kiss and tell

I was home on vacation recently and spent some time (not enough) hanging out with good friends. While I enjoyed all of the conversations with my friends, there was conversation that stood out from the rest. Because I love putting the screws to my friends, I will share the highlights with you. Names will be withheld to protect the guilty.

-- my soon-to-be-40 bachelor friend recognizes he's lonely and wants to "build a home"; jury is still out on whether this is a literal or figurative home

-- he most recently dated a 22-year-old

-- she blew him off shortly after he clarified their age difference

-- he makes the mistake of bitching to me about how she never returned phones calls, emails, etc.

-- I point out this is what we call "KARMA" and that I've lost track of the number of times he's failed to return phone calls and emails, backed out of plans at the last minute, or failed to show up after making plans

-- we discuss the error of dating inappropriately young women

-- we discuss the avoidance techniques he's been employing for years to evade eligible women (total denial and obliviousness to this on his part)

-- I point out that his friends would be more than happy to set him up; he says he has no local friends

-- I point out that women get nervous about men who can't sustain friendships; it suggests they can't sustain any OTHER kind of relationship either

-- I reiterate how he's failed to return phone calls and emails, breaks dates, and stands people up; his friends have been victims of this for years

-- he entertains the notion of cultivating a "bad boy" persona in order to attract women

-- I point out that he's already enough of a jackass without making that his primary selling point

-- we discuss creating an image of stability; he sold his house last year and moved into a garage apartment (I pointed out at the time that this would be a red flag for most women)

-- I stress his pattern of dating women who are inherently unsuitable: too young (22 for God's sake?!?!?!?!), live too far away, he won't take them home to mother, etc.

-- he explains that he didn't exactly "date" the 22-year-old; they made out a few times after playing spin-the-bottle at a cast party

-- !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-- we discuss the advisability of getting dating advice from a mutual friend

-- I discreetly decline to discuss our mutual friend's own dating dilemmas; if nothing else, those two will bolster one another up

Seriously, I'm sorry to see a friend in a less than happy state, but I've got to shake my head over some the truly bonehead moves I've been witness to in this case. And while this recounting will suggest a less than attractive man, to those unfamiliar with my buddy, this is not the case. I've known women and men both to swoon and go starry-eyed at their first encounter with him. I recall having been at a reception a few years ago and watching him cut a swath through the gathering with a woman trailing at his heels like a well-trained pup. He never even turned his head her way as she followed him out the door. I turned to the woman standing next to me, who had witnessed the same event and remarked on the pathetic nature of the encounter. She agreed and then asked me if he was seeing anyone.

So, if you're of legal age and interested in meeting a frustrated, withholding introvert who claims he MIGHT be ready to change his ways, let me hear from you. I know just the guy!

DISCLAIMER: I have no room to talk. My romantic life is even more pathetic.

2008 Mississippi Conference on Church Music and Liturgy: Transforming Your World as Performer

I was asked to write a blogpost for a conference I attended last week. I'm double dipping by posting it here as well, so that you guys can know what I've been up to.



Although it was the last full day of the Conference, the day opened just as the others had begun. The morning people bouncing into the dining hall at seven-thirty on the dot for breakfast; the rest of us tearing ourselves reluctantly from our beds and sluggishly joining them in a steady stream in search of sustenance and coffee. We made our way to Gray Chapel for Morning Prayer, the last of the daily offices we’d share this week and prepared for another hard day of work.

Let no one fool you. The Mississippi Conference is hard work. The days are long and joyful and filled with challenge. In our ongoing discussion of the roles we play as musicians and liturgists, today we examined our call to be performers. Here was a discussion in which everyone had two cents to add to the pot. Some accept the title of performer reluctantly, a word used in the world of entertainment where the relationship exists between performer and audience and leaves no room for God. Others feel quite strongly that performer is a right and correct word for their role in worship, but stress that the performance is for God and not for the gathered. All agreed, I think, that the performance of worship is the group effort of all those present and active in worship, such that when the appreciative parishioner says to the soloist on Sunday morning, “I really enjoyed your performance,” the sincere reply may come, “Thank you. I enjoyed yours too.”

