PeaceBang

A Mouse On A Cat On A Dog

[I wrote this for a church newsletter column in 2000. It’s still one of my favorites. Enjoy - VW]

A Mouse On A Cat On A Dog

After a lunch appointment one day last year in downtown Washington, DC, I walked around a corner and smack into this little street tableau:
A slightly grimy but very kindly man with a handsome black dog.
On top of the black dog sat a brown striped tabby cat, imperious in expression and languorous in repose.
On top of the brown striped tabby cat sat a white mouse, as dignified as a white mouse can manage to be.

All of the critters seemed a tiny bit uncomfortable but mostly gentle and self-respecting. If they minded being the center of attention they certainly didn’t show it, except for a brief moment when the cat leaped off the dog’s back to the pavement, groomed one paw, and then jumped back up to her furry perch (the mouse had to be helped back up).
“What’s going on here?” asked passersby, including a TV cameraman.

“I’m just trying to show that everyone can get along,” said the man. The dog, the cat and the mouse seemed to nod in agreement.
People stopped to stare, suspicious, waiting for the punch line, the gimmick, the appeal for money. Their silence challenged the man, who shifted his feet and bit and said well yes, he would also like to encourage people to adopt animals from their local shelter.

A cranky young businessman appeared on the scene next to me. “What is THIS?” he scowled. “I think it’s something about world peace,” I replied. “What’s the catch?” he asked. “I don’t think there is one,” I answered, surprised by a lump in my throat. He rolled his eyes at me and hurried off.

But I stayed for a long while, just plain happy to be in the company of the three gentle animals and the gentle man. It worked. It worked as a metaphor, it worked as street theatre, it worked as worship, it worked as non-violent protest. A mouse on a cat on a dog. Simple; not at all easy. Just like world peace.

Hark How the Bells

I attended a lovely concert of Christmas music this morning at church, but the thing is, I wasn’t at all in the spirit. The woman’s ensemble was really excellent — they always are — and I just sat there feeling guilty for having arrived late and for not being angelically appreciative of being there, just rarin’ to get into the office and GET SOME WORK DONE. As many pastors recognize, this is a seasonal event that goes with the call at this particular congregation and the one time I missed it I felt lousy about it, just wrong. We have this concert and then the Alliance has their holiday luncheon with those sandwiches on crustless white bread that you can eat 100 of if they let you. I think I ate between 8-10. I would have gone back for more of the roast beef ones, seriously. So it’s the whole morning and by the time you get into the office you’re in a carb-induced bloat and need a nap even though you have a scary long list of things that need doing.

Anyway, when the choir ladies brought out the handbells during the concert this morning I definitely perked up because I love handbells. To be more specific, I love handbells when they’re played imperfectly, because the times I have tried to play in a handbell ensemble I became a nervous wreck and clanged away at all the wrong times and for some reason that strikes me as hilariously funny. So this is what I hope for when the handbells come out: that someone will mess up and then the next person will mess up and there will be this gentle, melodious train wreck of sound coming from these earnestly lovely people with white gloves on who are just trying, dammit, to make the music of the angels.

To my great and tender delight, not only did the last song slowly degenerate into such a confused cacophony of off-rhythm BONGing that the director had to stop the gals and give it a second go, I caught one of the ladies in the first row mouthing an alarmed OH Jesus as she made the first of the mistakes. Lady, whoever you are, you totally made my day and possibly my entire Christmas season. I’m thinking of her now with her pretty white hair and pristine gloves, and her festive red vest going oh Jesus and she is my Special Advent Favorite.

In other silly things that make me unaccountably happy at this time of year, there’s this.

Ready to Love Again

Doesn’t that sound like some kind of corny Lifetime movie channel thing?

