest Blogger -- Lois Schenck

In 1975, a reporter was kind enough to write a very complimentary article about how I manage to be a conductor’s wife, mother of two young children, professional writer and Realtor, all at the same time. What is closer to the truth, however, is that my life is a variation of that old nursery rhyme that goes, “when it is good it is very, very good, and when it doesn’t work, it is horrid.”

There are times when I feel exactly like a New Yorker cartoon I laughed at years ago before it became my logo. It showed two pictures side by side. In the first, an impeccably well-heeled lady was revealed. In the second, the boudoir itself was revealed: a clothing jungle in which no article was left inside a single drawer or closet.

In all fairness to me, the reason for my own jungle is not so much that I hate housekeeping or consider it beneath me, but more a question of priorities. If you are going to care about your husband and his career, yourself and your career, your children as people and yourselves as a family, something’s gotta go! When you are trying to choose a dress for your husband’s concert while a pair of jelly-tipped fingers is tugging at you, while you are trying to remember where the maestro put the cufflinks that are supposed to be in the box in his top drawer but aren’t, while a real estate client wants you on the phone and while you are trying to answer some ponderous question like “Mommy, where does my food go after I eat it?” your boudoir is likely to wear the scars for a year!

Whenever I complain about this to my mother she cheerfully reminds me that I didn’t have to have either children or a career, both of which are only true in theory.  But she’s right about one thing. I do lead this crazy existence of mine by choice and, if the truth be known, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

One of the funniest examples of the kind of people, place and juggling that goes on around here happened about 4:30 on an afternoon when I had just gotten home. Andrew called from the concert hall to say that the soloist for his upcoming concert had just arrived and invited us out to dinner. I knew I couldn’t get a babysitter at that late hour, so joining them was out of the question. But I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity because spending time with guest artists is one of the pleasures of our existence.

Could we invite the soloist to our house for dinner? It was already 4:30, a definite minus. I happened to have a pork tenderloin sitting in a lovely Chinese marinade, a definite plus. I also had something in the freezer I could pull out for hors d’oeuvres. Fine.

I decided that if I started right then, I might just be able to set the table, organize the dinner, get the house picked up (forget clean), get the kids fed (forget bathed) and put to bed without feeling rushed to the slaughter, and come out like a reasonable facsimile of a human being.

By some miracle, we had a delightful dinner. So delightful, in fact, that the festivities lasted until 1:00 am, which is fine and dandy until  a very few hours later, breakfast for the nursery school set comes crashing in without even knocking.

As I said before, when it works, those fleeting moments when I feel I might have succeeded in being all things to all people, life is wonderful. But when it doesn’t, when I go flying off to a real estate closing without the termite certificate, without which there can be no closing, or when the baby sitter calls in sick half an hour before we have to leave for a concert, or when any number of things happen to make my much too saturated solution break down.

At moments like this, it is hard to think positive about the joys of multi-tasking, but it does make the pleasures all the more enjoyable. Before Matthew was in nursery school, I used to love to keep Timothy home for the day so I could take both boys to one of their father’s children’s concerts. Quite apart from their obvious pleasure in watching their father conduct, my compensation for trying to keep track of two little Indians in a concert was watching them experience some things most children never get a chance to do: climb on an opera prop, bang on the timpani, or take flowers to a star in her dressing room.

Times like these really make me appreciate the specialness of my life, but it’s funny. People invariable envy you for the wrong reasons. Everyone assumes my general state of happiness comes from the excitement of living with someone in the public eye. Actually, the public Andrew Schenck and all the “glamour” that surrounds him excites me far less than the person he is. Among other things, the thrill of being recognized in public brings with it the mixed blessing of being seen in places where you would rather be anonymous like  when the symphony gossip mongers see him in the grocery where he appears on rare occasions and report to their cronies that Andrew Schenck’s mean wife makes him do the grocery shopping!

If anyone is going to envy me, let it for the right reasons. Most of all, the relationship I have with my husband in which the happiness of one is directly related to the happiness of the other.

So many people ask me how I manage the number of roles I juggle that one day I tried to figure it out and came to the single conclusion that I am that rare breed of woman in today’s world: liberated, and very much in love.

