Smiling Madonna - Chapter Seven

you are
a despicable person
you've no right
to shake my hand

“You are a despicable person! You have no right to come up to me and shake my hand. You have behaved abominably and with malicious intent. I do not recognize your presence.”
“I was standing in an aisle in a big beverage store near the Seattle Center.” The previous speaker was talking to someone else, while she was pushing his shopping cart with a small child in the seat facing her. George realized it was a parishioner of his who was doing the talking. Then he recognized the child, it was a girl George and Travis had baptized a few years back. The person that George knew was not in the habit of speaking that way. Kay always seemed very measured in her interactions. The situation slightly alarmed him, what would cause such an outburst of ill description to pour from her?
Then all of a sudden George was the person standing at the shopping cart. And it was his child sitting staring at him in wonderment at the words and language he had used.
The last thing he remembered before waking was that he had avoided making eye contact and was relieved to see the antagonist leave the building. Then he pushed the cart ahead, talked with his daughter and slowed in front of a display of holiday foods. Then George woke up.
He looked at the clock, the red lights showed 4:23. George couldn’t throw off the feelings of the dream encounter. He had seen the actual store before, had walked by it, but had never gone in. What was that about: a sticky, broken nutshell texture in the heart of the emotions against that man in the store? George felt his stomach tightening, and sweat on his neck turning cold, even as he woke, revulsion and something else.
Returning even more to his room, George’s body creaked and did actually crackle as his feet reached for the floor, He was thankful that the community had agreed good beds would make them better monks - and human beings – at least as far as being able to live together.
George dressed and went down to the chapel, knowing he would not be able to get back to sleep. Since he had a whole hour before his regular schedule, he brought his prayer beads. An old friend, who had joined a monastery in England long after they had met, had rolled the clay into large pea-sized salmon colored balls, pierced and strung them for him, unfired. George spent the next hour inhaling to the words, “Have mercy on me,” and exhaling “Jesus Christ, Son of God,” dropping one bead after another through his increasingly dusty fingers.

“Tim, that is… I’m sorry you feel that way,” Stephen said.
Jack jumped into the fray, “I understood we were here to talk about the death of a friend the other day.”
“I am here to talk about everything that led up to that!” said Stephen, his face turning red and an artery almost looking like you could see it pulse, standing out on his neck.
“What?” Tim and George both asked, while Jack sat up in his chair at the end of the table and opened his mouth and left it hanging there.
“I mean… I want to talk about,” taking a breath to calm himself, said Stephen, “how Henry was always trying to help, and how he was part of our whole community – not this one, but Green Lake Lutheran. Henry was always involved, not like Ted, who’s only gotten involved recently. And Ted is only around to grouse and complain. Henry was one of the people the whole ministry is going to miss.
“There are whole lists of things that no one else knows how to do at the church, groups that met and Henry unlocked the door, meetings that enjoyed coffee that Henry made, things that the janitors didn’t have to worry about because Henry took care of it!”
George imagined the waves the murder was wreaking on the church community. They were spreading out further than he’d first thought.
“Stephen, you are right. There are going to be long term adjustments that will have to be made, just for the church to be able to function… Is there anything else you want to mention?” George asked when Stephen did not seem to be going further.
“No, really. I just wanted to make sure this community, this house, at least was prepared for what this murder really means for us and the people of the congregation. I am a little worried about how the synod is going to view us after this.”
“Mmmm,” said Tim. “Yeah, I didn’t think of that.”
“Yeah, well my status as a rostered person is up before yours unless our community is recognized somehow,” said Stephen.
George, finally began to see where Stephen had been coming from – his concern about ‘falling off the roster-‘ not being recognized any more as a pastor. They hadn’t heard from the bishop in all of this. George wondered if the bishop’s office had heard from anyone.
There was some more discussion about how to handle the situation, the “this” that hung over like a cloud heavy with lightning and rain. Finally, it was Jack who suggested one way to help the brothers be better able to handle things better.
“What if we were to move up our quarterly retreat to two weeks from now?”
“Whoah!”
“What? How can we do that?”
“Before you immediately discount that option, look at your schedules. We’re going up to the Horse Ranch on Highway 2, so it’s a matter of finding out if the big house is being used during the week in the pre-ski season. It might be open and Sally Ames, the manager has been really helpful in making things welcoming for us. She might be able to get back with the information about if it’s even possible within a day. We could ask and find out if the site is open, while we check our schedules.”
“This must be something that comes in handy with the shelter, Jack” said Tim.
“Flexibility?” Jack asked.
“That, and coming up with out of the box options,” Tim was the first one to smile out of the whole discussion.
“I am not sure if it’s going to be possible for all, never mind. I’ll check.”
“What were you going to say, George?” asked Stephen.
“I was thinking in terms of the congregation. I forgot for a moment that I was free to take time off where and when wanted to,” he said.
“Okay, then, I’ll find out and we’ll check our schedules,” said Jack.
“Thank you, Jack. Would you be prepared to lead a program on the first day, with some of the material you were going to present tonight?”
“Sure, I’ll look forward to it.”
“Then we will have something to look forward to working on, not just separate meditations, or our own perniciousness to occupy ourselves,” said George.
“Good. Yes,” agreed Tim and Stephen.

