from the Balcony to the Catacombs

I descended from the balcony to the catacombs of the Church this week.  There are no catacombs, actually, but the basement rooms below the sanctuary have a “catacombic” ambiance.  In these rooms, which I understand housed wounded soldiers during the Civil War, are now vast arrays of donated clothing.   Twice a week the clothing closet is open to hundreds who come in need of good clothing.  Volunteers from a number of churches come to assist in an orderly and fair system of distribution of clothing to those in need.

I helped at the registration desk where there is a record of each person who utilizes the clothing closet.  Unfortunately, there are those few who will take advantage of the free clothes for resale or to stock a flea market booth.  The vast majority, however, are people who really need assistance.  They are courteous.  They are kind and respectful to the workers. And they truly seem grateful to those who attend their needs.

I met a family from the Dominican Republic who seemed to enjoy my rusty Spanish.  They were gracious and delighted that I would speak to them in their native tongue.  When they left, they said “que Dios le bendiga,” (may God bless you).  I surely felt that God had blessed me.

I was reminded that the poor are not too different from me. They have families.  They feel stress.  They laugh and cry.  They feel good some days and bad some days.   And I saw myself in the face of Jabal, who waited for his wife and mother-in-law to finish shopping.  He confessed, after about an hour, that he was getting tired of waiting for the women to finish their shopping.  “Why is it,” Jabal asked, “that women take so much longer to shop than men?”   I chuckled knowing that I had probably asked my wife the same question.  “We men know what we want, go in, buy it, and we’re done,” Jabal said.  I nodded sympathetically.

I admit that I enjoyed my descent from the balcony to the clothing closet, and think I’ll do it more often.  I suspect my perspective from the balcony will forever be affected by my excursions to the catacombs.

How Much Time Do I Have Left?

Sooner or later the big question comes up: “How much time do I have left?”   I heard that question today at the hospice where I serve as part-time chaplain.  I don’t like the question.  Perhaps it is because I don’t like the answers we usually give. On Tuesday afternoons I leave my "balcony ministry" and  have the distinct privilege of sitting around a table with nurses, doctors, a social worker, and a volunteer coordinator as we discuss patients and issues as an “interdisciplinary team.”

Today I shared a reflection by one hospice patient who quoted her doctor as answering “the” question in the following way:  “you have every moment of every bit of time that’s left.”

I thought it was a clever answer, but the interdisciplinary team did not agree.   “It’s not clever at all…it’s vague.  Patients need more than that.”   Another said, “I tell them the truth—complete honesty.”   Another offered, “we can’t take away their hope, so I tell them nobody knows.”

As I think about it, I am not sure there is ever a satisfactory answer if you are the dying person asking the question. 

We all agreed on one thing.   We cannot put an exact expiration sticker on any soul.  We can be honest, also, without stealing whatever hope, however little or great, may remain.

The question and the answer are both uncomfortable for me. Maybe because I might not have as much time left as one of the patients I visit in the hospice.  I just don't know.  And we both have one thing in common.  We both have every moment of every bit of time that’s left.

Balcony Drama

We almost had some drama in the balcony at Church yesterday.  There was a rather dramatic reading downstairs from the pulpit as we had the woman at the well narrative from the Gospel of John read by three different folks.  I had never realized how much this fourth chapter of John sounded like a script from a movie. It impressed even us balcony dwellers.

Upstairs in the balcony, the youth choir led in a choral call of confession.  Hal Hopson’s arrangement of “Lord, Have Mercy” was beautifully done by this choir who took their part in this third Sunday in Lent very seriously.  But in order for the youth to see their director, she had to stand on the cushioned front pew of the balcony.  I admit to a slight startle as she kicked off her shoes and climbed up to the precarious pedestal.  I would have been leery of doing such a thing, myself, given the fact that I have occasional bouts with vertigo.  I tend to be overly cautious about some things, like falling from great heights.   A friend told me how she and her kids used to sit in that balcony.  They dropped everything from bulletins to hymn books, inadvertently I hope, to the unsuspecting worshippers below.

