Fireworks

I moved into the parsonage in Pennellville
three years ago on the last Friday in June.
It was hot, sweaty work but I had help.
Mom and Dad were here. Mom and
Janet settled the kitchen while I got my
bed made and found most of my clothes.
We went to the Euclid Restaurant for supper.
Then they went home.

Janet Rosenberg had given me directions
to go from Pennellville to Phoenix. It was
oh, so confusing then! I laugh at how easily
I got lost back then. I was afraid I would
not be able to find my way home. But why
did I want to go to Phoenix on my very
first night in my new home?

Well, I joked that the annual fireworks
were my personal "welcome to your new
home" message from the extended community.
No way I was going to miss fireworks - whether
they were intended for me or not. I did find
my way to Phoenix.that night. I found a parking
space on Route 57 where I could see all but the
lowest ones. And I thoroughly enjoyed the
dazzling pyrotechnics that night giving me warm,
fuzzy feelings about the future in my new parish.

I will pull over to watch fireworks any time
I see them. I can remember going to Colgate
University with Fran for the 4th of July display.
There is a gorgeous green lawn with lots of
shady trees, a small pond where white swans
are swimming. Most people brought picnic baskets
and blankets. Each blanket was spread on the piece
of ground they claimed for the night. Kids could
run and play and make as much noise as they
wanted. It was a long wait until dark, but the
fireworks display was always worth it.

When we lived in Norwood, the Fire Department's
fireworks were just over the fence in our backyard.
We would invite friends to share our vantage
point. Most accepted because parking was hard
to come by. We were liberally doused with bug
repellent. The mosquitoes obviously liked the
fireworks, too. Or, they spread the word to all
their friends inviting them to a lavish feast of
all blood types. We would take our lawn chairs
into the backyard and enjoy the show. Then
we would retire to the front porch and watch
the traffic. It would take hours for it to peter out.
People and cars passed by while we watched
knowing that we could go in and go to bed
at any time. The bumper to bumper mass exodus
would go on into the wee hours of the next day.

I got to watch fireworks in Lexington, MA
when I was in 6th grade. I was visiting my
best friend, Laurel Dutcher. Her father had
been transferred to Massachusetts. I was
quite angry with him for moving her so far
away from me. I went to visit her that first
summer. I will never forget my visit. Images
of Walden Pond and the red, white and blue
finale of those fireworks will last a lifetime.

We often got to watch fireworks from our
front steps in Vernon. Well, the family
homestead is just off Route 26 midway
between Rome and Oneida. Whenever
the Utica Rome Speedway or Vernon Downs
Racetrack put on a show, all we had to do
was walk out the front door to enjoy it.

By the time you read this, the Phoenix
display will have come and gone for this
year. I hope to have a front row seat once
again and let it bring back memories of
moving in day. I no longer get lost going
from Pennellville to Phoenix.

I don't begin to understand how fireworks
really work. I don't want to. I still watch
them the way I did as a kid – with awe
and wonder and pure unadulterated joy.

I confess that I know enough to know
that fireworks can be dangerous. And
I'm glad that my daughter is no longer
helping to set them up. But I am grateful
that we have them; grateful that there are
people who know what they are doing
and are willing to brave the dangers to set
them up; grateful that fireworks continue
to amaze and amuse me no matter how
old I get.

Pure Golden Goodness

June 12, 2006

Spiritually Speaking

Do you have a 7/16 or ½ inch drill handy?
A metal or plastic spout? Plastic tubing?
A barrel or plastic bag? We'll also need
a large kettle and a good strong source of heat.
We have to be able to cook 7-15 degrees
above boiling. Gather up some sort of fabric to use
as a filter and containers in which to deposit
the finished product. Do you know what
we are making?

First of all we need access to many
acer saccharum or acer nigro. In English
that would be sugar or black maple trees.
Select a spot on a healthy tree, two to four
feet above ground where it looks like there
is good solid wood. Drill a hole 2-2 ¼ inches
deep. Then insert the spout. Attach bucket,
tubing or a plastic bag. Whatever we use,
it must be covered to keep out bugs and
debris. Then pray for cool to freezing nights
and warm cozy mornings. That's when the
sap flows freely and gives us what we need
to make luscious maple syrup. Of course,
this happens each spring.