“George, how are you doing?”
“Good, Estella.”
“Have you been using the things we talked about since last time?”
“Yes, but it’s been hard.”
“What about the exercises have been difficult?”
“No, it’s in the rest of my life.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you’ve perhaps heard about the woman in whose garage a man was killed the other week?”
“Yes.”
“He was a parishioner of mine, and she is a close friend – the benefactor of my community, actually.”
“Oh. I can see how that would disturb your prayers. So what did you do about it?”
“About the disturbance you mean? “
“Yes.”
“Well… I guess I chose to focus on the activities I felt I needed to get through in order to make it to today.”
“And how did that work for you?”
“It was less than what I hope for regularly.But I was able to include some of my dreams in the meditations.”
“So you did pray, and you did some of what we talked about?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s focus on that today.”
“Okay. I especially enjoyed the time I spent on the Jesus Prayer with the meditations on the images of the Divine…”

After the spiritually renewing and relaxing meeting with Sr. Estella about his life in prayer, when George got home, he was utterly unprepared for the phone call.
“Hello, Community House, how can I direct your call?”
“Hello, is this the pastor who walks the dogs?” Not even waiting for complete confirmation of the right person, she plowed onward, “I was at the store this morning, and I heard a man talking about how he was terribly upset with how you were handling the situation in the parish – about the murder. You know I was the one who called about the red truck that other week…” There was a slight pause.
“Anyway, the man was saying how he was going to make it his business to get you and your community out of the parish. He said he was angry about your whole involvement in the life of the congregation and he-“
George interrupted, “Excuse me. Excuse me! I need to ask you if there is something you want to tell me. I cannot keep listening to your side of the story. I lay myself open to all kinds of things, including accusations of gossiping! I will not be party to that, or any other destructive group behavior.”
“I… I just want to say watch out at the retreat.” Then she hung up.
“How could she even know that the dates of the retreat had been changed? Wait, she didn’t say that. She said watch out at the retreat. She didn’t necessarily know anything about any change in dates, or the location of the event, just that such a thing was happening,” George mused to himself. “Still, it was weird. People who got the parish newsletter already knew about he retreat. They just didn’t know it would be happening earlier than announced – even more reason not to worry about it, since it was now an unexpected event.

next week: more dreams and a meeting

Week Off

...band names
religion, Godd, children
unchurch, recipes, mandolin,
reading and travelstapled and taped

Actually not a week off, but Home work and slight injury preclude more time on the boys' home this week. Blessings on yours.
PH

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Six

Fear of something
similar images
of the scene
imaginations of things unseen

Saturday George woke early, went to the chapel to pray, and by the time the morning meeting was done, his mind was already focused on the details of the sermon he had yet to finish.

Back at the Green Café, George sat down to ‘complete’ the sermon. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his time of prayer earlier, centering himself. He imagined the familiar sensations of kneeling before the altar table in his room. A plain burning candle in a glass votive revealed a woodpecker feather, a large black Mexican beach stone, and a small modern icon detail of the Transfiguration. George recalled the fondness he had for the scene. A central figure stood, clad in white, with extra large hands and body, feet just peeking from behind folds in the heavily draped robe. Jesus was surrounded by a purple oval with white piercing light shooting out from his figure. Beyond that mandorla, to his right and left, floating above the ground stood Moses and Elijah, both haloed only around their heads in gold leaf.
As George recalled these things, his breathing slowed, he felt less anxious about any one thing, and when he reflected on it later, he noticed he felt better about himself and the world. For now it was enough to focus on the texts and stories for this week.
About an hour later George felt about as good as he ever did about a sermon. It was “done.” There were always last minute changes directed to the specific audience and that morning’s news. But considering the events of the past week, this was quite a feat. For George, this too was evidence that there had to be something, someone, bigger than the human world, some view knowing which was broader than humanity’s. The sermon included some of his first feelings about the murder. George knew he had a lot of meditating to do on that before all the can of worms it spilled was caught. Fear of something similar, images of the scene, imaginations of things unseen. The sermon just touched the squiggling worms lightly, recognizing their presence among the people affected, nothing more.
The rest of the day was filled with mundane preparations and cleaning. George set the dinner table. Tim practiced guitar after putting the community’s evening meal in the oven. Jack returned from the shelter in time to join Stephen and the other two back in the chapel for a brief Service of Light, remembering that the new day begins with the sunset of the night before.
“George, we talked about me having a chance to speak about the shelter again this fall. Can we do that soon?” Jack asked.
“Sure, Jack,” answered George. “Do you want to have anyone else from the Shelter Board, or do you want to preach, or?”
“You know, I love to preach, but I get to do that on all my parish visits. I was thinking about just a coffee hour and education time event. Maybe in the Spring I could ask to preach again.”
“Sure, let’s set up the dates,” said George.

