Song
Friends who took gulf-front rooms at the Majestic for the diocesan convention weekend will see for themselves this morning; but from here I gather that yesterday’s stormy weather left the Gulf of Mexico quite rough. Because, walking down into the lower part of the front yard to get the PCNH newspaper for Linda, what one hears is the roaring of surf from the Gulf, across the Bay and the other side of Shell Island some four miles away.
We’ll have a look later when we go back for the closing Eucharist. Ah, those rickety steps again!
Truthfully, that’s not what’s on my mind though. In fact, it takes focus to dip one thing out of churning mental chaos and journal comprehensibly.
OK, I’ll try this.
In “CNN Opinion” on Wednesday, December 26, 2012, appeared a special article by Lawrence M. Krauss, entitled “Why must the nation grieve with God?” It’s saved on my iPad desktop in case at some point I should want to respond somehow. Actually, I don’t yet, but it comes to mind this morning in my prayer. Director of the Origins Project at Arizona State University, Krauss is author of a recent book A Universe from Nothing. The special article, which I have open on my iPad as I write but am not going to read again right now, followed the horrific, senseless shootings at Newtown, Connecticut, specifically taking harshly to task the nation’s response of somewhat automatically going to prayer. It’s not my focus to respond to Krauss this morning, but he comes to mind for me personally just now.
As an aside I recall that Jim Graham, Linda’s late stepfather, who grew up basically not religious, became an Episcopalian late in life, in the late 1970s, after age 75 when he married Linda’s mother. Jim, quite observant, would walk into a church and comment whether folks had what he called “the Episcopal look.” After attending church with us in Trinity, Apalachicola, it wasn’t unusual for Jim to say of someone in the congregation, “They don’t have the Episcopal look.” There isn’t any such thing, of course, and if there is we deny it. Jim’s measure was the congregation of Advent Cathedral, Birmingham, Alabama, where he and Linda’s mother were parishioners, and where we had his funeral some fifteen or so years ago. This aside is because, looking at the photo of Lawrence Krauss I will say that "he has the atheist look.” Which is fine: in my experience, self-professed atheists have often turned out to make very faithful Episcopalians. Them and Unitarians.
Anyway, Krauss has the look. There's no such thing of course, but he has it. Maybe one morning’s post I’ll share it for others to see.
Anyway, as Linda and I were about to leave the house last evening to return to the Majestic for the convention banquet (the best one I have ever been to in all my years -- partly because of the company, partly because the food was superior, partly because our rector went to the stage up front and sang solo, accompanied by the band, “Ride, Sally, Ride” and partly because of the table setting and decorations, but undeniably partly because of my overwhelming relief) -- Malinda came in and said, “Kristen’s fine. She’s OK. She's fine.”
The last time a conversation with me started with those exact same words was nearly a quarter century ago in Apalachicola. It was a Saturday evening. Linda was in the rectory. I was next door in my office in the parish house of Trinity Church, wearing my pajamas, finishing up sermon preparation. An ambulance siren had screamed past a few minutes earlier, then back. My office phone rang. Linda said, “Are you sitting down? Sit down. Tass is fine. She’s OK. The kids had an accident on the bridge. The ambulance took them to Weems (the hospital). Her face is cut but she’s OK.” I leapt up, ran out the door, jumped into my car, sped to the hospital a few blocks away, ran in the front door and dashed down the hall in my pajamas, and grabbed my girl.
“Kristen’s fine. She’s OK.” OMG, I’ve been here before. My first reaction was horror, my second was to look round and make sure my chair was behind me.
Thank God for cell phones. (Did you give us those, God?). My next hour or two was spent talking with her, and texting. She was still sitting in her car at the accident scene, a three-car collision on an Atlanta freeway with traffic zipping by on both sides. Kristen and I talked and texted through it -- highway crew arriving to make the scene safe. Linda and I went on to the convention banquet. Georgia Highway Patrol arriving, taking their report, allowing the cars to be driven to a parking lot. Kristen texting me photos of her car’s smashed rear end and pics of the police report. Her roommate’s parents arriving from across town to take the two girls home, Heba’s father driving Kristen’s car. Papa relaxing, enjoying the banquet and especially “Ride, Sally, Ride.”
What’s all this? It’s about Krauss, isn’t it, and the nation going automatically to prayer. Why do we do that? We do that when there’s nothing else we can do, don't we. When neither we nor God can do anything retroactively to prevent. When we are horrified or afraid or feeling helpless or sick. When we are too far away to hug. When we are desperate to do something besides wring hands and weep. When by faith we know that -- though we cannot prevent, be there, do something -- we can put the Holy Spirit there to take charge, retain greater calm and confidence here ourselves. And our anxiety begins to ebb and we can enjoy the song.
We pray, don’t we. Because Jesus promised. And because, as Peter said, “Lord, to whom else shall we go?”
Krauss comes to mind. I'm sad that he doesn't know faith's answer to his angry questions.
Tom+ in +TIme