Gary's story

Gary presented this story along with Colin's sermon on The Power of Story on July 5.

  Friday morning June 24th, I was at my favorite weekly event. At 8 a.m., I was breakfasting at Bread & Cie with our Dean and the cathedral’s “best and brightest” (just ask them).

About 8:35 the thought entered my mind that I should go down to God’s Extended Hand, listen to, observe and maybe learn from the assigned worship leaders.

I tried to dismiss the idea- that could be done any day- Fridays were special. Fridays were my day. The idea persisted, intensified and in 4-5 minutes I mumbled good-byes and was gone.

At God’s Extended Hand I sat at the seldom used piano by the raised stage and prepared to take notes. 9:30 came and went—no church group, no speaker, those scheduled were a no-show. I thought- I’m here today by accident, by coincidence—I’ll just leave. Then it struck me. Other than on the one day a month assigned to St. Paul’s, I’d not been there since February 4th. My presence was no coincidence.

I looked at the faces of their guests—I saw pain, resignation, fatigue and despair. I could not leave. I’d been “apostle”- sent out. Their doorman conferred with me and I said I’d fill in unprepared—I’d lead a prayer and give a ten minute talk.

Be authentic, be real, speak from your heart, be direct, don’t talk down to these people- engage them: those thoughts crowded my mind. So I opened by asking, “What are you grateful to God for this morning?” Smiles and voices followed. “My two grandkids.” “Another day alive.” “My boyfriend.” “God’s Extended Hand and one solid meal a day.” And finally, “I’m grateful for my struggles.” That’s profound. Look up Romans 5:3-5 when you get home.

Then I borrowed from the “Orlando Strong” service Father Jeff composed and held at Flicks video bar in the heart of Hillcrest. The refrain in its Prayers of the People was “I will make of the outcasts a strong nation.” I had the guests repeat that twice and told them that God loves imperfect and broken people—the hungry , unhoused, mentally ill, chemically addicted, differently abled, deficient and damaged. I’m in there somewhere.

I continued: “God so loved the world” must not be read “God so loved the rich, the WASPs, the smart, well-schooled and powerful…” And I said- God loved Gary- orphaned, raised in foster-care, a kid who couldn’t dribble a basketball or hit a baseball, a bookish loner with Coke bottle glasses and poor attire.

I told them you folks are exiles, outcasts and throwaways to many politicians and much of the public. Yes- we recycle cans, we throw away people, and some of those killed and wounded at Pulse, Orlando’s gay night club were seen that way too; less-than and disposable. And I said “Black Lives Matter” didn’t emerge from thin air, without cause. Closing, I asserted that we cannot, must not, wait for the influential, rich and powerful to affirm our worth. Hell will freeze over. Homeless or homosexual or otherwise a stone the builders rejected, less- than, outcast—we can affirm one another.

A smile, a greeting, a touch, the sharing of food and beverage—simple acts of kindness are a good start. “I will make of the outcasts a strong nation.” Two Fridays ago I was apostled—sent out—with good news to share and yes, sent to cast out demons. Hopelessness, resignation and fearfulness are demonic.

Driven, prodded and empowered by the Holy Spirit I was able to evoke moments of gratitude, smiles and laughter from the battered guests at that run-down mission. The takeaways: First, we are all called to be disciples and apostles. The sending forth didn’t stop at 70 and didn’t end on Pentecost. And second, God can use any of us—we have only to listen, say “Yes”, and go forth. Amen.

Gary Owen

Sharing the tears

Jeff Bates received this email from his friend Ann, in Seattle, and shared it with us. Ann writes,

Hello everyone,

I've thought about sharing this or not .. and finally realized that I just cannot NOT share it.

This past Saturday, I got in my car with my dog Alex to drive to my boat at the Des Moines Marina to work on my boat. I never did even get to my boat. Once I arrived at the marina, the sun was shining and warm, so I took Alex for a walk knowing that, this time of year, in an hour or two, it could be raining cats and dogs and a walk would be pretty crappy, so a walk was needed NOW.

So we walked around the marina grounds and then to the north end of the marina where there's a park and a fishing pier and a large parking lot. Lots of folks fish off that pier and lots of folks sit in their parked cars or walk around and simply enjoy the view of Puget Sound and the park and the pier and the extraordinary peace and view there.

But this past Saturday was different. My dog Alex and I walked toward the fishing pier and passed one particular car that had a very elderly Japanese couple in it. I remember making eye contact with one or the other of the occupants (both obviously crying) and then I quickly moved on .. not wanting to embarrass them or me. But only a few feet later, I realized that they wouldn't be here .. out in the open, in public .. if they were embarrassed .. and that it was mostly me who was embarrassed. And my heart just stopped. And I hung my head.

I turned and walked back towards the car and made very purposeful eye contact with the two elderly people in the car, difficult as that was for me. They were crying so hard. But they both looked right at me. And as soon as we surely made eye contact, I stopped and started crying too .. right there in the parking lot. For a fraction of a second, I was embarrassed again, but then I didn't care about being embarrassed. I just cried. I stood there a moment and then walked to the car and laid my hand on the car's hood and just stood there, looking out across the salt water of Puget Sound. They knew I was there and they knew I was crying. Fairly quickly, the woman opened the passenger window and held out her very small hand to me .. I went to the window and knelt down and held her hand (and she held mine) and all three of us cried. He reached over and touched her so that all three of us were touching.

There were no words. We just cried. Really big tears. Together.

And we looked out over the salt water of Puget Sound knowing that these waters move north and then turn left at the Strait of Juan de Fuca and then flow to Japan .. that all of these molecules of water touch each other. Even in the parking lot at Des Moines, Washington, we knew we were looking right at Japan. And we cried.

Eventually, I got up and let go of her hand, and she of mine. With my hands pressed together, I bowed deeply to them. They exclaimed and said words I didn't understand but that I think I do understand. I said "God bless you" and they said words to me that surely meant the same.

I hope their sadness and loss is a bit less .. or that, with shared human compassion, it is a bit more bearable. I can't imagine losing family with so much tragedy when you're so far from home.

Tho I may never see these people again, they are my family.

Ann

Image: The Great Wave off Kanagawa is a classic woodblock print by artist Katsushika Hokusai, from the Edo period (ca. 1830).

A Fearsome Blessing: The Words of Creation

“May I now present to you Hannah and Kathy Wilder!”

Kathy and I were married five weeks ago at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Our ceremony began in the late afternoon, timed so the evening light would shine softly through the stained glass windows. It was a busy day, full of appointments and preparations. Luckily, I found 15 minutes to meditate and ground myself. Just before my hair appointment, I paused and pulled off my socks and shoes and planted my feet on the grassy patch just outside the salon. I went through a breathing meditation with a friend. It helped me feel calm, focused and grounded.

As I entered the Cathedral at the start of the ceremony, I was grateful for the journey that brought us to this point. The day I had been anticipating for over a year was finally here. I felt ready to savor it as it unfolded. I met my beloved and walked down the aisle with her and my ten-year-old son.

“We have come together today to ask for God’s blessing on Hannah and Kathy…”

As we walked the long center aisle, I felt the presence of our family and friends gathered there to witness and celebrate our union.

I stood by Kathy in front of the Rev. Canon Allisyn Thomas and listened as the entrance song faded away. Then Allisyn raised her hand and began speaking the words of the liturgy we had lovingly chosen for this most important ceremony. Over months of creating and revising our liturgy, the words had become intimately familiar to me.

But as she began speaking, I felt as though I knew what the earth must have felt when God spoke it into being. I was struck by the image of our priest as the conduit for something intangible, great and unfathomable as it made its way into being, into consciousness, into our realm of words and light. I felt the presence of God.

“Eternal love never fails…”

As she spoke of love, forgiveness, reconciliation and union, I was aware that our relationship was on the brink of something extraordinary. We were bringing our relationship into the Kingdom of God, where neither moth nor rust can destroy and thieves cannot break in and steal.

“for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish . . .”