We will be able to collect a quart to a gallon
of sap per day – maybe 10 to 12 total over
the whole sap season per tree. We'll need
approximately 43 gallons of sap to produce
1 gallon of maple syrup. Cooking the sap
over just the right high heat forces the liquid
to evaporate and concentrates the sugar into
that clear gold liquid we love to lavish on
pancakes and waffles.

I receive a little jug of this liquid gold as a
table favor at Lorianne and Shaun's wedding
in Edwards last weekend. I was delighted.
I love maple syrup on the whole grain waffles
I often eat for breakfast. I also use it on oatmeal.
And when I'm really into sinning, I take a scoop
of maple walnut ice cream, put it on top of
the oatmeal and then let maple syrup
cover the whole thing. It is delicious!
The downside is that it is NOT low calorie.
Nor does it do my diabetes any good at all.
Sometimes, a sweet treat helps get us through
the hurt and harm this world can dish out.

I used this little jug of maple syrup for my
Children's Message last week. When we
look at a maple tree, we cannot see this
sweet syrup. Unless someone tells us how
maple syrup is made, we could go our whole
lives without knowing that there is golden
goodness just waiting to be tapped.

That's how it is with the God-ness that is
in us. We look in the mirror and find it
nearly impossible to see that there is
golden God-given goodness just waiting
to be tapped.

It is relatively easy for most of us to see
our flaws and faults staring back at us.
It is quite another thing to see pure,
golden goodness. That's because it is not
visible to the naked eye. It has to be
coaxed out like the sap from the maple
trees. It is not always there to be tapped.
It takes a certain season and set of circumstances
to make it flow. Even when it starts flowing,
it takes a lot of hard work before we realize
how sweet and precious it is. Even in the
worst of us, there is some of the best of
God waiting to be tapped.

For the children, I encouraged them
to trust that God's goodness is in them all
the time. It nourishes them and helps them
to grow spiritually strong. It will take good
parents, good teachers and good friends to
tap into what cannot be seen. Year after year
that goodness will flow out into the world –
into acts of kindness, loving relationships
and deeds of self-sacrifice. Over the years,
reality heats it up, evaporates the excess
and concentrates the essential God-ness and
goodness. Then it is always there - ready for
daily life, giving to all including the giver
a pure gold spiritual affirmation only God
can give.

Maple syrup may also be made into maple
sugar candy, maple flavored fudge and
maple butter. We also discovered it was
quite good when we dipped fresh baked
cookies in it during Coffee Hour after
church.

We can thank Native
Americans for this sweet treat, which was
part of their daily diet. No one knows
who first discovered how to make it. It was
traded by the Native Americans living along
the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence River
for all of recorded history. It continues to be
produced by families and businesses wherever
the sugar and black maples grow. We may
bemoan the price, but we all delight at the taste.
Now let this precious commodity remind us also that,
even in the worst of us, there is some of God's
best just waiting to be tapped.

P.S. To Edwards and South Edwards: It was
great to be back in the foothills of the Adirondacks.
And a great honor to officiate at the first ever wedding
at the Edwards Opera House. Thanks for the
hospitality! Good to see you, too, Nancy!

The Saga of the Soy Sauce

January 23, 2006

Spiritually Speaking

T'was the week after Christmas when I went to play Scrabble
with Denise at Denny's in Oneida. We do that sometimes.
It is rare that we can coordinate our schedules. And we have
don't want to be at the restaurant during peak hours or we
might be asked to leave when we whip out the Scrabble
board, score sheets and timer. Denise has all the tournament
equipment. I appreciate her sharing it with me. We get lots of
comments and stares while playing in public, but we're immune
to distractions. We are seasoned Scrabble-holics. We respond
with a polite smile and just keep right on playing.

