Being the last gasps of my dying competitive spirit
Twenty-five miles in and there’s a rabbit up ahead. Some young guy with baggy shorts and a bike he got for Christmas. Look at him adjusting his ear buds. He has no idea what he has. Time for him is eternal and energy is always there for the taking. I coast briefly while I decide if I’m going to take him. I keep my eyes on him while I take a squirt of water. You don’t want to pass someone and then die a mile beyond him. If you go by him you just bought yourself whatever pace it takes to stay ahead. And he’s moving along at a decent speed. I’m averaging 17mph, which for a ride of this distance means I’m pushing a little. I’m not settling for what my bike and legs will give me.
Fuck it. I’m taking him. One last time for who I used to be. One more time to take the pain and love the hurt of it. My will against the ancient gods. My middle finger raised against the sunset. I will reel him in. And I will drop him. Continue reading
What you will notice first is the people. Look at them. See how they gather together in this place. Apparently this gathering ritual is a thing people do. And they are so at ease with it, gliding between the pews, exchanging greetings, having conversations before the service, waving across the room to their friends, sinking quietly into their seats to court silence before it begins.
Almost everything you will see has ritual significance. There will be so many rituals. Major rituals shared with the ancient Church and minor rituals particular to this congregation. Don’t try to sort out the rituals. Just watch them and be with them and soak in them for now. Continue reading
Some say we humans are made at the moment of conception. But I don’t agree. That’s when our bodies begin to be made, yes. But our souls are knit together in tragic and heroic moments, sometimes years before we are born, when the messages of our families are formed in the crucible of human experience.
What follows is an important moment in the making of me. It happened in 1957 on a typical Saturday afternoon at a shoe store in Marshall, Texas. Continue reading
Sunday, 22 March in the season of Lent
My God, my God, why have I forsaken You? Why have Your words, echoed through the ancient and holy Church, turned to babel in my ears? Why has my heart turned to stone? Did You harden it, as You hardened the heart of Pharaoh, for some mysterious purpose I cannot know? Why has apathy taken root in my soul?
What happened to my pathy? Continue reading
I read recently that men are statistically more likely than women to be narcissists. The story was in the Washington Post and quoted an article from the journal of the American Psychological Association, so it seems to be a valid study.
My own half century of interacting with men and women certainly does not represent numbers that would constitute any sort of meaningful cross section of humanity. But my limited experience leads me to think that the study is probably true. You take a hundred men and a hundred women, and a greater number of men from that group will be selfish and self-absorbed.
I comprehend the truth of the study, but I’m not sure what you and I should do with this newfound knowledge. If only one woman in a hundred was a narcissist, and if only one man in a hundred was not, what would that fact mean to you if you were to find yourself face-to-face with the exception from each group? Continue reading
When my college roommate graduated he left me two things. The first was his campus job delivering The Lariat, which is the Baylor University newspaper. Rob said it was the best campus job because they paid you three hours of work to deliver the paper, but you could do it in an hour and a half with practice. The other thing he left me was a 60-year-old man with a gray ponytail and serious hygiene issues.
The man’s name was Steve S. Alexander. We called him SS. Rob didn’t know his middle name and I never found out what it was either. Rob did odd jobs for SS and got $3 an hour for his trouble. He also got to hunt on SS’s family farm, which meant he came home occasionally with some rabbits that he would fry and serve for dinner. It was without a doubt the toughest meat I ever ate, but we were in college, didn’t have much money, and were up for adventures. So we ate Rob’s rabbits. Yes we did.
Here’s what Rob told me about SS:
“He’s not like anyone you’ve ever met or will probably ever meet again. He’s a character. You’ll see what I mean. He’s really just lonely and wants someone to talk to. He’ll pick you up in his car, drive you around, maybe give you a job to do, then pay you in cash when he brings you back. He’ll never stop talking, but you’re getting paid so who cares.” Continue reading
This is the completed short story that is a companion piece to The Ministers’ Morgue, which you can read here. It’s not dependent on that other story at all. They are just written in the same style and address some of the some themes. I posted part one of this story back in October. But the opening has changed, so I’m posting it here in its entirety.
I could tell you the story of how I found Carl in New Orleans, but it wouldn’t do you any good. Carl moves his shop around town whenever the mood strikes him. During a stretch of time in 2008 he operated out of the back of a van. If you need Carl you’ll have to find him in your own way.