Why I Write in Coffee Shops

Anyone who knows me can attest that I spend a good amount of my time in coffee shops. It's where I write all my sermons, articles, and blog posts. In fact, I've gotten to the point where it's really the only place I can write.

This started innocently enough when we lived in New York. I couldn't write at the house when Bryna was home with two toddlers running amok and the office had its own share of distractions including nursery school classrooms across the hall. So I began searching for places to write that were conducive to the creative process. I found libraries too quiet and, with young kids at home, a shot of caffeine was always welcome. The ubiquitous New York diners weren't bad except for the coffee and they aren't exactly known as havens for writers -- I wasn't going to encounter the next Hemingway at the Pleasantville Diner.

That's when I stumbled on the newly opened Coffee Labs Roasters in Tarrytown. Not only did they roast all their coffee on site, they were dog-friendly so I started my weekly ritual -- Thursday morning sermon writing with Delilah in tow. Over time I became friends with the owners Mike and Alicia and before I knew it there was a whole artistic community forming around good coffee, good conversation, and an environment that kept both the coffee and the creative juices flowing.

There was Julie Anello, a talented oil painter, who showed up most days with a sketch pad to "practice her chops." She'd unobtrusively sit in a corner by the roaster and draw people before unceremoniously handing them the sketch on her way out. I have countless pencil drawings of both me and Delilah, several of which we keep framed in our house. And Barbara Fischer, a gifted poet who writes under the name B.K. Fischer, has flourished in the years since I left New York. She was always scrambling to write while her children were in those two hour nursery school programs where the time quickly evaporates.

But it wasn't until I took a two and a half month sabbatical that I realized I could no longer write without good coffee and the creative environment of a coffee shop. People would ask, "Where are you going on your sabbatical?" And I'd say, um, with two young kids at home where would I possibly go and who would tell Bryna? The reality is I spent my sabbatical at Coffee Labs where I finished my first book, What Size Are God's Shoes: Kids, Chaos, and the Spiritual Life. I'd wake up, help get the kids out the door and head down to Tarrytown to write, drink coffee, enjoy the company of fellow artists and writers, drink more coffee, write some more and then head home. I always referred to this as my sabbatical on training wheels, knowing that one day I'd take a real one (still waiting but hopeful).

I've been reflecting on why I find the coffee shop so conducive to creativity ever since I read a book by Susan Cain called Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking. Bryna saw it in the library and thought I'd be able to relate (for some reason). She wrote most of the book in a neighborhood cafe after trying unsuccessfully to work from home. She spent time carefully clearing out a writing space, moving filing cabinets, and setting up the ideal home office. The problem was that she "felt too cut off from the world to type a single key-stroke there."

The cafe worked as my office because it had specific attributes that are absent from many modern schools and workplaces. It was social, yet its casual, come-and-go-as-you-please nature left me free from unwelcome entanglements and able to 'deliberately practice' my writing. I could toggle back and forth between observer and social actor as much as I wanted.

In other words, many of us need the dual stimulation of being "alone" in a social setting. I like this environment because I can take a break, chat with people on my own terms, and then go back to work. In recognition of this, there's a new website/app called Coffitivity that allows you to listen to "coffee shop" ambient background noise to spur creativity. Granted this approach has its limitations as it doesn't come with freshly roasted coffee, but as they say on the website:

Research shows it's pretty hard to be creative in a quiet space. And a loud workplace can be frustrating and distracting. But the mix of calm and commotion in an environment like a coffee house is proven to be just what you need to get those creative juices flowing.

I now do my writing at Redeye Roasters in Hingham which I half-jokingly refer to as my "satellite office." It's an artisinal coffee shop that, thanks be to God, opened about a year and a half ago. They've been terrific about letting me work there and I've done my part to draw customers by writing articles about it and talking it up around the community. It truly is the best coffee shop on the entire South Shore of Boston. The owner, Bob Weeks, graciously donates coffee to St. John's and I'm very grateful for this. As I like to say about the church, "It's God's house not Maxwell's House" -- there's no reason churches should be havens for lousy coffee served in styrofoam cups.

Of course I'm sitting at Redeye right now on my day off drinking a nice cup of coffee from the Finca el Mirador region of Colombia. There's plenty of genuine ambient coffee shop noise to fuel this blog post and, of course, I'll be back later this week to start Sunday's sermon.