When I said my vows to Kathy, I took time to savor each phrase, calling all of me to be present to my words and their meaning. In the moment, I found that speaking my vows felt as natural as waking up in the morning after a good night’s sleep, or holding your child’s hand. Nothing could be more right.

“Will you stand by them, encourage, guide and pray for them in times of trouble and distress? We will.”

About 35 friends and family surrounded us in the chancel (the front part of the church around the altar). They sat in the pews on either side of the altar and in the chairs below the organ pipes. They literally surrounded us with their presence, support and love. Three times during the ceremony, they voiced their support willingly and boldly. For that I am eternally grateful.

I was especially touched by Kathy’s mother who attended and gave her support freely and without reservation. As the only parent there, she embodied utmost approval. Her genuine joy about our marriage made it obvious that homosexuality was irrelevant to her. Kathy’s mom doesn’t just accept us; she celebrates us. And loves us.

My family? Not so much. They love me but they believe what their conservative Christian upbringing taught them: that homosexuality is a disease, a sickness and something to resist. Needless to say, they were not invited, but I felt a gaping hole where they would have been.

“‘Every man serves the good wine first; and when men have drunk freely, then the poor wine; but you have kept the good wine until now.’”

In her sermon, Allisyn spoke about Jesus’ miracle of turning water into wine. She encouraged us to reserve our best wine for one another, instead of giving each other whatever’s left at the end of the day. Wise words that have already come in handy.

“Send your Holy Spirit upon these gifts.”

We shared communion as our first act as a married couple. Kathy and I bore chalices for all who wanted to partake. Seeing the faces of loved ones come up and drink from the cup was especially powerful and intimate.

“May God enrich the life you have chosen and fulfill your hopes.”

The rest of the evening with its toasts, conversations and revelry, reinforced how much our community loves and supports us. Again Allisyn served as a spokesperson as she said in a toast, “Your St. Paul’s community loves you. We support you. We stand by you. We are proud of you.”

I wonder how many people can say that their church has explicitly voiced their approval and support of their relationship? Not too many I imagine!

When Allisyn gave that toast, I felt the whole Cathedral wrapping its arms around us. Some of the pain from the loss of my biologic family was, and is, tempered by the knowledge that St. Paul’s loves us and affirms us exactly as we are. We feel woven into the fabric of the lives of so many of you; we know where to turn for comfort, advice and friendship. Our lives are full of abundance because of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the whole diocese.

“And the blessing of God Almighty, Creator, Word and Spirit, be upon you and remain with you now and always.”

Something has changed in my relationship with Kathy. We feel more deeply connected to one another and to our community. The words of the liturgy wove a beautiful tapestry around us and the people who loved and supported us throughout this journey to marriage.

Many of those people are you, the members of St. Paul’s Cathedral. For that I cannot thank you enough. We were able to enter into this mystical, alchemical union because of you, your prayers, your identities, your coming together week after week to affirm your faith in something greater than this material world and to proclaim to the world that all are welcome at a gothic cathedral on Sixth Avenue in Hillcrest, San Diego.

And as we walk the path of life together, we look forward to sharing our love and experiences with you, come what may.

-Hannah Miller Wilder


In July 2010, Bishop Mathes gave permission for the parishes in the Diocese to celebrate and bless the relationships of same sex couples in the congregation. Hannah and Kathy are the first couple to have their ceremony at St Paul's Cathedral. We thank Hannah for sharing her reflection of this most amazing day and we wish them both much joy in their new life together!

The Traveling Bible

This is the story of how our family Bible came to be with me in San Diego, California.

I was born and raised in Chile. Our family Bible originally belonged to my mother’s family, the Serpells, who had lived in Cornwall, England. In about 1900, it left England and traveled around the Horn to Chile, where my parents lived and raised us children. The Bible weighs 15 pounds and is 14” x 11” x 4 ½.”

When I was a young woman, I came to the United States to live and work. I married, had a child, and settled in San Diego, California. When my mother died in Chile, she left her family Bible to me. My father’s family Bible had been left to one of my sisters. Since I was far away when my mother died, a nephew took the Bible for safekeeping. I was not able to travel to Chile to get the Bible for some time. When I went to Chile in 1999 to bring it back home to San Diego with me, the nephew did not want to give it up!

To make a long story short, I was able to retrieve the Bible, but only at the last minute through the help of a niece. Exactly one half hour before my flight was scheduled to depart from Chile, the Bible was delivered to me in a cardboard box with a string around it. There was no name on the box and no way of identifying what was in the box. It was too late to pack it. So, as I was checking my luggage, I set it on the counter in its box. The clerk asked, “What is it?” I answered, “the family Bible.” The clerk responded, “I’ll take care of it.”

I wasn’t sure I would ever see the family Bible again. But when I got to Miami, the airport attendant carefully handed me the box, still with its string but no name. The Bible and I had to go through customs. Again, I was asked the same questions and received the same responses. The Bible and I had to board a plane to San Diego, and again I had the box with me at the check-in counter. I was asked the same questions and gave the same responses. Once again, the airport attendant carefully took the box, still with its string and no name, and said the airline would take care of it for me. Lo and behold, when I arrived in San Diego, an airline attendant brought me the box and handed it to me very reverently.

I was very grateful to the airline personnel and was impressed to see how everyone treated this unlabeled, humbly wrapped package with its important contents.

Catherine Johnson was a member of St. Paul’s Cathedral in San Diego, California. She passed away on October 31st and her memorial will be on November 17 at 11am in the Chapel of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The Rev Canon Andrew Rank SSP shared this story with us, which was first published in the Spring 2005 edition of St. Paul's Printer.

A death in Orange County

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.
John Donne, Meditation XVII

A man died last week on the rail line near Anaheim CA. He stepped into a crossing in front of a Metrolink commuter train around 6am, stretched out his arms and waited for the train to hit him. The horrified engineer couldn't stop in time.

Nearly 100 miles away, I was getting on the first northbound Amtrak of the day, and read a message crawling across the information sign that the first southbound service was delayed due to a "passenger train trespassing incident". I didn't really think much about it; it wasn't my train, it was miles away. Maybe someone had gotten obstreperous with the conductor, or someone had been seen along the track. It didn't even cross my mind that those words were railway code for a fatality.

But as we left Oceanside at 7am, the man behind me got a call on his cellphone. "Well, then I'm screwed," he said, sounding annoyed. Then I got a call from a colleague who takes Metrolink from Irvine, the midway point. He told me what had happened, and that both lines, southbound and northbound, were blocked north of Anaheim. He went home to telecommute. I had meetings in LA, and even if I chose to turn around and head for home, there were no southbound trains getting through for me to take. So I sat it out, and my train kept going north.

The lines reopened after about 3 hours, after the business of death swarmed around the tracks: policemen with yellow tape, railway workers in hard hats, the cleanup crew with bins and tarps. Once north of Anaheim, my train inched its way along with frequent long, sighing stops. Even so, we got to LA with only a 45 minute delay, cushioned by the distance we had to travel. Most passengers had no idea what had happened, and grumbled that we were late again.

This is the second death that I know of on the LA-San Diego corridor this summer; in June, a man was killed by an overnight freight train near San Clemente under rather creepy circumstances (at 2 am, it appears that a group of teenagers watched him get hit). Other lines in the region have also had a number of recent deaths; sometimes suicide, sometimes stupidity (like walking on the tracks, or trying to beat the gates). Deaths by train are depressingly common.

And I found it odd that despite the grimly public way of taking their lives, these victims are mostly invisible. Unless their travel is affected by the tragedy, most people probably never hear of this happening. It's a sentence on the evening news, or a tiny paragraph in the paper, gone in an instant.

I sorrow for the victim who suffered such despair, and for his family. I cannot fathom how anyone could choose such a horrible way to die. And I feel for the engineer, at the controls of his massive machine, who was made an unwilling accomplice and saw it all, and the conductor, whose harrowing responsibility it was to get off the train and inspect the aftermath. I hope they have help for the trauma of the experience.