Which reminds me of one of my favorite true stories. Some years ago I was on a fun weekend outing in Williamsburg, VA with Scott Wells (TheBoyInTheBands) and we were in our hotel room unpacking. We turned on the television set and ignored it while we chatted and put our things away. At some point I asked, “What channel is this, anyway?” And Scott replied, “Oh, it’s probably Lifetime Channel or something.” “Naw,” I said. “If it was Lifetime it would be a movie about Mare Winningham as an abused wife fleeing her sociopathic husband.” Scott grabbed the remote control and turned on the volume just in time to hear the actor on screen say in a sinister fashion to another actor, “Are you insinuating the I BEAT MY WIFE?” Moments later, Mare Winningham came on screen. We laughed so hard I threw my back out.

ANYWAY, Ready To Love Again isn’t a Lifetime channel movie. It’s SisterBang’s excitement over this little gal born on November 10th:

Some people say when their dog dies that they can never have another dog because it hurts too much to lose the first one. I can understand that, and I respect it. But SisterBang and I both feel that doggies need loving people to care for them and that if you’ve made room in your life for a dog, it’s a wonderful thing to just keep welcoming them for as long as you can, if you can. Gordon was such an extension of SisterBang’s life — the rhythms of her days and weekends were synced to his needs. They were a team. Watching him decline from a robust, shiny-coated canine stud to a deaf and blind, winter-faced, creaky old gentleman was very hard on both of them. He was such a good boy, pushing himself to stay active and to engage with her until he was just too sick to do so. It hurt her terribly to watch him suffer. She will miss him always.

But all kinds of dogs need homes, and SisterBang has been talking to breeders of miniature dachsunds for some time now in preparation for the time she would no longer have Gordon (who was a shelter dog). She may be going to get this pup in February and I’m so happy for both of them. Look at those ear buds! And just imagine the puppy smell.

Wouldn’t it be great if the love between humans was so pure and uncomplicated that, after the loss of one relationship we would feel bruised but immediately ready to love someone again? Cripes, I didn’t dare date for about 6-7 years after the end of my last terrible, tumultuous relationship with a man who turned out to be a pathological liar and a cheating skunk. I figured if my judgment had been that poor (couldn’t have been worse unless it had been a Lifetime Channel character), I shouldn’t trust myself to fall in love with anyone. I haven’t since, and that little debacle was over in 1997. But there’s no need to do that with dogs. Dogs don’t have baggage — if you love them enough and can devote enough time to them, you’re pretty much guaranteed a true romance.

On The Thanksgiving Playlist

I just burned the CD for dinner. On it:

Squirrel Nut Zippers “The Suits Are Picking Up the Bill”
Harry Connick, Jr. “Pure Imagination/Candy Man”
Ray Charles “How Long Has This Been Going On”
Lisa Stansfield “Down in the Depths on the 90th Floor”
Bette Midler “Birds” and “Come On-A My House”
kd lang “Summer Fling”
Nina Simone “I Put A Spell On You” and “Love Me Or Leave Me”
Cab Calloway “The Jumpin’ Jive”
Eva Cassidy “Hallelujah, I Love Him So”
kd land and Tony Bennett “Wonderful World”
U2 “In A Little While”
Klea Blackhurst “You’re An Old Smoothie”
Elis Regina “Canto De Ossanha”
Rufus Wainwright “I Don’t Know What It Is”
Pink Martini “Let’s Never Stop Falling In Love”
MIKA “Love Today”
Lena Horne “I’m Glad There Is You”
John Legend “PDA”
Fascinao “Tapas”

I love this part of Thanksgiving planning. And it is perhaps a good time to tell you that I have a Mog (a music blog) at http://mog.com/peacebang.

What’s rocking your ears lately?

PeaceBang’s First Apple Pie

My friend Rali makes great pie and I always mess mine up (mostly the crusts), so I asked her to do a Pie Tutorial for me last night.

This is our beautiful pie.

Nothing but apple, cinnamon, sugar, flour and water and butter. Totally heavenly. I know the crust is a little crazy with the weaving but it was late and I kind of lost my motor skills.

Cleveland Indians, PeaceBang Salutes You

Dear Cleveland,

I know the score from last night’s game was 11-2 but I saw that game, and it was no shut-out. You are a terrific team and you fought hard. I was scared of you the whole night.
Sorry we won’t see you at the World Series but maybe next time.

