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This Week ...
Readers' comments, FAQs, Esther's homilies and thoughts about this and that
Readers' comments, FAQs, Esther's homilies and thoughts about this and that
BELOW
Who do you say that I am? Parable of Wheat & Tares
Stir Up Sunday Goin' Home. Remembrance Day I will draw all to myself St. Francis of Assisi Snow on Snow
Little Grey Donkey - Palm SundayCLICK HERE FOR ARCHIVED REFLECTIONS
Smudges
Sticky Wickets
Who do you say that I am? Parable of Wheat & Tares
Stir Up Sunday Goin' Home. Remembrance Day I will draw all to myself St. Francis of Assisi Snow on Snow
Little Grey Donkey
I don't know who took this picture. I'd like to give them credit. It arrived in this morning's email from my sister.
Just in time for Palm Sunday. A reminder of Al and the parish tradition that started 19 years ago.
I moved to the Coast in the Autumn of 1989. My first parish. Visions of myself as The Country Vicar. Like many small communities, Gibsons had time and space for 'Characters'. Helen, who lives on The Bluff and spends her days picking up litter left behind by the more indolent among us, is still a presence. Al disappeared. No one knows. Very few know Al's role in the Palm Sunday tradition.
Al lived somewhere back of beyond in the forested hills above Roberts Creek from whence he would walk down the highway to Gibsons to spend most of his days outside the groceteria/coffee shop in the company of like-minded men and his saddle-packed dog. We didn't see much of Al over the winter. Early in Springtime, when patches of Snowdrops and Crocus were brightening the evergreen landscape, he reappeared.
'There's Al,' I said to Barbara. 'Looks like he's adopted a second dog.' As we drove past him we saw that it wasn't a dog. It was a little grey donkey colt. Who isn't a pushover for puppies, kittens and colts!?
'We need that little colt for the Palm Sunday procession,' I said and Barbara, Parish Warden and self-appointed Go-pher, went off to extend the invitation. Al said yes. It was settled. Plans for the liturgical procession around the churchyard - one of the busiest corners in Gibsons when the ferry arrives - underway.
Alone in the church office some weeks later, I looked up at the sound of knocking to see the unkempt Al waiting outside the locked door. I admit that I hesitated before opening the locked door and inviting him in.
Al reported that the 'authorities' had found him unfit to own a donkey colt and had seized the animal.
'I've come to assure you though that Curly will be here on Palm Sunday,' said Al. 'I wouldn't let them take him until they promised to keep his appointment.'
I thanked him, somewhat surprised by his integrity and determination. He surprised me further by saying that whilst he knew about the donkey carrying Mary at Christmastime, he didn't know anything about Palm Sunday. Would I mind telling him? I invited Al and the saddle-packed dog into my office. We spent the next hour drinking coffee, eating Sunday's left-over cookies and talking about the church's beliefs and traditions.
He never said so, but you could tell by his manner and vocabulary, his knowledge and curiosity, that Al was an educated man. One of the many who had 'dropped out'. A draft-dodger perhaps. Living in an abandoned cabin probably. He never came to the church again. He would nod and move on without a word when we met on the street - never to presume.
Al's unshaven face, unwashed body and ragged vesture camouflaged an honourable man. Many lesser men and women sit camouflaged in high places.
Lord, help me to see my brothers and sisters as you see them. Amen.
Smudges
"You can remove the smudge from your face now," her mother said. Her mother always said the same thing and she always replied, "In a little while," which they both knew meant that she would not remove it before bedtime.
The priest, pressing a thumbload of ashes against her forehead, had solemnly intoled, "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return," and she was determined to show off her dustiness to as much of the world as a child might encounter on a wintry Ash Wednesday.
All too soon she grew up and learned that her dustiness (her human-ness) was not a badge of honour but a condition to be overcome or at least denied. She got her act together and forgot, for a while, that she is dust. Until it seemed that she might never be able to wash away the smudges of living.
