"Honest Doubters"

That was the name for a group of folks with whom I used to meet, back in the old parish ministry days, people who were, as we say, "of the faith", but who yet harbored doubts about a great deal of what the Church and the faith had to say. I was one of them. I've noted here before that, to borrow from Robert Frost, "I have a lover's quarrel with the Church". Still do, in fact.


Perhaps that's the reason I'm so excited about this new book with the deceptively simple title, "Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light". It's not to be released until next week, Tuesday, I think, but I've read a great deal about it, enough to whet my appetite for a copy. And based on what I know from all the reviews, both positive and negative, it's going to be, as they say, an "important book". It's the publication, for the first time, of the private letters and journals which reveal that in the latter part of her life this "Saint of the Gutter" had lost all touch with her God and her faith. It wasn't so much that she disbelieved as it was a total loss confidence about her relationship with God, a Dark Night of the Soul for this saintly lady who devoted her life to those who were "unwanted, unloved, and uncared for".

Few of us will be able to relate to the level of compassion shown by Mother Teresa, but I expect a good number of us will, either silently or aloud, identify with her questions and doubts. So often we churchers, certainly including myself, fall into the trap of losing our equilibrium between religion and faith, focusing on the things seen of religion and forgetting the things unseen of faith. We do that, of course, because it's ever so much easier to get a handle on the particularities of religion, of dancing angels and pin heads, than it is to wrap your heart around a belief.

One of the times this came up for me every year, in the routine of the calendar, was on Trinity Sunday. I would do anything, ANYTHING, to get out of preaching on Trinity Sunday: schedule a baptism, have Youth Sunday, let the choir do a cantata, even catch a cold, anything but try to verbalize the ineffable. I certainly could and can proclaim the theological party line, and I could and can enthusiastically sing about "God in three persons, blessed Trinity", and I could and can even read that tongue-twister of a Collect (look it up: page 176), but back in the dim dark recesses of the heart was and is the lingering doubt that all these words really said anything.

Nor do I want to pick on the doctrine of the Trinity. There are other doctrines and other doubts. Spend some time, as I've done tonight, reviewing the "Outline of Faith" that's in the back of the Prayer Book (p. 845). Do I believe all that? You bet I do. With all my heart and soul. Do I have some doubts and uncertainties about parts of it? Well, you'd better believe that! And should I meet someone somewhere someday who held no doubts and uncertainties, I'd run for my life. Literally.

Some years back, perhaps 25 or 30 years ago, Mother Teresa was here in Wilmington to receive an award for her life of unselfish devotion to the poor and the oppressed. We all shared our admiration for this lady whose life was such an eloquent testimony to St. James' declaration that "faith without works is dead". Now, years later and reading of her strugles, Mother Teresa has shown us that works without faith is certainly alive and well!

All of which is to say, "Mother Teresa, I hear you!" And to those who would rather I not expose my own doubts, or to those who themselves have never doubted, the "God said it - I believe it - that settles it" crowd, in the kindest way possible I reply, "Deal with it". And then, when I'm finished with it, I'll loan you my copy of "Come Be My Light". But please return it.

Collared

I suppose, now that I think about, the second most frequent question I get, after last week's "Do you miss the beach?", is, "Isn't that thing hot?", accompanied by glances and pointings at the clerical collar around my neck. The answer is the same as the one for the beach question: "Darn right!"

While I can't speak for others, I wear it as an identifier of the profession, rather like the familiar brown uniform of the UPS guy, and you might think that something so uncomfortable and also so unique would have ancient origins, lost, as they say "in the mist of antiquity". Wrong. You might also think it has some profound theological symbolism. Wrong again. It looks positively medieval, but actually, as far as my quick research has shown, use of the "dog collar" for members of the clergy is only about 150 years old and suggests absolutely no symbolic meaning. It would be fun to conjure up some elegant symbolism, but hardly worth the effort. It's just a collar.

In some ways it's - literally - a pain in the neck, but it does have its advantages. It comes in especially handy in identifying myself when I wander around hospitals and nursing homes. Well, most of the time it does. Every now and then some hard core guardian of the patients' HIPAA rights would look me over and inquire, "Are you part of the family?" I always wanted to point at the collar and say "No, darlin', I'm an undercover agent for the IRS".