In my case, after some years of asking around, I ended up headed for New Orleans with some sketchy directions scribbled onto a scrap of paper in my wallet. I was supposed to look for a green door in a wall that led to an alley on St. Ann Street between Bourbon and the river. No address. Carl doesn’t really do addresses.
The French Quarter looked pretty much like it does in the movies. Narrow streets with wrought iron balconies on the second floors. I walked up and down St. Ann a few times, cursing when I noticed that almost every door is green. Eventually I found it. A narrow wooden door that looked like it was a hundred years old. So many layers of paint that the edges of the boards and even the hinges looked soft. Behind the door an alley twisted back between buildings and turned to the right. Around the corner was a dimly lit shop called Bayou John’s Voodoo Supplies. Continue reading
Monday, 2 March in the season of Lent
We eucharistic visitors have no truck with theology or philosophy when we are sent out into the world with our small box filled with the consecrated elements of our shared communion.
The box in which the bread and wine are carried has a handle on the top. I don’t trust the handle. I don’t trust the handle because Brian Zook doesn’t trust the handle, and he is the one who taught me the ways of the eucharistic visitor. Once Brian was holding the box by the handle – like a lunchbox – and the latch almost gave way. Imagine the bread and wine spilled onto an asphalt parking lot or into the floor of your car. So Brian holds the box in his arms. Therefore I hold the box in my arms too, and think of him every time I touch the handle, feel the fear of not trusting it, and tuck the box into my arms instead. Continue reading
Wednesday, 25 February in the season of Lent
Sometimes I visit Covenant Baptist Church on a Sunday morning. Not often. A few times a year. It’s always nice. I’m happy to see my old friends and they are happy to see me. I always experience powerful feelings there. How would you describe feeling very happy and nostalgic and introspective and a little out of place, as if time had moved on and you’re stuck a few years behind everyone else?
The last time I visited they were singing old hymns that reminded me of the faith my grandparents gave to my parents and they gave to me. Spirit of the Living God, O Worship the King, Breathe on Me Breath of God, We are One in the Bond of Love.
I fought tears throughout the service. That doesn’t always happen when I’m there. I think I was feeling particularly lost that Sunday and Covenant is a place where I remember not being lost.
Sunday, 22 February in the season of Lent.
In the Episcopal prayers and liturgy spoken during the Eucharist can be found this delightful paragraph:
At your command all things came to be: the vast expanse of interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, and this fragile earth, our island home.
This fragile earth. Our island home. These two phrases speak powerfully to me. What a fragile thing is our faith. Held together by hope, tradition, longing, practice, imagination, dreams, legends, and myth. We have no assurances that our faith is connected to any physical reality beyond our species, nor do we have any way of imagining how tenuous any such connection might be. Continue reading
I may have been given a great and terrible and sorrowful gift when I left the ministry. I did not ask for this gift; it came upon me like a palsy. I shook and trembled. The sight of the Church blurred and the words of church people turned to babel. The gift – or it might be a curse – is of new eyes and new ears. I see Christianity with the eyes of the outsider, and I hear our words with the ears of the stranger.
I speak of this gift or curse without pride, since I don’t want the damn thing. I was content in my dogmatic slumbers. I was happy when the words of the Church made sense to me and I saw my life and purpose safely nestled behind her walls.
But I left that life. I walked away. I told people I couldn’t be a pastor anymore. Said I couldn’t keep doing that. That’s all I knew to say then and it’s all I can think to say now, if anyone asks and mostly they don’t. Continue reading
If I had my way the Church would never speak of hell again, having lived in a purgatory of hellish conversations, devilish manipulations, and brimstone abuses for long enough. Let’s put that one to bed. For that matter, we’ve been talking too much in general and should perhaps consider a monastic period of silence for a hundred years, that silence broken only for internal communications and hospitality, should anyone ask us a question. This century of silence would be an act of penance and an attempt to restore our damaged reputation. Continue reading
I could tell you the story of how I found Carl in New Orleans, but it wouldn’t do you any good. Carl moves his shop around town whenever the mood strikes him. During a stretch of time in 2008 he operated out of the back of a van. If you need Carl you’ll have to find him in your own way….