I met some of the passengers from the train that struck the man, on the trip home that night. They cushioned themselves from the event with dark humor, or anger at the hurt done to the engineer and crew, whom they know by name. Those on other trains that were delayed complained about the timing. They didn't really address the event or the human life behind it--a natural defense mechanism, but still, jarring.

One of my other commute friends told me that in the 4 or 5 years she's been doing the trip, her train has killed 6 people, most of them suicides. The railway seems to draw the despairing, the way the Golden Gate Bridge does. I know that statistically, it is inevitable that one day I too will be an accomplice of sorts, a few hundred feet away from death, a passenger on a train that kills a person. It is a disturbing thought.

Susan Forsburg

Photo: The tracks reopen. Orange County Register

A Benedictine Retreat

Dear Friends at St. Paul's,

I just came back from a retreat in Healdsburg, CA - a Benedictine Experience! Thought I'd tell a story about it ...

Visiting my spiritual director last year, I scampered around her bookshelves, peering at titles of tomes. A small, slender volume squeaked from the shelf, its title faded, "Seeking God: The Way of St. Benedict" by Esther de Waal. Nudging it out of its hiding place, revealed a sort of cheesy 80's-style cover, but it passed the skinny-ness test.
"Not too long for my attention span, and not too heavy to lug back to San Diego!" I thought.

But more enticing were the purple and yellow highlighted passages in the book.
"Well, if she digested it - there must be something nourishing in there, and then there are Cliff's notes!" I chuckled to myself.

This book promised to shed light on another book that I had read and frankly, hadn't digested: The Rule of St. Benedict.

"Oh the Benedictines? They were before the split." my spiritual director said. Okay, I guess that meant PG-13 reading then.

So, I legitimately borrowed and lugged the book down to San Diego and read it over the next few months. Wow, the book was slender, but rich and dense - picture slice after slice of flourless dark chocolate torte. Delicious and lots of calories. It was a lesson in moderation; I had to learn to ration the intake, or suffer spiritual indigestion from snarfing too much in one go - in one end and out the other - the choice between nourishment or nada.

Listening with the ear of the heart, prayer and work, hospitality ...

What about the actual Way itself? Lucky for me, I got a call from my friend the spiritual director early this year, "There is this Benedictine Experience retreat - I think you would like it."

And so I went on this spiritual time-share - a week with a bunch of strangers seeking to live Benedictine spirituality at a retreat center called The Bishop's Ranch. As a scientist, this would be an interesting experiment indeed.

My first retreat ever, was last year and that was with a women's monastic community in Augusta, GA. That was like dropping into another world. During that retreat, I remember becoming acutely aware as the week went on and I could listen better, of the baggage and mess that I brought to the monastic liturgy. The sisters' hospitality shared their presence in space and time with the chaos that I brought. I brought myself as fully and consciously as I could. There was nothing I could do to lessen the ripples of unresolved spiritual mess that perturbed the chanting. Only God's grace could begin to heal the unresolved garbage of a lifetime for a person who had never been on a retreat to listen to God. It was a very intense experience, and meaningful, intentional, gifted silence was a door the opened for me there.

A key question for me in this Benedictine Experience retreat was, if I could intuit the effect of chaos in the monastic liturgy with a bunch of monastics, how would chaos bear out in a temporary intentional community where each one of us brought a diversity of chaos? I was like the woman who touched Jesus' cloak, looking for healing to happen, hiding in the crowd. Something would be healed, but what and how?

At times, we did fall off the trolley in the liturgy. Wow, we really did have a lot of chaos after all.

As this week went on, I began to love these strangers and their voices in a way that was beyond knowing anything about their story, their worldly accomplishments, or their ministries. I began to feel a deep gratitude for them, as they were, and their honest hard work at showing up every day to pray. And I could also begin to see and appreciate a part of me in them.

I experienced a change of heart. I started the week looking for chaos and a resolution which I had defined to be lack of chaos, as if chaos were somehow a "bad germ" and needed going away forever. I started the week thinking that the Way was about reaching a destination and then not needing to do any more work. The Holy Spirit colon cleanse was going to come through and fix everything once and for all. But as the week ended I realized that as I live, I need to continue to eat, and need to continue to be cleansed.

It's a lot of hard work to show up and be present to myself and those around me every day wherever I am. I can say that my experience of Benedictine spirituality with other seekers of God, was to experience the ordinary. And in the conscious, intentional experience of the ordinary in God, I can glimpse some of the extra-ordinary depth of meaning in God’s creation.

There’s nothing special in Benedictine spirituality, in the sense that there’s nothing apart or beyond following Jesus and living the Gospel. There's no absolute standard for how to live, who to be, or how to express piety - nothing to accomplish and be done with, and no static definition of enlightenment or perfection.

There ARE tools and examples of how to keep working hard at cultivating a life of being receptive to God's transforming action in my life.

There IS practice, discipline, and concentrated effort to bring as much of me and my messy life, in faith, to be in the Presence of God's community over and over again, where the Holy Spirit refines.

As the week came to a close, I became convinced that the time and space, whether together and apart, that we shared: in prayer, fellowship, study, meditation, silence, visioning the connection of the physical and the spiritual, chanting, singing, eating, sleeping- every aspect of life- could be a door to experience more and more the expansiveness, totality, and intimacy of God's love.

The choice is to be made over and over again, to be in relationship, to try to be receptive to the Presence and keep still instead of screaming and running away.
There is great encouragement, wisdom, and love flowing from other seekers who show up over and over again too.

"So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock and the door will be opened for you." (Luke 11:9)

There is the great Gift of Love that asks and waits for me to receive Love, as ordinary as I am, so that the extra-ordinary can be revealed to all of Creation.

Thanks be to God!

Helena Chan

Author! Author!

Having written and published two novels over the past year has produced some interesting effects on other people. On me too, but first, other people. These effects range from a sort of hushed awe by some folks who have never been in the presence of a living, breathing (usually) writer whom they elevate to the lofty realms of author. “Wow, you’ve really written two novels?” they gasp, looking at me with the kind of adoring gaze generally reserved for celebrities. They invariably buy a novel from me. The other end of the scale goes more along the lines of “Oh yeah? Two books, huh? Got an aunt who writes stuff for greeting cards. Makes pretty good money, too.” In other words, “So what?” They invariably don’t buy a novel from me. As I say, a wide range.

Most people fall into the middle of the range; they want to know what the novels are about, how the process of writing them came about, and what prompted me to write them in the first place. Answering these and other questions about plot development, characters, setting, and how these intertwine becomes the usual conversation at what are called Author Signings.

Two of these are coming up. The next one will be on Saturday, July 3 at 1:30PM at the Café Libertalia, 3834 5th Avenue in Hillcrest, and another at the Lemon Grove Public Library on Saturday, July 10 at noon.

I like these events very much. They provide a forum for me and prospective readers (some arrive having already read the novel) to discuss the nuts and bolts of writing. Some have useful and thoughtful comments to make about some aspect of the novel if they have read it. Others want to hear some part of the novel read aloud, something I’m happy to do. All in all, it’s a good time, folks leave happy that they have participated in something literary, I feel good that I have entertained them with some prose, and I’ve sold a few books.

Now for the effects on me part of this blurb. I can best illustrate this with a story. One man bought my first novel, The House on Shadow Lane, read it, and then was kind enough to write a review of it on the Amazon.com site, praising the novel for what he felt were its various attributes. He lives in Palm Springs, and by chance, I found his e-mail address and wrote to thank him for his kindness. He wrote back asking when I’d be in the desert. “Next week, as a matter of fact,” I replied. A dinner date was set and I met up with him and his partner. Off we went to their favorite restaurant where he introduced me to the owner, all of the waiters, the chef, and everyone else whom he knew there including quite a few diners.

“This is Robert, our author friend. He’s written a wonderful book…” my new friend went on. My head was getting bigger and bigger; I was eating this up like crazy and feeling like a latter day E. M. Forster, or Hemingway, or Melville. This went on throughout our meal with people dropping by the table to congratulate me and to meet “our author friend, Robert.”