One outstanding question lingered after our spirited conversation: What is the definition of perform? I admit I looked it up; I have an ongoing love affair with words. According to Merriam-Webster, the etymology of the word comes to modern English from Middle English via Anglo-French which derives from the Latin per (thoroughly) + furnir (to complete or equip). I suspect the contemporary usage of performer as presenter-- that is one who merely gives a rendition rather than as one who wholly fulfills the act of worship-- is where we find our divergent responses to the word. Whether we view sacred performance as the full completion of liturgical acts, or as the thorough equipping of God’s people for their call to transform the world, or both, I’m left believing that the role and title of performer is one we must each embrace wholeheartedly.

I suspect that it was with deliberate intent that the morning’s exchange of ideas regarding performance was the precursor to the evening’s cabaret. The Rose Hill Cabaret (Back from exile!) is a much loved and highly anticipated penultimate act of the Conference. All of the conferees, staff, and faculty are invited to supply a bit of entertainment. Not everyone chooses to perform, but no one chooses to miss the cabaret; it is simply too much fun. This year’s cabaret was exceptional. What is normally a hilarious and raucous event was also this year a testament to the phenomenal talent working in small, rural parishes. Our breath was stolen from us in equal measure by laughter and stunned appreciation of the gifts and talents we had only begun to be aware of in the course of the week. At play in performance on the final night of the Conference we had some insight into what we might achieve as sacred performers on Sunday morning.

just for jaz

This comes to us courtesy of consumerist.com. I saw this Jaz, and immediately thought of you.

By the way, what's for dinner?

crafty

This is what I did at work on Tuesday.

Well, I thought it was pretty cool. You gotta love it when they pay you to spend a significant portion of the day doing arts and crafts.

parable

There was a woman who loved children. She loved best the children in her own family: her own children, her nieces and nephews, the children of aunts and uncles, her cousins and their children. Next, she loved the children of her friends: those whom she knew so well they very nearly were family. Less, she loved the children on the other side of the world: the children she had never seen and would never meet, the children who spoke foreign languages and ate strange foods—if they had food at all, the exotic children whose experience and circumstance she could only hope to imagine. Last, she grudgingly loved the children of her neighbors: the juvenile delinquents who played in the streets, the brats who had temper tantrums in the market, the immature offspring who stank of dirt and sweat and childhood, the rug rats who squirmed in church, the adolescents who spoke rude words in loud voices. The woman loved children in this order. The people of God are like this woman. They love best themselves, for they are secure in their own righteousness. Next, they love those who closely resemble themselves, for surely they will be brought into the fold. Less, they love those who do not know God and those who know God in unimaginable ways, for they may be forgiven their folly. Last, they love those who are not same and are not other, for they require acceptance and refuse acquiescence, they remain present and resolutely apart. Thus were the people of God given this mandate: Love your neighbor as you love yourself.

ply the needle, mother

Lord, help me thread the needle
For my sight has almost gone.
Houses nearly shattered,
the fabric has been torn:
Lord, your bride is tired and weary
And her dress is none too clean.
But I’ll ply the needle, mother,
To mend your tattered seam.

Lord, help me work the needle
Warp and woof are pulled apart:
--doors flung off their hinges
and windows painted shut—
Lord, your children strive for faithful
But are often cruel and mean.
Still, I’ll ply the needle, mother
To mend your tattered seam.

Lord, help me hold the needle
For my joints are stiff and sore.
--brothers in the courthouse
and sisters gone to war!
Lord, my heart is near to breaking
And my fingers crack and bleed.
Still I’ll ply the needle, mother,
To mend your tattered seam.