I confess that I did have visions of what it might be like if the choir director became a little too animated and teetered over the rail into the crowd below.  I tried to shake off this dramatically obsessive thought, and was glad when she stepped down to safety and we could proceed with our prayer of confession and assurance of forgiveness.

Isn’t it interesting what thoughts, fears, dreams, and aspirations occur during a worship service?  It is amazing that the sermon ever seeps through, given the imagined dramas in our head when we must sit still, listen, and meditate. 

Somehow, the story of the woman at the well and God’s wonderful grace got through my fears and uneasiness, not to mention my wondering how Carolina would do against Kentucky in that afternoon’s basketball game.

I am glad the drama in the balcony was only in my “horrible imaginings,” and that the real drama was in the Gospel lesson of a rejected woman who found unconditional love and grace.

Listening for Spring

I am no balcony person when it comes to springtime.  I like to get out there and enjoy each greening blade of grass, marvel at the daffodils, and behold nature’s pallet of pastels all around me.  I like to get my hands dirty in the soil, enjoying each moment as a reprieve from winter’s cold.

Much of my experience of springtime is visual.  I talk of what I see more than what I hear, taste, feel, sense, or experience. 

I enjoy listening to springtime, also, and feeling its presence on my skin and in the air I breathe (aachooo!).    I owe the delight of experiencing springtime in all my senses largely due to Joe.

Joe lost his vision decades ago as a young boy.  As his pastor, I would often meet him downtown at his office where we would walk to lunch.  Taking me by the elbow, Joe would converse as he gave me directions to the restaurant.  I learned from Joe how to describe where the food was on the plate, as on the face of a clock. I also learned to be alert with my ears and to sense with every nerve my surroundings. 

Joe would usually call the Church office the day after the publication of the newsletter to note grammatical or factual errors in our articles.  Once he reminded me it was Brambleton Avenue, not Street.  That did not puzzle me as much as the spelling errors he would bring to my attention.  “How did you find the spelling errors?” I ‘d ask.  “I have a very good reader who points out the grammatical errors,” Joe noted.  “But sometimes,” he added, “I can just sense them.”

Joe loved spring because, I imagine, of his highly developed senses.  He could acutely feel the changes: the warmth of the sunshine cutting through the still frosty morning; the birdsongs forming a glorious rhapsody; the breeze rustling the blossom ladened trees; and even the nuisance of the power mowers waking from their winter’s sleep.

I am grateful for each springtime that rolls around, and I am grateful to Joe who taught me how to more fully enjoy springtime and life.

Balcony "Parsons"

I am a balcony person at my Church.  But I am surrounded by a number of balcony parsons.  I took note of them Sunday during the Second Sunday in Lent.  Nicodemus, as a sermon topic, is interesting and mysterious, but so are the people in the balcony at First Church.   For one, there is Barbara.  Unlike Nicodemus she does not profess her faith in secret to a select audience at night.  She lives it out.  Her husband was a minister until his death from pancreatic cancer a few years ago.  Although I knew her husband and what a fine minister he was, I never realized what a fine minister Barbara is.  When I announced my retirement at another Church, she was the first with a note wishing me well and inviting me to visit First Church.  She took my wife and me by the hand and showed us to her Sunday School class.  She introduced us to everyone in sight.  She is a true balcony parson, caring for the flock who land on that high perch each Sunday.

I could name other balcony parsons, like Sam who sits on the opposite side of the balcony.  Well, someone has to keep that group of birds nested!  Sam retired after about 80 semesters as a campus minister at Meredith College.  He deserves a rest, but he can often be seen out of the balcony still busy about discipleship, mission, and fellowship of the Church.  He has not retired from being a follower of Jesus. Since the First Church balcony wraps around the three sides of the sanctuary, I do not know which one is the “right wing” parson and which is the “left wing” parson, but I guess it doesn’t matter as long as they are following the same leader!