I returned to my room flying high in the dizzying realms of exalted praise and celebrity. The next morning, I got up and went out to buy a copy of the Palm Springs newspaper. Glancing at the horoscopes, I read “Sagittarius: Beware the elaborate praise of strangers. You may get to believe it and if you do, it will cut into your creativity, finally making you miserable.” My big head from the night before regained its usual size as I sat down to write a thank you e-mail to the Palm Springs fan in which I included the astrological advice.

It’s good advice, and the truth is that I generally don’t see myself as more than a competent writer who merely wants to entertain people with a good story. I don’t have aspirations to elbow out the great novelists of our age by knocking their books off the shelves as mine replace them. But what I tell people at author signings is this: “Just have some love of writing, of telling a good tale, and telling it the best way you can. Make sure that YOU like it, that YOU are happy with it. It won’t be perfect; nothing ever is. Don’t let that stop you if you want to write, but write as faithfully and honestly as possible. If you do that, and you have a story to tell, you’re well on your way.”

Robert Heylmun

Singing in Summer Choir

Have you ever wondered what it's like to sing in the choir? It can be done! Every July, the choir gets a well-deserved break, and anyone who is interested can step in. I wrote this description of our experience last summer, when my wife Lisa and I were still new to the Cathedral.

The Cathedral has an intimidating choir. But even the experts need a vacation, so for the month of July, there is an all-volunteer choir that consists of whoever shows up an hour before Mass. Lisa sang regularly with the folk choir of her (former) Roman Catholic parish. She's pretty serious about music and sings multi-part pieces well. Me, I did some casual choral singing for fun about 20 years ago. And i took classical piano as a child so I read music. So when Lisa suggested that we go for summer choir today, I thought it sounded interesting. Before I thought better of it, that is.

I think we both had second thoughts this morning (an "oh my, what are we getting into?") but each of us went for the other. And Lisa agreed to sing alto with me rather than her more usual tenor. So that's how it happened that at 9.30 we were sitting in the choir room of the Cathedral with some other newcomers. Fortunately there were some regular choir members with lots of experience who were also there, although it was a near thing because there were no sopranos until 9.50!

I had forgotten how much work it is to sing parts; keeping track of the timing, not to mention the notes of your part, without getting distracted by the other sections; reading a piece of music you've never seen before, while trying simultaneously to read the words AND watch the conductor. We managed to learn the basics of chant for the psalm, and the a cappella anthem, and then were outfitted in borrowed vestments for the processional. This being the Cathedral, the processional is a big crowd. And then, did I mention that there were several other hymns in parts that we didn't practice ahead of time? I'm way out of practice sightsinging....fortunately we had two more experienced altos in the section we could follow. Phew!

The funniest thing was at the beginning of Mass when the Dean looked over casually to the choir and then did a classic double take when we saw us. He knows our faces, because we've been around for a while now,and he had a big grin for us at the end of the service.

We met lots of nice new people in the choir so we may go back for another go at this somewhat terrifying, but uniquely exhilarating experience. But I don't think I aspire to regular participation beyond this -- too much like work!

If you've got a craving to see what it's like to be part of the choir keep an eye on the bulletin for the announcement for summer choir season. It's a great way to experience a different part of the Cathedral!

-Susan Forsburg (who finds blogging more to her speed)

The Best Laid Plans...Are Not Always Your Own

As far back as I can remember, I have had a plan and a road map to where I think I needed to go in life. Whether it was planning for college, the job I would take after college, the perfect career, the house I would buy, the car, the perfect wedding and the perfect plan for a family…you name it, I had a plan, or as I came to learn, I thought I had a plan…

It was somewhere in the Summer of 1999 that I stared to notice that my plans weren’t always God’s plans. I had just separated from my husband, and I might add, left with all the debt we incurred our marriage. The divorce was pending and I was scared and worried that I wouldn't be able to pay the debts, afford an apartment, afford a car – even eat! I remember vividly crying on the couch not wanting to ask for help, but as my sobs slowed I looked up to the ceiling and said, "Okay God, I am going to trust in you to carry me through this tough time." The following weeks, I continued to focus on my job and worked hard to earn a promotion. I spent hours working and dealing with creditors asking for more time to work out the debts. I learned a lot during this time about expenses and how to survive with less than my earlier plans had envisioned. Suddenly, I was offered a promotion and a chance at a fresh start to move to San Diego with my company.

By the end of 1999, my divorce was final, I was living in San Diego and I was really starting to make a dent on the debt. I remember taking such a deep breath after reviewing my bills one night, and although I still had a ways to go, for the first time I realized it was going to be possible. An over whelming feeling of being thankful came over me and I reached for the yellow pages and found Saint Paul's Cathedral. I started going on Sunday's and found my quiet little pew on the far right. The music was so soothing and the service brought me so much peace. I kept to myself, didn’t get particularly active in the church, spending the majority of my free time at work.

Just as I was beginning to feel things were coming together and I started planning again – planning on finishing that debt, getting another promotion, looking at condos – my father died. Suddenly everything was turned upside down again. My father and I were very close and we talked about my career path, business and life regularly, so this was a major blow. I began to feel very lost. And once again, I found myself talking more frequently with God. I had a lot of questions, and asked them frequently, but was I listening for answers?

Fast forward to 2003, I am still on the career path and working towards a new promotion. I had paid off the debt, and now I was planning to buy a condo. The promotion happened, the condo happened and now I was left with trying to come up with another plan. I started to really watch my expenses and focused on trying to put money away for retirement. I started to enjoy charity work, volunteering and helping people. I was still struggling with where I was in my life, what I wanted out of it, and working very long hours. I continued to live by my new found principle about controlling expenses. This principle was to ask myself a question before I bought anything, "Do you just want this, or do you really need this?" The simple little question made it much easier to say "NO" when it was a want vs. a need. I found ways to save by having money taken directly out of my check for the 401K program, stock purchase and money to be placed into a savings account. Since I didn't have children, I wanted to be sure that I could afford medical care for my pets. I created what I call my "kitty fund" and would put money into short term CD's that I would roll over into new ones when the percentage went up.

Three years passed and I was up for a new promotion. For some reason, I struggled with whether this was what I really wanted to do but I don't remember talking to God. I took the promotion and suddenly life became more difficult. I found myself challenged, which I enjoyed, but I found that suddenly things I enjoyed doing were now in competition with my work. My volunteering at the church and with animal rescue groups started to become a thing of the past. I wasn't talking to God and instead, found myself doing a lot of complaining. As time passed my family and I went through the loss of six family members. Yes six. It was then I really started to take inventory of my life and what I was doing. What did I want out of life? What was my plan now? I started to go to church more frequently and I really started to talk to God again. Then a funny question came out of my mouth.....

"What is your plan for me God?"

My next question quickly became: "Do I have the courage to find out?" I started to take walks and go for swims to exercise. I started to realize that my values had changed and there may be a better plan for me than to just work. During my walks, a question popped in my head....." What would make you happy?" The answer came quickly, I wanted to help people, I wanted to be able to volunteer, to make a difference. The next question came, "So what is preventing you from doing that?" So, I sat down and worked on the list. After contemplating the pro's and the con's, I realized that the only thing in the way was me. That is, my not wanting to change, to leave my comfort zone, to give up some of my control and so on. I truly believe that God was speaking to me to make a change. I just needed to follow that lead.

Over the next year, I did what I always do. I started planning. Only this time, rather than planning for the next house, next car or the next promotion, I started to really plan my exit strategy from my job. I stepped up the savings plan by figuring out what I really needed to live on. I refinanced my home down to a 15 year with a very low interest rate. I paid off my car and started to live on a very modest income. I planned out my expenses to include my tithe to Saint Paul's and figured out how many years I wanted to be able to take off from work. Then I made the big jump, and retired from my job. Now mind you, I am 44 years old and I am not permanently retired. I put a plan together to go back to school and find the job that will let me do what is important to me. Yes I am still planning, though now I would like to think they are little more aligned with a plan that’s bigger than just me…

So there it is, I think many times I may have been talking to God, and he may have been carrying me in tough times. But I don't think I was really listening to God.....all I can say...when you really start to......amazing things can happen. My new journey started May 28th, so far it is great....I am in Playa Del Carmen Mexico and I start school on June 22nd!!