This story has been completed and can be read here.
Four years ago I was somebody. I made a lot of words in those days. I was a word maker. Talking talking talking talking. Writing writing writing writing writing. Talking and writing. In my defense, there were people who wanted to hear me. There was even a group of people who paid me to talk to them every Sunday morning. It was a straight-up gig. On the level. I made words for people.
So many words. So very many words.
So I was at the talking place one Sunday morning, doing my talking thing, when I began to feel that I had said enough. My mouth slowly closed until it was small and round, like the mouths of the kids singing at the end of A Charlie Brown Christmas. And then my lips came together and no more words wanted to come out. Continue reading
While my father was in seminary he was the pastor of New York Baptist Church, which is a country church near New York, Texas. Recently I dreamed that I was going back to New York Baptist Church for some sort of reunion. My dad and I were driving there together. New York Baptist Church was on the 11,000th block of a major street in New York, Texas, which in my dream was a much larger town than it actually is. And the church building was carved out of solid rock. There was a huge rock face, and the church entrance was simply a door in the side of the rock.
The old man opened the door to the cafe and stepped inside. He put one hand on the counter by the cash register and took the measure of the place. His head moved slowly back and forth, pausing as he looked at the people sitting in the tables and booths.
He headed for his regular booth by the window. He was close to the booth before he noticed a man and his wife were sitting there. He stood beside the booth looking at them. The man smiled at him and said, “How you doin, sir?”
The old man didn’t reply. He looked at the man and then at the woman. He looked at the chips and salsa on the table and at the beer in the man’s hand. Then he tightened his lips in a disgusted look and walked away. The woman’s eyebrows lifted. She bared her teeth and sucked in her breath. She whispered “What the hell did WE do?” Her husband looked at her and shrugged. Continue reading
Today is the thirty-fifth day of Lent.
I believe in one God,
the Father, the Almighty,
maker of heaven and earth,
of all that is, seen and unseen.
I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ,
the only something of God,
I have no idea of the Father,
something from something,
I don’t know from I don’t know,
nothin from nothin leaves nothin,
bein got and not maid,
who knows what with the Father.
Through him all things were made. Okay. I guess.
For us and for our salvation
he came down from somewhere.
By the power of something kind of spooky
he became incarnate from…I can’t even say it. Just, no.
And was made man. Continue reading
Today is the twenty-sixth day of Lent.
If you are part of a religion or spiritual tradition with a bible, scriptures, traditions, steps, or any sort of received wisdom, you should embrace your tradition’s teachings with humility.
And you should be encouraged to take any two doctrines and throw them out. You get two. Any two that don’t sit well with you. And I don’t mean you should just ignore them. I mean go outside, look up or down or sideways or in whatever direction you think points toward your god and say, “Hell no. I’m not going to do that!” Continue reading
Today is the fifteenth day of Lent.
This year my Lenten journey is to be mindful of my life every day. It’s hard to explain what that means, but I know the meaning of it.
This weekend Jeanene and I are taking the three sisters on a journey back in time. We go backwards in time in a couple of ways. First, this may be the last time the five of us go on a trip or adventure together. Reiley is now 25 and seriously dating a man we have come to love. I fully anticipate that he will be a part of everything we do from this point forward. When your children start moving into the adult world, their lives become their own. We stand on the edge of that transition. I feel I should honor this weekend as a closing chapter in our lives. Continue reading
Today is the eleventh day of Lent.
It would need to be metal, this thing that I would be an expert at repairing. And completely mechanical. There would be a power source and then one piece moving another piece until the work was done. If you broke it down to its component parts you’d have screws, washers, nuts, bolts, and other metal things.
There would be specialized tools, and they would be well made, all metal and wood. To break this thing down completely would require special moves, but there would be a tool for everything. And I would know every move that might need to be made, so there would be no reason to be afraid or to doubt myself. There would be a finite amount of information needed to master the repair of these things, and I would know all of that information. Continue reading
Today is the 8th day of Lent.
Over the last year I’ve become aware of a problem that I have. It’s my problem. It originates within me. It has no connection to any external reality that would indicate blame or responsibility for any person or organization outside of myself. Not only do I acknowledge that this is my problem, I don’t expect anyone to do anything to solve it for me. If I am to overcome this problem, the solution will come from a change within my own heart.