Lord, help me drive the needle
Through this coarse and ragged cloth.
I can’t see the pattern;
the color’s all but lost...
Lord, please help me drive the needle
And I’ll help reweave the dream.
Then we’ll ply the needle, mother,
To mend your tattered seam.

Yes! We'll ply the needle, mother,
To mend your tattered seam.

bittersweet

I got invited to a party last week. I’d heard the plans being made around me, that is in my general vicinity, for the last few weeks and had done my best to tune them out. The whole thing was so clearly not my cup of tea. Then at the last minute I got invited. You know how there are some couples of which you like the one better than the other? That’s the couple that put this shindig together, and as much as I enjoy his company, she makes me nuts. Unsurprisingly, the invitation came from him. He called me up at the eleventh hour and asked if I’d do them a favor and join in. With some reluctance, I agreed. After I accepted, she wasted no time in letting me know that they had asked several other people, but no one else could make it so I was their last resort. Whoopee. Glad to know I rate the bottom of your list.

But I was in no way prepared for what actually happened. I showed up in the appointed place at the appointed hour only to find myself on a blind date with a former lover. For a moment, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of my lungs, my stomach dipped and twisted, and my heart, oh! my heart ached in that pleasant way it hasn’t ached in years.

I had no idea I still felt that way. I never really expected we’d meet again. Sure, I have fond memories and the occasional fantasy, but c’mon…really? In fact, in recent years I’d begun to wonder if it had ever been as good I remember it being between us. Time distorts recollections; the good becomes better, the bad becomes worse, and the bland and mediocre just recede into the distance until it is easy to convince yourself that while the good was fantastic, it wasn’t worth the pain that came later. You were smart to walk away when you did.

Still, there I was surrounded by strangers and casual friends--none of whom had the slightest clue that Pandora’s box had just broken open at their feet. It was astonishingly easy to slip back into the old routine. The easy gestures and teasing banter that flow so smoothly between us came back effortlessly. We slid in and out between the mingling guests, sharing our private jokes, slyly preening for one another, and testing the waters for new depths after all these years. We fit together like flesh and bone, like surf and shore—move and countermove playing against one another in a seduction that until that moment I believed no longer held any lure for me.

It shocks me now to think that I ever thought anyone was unaware of what was between us. I don’t know how I ever managed to convince myself that this was a private thing that, if not exactly secret, was knowledge held only by a select few. Naïveté or youthful self-absorption convinced me that I could hide the bright light of our passion, mask or smother it, or simply disguise it as something else entirely. It shocks me more to realize that I had persuaded myself that the flames burned out at least two lifetimes ago. It stuns me to learn that the smoldering embers awaited nothing more than to have the flue opened and new air rush in.

We played our flirtatious game never mentioning how or where we’d met. It was too quickly obvious we had a long and intimate acquaintance, and none of the others cared to admit it came as a surprise to them. Instead, a word would be dropped in my ear in passing. “Wow! I had no idea…it looks like you’ve found a new interest…really suits you…I’ve never seen you like this.” And then from my reluctant hostess, “I’m so glad you’re here. We wanted you all along.”

At the last, I began to feel naked, exposed, and then I slowly shattered into tainted pieces. Those deceptions and lies, they were a big part of the reason I walked away before. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t build my life in this sea of duplicity. Yet here I was once again at sea and this time without anchor or rudder, star or compass, and all around me the siren’s call, “You look fantastic…you’re the best…wanted you all along…yes, yes, just like that…so natural, so right…I love the way you…really good…beautiful…the best.”

What a fool I am! So easily seduced by my own vanity, so quickly convinced of my own allure. For a moment I once again believed that this was a private game we played, rather than a spectator sport. In the venomous embrace of nostalgia I forgot for a moment that our every kiss and every argument had been played in front of an eager audience and that between us intimacy was the biggest lie of all. Idiot! Moron! Yet even as I castigated myself for my stupidity, blood pumped hotly through my veins tempting me to taste just a bit more of that delectable poison, to take just one more bittersweet drop upon my tongue.