Lisa Crosbie

Feeling Called to Help Others

As some of you might know, I live next door to the Cathedral in the Park Chateau apartments. Because it’s so close, the cathedral staff and clergy have become a kind of extended family for me. And I am very grateful because I know they care about me and try to look after me.
But, I have to admit I drive them a little crazy from time to time when I occasionally open my home to someone in need of a place to stay. Usually it’s someone who is in-between jobs, having become separated from their family or experiencing a low point in their life. I let them stay on my couch for whatever period of time they need to get back on their feet.

People might think I'm a little out of my mind to let folks who are at first strangers into my home. Maybe so. But I feel called to do so, within reason, due to experiences in my own life.

You see, many years ago as a young man I found myself homeless. I was going through a dark time in my life, battling depression and was even hospitalized at one point. When I got out, I didn’t have any place to stay and found myself sleeping wherever someone would let me.
I can remember one night asking an acquaintance if I could sleep in their car for a night. To this day, I can remember the embarrassment of having to ask someone I didn’t even know very well, if I could sleep in his driveway. That was one of the lowest points in my life. Having no place to sleep is just about the last thing a man should be made to suffer.

A few years later, in the 1970’s, after I had gotten back on my feet, I was living in the Bay Area. Driving from work I started to notice more and more people living in poverty, starving, and without living accommodations. These people were living in front of storefronts, and at People’s Park in Berkeley and in Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. Finally I made a phone call to the Berkeley Free Clinic, which at that time was housed inside the lower portion of a church, and let it be known that I wanted to offer my apartment for the homeless. Eventually, the clinic agreed and, after a screening process, would make referrals to me.

My apartment was large enough to accommodate up to 4 people at one time. I must have had 20 or 30 people come through there in those days, of all ages and stations in life. And yes, it was a little uncomfortable and a little crazy at times, but it was also a time when I never felt more alive. How gratifying and enlivening it was to help these folks; to learn their names, to hear their stories and share their dreams.

It’s a practice that I have kept up pretty much my whole life. And even today, I will occasionally make my home available to those in need. In all the years of doing so, I have never been ripped off or taken advantage of. Is there some risk? Sure. But just as I was given a second chance, I truly feel that it is my ministry to extend that hospitality to others.

Christ said I was hungry and you gave me food. Because of my life experiences, I have come to understand that he was not only hungry for bread, but for understanding, for being loved, for being known, for being someone to someone.

When I help others, I try to see Christ in them, as others once saw him in me.

Harold Potter

On the subject of Talent…

A few years ago I was teaching novel-writing at The Writer’s Room, a space above a consignment shop on Park Boulevard. One day I was stopped on the street outside by a young man I’ll call Daniel. He wanted me to read his novel – his seven-hundred page novel. He was sure it was ready to publish. I turned him down because experience has taught me that a seven-hundred page first novel is almost certainly NOT a good read. I offered instead to read and critique the first one hundred pages. Daniel was offended and told me at some length why I needed to read the whole book to get the “full impact of the story.”

I would sooner take a blow to the head.

At this point in the story, I need to tell you that Daniel was one of the few gorgeously handsome men I’d ever met: lots of shaggy, shiny black hair, an incandescent smile and Kiwi-green eyes. He was also a professional body builder and master of arcane martial arts. A true dish.

Daniel had no money, was living out of his van parked at the beach. I declared him a scholarship student, but not just because of his good looks. At that time I was teaching a novel-in-progress class that had been going for more than a year. The makeup of the group was youngish-middle-aged women and a couple of men in their fifties. The group had grown stale and predictable; Daniel was just what it needed. As I expected, class attendance went from eighty to one hundred percent most weeks. The scenes my long-time students brought to class got sexier and tougher and much more entertaining. Without warning, two women with grandchildren became blondes.

Everyone liked Daniel. The women who didn’t want to seduce him wanted to be his mother. The men relived their youthful adventures through him. Daniel had a sweetness that was more intense because it was so unexpected in a young man who had obviously been there and done it all and then some. Egos can be a problem in a read and critique group where everyone wants to be a star; but when it turned out that Daniel was a really remarkable writer, we were all happy for him. The first chapters of his novel about a seventeen year old boy bumming his way down the Queensland Gold Coast were gorgeous.

They were also agonizingly slow and overwritten. The metaphors were crisp and fresh but reading them was like being trapped in a snarl of gardenias. Point of view jumped character with no warning; tenses were unpredictable, and the adjectives lined up like surfers waiting for a wave. Each character, no matter his or her importance to the story, was given pages of full and loving description. We all liked Daniel and wanted him to succeed. We also wanted him to buy a grammar book and EDIT, PLEASE.

But he wouldn’t. I thought at first that this was the stubbornness I’d occasionally met in unpublished writers who equate revision with prostitution. Daniel and I had a number of long talks about this and gradually I understood that he could not revise his work because editing a manuscript requires discipline. It requires a willingness to cut and paste, to change and add where necessary and to subtract, subtract, subtract. Just as he had not been able to stick with high school through graduation or to hang onto a job for more than a few months, Daniel could not edit more than a page of his immense manuscript before he gave up and went back to describing new characters, new dark alley drug skirmishes, the next and best wave.

Eventually Daniel stopped coming to class at The Writer’s Room, and I never heard anymore from him. One thing I know for certain. He never published his novel. Writers like Daniel -- though none as handsome and talented -- have shown me that talent is a commonplace given to almost all of us in one form or another. It can’t be learned, it is a gift from God, generously given. Without discipline it amounts to very little.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that if you have a talent for writing or drawing or singing it’s your God-required responsibility to become a professional. I tell my students that talent is meant to bring joy and do no harm. How we bring joy is entirely personal. One of the most gifted artists I know, a fabric designer, got sick of jumping through the hoops laid out by the companies she sold to. She keeps a magnificent garden now. A pianist I know is married to a cellist. They give concerts for their friends. Standing room only.

My gardener friend has learned the chemistry of compost. She understands design and color. She has chosen to use her talent in a way that demands hard physical exercise. A cousin of mine who is a weaver knows looms so well she builds her own. Just so, if you want to write a novel there are requirements and limitations, the disciplines imposed by language, pscychology and time. Daniel’s long and convoluted book wasn’t really a novel. It was a seven hundred pages of personal pleasure, a gift from God that kept him out of trouble. It needed discipline to turn it into a novel.

As every teacher knows, there are students, the memory of whom does not fade with time. I think of Daniel often. From what I know of boys and the world, I suspect he’s come to no good end. But here I have to stop myself because if I know that God is generous with gifts like a talent for writing, I also know that God is generous with second, third and fourth chances. So wherever Daniel is, I hope he’s healthy and has friends who support him. I hope he still keeps pen and paper close to hand.

The Writer’s Room above a consignment shop on Park Boulevard has wonderfully morphed into San Diego Writers Inc. The Ink Spot is a space for writers, writing and the literary arts located in the design center on Thirteenth Street. Every year, thousands of writers come through our doors. We hold readings, classes, workshops, forums, art shows and lots of parties to celebrate the written word. This month we’re holding our yearly fundraiser, BLAZING LAPTOPS MARATHON. If you’d like to help me find the self discipline to keep my butt in the chair writing for nine hours straight, follow this link. And wish me luck!