I am sure there is a “center section parson” as well, but I have not gotten to know all those folks yet.  I know there is a superior court judge who sits there and he looks very judicial on his pew.  Folks in the center section look rather subdued.  Maybe it’s because they are under the perusal of the good judge, or maybe they are shell shocked from the balcony organ pipes just behind them which are used only during the third verse of most hymns.  The front organ pipes carry most of the burden of the hymns, but if you’re not expecting it, you can be moved to fly from the perch on the third verse. I wonder if there might be a center section parson who will enjoy ministry to the hearing impaired.

I am still a balcony person and I don’t know if I want all the responsibility of being a balcony parson.  I have a feeling both Barbara and Sam would ordain me as another balcony parson in a minute.  If the rest of the flock is like I am, they need all the help they can get!

 

Hospice Laughter

After  retiring from my pastorate, I accepted a job as part-time chaplain at the Duke Hospice.  Once or twice a week, as needed, I visit with patients and families at the inpatient hospice on Roxboro Street in Durham.   This is a place where grief flows in an abundance of tears, but it is also a place where life and relationships are embraced and welcomed.  Strangers become like old friends, sharing their struggles and their joys, even their laughter.  It amazes me that families can still laugh in the face of death. Sometimes, I have heard the laughter  from the patients, too.  Laughter in the face of death?   To some it may sound profane to link the two.   To me, it seems to answer the Apostle Paul’s question, “O Death, where is your sting?”

One of my privileges as chaplain is to be part of an interdisciplinary team that meets each Tuesday.  For an hour or so, doctors, nurses, a social worker, a volunteer coordinator, medical interns, and a chaplain join in a review of patients.  We remember those who died and I, as chaplain, usually say a “blessing” or leave the medical team with some word of encouragement.  

Sometime we team members cry a little.  Sometimes we complain.  Sometimes we are astutely clinical and detached.  And sometimes we laugh—about anything .  One time we laughed about a patient who was brought in on a stretcher one week, then walked out to search for a place to live the next week!  Most stories don’t end that way.   Yet, many are the times when family members return to say “thank you” to a team who has brought comfort in difficult times.

Sometime they hug us.  Sometimes they cry.  But sometimes they share the soothing gift of laughter!                 

Beware the Ides of March....and Mrs. Morehead

“The Ides of March are upon us”, Mrs. Moorehead would remind us every year as March 15 approached. Mrs. Morehead was the consummate English teacher.  She used every opportunity to steer us students toward nobler and higher ambitions than buying a six pack of beer and dancing the watusi on the  banks of the Catawba river. 

Martha Moorehead was a figure to beware and to behold.  She said to her students, “when I was your age, I said there were three things I would never do:  be a teacher; marry a minister; and get fat.  And I have done all three!”  In her own humbling confession, she taught us the meaning of the word “irony.” She also taught us what it means to be human!

She laughed as she corrected us.  I recall my classmate Kenneth, always the gadfly as he strolled into the classroom dragging the heels of his boots and misquoting  Shakespeare as his greeting:  “Romeo, Romeo, where in the world are you at?”   “Now, Kenneth,” Mrs. Moorehead  said, “ you know that a preposition is not a good word with which to end a sentence.”   Kenneth rebutted, “Romeo, Romeo, where in the world are you at anyway!”  Then Mrs. Moorhead would roll her eyes and concede, “Well, I suppose there are times when a preposition may be the preferable word to end a sentence with.”

These many years later, I observe the narratives of years past as from a cosmic balcony where, as Frederick Buechner observes, “Memory is more than looking back, it is looking out into another kind of time altogether where everything that ever was continues not just to be, but to grow and change with the life that is in it still…”  Martha Moorhead and Kenneth are both long gone, both too soon.  But as surely as the Ides of March are upon us, so are their words, their wisdom,  their laughter, and the wonder of their humanity.