I can’t imagine how anyone could own a problem more fully than I just did. Continue reading
Today is the 7th day of Lent.
How can you comprehend another culture when you are UNCONSCIOUS of your own?
How can you understand others when you have NEVER tried to understand yourself?
How can you know the HEART of God when you do not know your own heart?
Today is the fifth day of Lent.
The following is an account of a dream I had on Saturday night, March 8th. It was the night before my first sermon in four years. Any comment is welcome as usual, but I’d like to suggest that the best response to a dream is to listen to it. Dreams speak to us from our unconscious. The symbols of a dream are often extreme, exaggerated, and reflective of inner fears and turmoil.
In my dream I was employed by some nonprofit organization. Its exact nature was not clear. It might have been connected to a religious group or not. The point of the organization was to be helpful to humanity in some way. I had a job in the organization that was mundane, and I believe that in the dream I questioned whether or not my role was helping the cause of humankind in any way.
In the dream I had just returned from a trip to India where I had seen shocking levels of poverty that distressed me. The memories of the trip existed in my dream as short visual sequences that were very realistic. In one of them I encountered some people who were sleeping in puddles of water, unable even to secure a dry place for their beds. Continue reading
Today is the third day of Lent.
In the religious world of my upbringing, Satan was understood to be a real being. If you could get coordinates and had the ability to travel through space and across unknown realities, you could find Satan. Not that anyone would want to try. When I went off to college to study philosophy and religious studies, I kept my desire to remain connected to my faith tradition, but I stopped believing in a literal Satan. It was, I felt, a little unsophisticated. I put together some fancy language to support my thoughts on this matter.
“Satan is clearly a personification of evil. The concept of Satan as a motivating idea or as a character in a mythic narrative is okay, I suppose, for simple and uneducated people. But it seems clear that there is no such being. The idea of Satan seems to have developed in the intertestamental period of Judeo-Christian history.”
And that’s what I believed, or didn’t believe about Satan all through seminary and on into my time as the pastor of Covenant Baptist Church.
And then I met Sam Todd. Continue reading
Today is the second day of Lent.
I sat alone a few rows from the front last night at Saint Francis with ashes on my forehead, still uncertain of what this year’s lenten discipline would be. Then a phrase came to me. “Be mindful.”
Mindfulness is something that has been missing from my life. I realize now, to my sorrow, that most of the mindfulness I used to have was tied to being a professional Christian. I was paid to be mindful. No one cares if I’m mindful now. And my mind has mostly been full of mundane things these days. Getting my client hours billed. Handling basic and simple human considerations. Making a living, as they say. Continue reading
Today is the first day of Lent.
An act of kindness given from one person to another has its effect on the giver and the receiver independent of each other.
If a kind act is offered and received, it flowers in the life of the one who receives it regardless of the motives of the one who offered it. Some kind acts are offered from selfish or manipulative motives. In these cases the goodness comes to the recipient even though the soul of the giver will not be helped and may well be harmed by the act.
Some people are unable to receive kindness. They live so deeply in their wounds that a single act of kindness disappears into their pain with no more effect than a pebble tossed into a pond. But this reality does not diminish the goodness of the gift, and the soul of the one who offered the kindness is enriched regardless.
As I reflect on my life, this first day of Lent in 2014, I pray that I have kindness and mercy to offer those God puts into my path. And I pray that when kindness is given to me, I will receive it with gratitude and love. Because when a joyous giver meets someone able to receive in love, the goodness is magnified in the lives of both and shines for all the world to see.
One of the most painful things any writer must do is cut a favorite paragraph or section out of an essay. You may love the sound of it, but it just doesn’t fit. Or it’s not pulling its load. It’s not getting us where we need to be.
I usually cut the section out and drop it into its own document, thinking maybe I’ll get back to it someday and develop it into its own thing. I never do.
So I thought I’d start posting some of them on their own. Just for fun.
This little section was originally in an essay I’m working on right now and hope to have finished soon. It has too much detail for this particular piece, which throws it out of balance. And the tone doesn’t really fit.
