Moving Diagonally

Up and out of my Glen Carbon hotel room in time to celebrate the Holy Mysteries with the folks at St Bartholomew's, Granite City. Granite City is kind of gritty, blue-collar steel mill town that has seen its ups and downs. St Bartholomew's has a long and rich history there, but the regular congregation now consists of only about 10 or 12 people, and at least half of them rely on canes or walkers! That said, they are an immensely gracious and lovely group, and it is always my honor and joy to worship with them. My soul was fed by the experience, and Christ was glorified. I was back on the road at 1030, and home just before 3:30.

St Bartholomew’s, Granite City-- John 1:1-14 (This are my working notes. There was no developed text for this homily.) Happy Sixth Day of Christmas. I hope you are continuing to celebrate! Christmas Eve … familiar story/familiar words … Caesar Augustus … long journey to Bethlehem … “days were accomplished” … “no room in the inn” … angels and shepherds We have (appropriately) sweetly sentimentalized this narrative … Prime example: In the Bleak Midwinter … “breast full of milk and a manger full of hay” … and are moved to respond, “What can I give him, poor as I am? … my heart”) … This is the public Christian face of Christmas By contrast: Christmas morning, and the First Sunday … John: no baby Jesus, but the pre-incarnate Logos: “In the beginning was the Word … light shines in the darkness … Word was made flesh,” and moved into the neighborhood. This is no story with a plot we can follow (drama, conflict, crisis, resolution), or characters we can empathize with. It appeals t...

Took leave of our gathered offspring and their offspring, after a wonderful family Christmas celebration over the last three days, packed for an overnight, and his the road southbound a little past 3pm. Made a brief stop in Springfield, and continued on down to an 8:30 arrival in Glen Carbon, where I'm I'm bedded down for the night ahead of tomorrow's visitation to St Bartholomew's, Granite City.

After feting our eldest daughter over breakfast for her birthday, Brenda and I left our Chicago apartment midday yesterday and headed south to Springfield. I preached at the 5:30 Christmas Eve liturgy at the cathedral, and both presided and preached at the 11pm Mass. Between services, Brenda and I grabbed dinner at Cooper's Hawk. Both liturgies were lovely, and well-attended (noticeably up from recent years, and I've heard similar reports from around the diocese and beyond). We "camped out" in our former home, the house we still own but is vacant, which is still for sale or rent, whichever comes first. It was a little surreal to have an air bed be the only furniture in the place,, but it worked.  This morning we were up and back out by around 0900 and drove back to Chicago, arriving at 1245. We fixed dinner with our daughter, and generally had a low-key day. Tomorrow afternoon, more family arrive, so that is probably where I will be focusing until the weekend. I'l...

Springfield Cathedral There is certainly no more emotional time of  year than Christmas. Holiday feelings present themselves, as if on cue, by such cultural symbols as red and green sweaters or table decorations, fake snow in store windows, toy soldiers and nutcrackers, George Bailey fighting to save his Building & Loan in Bedford Falls, Ebenezer Scrooge and Bob Cratchitt and Tiny Tim, Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye trying to arrange one more tribute to General Waverly at the ski lodge, or any number of tunes which we’re likely to hear in virtually any public place beginning the day after Thanksgiving. Intense feelings are aroused by Christmas traditions unique to particular families, even if the meaning has long since been forgotten. I once heard about a family for whom Christmas doesn’t happen until a blob of peanut butter is spread on somebody’s nose—nobody can say why anymore. For another family, it was a solemn Christmas ritual to slice of an inch from the top of the ham b...

I had a bye on my visitation calendar today, so Brenda and I worshiped as part of the congregation at the 9am liturgy at the Church of the Ascension, Chicago (where the music, even at the "non-solemn" celebration, is to die for). While I am still in love with my current ministry, after nearly eight years as a bishop, I must confess that I miss the regularity of parish life. A parish community is a precious thing.

I had planned on this being a low-key "putter around the apartment and maybe run a couple of errands" day. Two things intervened to keep it from being that. First was the news, by phone from the Bishop of Upper South Carolina, that my predecessor once-removed, Bishop Donald Hultstrand, died last night at 92. He was a truly holy man. So there were phone calls and emails trying to sort out the arrangements, and the extent to which I will be able to participate, letting the diocese know, etc. The second intervenor was the discovery that my diocesan email account has been disconnected from the email client that I actually use for the past 2-3 days. This seems to happen from time to time, and it's annoying, and I don't know who's at fault. The fix is pretty easy, though a little time consuming. But it meant there was a pile of emails that I hadn't known about, some of which required immediate action, and some of that action time-consuming. So, while I put out all t...