Travis moved over to his chair again. His drink spilled a little as he allowed his fatigue to overtake his dexterity. Travis looked at the glass, and through it, out the window, holding it up. He and Barbara had a nice view from this window. In the winter, they could see both mountain ranges, though the leaves interrupted the view the rest of the year.
Barbara was out at the office still. She had twenty-some years experience, and twenty-some years to go before she could retire. Barbara and he had discussed how she could advance in her specialty, which was small business accounting and management. Yet, in a city like Seattle, there were many younger and better trained women who were keen to advance quickly. Travis assured his spouse that there were none prettier, however.
Travis, on the other hand, saw few opportunities for advancement. He had served long in the churches he had been called to and had not advanced to the position of “Senior Pastor.” He always played second fiddle to men who were not always older than him. He was fed up. He kept that under wraps, but the feeling had gone beyond rubbing him like a constantly changing piece of sandpaper in his grip. Now it was pretty intolerable. Something was going to happen.
Focusing on his glass again, Travis tried to relax. He realized his grip on the crystalline tumbler was cramping his 43 year old hand. He wanted to be Senior Pastor at Green Lake Lutheran Church or somewhere, by his forty-fifth birthday, to finish his service in a comfortable position as either Senior Pastor at a bigger church, or as a “preaching pastor” at some even larger congregation. Travis imagined himself in that position. His friend John from seminary was already in such a position, down south. John occasionally even taught at the seminary from which they graduated. Travis heard about this from newsletters and communications from the school. Sure there was a little more than a bit of green in his eyes when he looked at his friend’s status and roles.

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Five

...were
watching the
pastor come
and gowith the dog

George was at home later that day and answered the phone.
“Hello, Community House, George speaking.”
“I want to talk with someone about what I saw the other morning at the Simpson House.”
George was caught off guard, a little confused. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“I want to speak to the pastor who usually walks the dog on Tuesdays, the day of the murder.”
George felt a chill on his neck.
“Why do you want to speak with him?” The little community was pretty good, not only at keeping pastoral confidences, but also with insulating one another from all kinds of marketing and other time occupying interruptions. Speaking in the third person was almost a habit.
“I… I saw the same car parked in the neighborhood each Tuesday for three weeks. It looked like they were watching the pastor come and go with the dog – then the other man came and that is the day that man was killed,” said the woman.
“Can I ask who you are?”
“I can’t tell you that. I can’t –“ Abruptly the line cut off.
George didn’t see a phone number listed in the caller ID. He couldn’t call back.

George hung his feet over the side of the bed until they pressed firmly to the carpeted floor. He squeezed his eyes and then his toes. What had woken him from such a heavy sleep? The alarm would go off in ten minutes anyway, so George dressed in his chapel clothes and made his way down to the basement area the brothers had set aside for prayers and worship.
This ‘morning’ chapel was one of the ways of living which the little community found gave them the greatest sense of having a monastic life. It wasn’t the fact that the time together in prayer was at 5:30 am. It was the actual waking up alone, to immediately join with several other people who also were dedicated to this joint opening their eyes to the Divine.

George took his seat in the cool dark room ringed with chairs. He felt rather than saw that Jack was already sitting quietly in his favorite place. Minutes passed, in silence and slow breathing of the Divine Name, until there came the rustle of clothing of the other two members of the household. One took up his favorite position.
It was Timothy’s turn to turn on the lights and prepare the space. Before entering the room, he pressed the dimmer, raised the level of light, and moved to the tall table in the center of the room, where he lit the big white candle standing at its center.
An amazing amount of light is thrown off by a little candle flame, especially if you’re used to the dark.
Then Tim went back to the doorway in the dancing shadows, and reached outside to flick the switch on the ring of halogen lights reflecting off the walls to warmly illumine the room.
George saw his fellows gather themselves and their prayer books up, resting the small 3 ring binders on their laps. Their eyes adjusting, Jack picked up the singing bowl and struck it three times, stretching out the last tone for a long moment. Then George began the day’s words with: “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God…”
They finished morning chapel, grabbed some coffee and were sitting down to the daily meeting. George needed to report on the meeting with the bishop and what happened with Sheila Simpson and the police. Jack was due to talk about some financial things and Stephen the possibility of allowing guests to come stay overnight at the house. Tim was the notetaker for the week’s meetings.
It was probably only a romantic notion which they had, that the community living a monastic life would actually still be around for someone to want in their archives.
George thought, “At least that’s how I’m feeling today.” ‘It could happen,’ a group of men living together in a monastic house could spark a new thing in a tradition which was in part made popular by releasing people from monastic vows which they had made when they were too young, too naïve, or just felt there was no other option. ‘It could happen,’ but George was doubtful today.
It was decided that; the community’s finances were fine, they would keep exploring what it would mean to allow guests to spend the night in the second floor rooms, and the bishop was being tentative and politically correct about recognizing the community. While the last item was disappointing and might result in the loss of official status for Timothy and Stephen, the brothers did not imagine that finally they would have to choose whether or not to be recognized as clergy.