Once again she knelt and heard the worlds, "You are dust." It was good news. It was, in fact, a great relief to know that human is all that she was ever meant to be. Not 'simply' human of course and certainly not 'merely' human. Like every other man, woman and child alive she was always meant to be 'fully' human: formed of the earth, inspired by the breath of God.
Her stress level fairly plummeted. Imagine loking into the mirror and accepting the reality of a smudge or two! Imagine looking at others and having the grace to not judge their smudges.
From Grampa Told Me a collection of writings by Esther North
"You can remove the smudge from your face now," her mother said. Her mother always said the same thing and she always replied, "In a little while," which they both knew meant that she would not remove it before bedtime.
The priest, pressing a thumbload of ashes against her forehead, had solemnly intoled, "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return," and she was determined to show off her dustiness to as much of the world as a child might encounter on a wintry Ash Wednesday.
All too soon she grew up and learned that her dustiness (her human-ness) was not a badge of honour but a condition to be overcome or at least denied. She got her act together and forgot, for a while, that she is dust. Until it seemed that she might never be able to wash away the smudges of living.
Once again she knelt and heard the worlds, "You are dust." It was good news. It was, in fact, a great relief to know that human is all that she was ever meant to be. Not 'simply' human of course and certainly not 'merely' human. Like every other man, woman and child alive she was always meant to be 'fully' human: formed of the earth, inspired by the breath of God.
Her stress level fairly plummeted. Imagine loking into the mirror and accepting the reality of a smudge or two! Imagine looking at others and having the grace to not judge their smudges.
From Grampa Told Me a collection of writings by Esther North
Sticky Wickets
I'd had rather a long spell of rote and ritual prayer. Then on Tuesday morning, sitting in front of the fire with my prayer book and journal in hand, I had a breakthrough. It felt so good to be connected again! In fact, I was so grateful for being able to feel God's presence that I owned up to my independent streak. I told that Lord that he alone was the Potter and I promised to be pliable. I would trust him to breathe spirit and purpose into my life.
The sun was shining. Most of the snows had melted. A perfect day for boiling and bottling January's Seville Orange Marmalade.
At midnight on that same Tuesday, I was glued to the kitchen tiles in bitter orange splatterings and two over-sugared pots still on the stove at rolling boil. The entire day had been spent turning the elements on and off, responding to interruptions. I calculated the time thus spent and went to bed seriously annoyed with God's response to my promising to be 'putty in his hands'.
Things looked different on Wednesday morning. The sun was still shining. Jars and jars of marmalade were lined up on the counter - albeit still waiting for parrafin. Mostly, my heart felt strangely joyful.
As I sat down with prayer book and journal, I realized again that the spiritual highs I so often covet, are not the stuff of Christ's true calling.
I remembered how appreciative my friends had been and how good it felt to be able to help.
O.K., I thought, I get it. I haven't been called to the solitude of a mountain-top or a desert. Here where I am, a call for help is Christ's call. A thank-you, his consolation.
READERS WRITE
Neil (Eden's dad), Montreal, PQ
Those Women: "I found myself turning pages in anticipation of what might take place as if I had never encountered the events before! As I said, such a delightful read."
Wally S., Gibsons Landing, B.C.
"This story [Those Women] puts the reader in the life and times of the living Lord. Since Jesus is both man and God, I found inspiration in his humanity. I usually think more of his divinity."
S.I., Surrey, B.C.
"I work in an environment where single parenting, 99% of women, is the norm. Who Will Be Joseph? brings to light one of the largest barriers facing these children: lack of role models. Well put Ms. North!"
Marie, Saskatoon
"For someone like me who has little ability to imagine the [biblical] settings or behaviour except in the Sunday School story images of my childhood - long hair and flowing robes - Those Women is opening my eyes and, dare I say, my heart to a new vision of the flesh and blood Jesus. So thank you, thank you!"
A.S., St. Mark's Ocean Park
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