Drusilla Campbell

Good Friday Blindsided

I’m not quite sure where I am writing this from – somewhere over the pacific I guess. I was fully expecting to skip Good Friday this year – and with quite a valid reason. I am flying on a business trip to Australia. I took off from LAX on Thursday night and am due to land in Melbourne on Saturday morning. If I ever had a good excuse to not think about the crucifixion this would be the year. They say that Christ moves in mysterious ways, today I think he has a seat on QF94. On long flights I like to catch up on movies that I have missed. When Sandra Bullock won the Oscar for best actress I was horrified. Her acceptance speech seemed wrong, why should she win? She’s just a blond bombshell, Meryl Streep was much better in Julia and Julia. Now, I sit here watching the Blind Side and I realize that I was wrong. Bullock’s performance made me cry, the story made me think about my own values, it also made me ashamed that I had judged before seeing the film. The more I thought about how quick I was to form an opinion without all the facts the more I became away that this Good Friday I need to move out of my comfort zone and start doing something with my faith.

For me, I feel called to help to support Dorcas House in whatever way I can. Recently, Antonio and I have been on a couple of visits to Dorcas House. But now as I sit here I feel that Christ is calling for ME to do more. There is no resurrection without the crucifixion. I can’t conveniently get on a plane and skip the cross. Christ died for ME. And he calls ME to action. In the film, the Blind Side, Sandra Bullock’s character does something beyond living her life to the level expected of her by society. She moves her life out of her comfort zone.

Christ may have been crucified on a cross at Calvery but today His cross is calling ME to move out of my comfort zone for Dorcas House. I am not quite sure what that place outside of my comfort zone is. But I know that I MUST move into that zone.

Even when I try to wipe out Good Friday, even when I try and loose myself in a Holywood blockbuster. Christ chooses to take a seat next to me. I pray that the Christ will be with me, and give me the strength, conviction and faith to follow through on Christ’s call from the cross to me.

How foolish and small minded of me to think that a 747 would make for an easy Lenten season for me and who would of guessed that Christ was a frequent flyer. Maybe heaven’s advertising department is considering the phrase “we know why you fly”.

-Richard Lee

Through the looking glass

Tim Burton’s “Alice in Wonderland” scored as a box office hit of Tsunami proportions on its opening weekend. As Barnabas and I dropped our 3-D glasses into the recycle bin on our way out of the theater I was taken back to another time and place.

The year was 1964 and the place was a garden just outside one of the oldest buildings of Christ Church College in Oxford. At that time the house was the residence of the late Dr. F. L (Frank Leslie) Cross, Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity of the University of Oxford, known by thousands around the world as editor of the Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church. He was even better known by the hundreds of scholars who attended the famous Patristic Conferences he hosted back in the day.

I was there along with more than two hundred and fifty Anglican Monks and Nuns from around the world for the first Oxford Conference of Anglican Religious to hear papers, talk, pray and sort out what was going on in the Church in the wake of Vatican II.

Canon Cross had been prevailed upon to use his considerable organizing skills by Fr. Donald Allchin, the Librarian of Pusey House and other monastic leaders in the area to plan the week long conference of religious, bishops, scholars and ecumenical leaders.

All good English conferences begin with tea in the garden and the weather was fine that day. I had never seen so many religious habits of varying cuts, colors and styles. We had gathered in a private area, behind a wall in front of Dr. Cross’s home. It was one of the oldest buildings on the campus, dating back to the time before the Reformation when Christ Church was still the Abbey of St. Frideswide, an Augustinian monastery.

Dr. Cross was a kind and thoughtful host who enjoyed meeting his guests. At one point he said to me, “Keep your eye out and you might see him.” “Who?” I replied, thinking the Archbishop of Canterbury might be paying us a visit. “The White Rabbit,” he said, with a twinkle in his scholarly eyes. “This used to be where Lewis Carroll lived. He wrote Alice in Wonderland on this very spot, this was his garden for a time. His real name was Charles Dodgson and he was an Anglican Deacon and life long professor here at Christ Church. He lived in the priory house, where I do.”

Sadly, I didn’t see the white rabbit. There was a moment when I heard a voice somewhere in the crowd say, “Excuse me, please, I’m late, I’m late for a very important….” But it was only a brother looking at his watch hurrying to the chapel to get things ready for Evensong.

In 1964 the church and the Religious Life stood on the brink of change as did the world and for the first time ever most of the religious orders had representatives in the same place to walk the path together into that unknown future. Perhaps it was quite appropriate that we should have started with tea in the garden of Alice in Wonderland because we were all about to step through the looking glass into times that have become, as Alice said, “Curiouser and curiouser.”


The Rev Andrew Rank is a Canon of the Cathedral

Epiphany Cake

Epiphany babies are twice blessed. They don’t get quite the attention as kids born on Christmas, nor do they get as lost in the intensity of Christmas celebrations. Epiphany kids grow up knowing the wise men bring gifts to the baby Jesus and that is part of the Gospel around the feast of the Epiphany, so it is hard to miss an Epiphany birthday.

Canon Barnabas Hunt is an Epiphany baby and we always try to be at the noon Mass on Epiphany. This year was no exception. Others were there, too. The noon Eucharist at the cathedral is something special. It breaks the hectic pace of life at midday with the breaking of bread and blessing of wine in the quiet presence of our beautiful cathedral. It is as if each day the Gospel comes to life at noon and Jesus says 'Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.'" Mark 6:30-31 (NIV).

On Epiphany this year about twenty of us gathered for a special Eucharist marking Epiphany. Canon Alden Franklin celebrated. Our Sub-Dean Allisyn Thomas assisted. The ever present Canon Verger, Brooks Mason was chief acolyte and Canon Chris Harris was Thurifer, so the chapel was filled with sweet incense. It was a holy time. Noonday Masses don’t last long. From the time the bell rings in the narthex summoning the faithful until the dismissal is about a half hour.

Epiphany is about showing Christ to the gentiles. As we left the chapel and walked passed the transept, saying goodbye to the celebrant, we were greeted by one of our long time cathedral members, who was also at the communion service, and so began the second breaking of bread, near the pulpit. Today would have been her late husband’s birthday, too. She came to Mass to remember him and celebrate their many years together. A few of us remained to join her as she took out some fruit cake and shortbread, paper plates and plastic forks on a temporary table that was left from another event. We all knew her and him. We knew where they sat every Sunday and the faithful ministry they did as members of the parish family. He loved baking epiphany cake that contain three little crowns symbolic of the three Kings. She showed us one of the last pictures of her beloved as we shared stories together while the pale light of the afternoon January sun filtered through the stained glass windows.

Those who stayed had other places to go and other things to do, but it was a day of giving gifts and showing Christ to each other and in that precious moment that’s what we did.

Rev. Andrew Rank is a Canon of the Cathedral.

Keeping the Holidays

As a youngster I was always surprised each year when I read Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol, or heard the radio broadcast starring Lionel Barrymore (This was before television.) Later, I enjoyed the various television specials. I think my favorite is the one in which the late George Scott portrayed Ebenezer Scrooge. At the climax of the story, when Scrooge goes to the window of his bedroom and asks the young man in the street what day it is, the boy replies, “Christmas.” Delighted, the reformed Scrooge is grateful he did not miss it and promptly dispatches the young man to the poultry shop to buy the prize turkey in the window for the Cratchett family. As a child, I could never understand why a store would be open on Christmas Day. In the Midwest of the 1940s, where I grew up, that was unheard of.

Years later I learned the celebration of Christmas as we know it today is relatively new, certainly no earlier than the 19th Century.

For example, when George Washington crossed the Delaware River the night of December 25, 1776, he could count on the Hessian soldiers being drunk and sound asleep after a day of carousing; but for Washington’s troops, Christmas was just another day.

It wasn’t until 1836 that the first state – Alabama - declared Christmas a holiday. Many of the Pilgrims who landed in Massachusetts more than three hundred years ago thought the idea of celebrating Christmas downright sinful, and anyone who took the day off could be fined. In Charles Dickens’ time, though there were religious celebrations around the festival of Jesus’ birth, many people kept their shops and stores open. For many shopkeepers it was business as usual.

Much of the secular trappings of Christmas were a conscious and deliberate invention of mid-nineteenth century literary and newspaper folk such as Washington Irving, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Clement Moore, and cartoonist Thomas Nast.