"I am the True Vine"

How's that for a heretical, Messiah-complex inducing statement? Okay, only Jesus is the true "True Vine" but yesterday I became at least a scraggly branch when I joined Vine. What's Vine? It's a mobile app owned by Twitter that allows users to post seven second looping videos to social media.

This was personally monumental for me because I'm not exactly an early adopter of technology. Some people think I'm on the cutting edge because I blog, tweet, etc. but the reality is that it's all relative. For a middle-aged priest I may appear technologically savvy but compared to your average teenager I'm bordering on luddite.

The irony is that my late father was an early adopter of various technologies. He was one of the first people in the neighborhood to own a video recording device -- granted it was a Betamax so it became obsolete rather quickly in the face of VHS. But I remember thrilling my friends by recording an episode of the Dukes of Hazard which we watched over and over again (chase scenes in slow motion!).

And he was also one of the first people to own a Compact Disc player. Granted it was prompted because the first recording he made came out on CD (he was a symphony orchestra conductor). So when we received copies in the mail of his digital recording with the London Symphony Orchestra we had to be able to play them -- yes, it also came out on LP and cassette.

When I try to explain to people how old I am I retell the story of walking into Tower Records in downtown New York City to purchase my very first CD. There was a tiny section of them off to the side where I picked up my first CD -- The Cars -- and brought it to the cash register. The young cashier looked up at me breathlessly and said, "You have a CD player?" I blushed and ran out to get back on the subway.

Anyway, I was rather late to the Facebook party, Twitter was around for awhile before I joined, I had a BlackBerry for years before finally switching to an iPhone, and I just got my first Apple laptop within the year (still no iPad). Nonetheless I was inspired to join Vine (which debuted earlier this year) after learning about it at  a meet-up of "social media gurus" at Trinity, Wall Street that I attended last week.

Basically they're moveable pictures -- seven seconds of video is brief. I plan to use Vine as part of my ever-growing arsenal of online ministry tools. After a brief test video shot in my favorite coffee shop, I used it later yesterday to share a video of our newest parishioner at St. John's. I blessed a baby and then caught the newborn, mom, dad, and big sister on video and shared it (first asking permission) on our parish Facebook page and Twitter account.

Great stuff! And all part of building up the body of Christ -- you know, the one who is the "True Vine."

Even the Angels Weep

There’s a single image that keeps coming into my head in light of last week’s events at Sandy Hook Elementary School. If you walk down Main Street and head up the hill toward Old Ship Church and wrap around the bell tower into Hingham Cemetery you encounter a particularly striking gravestone. There’s a full-sized weeping angel draped over a sizable stone marker. The angel’s head is down on top of her right forearm while her left arm hangs over the edge with limp fingers pointed toward the earth. Her body language speaks of utter helplessness and defeat and the statue conveys the emotion of profound grief. A grief that transcends words; a grief that is raw and unrelenting. This has been the posture of a nation shocked by the slaughter of 20 innocent children among the dead in Newtown, Connecticut, and I can’t stop reflecting on this angel of grief. And yet even in the midst of this pain, the angel’s wings remain upright and majestic enfolding the grave marker in a gesture of embrace and a symbol of hope.

I walk up to the cemetery sometimes and just stand in front of that angel. I think about people that I have known and lost over the years. I think about the many people I have buried in my own priestly ministry -- their stories, their struggles, their families, their faith. I think about the senseless killings that pervade our world through mass murder and war and acts of terror. I think about the presence of evil in our world and about the demons that drive people to desperation. And I think about the God of all hope who weeps when we weep and rejoices when we rejoice and is present to all who call upon his name.

Faith in the God whose peace surpasses all human understanding doesn’t ease the immediacy of grief. Yet there’s something about a statue so delicately carved into so solid a material. Perhaps it’s a metaphor for the fragility of human life built upon the rock of our salvation. As Christians, we place our faith upon the cornerstone that is Jesus Christ even in the midst of our own questions and doubts and weaknesses.

It’s true that human tragedy strips away the non-essentials of life and brings us right back to the things that matter most -- love, faith, compassion, and companions along the journey with whom we share these things. It’s also a reminder, in these days leading up to Christmas, that this season isn’t just about a cute yet helpless baby cooing in a stable but about our very salvation. It reminds us that Christmas isn’t just about the trimmings and trappings but about the miracle of God entering the world in human form; a world that can feel so full of darkness.