So what would be the worst thing that could happen to us? If it was bad enough would God intervene and say, “Okay, enough is enough?” Continue reading
Foy pulled his car into the driveway and shut off the engine. He could see Joyce on the porch watering flowers. He got out and waved to her. She waved back. He walked by the side of the house and opened a gate to the backyard. A dog ran up to him. He rubbed its head and said, Rico, that’s a good dog. He headed toward the back of the yard, figuring Raymond would be in his shop.
Raymond built the workshop himself. It was made of stone that perfectly matched the house. Foy laid his hand on the side of the shop and dragged his fingers along the stones. He looked back at Raymond’s house and whispered, Jesus.
There was a door to the shop, but it was always locked and even if it wasn’t Raymond kept a bunch of boxes piled up behind it. Foy unlatched the large sliding door and moved it a few feet to the right. It was heavy, but it slid easily. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The shop smelled like wood, machine parts, and leather. It was a great smell.
Raymond, you in here?
I’m in the back. Continue reading
Take thou thy compass and describe a circle with center point A. Let this circle be called Circle A.
Neither increase nor decrease the angle of the hinge of thy compass. Let thy compass remain as it is.
Now take thy compass and place the needle at any point on the circumference of Circle A. Describe thou a second circle with center point B. Let this circle be called Circle B.
Let thy compass remain as it is.
Behold how the circumference of Circle B passes through the center point of Circle A and the circumference of Circle A through the center point of Circle B. The curtain of the Holy of Holies is before thee. Let the reader understand.
Thanks be to the Old One. Continue reading
i let him out after 39 months in solitary
i hadnt planned on it but my new friends are so nice and they asked if i would teach a bible study but just for three weeks so that was fine and of course i said okay because i like them and im happy to help out
i hadnt checked on him for so long and i wondered if maybe he was dead but he came right out and started with the usual demands he wanted his favorite books and an easel and a bible map and a big table and a bigger chunk of time and of course for me to get up early the morning of and pay the required emotional fees Continue reading
Let me guess. You wandered into an Episcopal church and the beauty got you. The rich fabrics on the altar and the vestments on the priests make perfect sense to you, as does the fancy procession down the aisle. Of course they enter the room as if this event matters. And you like words, don’t you? I know you do. And you can’t find a word or phrase out of place in the Book of Common Prayer.
You’ve been long on the road, haven’t you, pilgrim? The dust on your clothes and the look in your eyes reveal much about you, as does the way you zero in on the details and drink in the zeitgeist of this people. Now you’re wondering if the great and abiding mystery of life – that presence you have felt and longed for and occasionally glimpsed – might be found here.
I know. I get you. Continue reading
Admittedly, setting your own beard on fire at the Easter Vigil is a lesser known ritual. Not one that many Episcopalians go through. I might be the only one person you’ve ever heard of who has done this. But given the late hour of the service, the hand-held candles, and the large number of scripture readings involved, I can’t be the only one.
You want details, right? Of course you do. And I’ll get to them in a moment. But first a word about tricksters. Continue reading
Everything that night was out of the ordinary. I was passing through La Vernia, Texas with time to kill. I don’t usually drive through La Vernia, and it’s rare that I’m on the road unless I’m supposed to be somewhere at an appointed time. It felt good to be in a small town without being in a hurry to get someplace else.
I was hungry and decided to see what La Vernia had to offer. I wasn’t interested in franchises. I wanted something local. So I drove from one end of town to the other to see what my options were. There was a Mexican food place, an Italian restaurant, another Mexican food place, and two steak houses. One of the steak houses looked fancy and new. The other advertised barbecue and steaks and was in a white cinder block building that looked like it had been there for decades. Also the parking lot was full. It was called Witte’s and that’s where I went. Continue reading
I was in a religious service recently where some people raised their hands, closed their eyes, and swayed back and forth as they sang. This kind of thing is generally a sign that the person is either experiencing a moment of spiritual ecstasy or is seeking such a moment and hoping her body language will serve as a catalyst.
I don’t recommend the latter.
I have experienced spiritual ecstasy myself many times. I don’t actively seek it and am a little suspicious of overly demonstrative displays. But I cannot deny the power of such an experience and the intense intellectual and emotional pleasure that comes with it. Continue reading
In 2012, I’ve been asked to write as the anonymous character “Pilgrim” for the High Calling. My Pilgrim Posts at Laity Lodge will not be continuing. Instead Pilgrim will tell us what it’s been like to enter the secular workforce.