I had promised my sister Becky that I would bring supper
that night after our Scrabble marathon. (We play two or
three games. It takes one to two hours.) After we each won
a game, we were ready to quit. I called Becky to see what
I should bring her and Dad and me for supper. She suggested
a Chinese take out place that was in the same plaza as
Denny's. Perfect. I went there. I ordered. I waited and
I took the food home for a cozy supper. I had picked up
some packets of soy sauce and hot mustard which no one
used. I put them in my coat pocket to take home with me
and promptly forgot they were there. Ever done that?

Life continues at it's hecitic unruly pace. There is always too
much to do and too little time and money. Know what I mean?
I needed to do something that would soothe my soul and
relax my mind. I went to church to see the Youth Group off
on their skating outing. I was going to a concert in Cicero.
It was a group called Moscow Nights – a group of mostly
youth from Russia who do a program of Russian folk music
and dancing. It was just what the doctor ordered even if a
doctor didn't actually order it for me.

Those who know me also know that I take a canvas chair
with me wherever I go. I can sit on the average folding chair
or standard pew for about three minutes before my back
rebels and I'm pacing in pain. I prefer not to draw this much
attention to myself in public, hence the chair. I usually sit
in a back corner and mind my own business. But the Cicero
UMC has those nice areas to accommodate wheelchairs –
several of them and near the front too. A kind gentleman
(yes, there are some left in this world) helped me to move
my chair from the back corner up toward the front.

There was an adorable energizer bunny type toddler sitting
in front of me. We made faces and finger wrestled until
he and his mother headed for the back of the sanctuary
and, I suspect the bathroom. The program was lively and
beautiful. I was enjoying the whole experience until I
felt something wet and sticky on my fingertips when they
brushed against the hem of my jacket which was thrown
over the back of my chair. I looked down and there was
a brown gooey puddle on the floor. How embarrassing!
It smelled funny, too.

All I had was used tissues but I had a bunch of them. I sopped
up the puddle and sopped up the rest of the offending liquid
in the bottom of my coat pocket. I truly wished that I was
still in the back corner by now. The girls were singing.
The music was lively and lovely. And I was trying to
clean up my mess without anyone noticing. I think I did.
No one asked me what had happened. I didn't tell anyone
that anything out of the ordinary had happened. My jacket
had a damp spot and I smelled a bit funny but I still managed
to thoroughly enjoy the concert. I did leave directly after
and did not stay for refreshments.

Did you figure out what had happened? A package of soy
sauce had sprung a leak. I threw all the packets away lest
the scene be repeated. And, even though I had cleaned up
the floor, I felt I must tell someone in case the church floor
still had some sticky residue and/or lingering aroma.

I sent an email to the associate pastor and explained what had
happened. I think he had a good laugh at my expense and
passed the information on to those who needed to know –
and probably a few who didn't need to know but just because
it was such an entertaining tale.

The biggest irony here is that I went back to the same church
the next night for a worship service. I'm told that they are
planning on frisking me for soy sauce whenever I attend
anything there from now on. There's no profound lesson to
be learned from all of this. Just a humorous reminder to
slow down and find ways to enjoy life – whether it be at
playing Scrabble, having dinner with people you truly love,
attending a concert or being part of a spiritually nourishing
worship. And maybe a new commandment, which, if
obeyed might save you from what happened to me:
Thou shalt not carry packages of soy sauce in the pockets
of thy winter jacket for more than a few hours. It mayest
add great flavor to take out food from the local Chinese
restaurant but it does NOT add anything but a gooey,
sticky mess to a floor. I recommend that if I am coming to
visit, it might be a good idea to frisk me for condiments.
You may keep anything you find. Deal?

"Celebrating Women Pastors"

May 22, 2006

Spiritually Speaking
"Women Pastors"

"At the 1956 General Conference of the Methodist Church,
held in Minneapolis, Minnesota, an action was taken that
would change forever" the faces the world would see leading
the United Methodist Church through the 20th century, and
now into the 21st. As a denomination, United Methodists
are celebrating the 50th anniversary of this decision to grant
women clergy the same rights as male clergy.