Finally, it reminds us that for all of the white lights in all of the windows along Main Street, for all the fresh garland adorning white picket fences, for all the beautifully trimmed trees in homes visible from the street, there are people hurting out there. There are people who go without this season; there are people for whom the holidays bring more emotional pain than cheer; there are people living with deep anxiety; there are people who are in the throes of profound grief in a small Connecticut town. Our faith calls this dissonance out into the light and bids us to act on behalf of the poor and downtrodden, the emotionally fragile and the sick, and those who weep and mourn.

In these waning days before Christmas, I can’t help but think about the gifts that have already been wrapped and lovingly placed underneath the tree; wrapping paper that will never be torn apart; squeals of glee that will never ring out; hugs of love and gratitude that will never be felt. Yet amid this season, amid the darkness that sometimes pierces our world, Christians still point to the light of salvation that burns in our hearts and illuminates the world with peace, hope, and salvation even in the midst of despair.

Praying Our Goodbyes

All Saints' Church, Briarcliff Manor, NY

As I've been reflecting on the gospel for Sunday -- Mark's version of Jesus calming the sea -- I remembered this was the text I preached on three years ago after announcing I would be leaving All Saints' in Briarcliff Manor, New York. I had the privilege of serving there as rector for seven years and my leaving brought up lots of emotions for both me and the congregation.

Ending a pastoral relationship is never easy; it's different from simply moving from one job to another. For better or worse, people's spiritual lives are often wrapped up in their relationship with their priest and a priest's identity is often wrapped up in their relationship with their parishioners. Leaving a congregation can feel like you're forsaking a congregation. Even when you're trying to be open and faithful to the call of the Spirit, feelings of anger, betrayal, and grief can abound on both sides.

I learned a lot through the process of saying goodbye, seeking always to be intentional about my leave-taking as opposed to "running through the thistles." Some of it worked, some of it didn't. But we're also forever changed by the people we encounter on this journey of life and faith. I still keep the people of All Saints' and their not-so-new-anymore rector in my prayers. Many of them had a profound effect on my ministry and that never fades away.

I rarely post sermons on my blog, but here's that sermon I preached at All Saints'.

A  Sermon from All Saints’ Episcopal Church, Briarcliff Manor, New York
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on June 21, 2009 (Proper 7, Year B)

When I was about ten-years-old my dad rented a sailboat and took the family out for a leisurely afternoon jaunt around the Inner Harbor of Baltimore. Some of my father’s earliest childhood memories were sailing on the Long Island Sound and he had recently started taking sailing lessons at the Getaway Sailing School. He loved being out on the water and naturally wanted to share this with his two sons. So why did it feel like I was about to board the SS Minow?

My mom was less keen on this whole family adventure but she packed a picnic basket and we headed down to the launch site to claim our 18-foot Bluenose. After adjusting our life jackets and a quick lesson about ducking when the boom swings around, we were ready to take to the high seas. And things started out pretty smoothly. The gentle breeze took us out into the middle of the harbor, the sun was shining, my brother and I argued over who was the First Mate, but the freedom of gliding through the water was amazing.

Until the clouds started moving in and the wind picked up. Since it would add to the story, I’d like to tell you there was a massive storm with gale-force winds. But there wasn’t. It did get a bit windier but the problem was that the bow line somehow got caught or tangled and suddenly my father couldn’t control the boat as it started heeling drastically to one side. Water rushed over the sideboards, my mother screamed, our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were washed out to sea, and I remember wondering if this was indeed the end. The whole scenario probably took less than a minute before my dad was able to get things straightened out but the horror of it all is seared into my psyche.

It’s in moments of panic or sheer terror, like the one the disciples experienced out on the Sea of Galilee or the one I experienced on the gentle waters of the Inner Harbor, that our first instinct is rarely to put our trust in God. Fear paralyzes us and all we can think about is survival. The natural reaction is to cling to a life vest rather than to Jesus. Because trust is the rarest commodity during times of trial and tribulation. The disciples cry out, “Jesus, don’t you even care that we’re about to die!” And we get this almost comical moment of contrast between the fear and frenzy of the disciples versus the absolute calm and tranquility of Jesus as he sleeps in the back of the boat.