Another advantage, especially important to me who is perfectly capable of wearing a plaid jacket with striped shirt, is that each morning I never had to think about what I was going to wear. No problems with deliberating over which tie goes with what suit, and then inevitably being sent back by my resident fashion coordinator with proper instructions. Just grab Old Faithful and snap it on over the no-iron black shirt. One less of life's daily hurdles to cross.

Speaking of which, I've noticed the increasing proliferation of colors and styles of clerical dress which will mitigate against that advantage. Shirts, once black as night, are now available not only in white, but in gray and blue and stripes, and polka dots probably aren't far behind. There's even, I kid you not, a plaid clerical collar available for the truly uninhibited clergy. No, thanks. If I want to wear white or blue or gray or plaid or even polka dots, a shirt and tie will do just fine, thank you.

A very definite disadvantage to the collar as a professional signature is that there were times when I'd just as soon not flaunt my pastoral role. I always felt more than a little uncomfortable wearing it in the ABC store, although I was always ready with the (false) explanation that I was buying altar wine. When someone would occasionally try cleverness and say they were surprised to see me in such a place I'd respond, with hopefully equal cleverness, "Likewise".

Traveling caused problems, too, for invariably I'd wind up sitting next to some loquacious salesman who wanted to know what I thought about our ordaining that gay Bishop Robinson or would I explain the doctrine of consubstantiation or what did I think of Daniel 3:17 in the light of Revelations (that's what he said) 8:21? Then I yearned for my shirt and tie!

One time in the hospital cafeteria I was royally reamed out by a good Christian lady who pounced on me. "A man of God", she practically screamed, after I began eating my lunch without bowing my head to ask the blessing on the food set before me. For one thing, I wasn't at all sure that returning thanks for the sterilized ham and cheese sandwich and watered down iced tea was particularly appropriate, pearls before swine and all that, and for another I didn't think it was any of her damn business critiquing my spiritual life. I sat, instead, in stunned silence, for once without words.

But all in all, and with a few painful exceptions, I've always worn the clerical collar willingly and with the hope that I'll be able to manifest at least some of the truths which the Church proclaims. It sure is hot, though.



NOTE: We will be in Florida next week for a family wedding, so the blogosphere will have to continue its orbit without the Homeboy Reports. That is subject, needless to say, to the whims of hurricanes.

Wrightsville Beach

"Do you miss the beach?" I get that question at least once a week, and the answer is always an unequivocal "Well, yes and no". Ann and I were back in the old haunts earlier last week, saw several of our old neighbors and friends, and stirred up some pretty strong memories, both good and bad.

The bottom line, of course, is sure, you bet, I'll always miss Wrightsville Beach. Parts of it, anyway. The house, of course, #12 Birmingham Street, was our pride and joy, a 70 year old upstairs-downstairs duplex that had been rented out as a party and summer vacation home. We filled two huge trash bags with plastic flowers and gift shop trash when we moved in! The kitchen floor sagged to the west and the front bedroom sagged to the east, but we loved it and happily raised a wonderful family there. #12 sheltered us as we survived numerous hurricanes, a couple of personal crises, and the loss of parents who loved it as much as we did. Over the next 28 years we slowly renovated it into a warm and gracious home and garden which none of us will ever forget. Sure, we'll always miss Wrightsvile Beach, at least that part of it.



One of its attractions for us was not only the house itself, but the fact that it was just a hop, skip and jump away from the beach and the ocean. Just to know it was there, so close to us, was a source of peace and contentment, and that little path that led to the beach, sand spurs and all, might as well have been a street paved with gold. It was guarded by a lone and seemingly indestructible bird house, surviving dozens of hurricanes and developers' bulldozers. Several times a day, winter and summer, we'd walk our path to check out the beach, just to be sure it was still there and to soak in its treasures. You bet we miss it.




A short walk in the other direction, away from the beach, and we were in Roberts Grocery, presided over by Eva Cross, who always had a smile and a greeting for everyone, who sympathetically sent us some chicken soup when someone had a cold, and who even knew what color M&Ms Ann's father preferred. Everyone ran a tab (we were, as I recall, #192) and if you didn't pay for three or four months you might get a hand-written bill in the mail. It was said that we really didn't need a refrigerator in the house back then, since all we had to do was run down to Roberts for whatever we needed. Roberts was way more than a mere grocery store, and we sure do miss it.