I do have one bit of advice for you, though: grill up that third-base coach of yours, Joel Skinner, and eat ‘im with ketchup on a bun.

Dear Red Sox,
I officially worship your talent and verve. Over the past two nights you guys went from being a very Beckett-Manny-Papi dependent post-season operation to being a superstar TEAM. You all had your shining moments of genius. J.D. Drew, you have been vindicated. Dustin Pedroia, I was there when a NESN announcer called you “little piss ant Dustin Pedroia.” You were no little piss ant last night. You were glorious. Dice-K, you’ve been shaky this year but I believe in you. Always have. And Jonny Papelbon, please stop dancing around champagne-soaked in your latex shorts after these huge victories. You’re taking years off my life. Jacoby Ellsbury, you too, son. You boys are so gorgeous and talented you distress my soul’s peace.
Tito, I kiss you on your baldie head.

See you at the World Series!

Take This Bread: A PeaceBang Review

Sara Miles is a fan of this blog and wrote me a note this past spring saying that she wanted to send me a copy of her book Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion. Would I like to receive it? Are you kidding? You BET I would!

I received the book this summer and am still reading it. It’s not that I’m too busy to finish it; it’s just that I don’t want it to end. Sara Miles is such a sister of my heart that I like to read a little bit of her story then put it away for awhile so I can hear her voice again when I need it. After all, it’s not like anything really happens in this book. It’s not a sexy adventure story. It’s just the story of one person’s attempt to deal with God’s inconvenient call, to struggle to accommodate an old and a new world view, to not be too obnoxious about her new passion for Jesus, and to love her partner and child while riding the bucking bronco of that elusive thing called “Christian life.”

Miles writes beautifully - she has an impressive background as a journalist with specialties in Latin American revolutions and politics (some of us remember with fondness her reporting for Out magazine before it became a campy glam-boy mag) — and her story really begins when she ventures into St. Gregory of Nyssa’s Episcopal Church in San Francisco and takes Communion for the first time. An unchurched atheist, Miles writes that “something outrageous and terrifying happened. Jesus happened to me.”

Her description of what happens next will cause anyone who has had a similarly shocking experience with Jesus to hoot with recognition and to cheer aloud her disorientation and her subsequent frantic attempts to intellectualize the whole thing. Oh, girl, I feel you! For all my friends and relatives who wonder how I could have become a Christian, I want to xerox pages 58-61 and say, “Here. I totally can’t explain it. It doesn’t make any sense, but here’s a beautiful description of how it doesn’t make any sense.”

Miles is then drawn into giving herself over to the literal fulfillment of Jesus’ exhortation to feed the hungry. She joins St. Gregory’s* and starts a food pantry. One of the things I love and appreciate best about this memoir is that it isn’t the story of how someone found Jesus and then did something nice and social justice-y about it for awhile before becoming a celebrity speaker on the topic. It’s the story of how someone found Jesus, rolled up her sleeves and went to work feeding the hungry, and is still working with that food pantry today. Rock on, Sara Miles! Thank you for writing so honestly about church life. And kudos to your community and its priests for supporting you in this.

St. Gregory’s food pantry feeds hundreds of families every week. It costs $50 to feed one family for a year.
If everyone reading this post over the next day or two contributes $5 to the PeaceBang blog, we could feed 30 families for a year. If you’d like to contribute to St. Gregory’s through PeaceBang, go to the “Support PeaceBang Blog” and follow the links to PayPal. Let’s see what we can do together. I will match all contributions made today and tomorrow. [Update on Sept. 29: we’re up to $400, gang! Woo hoo! Keep it up!! - PB]

I think it needs to be said that this book is the antidote to the rampant narcissism of another spiritual memoir written by a talented and charismatic writer, Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Love, Pray (which I have ungenerously re-titled Gripe, Brag, Screw). Sara’s book is the good strong soap I needed to cleanse me after being dipped in Ms. Gilbert’s sticky vat of self-absorption, white privilege and obvious addiction to personal crisis and drama. Take This Bread is also full of personal crisis and drama, but since Miles’ focus is on service and not on self, it is far more meaningful to me. It says a lot about our culture that Gilbert’s memoir has been greeted with breathless adoration by thousands and thousands of Americans and has reached best-seller status, while Miles’ book has had a more modest reception. One book is about spirituality at its most individualistic and self-serving, the other is about the demands of religious life following a radical conversion experience. One is Hollywood, the other, Jerusalem.