But it’s understandable because trust tends to go out the window or out to sea in moments of uncertainty. There is a lack of trust that Jesus would see the disciples through the storm. Despite his presence the disciples didn’t believe he could or would help them. But of course it’s precisely his presence that is the ultimate source of comfort no matter whether the storm continues to rage or ceases completely. He’s there for them.

But meanwhile Jesus is trying to get a little shut eye. Trying to get a bit of rest after a long day of preaching and teaching. And you can just imagine his annoyance here: “You woke me up for this? Can’t a guy get a nap in around here?”

And I admit it sometimes does feel as if Jesus is asleep at the wheel. Sometimes when we need him most, it feels as if he’s not available to us. That he’s not paying attention to our needs; that he doesn’t care. And yet those are the times when he is most clearly present. It’s us who often become blinded by the storms and trials and tribulations of this life. Life swirls and rages, fear takes hold, and we fail to see the living Christ in our midst. We fail to see him calmly resting in the stern. We’ll see his presence in retrospect, perhaps, but rarely in the midst of the storm at hand.

The subtext for this particular community of faith is, of course, the departure of its rector. As I announced this week, I have accepted a call to a church in Massachusetts. And so All Saints’ is entering a time of transition and uncertainty. Anxiety and a sense of un-rootedness is a natural response to major change. And as the initial emotions swirl it can feel precisely like the tempest we read about this morning on the Sea of Galilee. The feelings of abandonment and betrayal are real. And it feels as if waves are beating against the sides of the boat and swamping it with water.

Yet, as in this story, Jesus is present. Anchoring us, guiding us, blessing us through this particular storm. And when we call upon him he will indeed calm the waters of our souls. Know that he will not leave you orphaned, he will not forsake you, he will be with you until the ends of the earth.

With three words, Jesus calms both the sea and the disciples’ anxiety: “Peace! Be still!” He becomes the calm in the midst of the storm. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t a storm; it just means that if we look inward Jesus stands at the core or our being even in the midst of the storm. Storm and calm are not mutually exclusive. If we go through life waiting for complete stillness we’ll go through life in great disappointment. Because life is really a series of storms; some smaller and some larger. So it’s not a matter of silencing the storm as much as it is recognizing God’s abiding presence in the midst of the storms that confront us. Allowing Jesus to provide the steady hand despite what rages. In other words, Jesus didn’t promise us perfect peace and tranquility in this life; he didn’t promise that there wouldn’t be any storms in this life; but he did promise us that he would be present in the midst of them. And that hope and assurance is at the very heart of the Christian life and faith.

And thus in this passage from Mark you could say that a literal “sea change” has taken place. A radical, profound, and mystical change in the water, the weather, and the hearts of the disciples. When you substitute the word transformation for “sea change” you get the idea of the power of Jesus Christ. Similarly we are going through a sea change at All Saints’, one that I am confident will lead to such transformation. It’s interesting to note that the phrase “sea change” first appears in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Ariel sings, “Full fathom five thy father lies: Of his bones are coral made: Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade: But doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange.” We are entering something “rich and strange” around here; things will soon be different. But I also trust that through this sea change new and good things will arise. In the days ahead, let Jesus be that calm in the midst of the storm both in your own life and here at this wonderful parish of All Saints’.

"And one was a soldier and one was a priest"

At Fort Knox, circa 1992

When people wish me a "Happy Veterans Day" I always do a double-take. I served so long ago the whole experience is a bit blurry. I also never spent more than four consecutive months on active duty and never once stepped onto foreign soil as a member of the military.

I'm not sure exactly why I decided to enter Army ROTC as a freshman at Tufts University. It's not as if I come from a long line of distinguished military leaders. My late father, who made his living as a symphony orchestra conductor, was compelled to enlist as part of the peacetime draft in the early 1960s after graduating from Harvard. He served as a clarinet player in the Army Band known as Pershing's Own in Washington, DC . It wasn't a bad gig -- he lived in an off-post apartment and basically studied scores for three years when he wasn't marching in things like Eisenhower's funeral. From a musical standpoint, it wasn't as if he had to do much practicing since the band wasn't playing the most challenging music (at least from the perspective of a gifted future conductor).