Even Christmas trees of the 19th Century were topped with American flags or sugar plum fairies, never a star. Washington Irving’s Knickerbockers History of New York, published in 1809, turned St. Nicholas from a Dutch bishop into Jolly St. Nick, a fictional character who brought gifts to good children in Manhattan.

An Episcopal Deacon in 1822 borrowed a leaf from Irving’s book when he wrote that memorable poem, An Account of a Visit of St. Nicholas. Thanks to the Rev. Clement Moore of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church near General Seminary in New York City, and cartoon illustrations by Thomas Nast, we have our present-day picture of Santa Claus.

Probably the newest “Christmas tradition” is the shopping spree which leaves most checking accounts, credit cards and debit cards as flat as leftover champagne on New Year’s Day. In the 1880s, Christmas “sales” didn’t begin until December 23rd. As recently as the 1920s, advertisements for Christmas buying did not appear until at least December 15.

For the Church, the gathering to celebrate the birth of Christ is among the most lovely and mystically sweet experiences of the Christian year. It has none of the pain and passion of Holy Week and Good Friday which precede Easter. Keeping Advent, Christmas and Epiphany is still an exciting and wondrous experience. Never mind the fact the shopping malls and other stores put out decorations and gifts for sale before Halloween, and Frank Capra’s film, It’s a Wonderful Life, first started its seasonal play at Thanksgiving.

Rev. Andrew Rank is a Canon of the Cathedral.

An Addict's Christmas

Each year when Christmas rolls around I think of a story of about an addict and his recovery. It happened a number of years ago. Life had become about as bad as it could be for this poor fellow. He had reached the point where he had no friends, no meaning in life and was almost a recluse. I think the only relationship he had was with his drug of choice.

He had become so isolated and withdrawn most people assumed he had no feelings and cared for nothing. He was a loner who never participated in any social activities and always kept to himself when he left his job. His life was really dreary, although he did manage to show up for work every day.

It had been assumed that most addicted people have to hit their own bottom before any change is likely. But in recent years we’ve learned about "interventions." An intervention is when a skilled person and friends of the addict meet with him and "raise the bottom," through their conversation and confrontation. That is what happened to the addict in this story.

Among other things during his intervention, he was able to review his past and remember long forgotten incidents he experienced within his family. As his story unfolded he shared that his mother died when he was a baby. Our addict's father knew little about effective parenting and was cold and distant. As soon as the boy was old enough, his father put him in a boarding school. In that climate his disease really took hold. There he developed what today are called "faulty core beliefs" about himself which is often the heart of the addictive process in its early stage.

There are at least three: The first is "I am basically a bad, unworthy person." The second grows out of the first: "No one would love me as I am." The third is "My needs are never going to be met." Chained to these convictions there seemed no reason for him to hope for anything. However, he was a survivor.

As childhood gave way to adolescence he carried two messages that would dominate his life: don't feel, and work hard. Like all addicts and alcoholics in order to survive the emotional pain of his childhood, my addict friend developed a way of coping with life called "impaired thinking." It is a distorted view of reality which closes off avenues of self-knowledge and contact with reality.

For the addict everyday examples of impaired thinking are: denial in the face of reality. (I don't have a drinking or drug problem. It's all in your head.) As reality is more and more denied, in the addictive process rationalizing, justifying, minimizing and blaming become essential to surviving

. (One more won't hurt. I work hard and deserve this. It's only a couple of times a day. She drove me to it.)

We begin to believe our own lies. Lying often becomes second nature even when it is easier to tell the truth.

Addiction of any kind is a progressive disease. What started with faulty core beliefs in his life, led to impaired thinking which created a lot of emotional pain from which he sought relief by acting out the addictive cycle. This, in turn, likely produced guilt and shame which reinforced the faulty core beliefs and the process would start all over again.

Another important part of his intervention was how he came to understand that he was now spiritually bankrupt. He had no relationship with God and due to his disease he had no relationship with anyone else either. Oh, he had colleagues and co workers. He carried on with them the best he could, but his isolation was such there were no real, meaningful human experiences. He was so obsessed with himself and his drug of choice that no one or nothing else really mattered. He shunned friendships and turned his back on helping others if he didn't get something out of it for himself

As a result of his interventions, my friend became aware of his powerlessness over his drug of choice and began to think how he could trust God, clean house and help others. For the first time in his adult life he was able to feel his loneliness, lack of meaning and inner emptiness. This was especially true when he took a look at his current situation and how he had ignored those who could have been dearest to him

He was shown addiction is a progressive disease and if not arrested in time would kill him. So for him the most important part of his program was how he saw the future. He realized it depends on what we do today. He understood his disease was progressive, and would end in death.

Turning that corner meant life would be different now. As his recovery progressed he began to undergo a profound alteration in his reaction to life. In the program we call it a spiritual awakening. He began reversing the process of acting out the addictive cycle and a lifetime of impaired thinking. He replaced negative spirituality with a positive one.

He began taking an interest in the needs of those around him, and his relatives in particular. It wasn't always easy, but the results he experienced were worth his willingness to go to any lengths to get well. He began participating in community service programs and reassessing the state of his business. After his recovery, Christmas had a special meaning to him, and it was said of this person he could keep Christmas better than anyone. He became known for his generosity and service to others. Our friend developed meaningful relationships with his colleagues and co workers. He became especially fond of his bookkeeper Bob Cratchett and his little boy Tim. He even saw to it that the boy got a special operation he needed which restored him to normal, healthy living. Mr. Scrooge was able to restore family relations with his nephew, Fred.

That's right. The addict I've been talking about is Ebenezer Scrooge. His is the story of an addict whose life was saved by an intervention. Remember the visit of his deceased partner Jacob Marley? Then there was his treatment. He was visited by three spirits who showed him his past, present and future. Who can forget Scrooge's spiritual awakening on Christmas morning and his excitement of getting his life back again, whole and sound. No, Ebenezer's drug of choice was not alcohol but money, so his disease was miserliness not alcoholism. The next time you read the story or see one of its many film versions look for the signs of faulty core beliefs, impaired thinking and addictive acting out. The addictive process can be experienced in many different ways.

Charles Dickens' classic can be about you and me. All we need to do is change the metaphor. Read it and you will find all the things I described. As the year ends, in thanksgiving for sobriety and recovery for myself and the millions of other recovering people, may I borrow the word's of Tiny Tim and say, "God Bless us Every One."

Rev. Canon Andrew Rank was Sunday Pastor at the Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage, California from 1984 to 1992.

You Can’t Call It Dialing Anymore

In the non-so-thriving town of Augusta, Ohio where I spent a great deal of my youth, we had a telephone of the kind that will be familiar to those of you who remember episodes of “Lassie” on TV. It was a box that hung on the wall in our hall, had a mouthpiece sticking out of it, a receiver that hung on a hook on its left side that served to gain the line for calls, and a crank on the right side with which to summon whomever you wanted to talk to. Our phone number was 13 F 3. That meant we were on line 13 and that when the phone rang three long rings, the call was for us. Our neighbor’s number was 13 F 2. If we wanted to speak to her, we picked up the receiver, and cranked two long rings. She would dutifully answer the phone if she were at home. This was in the 1950s, by the way, and not, as you might imagine by now, the 1890s.

The phone company was located in Pattersonville, some six or so miles away, and owned by the redoubtable Nellie Wilson whose help was necessary if you wanted to make a long distance call. Nellie could be brought into service if you cranked up one long ring. Occasionally, the lines were down between the central office and our town, sometimes owing to bad weather (snow and ice broke them) or because they lay behind the targets of a popular shooting range and were shot in two from time to time. In either case, Nellie’s husband Fred would get them fixed and service would be restored. Even if the lines to Nellie’s switchboard were down, you could still crank up the neighbor’s phone. She lived across the street from us.