Take this book and read.

*Sara, I visited St. Gregory’s in August of 2000 and then again two or three years later. I wonder if I may have met you during one of those times? Your face looked so familiar to me on your book jacket…
The second time I attended was the Feast of Mary Magdalene and Donald preached on a trip to China. I was invited to carry one of the –what do you call them? — liturgical umbrellas?

Red Sox Clinch AL East Division Title!

Okay, Red Sox Nation, was that not some of the most amazing drama you’ve ever lived through!!??

I’ve been watching it all, crying like a damn fool!

Love ya, Baltimore!! Thank you, we love you!

(everyone else, sorry for the interruption)

Shake Your Groove Thang

One of the hardest things about giving up musical theatre as a regular extracurricular activity is that my life is much more sedentary. I do exercise at the club but I’m really not an outdoorsy-type at all and have never found a physical activity that enchants me the way the theatre did and does. When you do a show, the pounds just fall off. You’re singing, dancing, moving on stage, using your whole instrument and all your muscles.

When I’m at the health club I feel like a hamster on a wheel; there’s nothing creative or engaging at all about it and it’s easy to get into “fitness mind” — calculating calories burned and heart rate and blood pressure. Blech. I’m not a machine, I’m a human. I know it’s important to keep the bod moving, but if there’s no passion and joy in it it’s darn hard to keep at any physical discipline.

Therefore, because my ministry schedule makes it very difficult to commit to a community theatre production, I’ve been looking for years for an opportunity to dance somewhere. You’d be amazed how hard it’s been to find a place. Club dancing is often couples-oriented and expensive and involves staying out late. Dance studios that offer classes where I live are inevitably geared toward children, and ballroom dance groups are generally populated by much older married couples. The lighting is harsh, the settings (church parish halls and the like) uninspiring and the music really awful. I used to love Yogarhythmics when I lived in Maryland but the class got so popular there was no room to move in the small studio. It’s not really free, expressive dance when you’re constantly worried about smashing into the gal next to you.

Last weekend I took a risk and went to see a fantastic band at a club that I knew drew an older crowd, was not at all meat-markety and where I was supposed to join a Meetup group. While I never did find the Meetup folks, I was adopted by a group of middle-aged friends who invited me sit with them and were wonderfully friendly and hospitable. I hadn’t been out dancing in YEARS and it was revelatory. The music was wonderful, we boogied our hearts out, and I determined to find an opportunity to shake my groove thang more frequently (far enough away from my parish to keep my boogeyings a private matter, as I do not think it’s appropriate for ministers to dance with uninhibited exhiliration where their people can see them. I know we’re not Baptists but even religious liberals need to maintain those boundaries).

I am therefore thrilled to have just found this dance studio, a place that looks hip, fun, affordable, accessible and friendly. I’ve signed up for a free mambo/rumba night next week and will see how it goes.

Dance is a universal, ancient way to create community and to praise God with one’s whole self. For this minister who lives far too much in her head and in words on a page, singing and dancing provide essential counterpoints to the staid Western tradition that would have us worshiping as waxen figures. Psalm 149, people!!

Let them praise God’s name wtih dancing,
making melody to him with tambourine and lyre.

(Just don’t read the rest of the psalm, where it talks about two-edged swords and “executing vengeance on the nations and punishment on the peoples.”

Friday Whale Blogging

There’s no reason you shouldn’t make your day by looking at these photos of the new baby beluga at the Chicago Aquarium!

Is that not the cutest little mobus head in the whole world?

Hi, baby! Hi, baby! Hi, baby! (petting screen)