The one military rite of passage my father did have to endure was Basic Training at Fort Dix, New Jersey. He made it through just fine (and was a much better shot with a rifle than I ever was!). He told me once he was never so thrilled with KP duty than the time it got him out of learning how to throw a grenade. Let's just say we're all glad they didn't stick him with his clarinet out on the front line.

So, I'm not sure what came over me the summer before my freshman year at Tufts that made me inquire about ROTC. My high school friends all thought I'd lost my mind, my parents were cautiously supportive (which I still marvel at), and my brother thought I was doing it to meet girls. Looking back, I see it as an early exploration of call. I felt a deep desire to "give something back" even as I wasn't entirely sure what that meant.

I will say that my experience in ROTC was one of the most formative of my life. I made deep friendships with many of my fellow cadets that continue to this day. Not one of us remains in the military, which is perhaps  to be expected of members of the Paul Revere Battalion (comprised of cadets from Tufts, Harvard, Wellesley, and MIT). I learned a tremendous amount about myself, about leadership, and about human nature; all lessons that still resonate.

My military career will never be used as a case study at West Point. While still a cadet, I volunteered  to go to Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia. I figured, what better way to conquer my fear of heights than being trained as a paratrooper? So after training for three weeks in the August heat (doing lots of push-ups and being yelled at by the infamous Black Hat instructors), I made the five required jumps to earn my Airborne wings. To further torture myself, I earned my Air Assault wings the next summer at Fort Rucker in Dothan, Alabama. This involved, among other things, rappelling out of helicopters hovering at 150 feet.

Upon graduation, I was commissioned a Second Lieutenant as an armor officer in the Army Reserves. This meant four months at Fort Knox for training as a tank platoon leader. I then had a break as I pursued my career as a political campaign manager. I couldn't stick with a single unit because I was working all over the country. Eventually I settled down in Baltimore and joined a Garrison Support Unit. Of course there was nary a tank in the state of Maryland so I had to do something else to serve. In a stroke of brilliance rarely seen in the military, they stuck me in a position I was actually qualified for: I became the unit's Public Affairs Officer.

As the PAO, I did a lot of media relations for local units deploying to or returning from the Bosnia mission -- Operation Joint Adventure. I had a lot of fun doing this -- it's great to have unit commanders, colonels and generals, hanging on your every word and taking your every order because they're terrified to deal with the media. I was even awarded a couple of medals for this!

I was nearly deployed to Germany in support of this mission when I received that letter of acceptance to seminary. My service was basically up at that point and once the Army saw this they were more than happy to say "adios." So I was honorably discharged and have the paper (somewhere!) to prove it.

Some people see parish ministry and military service as being incompatible. Most people don't actually say this but I know it's on people's minds ("How could you have served in the military? Jesus said 'Blessed are the peacemakers' not 'Blessed are the warmongers'"). As I was going through the pre-seminary ordination process, a discernment committee member  asked about this in a rather pointed way. Fortunately, I had just finished reading a biography of former Archbishop of Canterbury Robert Runcie. During World War II Runcie had served as an officer in the Scots Guard and was awarded the distinguished Military Cross for valor as a tank commander. Pushed into a corner on the issue I mentioned this fact and the guy backed down. It wasn't my proudest moment but it was effective.

That's my "How I came to be a veteran" story. I'm proud of having served and have a tremendous amount of respect for those who do. I also have a few good stories if anyone's interested at some point.

These days, I'm much more of a dove than a hawk; the dove being the symbol of the Holy Spirit. And I even cringe inside when I see my boys playing Black Ops on the X-Box. I said to Zack the other day, "Since you like playing gun games do you think you'd ever consider joining the military?" He looked at me like I was nuts and responded, "Of course not. I don't want to commit suicide." I guess it's good that he knows the distinction between fiction and reality.

The boys aren't impressed by my military service. "If you weren't in any war it doesn't count." I don't agree but am thankful to God nonetheless.

Ferrets (and Family) Gone Wild!

Sometimes domestic chaos just happens -- the kids eat their entire Halloween stash in one sitting, your wife breaks a wrist (or two), or your mother in law moves in for nine months. And sometimes you bring it on yourself. That's what happened yesterday as we adopted two ferrets.