You can call me Pilgrim.
In 2012 I wrote a series of essays at the Laity Lodge website, mostly about my spiritual journey in the months after I left the church I had pastored for eighteen years. If you read any of those essays, you might have wondered how Pilgrim was making a living.
And that would be a good question. When a seminary trained, professional minister decides that he or she no longer wishes to be employed by a church, what is it like to move to the world of secular employment?…
Read the rest of this essay at the High Calling.
What I feel like is a man slowly drifting away from his faith. It’s not an intellectual process. My commitment to Christianity is far deeper than mind games now. My faith is of the body. And my body is telling me some things. I have no desire to pray. I have no interest in doctrinal or theological conversations, which used to be a passion of mine. Such discussions are of no more interest to me now than an extended conversation about latex paint.
When I was a professional Christian, my job depended on me being spiritually engaged with the faith. And since I abhorred the idea of hypocrisy, I always found ways to stay in the game. But now, with no one paying me to be spiritual, well, it’s a whole different thing. If I don’t want to pray I just don’t. Sometimes for a long time. Continue reading
A Beginner’s Guide to Becoming Episcopalian
One of the first things you’re going to notice at an Episcopal worship service is all the people processing up and down the aisles. That’s how you know the service is starting. The music begins and everyone stands up, like before the bride comes down the aisle at a wedding. Then all the worship leaders come marching down the aisle. Children with crosses and fancy candles, people wearing robes and carrying banners and staffs, a person holding aloft a Bible with a golden cover, the entire choir, and all the ministers decked out in their vestments bringing up the rear.
By beginner’s guide I do not mean an expert explaining Episcopalianisms to novices. I mean a guide written by one beginner for other beginners. You should think of me as perhaps a year or two ahead of you, should you make the shocking and counter-cultural decision to become an Episcopalian yourself. In fact, I’m not even officially an Episcopalian yet. I attend Saint Francis Episcopal in San Antonio, but I’ve not been confirmed. That won’t happen until the bishop comes to our church in February of 2013.
I don’t know anything about the confirmation service, by the way, except I hear the bishop puts his or her hands on your head. Beyond that I haven’t a clue. I’ll tell you more about it after I’ve been through it. Continue reading
The first part of this story was published yesterday here.
“Well, you gotta do it. You just have to say the sinner’s prayer. And then you’re saved for sure. And then we can just play catch and ride bikes and stop worrying about this all the time. Don’t you just want to maybe just do it? Can’t we just say it? It’s real quick. And I know it by heart on account of my family always goes to church and I’ve heard it a million times.”
“Yeah, you go all the time. I don’t like church. Do you just hate going but you have to, so you just go anyway and everything? And just have to sit there?”
Foy saw a stick and picked it up. He wanted to bang it on the fence the way Mickey did. He stepped in front of Mickey and whacked his stick along the chain link fence three times as hard as he could. Continue reading
Apologies to those of you who like the Foy stories, but get disappointed when I post them in parts. This one will be two or three parts. And I don’t have a title for it. If you prefer to wait, hopefully it will be done by the end of the weekend. When it’s finished I’ll decide on a title and move it over to FoyDavis.com.
This scene from Foy’s life will make more sense if you read “Bearing Witness.”
Fort Davis Texas
On Monday morning Foy cut across his block, through the neighbors’ yards, past Fort Street, to Davis Street, where Mickey lived. The Wallace family lived in a sagging home on a double lot. Buddy Wallace had erected a ramshackle metal building that served as his workshop and garage. Two small sheds about the size of outhouses were attached like hermitages to one side of the workshop. Indeed, they may at one time have been outhouses. Cars in various states of disrepair filled the workshop and spilled out into the yard, where their rust was slowly bringing them into harmony with the colors of the rocks, the earth, the washtubs, and the old tractor engine that also lay in the yard. On the Wallace property, things sat in the yard until they became part of the landscape, sinking into the ground and changing colors slowly over the years. Above these things flew the colorful flags of the Wallace laundry, flapping in the West Texas wind on two parallel lines that ran from the side of the workshop to a laundry pole set into concrete near the only tree on the property, a scrubby juniper that Alice Wallace watered and cared for as if it was the only thing of beauty in her life.