Here we are, a mere fifty years from those days of simple telephoning, and the variety of phone service bewilders even the most astute and up-to-date among us. I-Pod technology presents its users with hundreds of downloadable options, including thousands of CDs, films, games, text messaging, GPS capability, and oh yes, somewhere among this array, a telephone with which you can actually talk to somebody else if you want—and if they want you to. These many possibilities have created a new set of telephone habits and mores, some of them more annoying than others.

There has arisen among us the owners of cell phones who have developed a number of tricks to deal with incoming calls. The first of these is forgetting to turn the phone on, or purposefully not turning it on. That makes incoming calls go to ‘voice mail’ which may or may not satisfy you as the caller—probably not, since you likely had some good reason to phone the person in the first place. The last thing you want when you had in mind actually speaking voice to voice with the person, is to be sent to the dark dungeon of ‘voice mail’ where messages languish in dark and dank cells, awaiting the good pleasure of the lord of the manor who may or may not ‘get back to you’.

My friend Craig has a tenant who refuses to answer his phone, even for the most pressing of reasons, concerning, for instance, the delivery of a dishwasher that the tenant has longed to have installed. Instead of simply pushing the green button on his cell phone and saying “Hello”, he ignores Craig’s calls and then sends back a text message. Why he prefers this is anyone’s guess, but it’s damned inconvenient for Craig at times.

I rather prefer the system that another friend has always used. He has no answering device of any kind (never owned a TV either—never needed one) and never has had. His reasoning is that if the phone rings at his house over and over, that tells the caller that he is not at home. If he is at home, he religiously answers his phone. That seems to me to be a sensible way to deal with things; at least, you know where you stand.

But this hiding out via one’s cell phone is just downright rude. The same person who does this will invariably load you up with his business cards when he sees you in person, imploring you to phone soon for whatever reason. Then when you are nice enough to take him up on his invitation to call, you get his voice mail, or he sends a text message, or nothing at all.

There will be those among you who will argue with me about this, no doubt stating cogent reasons that have to do with the right of everyone to receive calls or not. I have no very good argument in rebuttal, and at the risk of treading on the guarantees to privacy that the Constitution seems to provide, I offer only this, perhaps very lame, reply. I won’t phone you unless a) you’ve asked me to, b) you’ve phoned me first, and c) it’s important that we talk. That said, I’d appreciate it if you’d pick up the phone when I call so that I can hear your lovely voice and therefore verify that you yet live among us, and that you are not a slave to the electronic marvels that might be taking over for you.

Nellie Wilson is long gone and with her, the phone system and the ugly wooden box with the crank that we couldn’t wait to replace with a phone that had a dial on its front. When we finally did get such a phone and were able with one number, the zero, to summon long distance unaided, we thought, “Tomorrow, the world!” We had no idea what was in store.

--Robert Heylmun

East Meets West

BP and I were on the road again in October, and thanks to the wonders of Google, were able to find a parish for the Sunday. The church we found is called (I kid you not) St Alban's-by-St-Andrew's, as it resides right next door to the small Cathedral of St Andrew. It's a smallish building, very strikingly built with a traditional wooden interior and cross beams. Also quite a diverse community; the ushers were a middle-aged Japanese lady and a young African man. A good turn out on a rainy Sunday.

The congregation sang robustly and were very friendly at coffee, willing to tell the visitors sites to see and places to go. The members are truly far flung in origin, with a variety of accents delighting the ear, including Australian, British, American, and Japanese-inflected English. You see, St Alban's is the English speaking Anglican congregation in Tokyo, a member of the Nippon Sei Ko Kai (Anglican Episcopal Church in Japan), where your fearless correspondent was spending a week at a conference, and the members are a range of expats and locals. Lots of kids running about too.

As you would expect, the liturgy was pretty familiar, although some of the words differ. You'd have to ask an expert to detail the differences. A nice touch was at the end, when Fr Randall asked the visitors to introduce themselves and their home parish. I nudged BP who stood up and claimed St Paul's Cathedral, San Diego. There were visitors from Florida and England as well. We took along some friends from the conference who also appeared to enjoy this cross-cultural slice, before we spent the afternoon wandering rainy Tokyo and exploring her shrines and side streets.

Blogger "IT" and her wife "BP" are new members at St Paul's. Cross posted from Friends of Jake, with permission, by St Paul Blog Moderator

Invitation to Take a Leap of Faith

This past week (Wednesday November 11th), I celebrated the 2nd anniversary of my Baptism here at St. Paul’s. At the time, it was an inconceivable event in my life that marked me as Christ’s own forever, and set into motion a series of events and experiences that I could never have imagined –

First and foremost, that I would ever be in this pulpit sharing why I love St. Paul’s and how that impacts my choice to be generous!

You see, before coming here, I had been searching for the meaning and purpose of life for awhile. Then one day in 2007 a friend of mine who had been looking for a church -- asked if I would be willing to attend St. Paul’s with him. He had recently been released from prison and was looking for some grounding and getting his life back together. At the time I had no interest in church. I had long since come to the conclusion that there was no traditional Christian community that would accept me as I am…A gay man with a past challenged by addiction looking for a chance for “a do over”, an opportunity to make better choices. Besides, I was interested in finding meaning and purpose in life! Why would I— be interested in going to church!?! But I wanted to support my friend, so I said “sure”. We attended on what I later found out was Pentecost Sunday, and from the moment I walked through those doors, as unfamiliar as it was unlikely, I could feel--something was happening.

Having been raised agnostically, I had little concept of faith or God, so I didn’t understand much of what was going on that day. I loved the music, the building was beautiful, and although the meaning was beyond my grasp, I sensed something special was going on inside me.

When I heard the Dean’s welcome and his assurance that there is no such thing as a visitor at St. Paul’s – That everyone is part of the family and welcome to participate fully – I saw my opportunity to take a leap of faith. And what a tremendous leap it was for me to step forward and receive the Eucharist that day. When I received communion, I paused, -- felt a sensation wash through me and returned to the pew in tears. I experienced a peaceful joy filled with sorrow, and a touch that could only have come from God.

I didn’t know then that Jesus promised each one of us, that when coming to the table and partaking with community, he would meet us there. It seemed as though in an instant, I understood the meaning of resurrection as my heart (and eyes) opened to the risen Christ. I re-live this precious moment each time I come to the altar rail.

As many of you know, following that first Sunday it didn’t take long for me to dive right in. I found myself volunteering wherever I could, getting involved in any ministry that would have me, and--signing up for every educational series that came along. All in an effort to learn everything that I could about this faith that had so grabbed me and to become a part of this community that had so welcomed me.

When the stewardship campaign came along that year, I found that it would be time to take another leap of faith: I was living modestly at the time (still do!), each month my income seemed to be just enough to get by, unexpected expenses would cause a minor panic. After all financial insecurity had been a way of life for me for as long as I could remember.

So when the subject of pledging came up, I didn’t think they were talking about me. Besides, what could my measly little pledge do? It would be embarrassing!

But when I attended a stewardship reception and I heard Scott talk about giving, not as fundraising, but as a spiritual practice, a spiritual practice no different than worship, prayer and service. That it wasn’t about the amount, so much as it was about it being sacrificial, that it be intentional, and prayerful. That it be meaningful.

Wow! Once again, the Dean’s open invitation had removed my fears and doubts – and I was ready to take another leap of faith.

But how would I pay my pledge?

Well-- the stewardship theme this year pretty much sums it up, somehow, with Gods help, I would. And sure enough, it didn’t take long to realize that just as receiving the Eucharist had begun a change in my life, so has the practice of generosity. Through the practice of giving, I have come to understand what it means when we say… All that we have is a gift from God. Through God’s grace, I have come to appreciate all the gifts I’ve been given and through that process; it’s begun a change in my relationship to money. Yes I still live modestly by today’s standards,--but now I live with a newfound sense of abundance: That I am not alone, -- that I am loved, -- and that God has already given me all that I need to love and serve others.

So, I love St. Paul’s for inviting me in, and opening my eyes to a reality: That each time I step out in generosity, whether of my time or of my money, I can feel God pulling me closer and revealing once again, possibilities-- that I never would have imagined.

-Robert Black

Video here