Why ferrets as opposed to, say, guinea pigs, hamsters, gerbils, or rats? Or another dog for that matter? Good question. Obviously the boys were involved in this since owning a ferret was never a childhood fantasy of mine. Fortunately, I have someone to blame for introducing the boys to these carnivorous mammals (they're not rodents -- who knew?). Bryna's friend and co-worker Jen has two ferrets named Mahi and Fenway. Bryna and the boys spent a day with her in Southie and their take-a-way was "ferrets are wicked cool!" followed by "when are we getting ferrets?" Thanks, Jen. They even came up with names on the ride home: Casper for a boy and Mimi for a girl (while soundly rejecting my suggestion of "Ferret Beuler").

Mahi and Fenway were given an invitation to our early October Blessing of the Animals (Bryna's ulterior motive was to get them to meet Delilah and see how a dog would react to ferrets -- just fine it turned out).

The next thing I knew the boys were spending inordinate amounts of time on ferret adoption websites. It didn't help when Jen gave them the most recent issue of Ferrets Illustrated (or whatever it's called). Now they were getting educated, Bryna was being sucked in, and the next thing I knew she and the boys had ordered a gargantuan ferret cage online. Do you have any idea how ridiculous it feels to have a ferret skyscraper being delivered to your home in 3-5 days with no ferrets in sight?

Fortunately (I guess, since I was now resigned to my ferretorious fate), Bryna made contact with a woman in Rhode Island who had two ferrets for whom she was seeking a good home. Between work and a new baby they just couldn't give their ferrets (a one-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy) the attention they both crave and deserve. So the whole family, including Delilah, piled into the minivan for the hour-long drive to meet them. The boys and the ferrets took to one another instantly, Delilah sniffed them if not approvingly then at least non-threateningly, and we left with two ferrets and a bunch of supplies and toys.

I have to admit they are incredibly adorable -- lively, curious, engaging, mischievous -- and they bring out the best in the boys -- sensitivity, responsibility, affection. They also sleep for about 19 hours a day which is a plus.

Chaos is a multi-splendored thing. Two new ferrets simply add to the blessed mixture.

That's NOT in the Bible? Nope.

Recent surveys have shown Biblical illiteracy at an all-time high. And, no, Gallup wasn't just polling Episcopalians. What's most disturbing to me isn't that people have no idea who or what Moses did. It's the number of quotes they think are Biblical but actually are not.

To clear up any confusion, the staff here at Clergy Family Confidential has compiled a list of the most common non-Biblical clichés. If you can think of any others, by all means add them to the list. Together, in the name of God and country, we can root out these insidious Scriptural mis-quotes. And then everyone can live happily ever after and return to their previously scheduled programming.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Perhaps not. Although in extreme cases you may end up as a vegetable.

"God never gives us more than we can handle." Talk to Job. Or anyone else who has ever been overwhelmed by the circumstances of life. That's not to say that God isn't in the midst of it all but God isn't intentionally heaping weights upon our shoulders to help us identify our own breaking points.

"To thine own self be true." Just because it's written in Elizabethan English doesn't mean it's Scriptural. It is, however, a line from Shakespeare's Hamlet.

"The lion shall lay down with the lamb." In Isaiah, the wolf lives with the lamb and the leopard lies down with the kid but the lion and the lamb? Never the twain shall meet. "The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together" (11:6) and "The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox" (65:25).

"Cleanliness is next to godliness." Slobs of the world rejoice! While the saying may have its roots in an ancient, non-Biblical Hebrew proverb, the earliest example in English comes from Francis Bacon in 1605.

"God works in mysterious ways." Duh. And U2 sings "God moves in mysterious ways." But as true as this may be, it's not in the Bible.

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Psych! The Golden Rule actually does come from the Bible if not in this precise wording. See Matthew 7:12. In fact, this call to ethical reciprocity pre-dates the Bible and can be found in nearly every world religion.

"God helps those who help themselves." Perhaps, but God also helps those who cannot help themselves. This phrase seems to have originated in one of Aesop's Fables -- the Waggoner. It shouldn't be surprising that since Aesop lived in the 6th century BC the original phrase was "The gods help those who help themselves."

"Money is the root of all evil." There's a similar saying in 1 Timothy: "For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil." But that's completely different -- money itself is not evil! Remember that distinction come stewardship season.