There have always been women leading and preaching in
our denomination, starting with our founder John Wesley's
own mother, Susanna. But women could not be ordained
or serve a congregation in and of their own right. There were
many women who served as Circuit Riders in England when
John Wesley used traveling preachers to bring about a
spiritual revival in the Church of England. The rugged
conditions of colonial life, the many nights spent sleeping
under the stars and an allowance which only fed the horse
meant that men continued the Circuit Rider revival here in
America. Still, there were women like Amanda Berry Smith,
who was born a slave, but spent her adult life traveling the
country as a singing evangelist. Barbara Heck, known
affectionately as the "Mother of American Methodism" is
given credit for lighting a fire under her preacher cousin,
Philip Embury. Together they built and opened the first
Methodist chapel in New York City.

Though women have always held positions of leadership
and inspired much of the mission work in many congregations,
they were not allowed voice or vote at General Conference.
Frances Willard, who suffered public ridicule when she first
spoke in public about the evils of alcohol, was shouted down
at the first General Conference she attended. She went
on to be one of the founding organizers of the Women's Christian
Temperance Union. In it's day it was the largest organization of
women of the nineteenth century. Frances' desire to ban
alcohol had to do with preserving the family and making men
take care of their families responsibly. She also wished to
educate and train women to take responsibility for their own
lives as well.

Frances Willard was born in Churchville, NY. It was one of
the first churches I served as a pastor. Her portrait hangs
in the front foyer. There is also an old Temperance Union
water fountain reminding those who know what WCTU stands
for of Frances' campaign to rid the world of alcoholic beverages
and replace it with the purely healthy alternative of water.

Georgia Harkness was ordained in 1938. She had a degree in
Theology from Boston University and wished to make the
gospel readily accessible to people of all ages. She wrote and
worked tirelessly for years to make the good news of the Bible
something that was on the lips of all her flock. She also
struggled to gain full clergy rights for women. Her battle
lasted over 30 years and was a major reason that General
Conference finally made that momentous decision in 1956.

There is now a scholarship in her name through the national
higher education branch of the United Methodist Church.
I was awarded that scholarship during my second year of
seminary.

In every congregation I have served, someone has come up to
me to say, "I don't believe in women pastors, you know." I
do my best to smile, be polite and move on to another topic.
I am always tempted to say, "You'll have to take that up with
God because God called me to be a pastor." Accepting the
call to be a pastor was not easy – nor has the path of life in the
parish been peaceful.

It is, however, the path God put me on. I tried to go my own
way for years before giving in to God's call. When I finally
started looking for a seminary, I had already been preaching
as a Lay Speaker for five years. I would fill the pulpit while
a pastor was on vacation. One summer, I used the same sermon
in at least ten churches and got to cover a lot of miles in
central New York – often getting lost trying to find the little
United Methodist Church where I was supposed to be that
morning.

As God sent one miracle after another, I slowly accepted the
call was genuine and I was destined to be a pastor, no matter
how many folks did not believe that women should be pastors.
On Friday the thirteenth of June 1986, at the Northern New York
Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church, three Bishops
placed their hands on my head and ordained me as a United
Methodist pastor. I was told "to take thou the authority to preach
the gospel and administer the Sacraments" which I have now been
doing for nearly twenty years.

There were three Bishops that year because two conferences were
merging to form one new one – the North Central New York
Annual Conference where I currently serve. Bishop Yeakel,
Bishop Ward and Bishop Stith all had sessions to preside over as
the details for the merger were worked out that year. Normally
only one Bishop presides at the Ordination service each year.

As a denomination, we celebrate the 50th anniversary of full
clergy rights for women. As a pastor, I celebrate the 20th
anniversary of my ordination as a Deacon. I remember with
gratitude the determination of Amanda Berry Smith who accepted
and lived out her call to serve God and save souls without being
formally ordained. I remember with an impish smile the pushiness
of Barbara Heck who called the men in her family away from the
card table and back out in the world to serve God, living out her
role as a doer, leader and organizer for God's work in the process
I remember with awe and admiration all that Frances Willard did
in her lifetime. She made the headlines as often as Queen Victoria
for her work with the WCTU, her part in the fight for women's right
to vote and her voice which was only temporarily drowned out
by the men of the church. I remember with affection and
affirmation the determination and perserverance of Georgia
of life for parishioners, is one I share.