George and Timothy shared a cup of tea, looking out over Green Lake, from Simpson House. The deck out back had been put in by the congregation a few years ago, but it stood the test of seasons very well. Timothy looked over to the side of the deck, where Stephen’s herbs looked a little droopy and got up to water them with a can still partly filled. George dipped a spoon and wrapped the tea bag around it, squeezing out the last tasty drops of peppermint.

As Tim sat down again, he said, “How is Travis doing?”
“What? I think he’s doing pretty well. What makes you ask?” said George.
“I dunno. I thought he looked a little down, or tired on Sunday,” offered Tim.
“Hmm. I guess I didn’t see that,” said George. “He has been working a lot on the Mexico Mission trip and trying to get fundraising for it. Pulling the strings all together for that bunch of balloons to go all in one direction is a pretty big deal.”
“Yes,” then after a brief pause, Tim asked, “How about you? How are you doing?”
“I’m alright. I feel a little in a haze after Henry’s death. A murder that close is a scary thing. How are you doing about it?
“You know, I have been pretty focused too, with the things going at the Udub, trying to pull the balloons together, as you said, for the annual ecumenical commission meetings in a month. The student groups have been working really hard, but they’re students, so I’ve been trying to tie down loose ends, speakers, accommodations, rooms, you know… I guess I haven’t really had time to process the thing with Henry,” said Tim.
“Maybe that’s something we ought to do as a community. It would be really helpful for me in my role as Senior Pastor at GLL. I don’t want it to be something that is looping around with energy we could be focusing elsewhere, more usefully,” said George.
“Right. How about this Tuesday, at the big chapter meeting?” suggested Tim.
“That’s a good idea. We’ll ask Jack if he would reschedule his presentation on John of the Cross. Would you ask him about that? Maybe even suggest that he might still lead the opening and closing meditations? I won’t be home until late tonight, after he will have gone to bed. There’s an education committee meeting and then a worship and music team session.”
“Okay. I can do that.”

A gust of wind blew into the kitchen where Tim was making dinner. He realized that the front door must be open and then heard it close. It would be Jack getting home. Tim ducked through the hall to the entry and found Jack taking off his trench coat, which was dribbling rain. The spattering of rain had picked up a little in the last few minutes, slashing the clear glass on either side of the door with droplets. Weather does change in a snap in Western Washington.

Jack said, “Sure, that’s not a problem, it will work out for me too. I have to get some things done by Friday for the Shelter Board and it will give me a little more leeway.”
“Thanks, Jack” said Tim. “How are you doing with the murder at Sheila’s place? I know you have been friends with her even longer than George, since you have been here longer.”
“Honestly, Tim, I am having a hard time. I knew Henry pretty well too. He was a good guy when, I mean he was always a good guy, but he helped me out when I was looking for support for the shelter. He had never been involved in that kind of ministry before, and for about five years he really beat the drum for me, getting money and just ‘awareness’ of homelessness out there. That was a long time ago, but we’ve always had a special friendship. I am really angry and sad. The meeting on Tuesday will be good for me.”
The two men hugged one another’s shoulders, standing next each other in the entry of the house.

The coroners report read something like, gruesome death by asphyxiation after the trachea was punctured, cut in half, by a fairly sharp object. By the aluminium shavings and dirt recovered from the neck wound, the object might have been a garden instrument. A big sharp object. The report described the blow as being quite powerful, and coming from an angle that suggested someone of stature, who was right handed. The police would wonder for some time what could be the instrument of this murder.
Weeks later they would find an old aluminum shovel, used to scrape up leaves and dirt on pavement. The leading edge had been sharpened by years of use on smooth sidewalks around the church’s physical plant. They found it in a storage shed in the back corner of the church lot. It was a shed that was locked almost all the time, but could not be proven to be locked most of the time. Anyone could have taken the shovel, used it horribly, and put it back. It was clean when the police found it. “Clean” of blood residue anyway.


next week: finish the message?