"It's a long way to the top, if you want to rock 'n roll." What? This isn't in the Book of Revelation? Nope, it's AC/DC.

So there you have it. A little Biblical literacy to get your blood flowing. And if you didn't like anything about this blog post? "This too shall pass" (again, not Biblical).

Sour Grapes

Shockingly, Delilah was rejected for the new Episcopups Calendar by Forward Movement Publications. You may recall my blogging about her recent photo shoot.  Delilah took the news pretty well, processing her rejection by gnawing on a chew toy. I, however, did not. So Forward Movement is now dead to me.



While it would be easy to blame my archnemesis, Scott Gunn, who just happens to be the new Executive Director of Forward Movement, I won't. That's because my righteous indignation at this affront transcends one person. I blame the entire city of Cincinnati and vow to never, ever run the Flying Pig Marathon (yes, that's what it's called).

My caption: "Let us read, mark, and inwardly digest."
Winning caption: "Read to me, pleezze" (sic)

Adding insult to injury, they also rejected the few captions I sent in as part of their online caption contest for each featured "dog." I think Fr. Gunn and his staff may need a humor transfusion. And when I come out with my EpiscoRoadkill calendar next year you can be sure I won't be including any dead possums from Southern Ohio.

I realize this is sour grapes since, had Delilah made it in, I would have been extolling the virtues, great insight, and "forward" thrust of the revamped Forward Movement. But now I will have to clear my tract rack of their publications and replace them with pictures of my dog.

The two photos you see here are the ones we sent in. Here are the 2012 Episcopups who made the calendar (which I don't encourage you to purchase). Take a look and you'll see just how much better it would have been had Delilah been Miss January.

2011: A Coffee Odyssey

Some people's travel plans revolve around good restaurants or minor league baseball stadiums or vineyards. I've come to the conclusion that mine revolves around coffee. As I sit at the center of my coffee drinking universe (Coffee Labs Roasters in Tarrytown, New York), I'm taking a moment to reflect on my quest for good coffee on our soon-to-be concluded trip to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Recognizing that rest stops and hotels aren't exactly known for their specialty coffee, the search for a decent cup of joe literally fuels my own personal triptych.

This particular trip to the midwest -- which will conclude tonight when we return home to Hingham -- began inauspiciously with a trip to Dunkin' Donuts. We were all set to leave first thing in the morning last weekend but a wrench was thrown into things when Ben's playoff game against Braintree had to be stopped after six innings and a 13-13 score on account of darkness. After a quick mug of Hingham's own Redeye Roasters early the next morning we had to pack up the car and head to Braintree for the extra inning continuation. Defeat was snatched from the jaws of victory after the boys scored seven runs in the top of the seventh inning only to lose 21-20. Bryna could only find a DD so she picked some up to go and away we went.


Upstate New York is generally a black hole for good coffee. We stayed the night in Binghamton and had to get out of there as quickly as possible before the caffeine headache kicked in. Fortunately it didn't take long to get to Corning where there are several independent coffee shops. We stumbled on the Market Street Coffee & Tea Co. which boasts a yellow roaster in the window. It wasn't in use on Sunday afternoon but the place smelled great and I'd go back in a minute if I ever found myself up that way again.

Next up was Cleveland. A stop at the Erie Island Coffee Co. was a perfect way to start a Monday morning. We never made it to the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame but at least the coffee was rockin'. This took us to our ultimate destination of Ann Arbor where we had a mini family reunion hosted by my step sister Christianne Myers who teaches costume design in the Theater Department at the University of Michigan (check out her website!).

I knew a college town would have some good coffee shops and I wasn't disappointed by the two I found: Great Lakes Chocolate & Coffee Co. and Sweetwaters Coffee & Tea.

I still needed one more coffee shop to get me to Coffee Labs and, shockingly, found a terrific one in Dubois, Pennsylvania, called Java Joey. A goofy name, perhaps, but they roast their own beans and I even think there was a Bible study going on when I got there. I didn't join in but rather got my coffee to go which kept me going all the way to the Westchester Marriott where we pulled up at 1:00 am.

I'll just need one more cup of the good stuff to propel me back to New England. Thanks to my friends at Coffee Labs I think this may just work out nicely.