We even had a personal investment in Roberts. Back in 1983, while fishing a marlin tournament in Morehead City with Heywood Newkirk, I snagged a white marlin, which was properly embalmed and hung on our stairway wall. Over the years its beady glass eye tormented many a grandchild, and it became a magnificent dust catcher. During one of our periodic renovations years later, the time came for it to be evacuated, so I did the only logical thing: I asked Mrs. Cross if she knew who might like to have it. "I would", she immediately replied, and to this day it hangs (appropriately enough) over the beer cooler in the store. I miss it, and still go by to check on it.



Sure, we miss Wrightsville Beach, but to everything, including beach living, there is a season, and that season ended for us two years ago. The "cute cottage" that everyone admired was becoming an expensive and worrisome albatross. People walking on the beach weren't exchanging greetings any more. Roberts Grocery became "Robert's Inc." and added boutique coffee and ice cream stands. Hummers began to outnumber the pickup trucks. It was time for us to go.

So we shed a few tears (well, more than a few), gathered up our memories, and sold #12 to a friend who knew that when folks these days look for a nice house at the beach they expect walk-in closets and two sinks in the bathrooms and such amenities. Our house was a dinosaur, and it had to go the way of dinosaurs. #12 Birmingham Street was demolished to make way for #10, a new home with many virtues, of course, but it wasn't the old Wrightsville Beach cottage. I feel safe in saying that whatever the virtues of #10, it will never be a home people love like we loved old #12. Yep, we miss it.



P.S. For those who read last week's comments about the neighbor's house fire, I'm happy to report that Kasper the cat is home! She somehow snuggled underneath a pile of debris and hid there for several days until the family heard a faint, "Meow" and gave a somewhat happy ending to an otherwise true tragedy.

Tragedy strikes

I've always thought that was such a hackneyed phrase: "tragedy strikes". Tragedy always seems to strike, it never just happens or appears or erupts; it always strikes, and so I try not to use the phrase. In the case at hand, though, it's precisely right.

We had a monster thunderstorm last weekend that stalled over Wilmington for more than two hours and dumped several inches of much needed rain on us. What we didn't need was the wind and thunder and lightning. Especially the lightning, for in the midst of it all we saw the flash and heard the nearly simultaneous crack of thunder. Ann and I knew it had been close, but we had no idea just how very close it was.

The heavy rain continued for another hour or two, so we stayed inside, even though I could smell the smoke and hear the fire trucks approaching. In our minds it seemed as though that loud strike was getting closer and closer by the minute. Finally the storm began to move away and we were able to leave to meet some friends for dinner. It was then that we discovered just how close the tragedy had, in fact, struck.

The next street over from us, directly out our front window, was the still burning ruins of a neighbor's brand new home. This is the view looking up at the entrance hall ceiling when the next morning I went in where the front door had been:




The whole house was a soggy, smelly, totally uninhabitable mess, and underfoot where the floor had been were inches of soaked litter. The once-living room, blackened debris everywhere, looked like this:







...and the bedroom, where the lightning had actually hit the house and apparently broken and ignited a natural gas pipeline, looked this way:




Ernie and Cathy, after years of many moves and months spent as "boat gypsies", had finally decided to settle down here in our neighborhood and sink some roots, but now, after only a month or so in their dream home they were back to Square One, home and furnishings all gone, burned out. Their eyes were still red from smoke and tears as they told of the personal treasures now lost.

Fortunately there was no one at home when the lightning struck so there were no injuries, although they're still grieving the loss of one of their two lovely Persian cats who ran but still hasn't come home. The phone lines going into the 911 center were also victims of the storm, so one of the neighbors had to drive to the nearest fire station to sound the alarm. The firemen did a great job when they arrived, but by then all they could do was contain the fire and try to salvage as much as possible.

It was Saturday afternoon when the fire started, and early Monday morning insult was added to injury when the neighborhood woke up to find red lights flashing on five-count-'em-five fire trucks and one ambulance that had returned to the scene. Even after getting the fire department's full treatment and then absorbing nearly two days of rain, the fire sprang back to life again. This time, we hope, it's totally out and the fire is over.

Well, there's really no great lesson to be learned from all this, no profound moral to conclude the tale. Stuff happens, even tragic stuff. When lightning strikes a home it's usually a tragedy, but more than that. Dozens of new neighbors, some of whom hadn't even had the chance to learn Ernie and Cathy's name, appeared with dry clothes and hot coffee and food and umbrellas and chairs to sit on. One brought a kitty-treat for the lonesome cat. Others offered their sympathies and their prayers.

It's the always amazing but never surprising story that's repeated every time that, well, tragedy strikes.