September 22nd, 2011
by E. E. Cummings
maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)
and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and
milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;
and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and
may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.
For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
–Read at St. Lydia’s on September 18
September 16th, 2011
Here are some photos from our first full dinner church service at Redeemer last Sunday! See more on our Picasa page.
September 16th, 2011
by Denise Levertov
You have brought me so far.
•
I know so much. Names, verbs, images. My mind
overflows, a drawer that can’t close.
•
Unscathed among the tortured. Ignorant parchment
uninscribed, light strokes only, where a scribe
tried out a pen.
•
I am so small, a speck of dust
moving across the huge world. The world
a speck of dust in the universe.
•
Are you holding
the universe? You hold
onto my smallness. How do you grasp it,
how does it not
slip away?
•
I know so little.
•
You have brought me so far.
–Read at St. Lydia’s on September 11, 2011
September 16th, 2011
1 28-ounce can whole peeled tomatoes
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and halved through the equator
5 ounces unsalted butter
salt (to taste)
1. In a saucepan, combine contents of tomato can, onion halves, and butter. With lid off, simmer for one hour, periodically stirring to make sure nothing sticks and to break up tomato pieces with wooden spoon.
2. Discard the onion (save for use in a soup, perhaps). Season with salt to taste.
3. If you prefer a smoother sauce, hit it with an immersion blender for a minute. Serve over your favorite pasta.
–Prepared with our help by Heather at St. Lydia’s on September 11, 2011
September 14th, 2011
Read Emily’s latest sermon, “The Source of the River” on her blog, Sit and Eat. The sermon is part of a series we’re doing on water and baptism in September and October.
September 1st, 2011
by Denise Levertov
Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing
their colored clothes; cap and bells.
And then
once more the quiet mystery
is present to me, the throng’s clamor
recedes: the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed One, You still,
hour by hour sustain it.
–Read at St. Lydia’s on August 21
August 31st, 2011
Paul Thorson is a congregant in the St. Lydia’s community. This summer he moved to Minneapolis, MN to pursue ordination in the ELCA. He periodically sends us letters to update us on his progress and whereabouts; this epistle came to us by email on July 24, 2011.
Greetings to all of you!
I am biting my lip as I think of the retreat you were on…entirely out of jealousy. Many of you know I missed last year’s retreat and I’ve kicked myself repeatedly for doing so. You may or may not believe it, but there are few places I’d rather be than anywhere on retreat with Lydians.
First, I miss you…big time. I miss our shared time together on Sundays, the meetings we had during the week and the other activities we participated in as a community. Thankfully, I receive the updates from Rachel (who I sadly missed getting together with over the 4th of July weekend) and these are a source of joy for me. Of course, they were a source of joy for me when I lived in New York and they remain so for me now that I’m in Minneapolis.
There’s a band I really like called Hot, Hot, Heat (I’m not sure if they’re still a band or not but I do still love their music). Lately, the weather has made me think of them quite a lot. It’s not that the weather makes me think of their music but more that the weather makes me think of their name. I had many conversations comparing the climates of Minneapolis and New York (too many actually) and I must admit: as miserable as it has been here, I have a feeling it’s much worse out there. I feel for you all in the going down to the subway and the being on the subway. Yes, I remember the air conditioning. I also remember those empty cars that lifted my hopes only to find out the air conditioning chose not to work in those cars. I also remember that during rush hour, air conditioning on subways was all but inconsequential due to the unintentional and unavoidable physical closeness shared by all the rush hour riders. Eeeew!
If I haven’t mentioned it already, I really miss all of you. Things in Minneapolis are fine. There are wonderful things about being here and yet because I’m somewhat stationary (looking for work, no income, etc.) at the moment, I get a little restless now and then. Yes, I think it’s good for me to experience this. Yes, I look forward to income.
As I read about all of the changes happening with St. Lydia’s, it makes me smile and breathe a bit heavier; two things I think positive change should always so. It’s not always easy to know if change is positive but as Christians and as Lydian’s, that’s what making a decision is all about: searching from within, observing what is outside, coming to realize the lines are not as distinct as we might have thought and working through it together. I’m confident that the changes are ones that you (we) can live with and what’s more, we can live meaningfully with these changes.
I have been trying to visit church communities here in Minneapolis and because of my planning skills, this has been more difficult than it needs to be. Churches here start earlier in the summer, 10:30 – even 10:00 a.m. as I found out when I strolled in at 11:-05 only to find people exiting the sanctuary as I was feeling good about entering.
In some ways, my life contains this awkwardness. I feel as if I’m out of time with those around me. It doesn’t make for a painful experience but it lacks an ecstatic-ness that I often seek and rarely find. It does set my mind reeling though and in times like these, I’m better off if I can quiet my mind, which for me means, meditate(!), let things come at me and work through them rather than hoping for or attempting (nearly always unsuccessfully) to make them ecstatic.
Okay, I’ve already missed the retreat I hoped this letter would be a part of so I’m going to send this off and with it, much love.
Blessings, Paul
August 18th, 2011
by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
–Read at St. Lydia’s on August 14
August 18th, 2011
Greg Brown is a congregant at St. Lydia’s, and a Master of Divinity candidate at General Theological Seminary in New York City. He is in the process of ordination in the Episcopal Church. Greg shared this sermon on Psalm 137 with us on Sunday, August 14.
I have to start this with a confession: I had no complex process in choosing this Psalm. When Emily asked me to preach, and to choose a Psalm, this one jumped into my head immediately. Now we read or sing the Psalms a few of times a day at seminary, so I’ve heard them all. I didn’t want to choose 119 – absolutely huge. 117 (the shortest at two verses) doesn’t have a ton to go on… but 137, 137 is one of the few that stands out to me. I’ll be honest: it’s nothing high-minded; but this Psalm jumped into my head because it was my introduction to reggae in high school. But… when we crack it open, it’s an interesting, interesting story, something that I think might speak to us now.
One day my sophomore year, I was rooting around in my dad’s record collection, and among the Rolling Stones and Jimi Hendrix I found this crazy-looking album – island designs all over the jacket, men with huge, long hair smoking these funny big cigars and dancing. It was the soundtrack to the Jamaican movie The Harder They Come, probably the first reggae record in the world. I put it on my record player and was amazed, taken to another, beautiful place. On one track, the Melodians take Psalm 137 and…well, they put it to churchy-soulful music with intricate, tight harmonies. It’s weird, though – the music was beautiful, but in the words I could hear their sadness at being separated from a place they longed for; they were missing a much-loved place. “By the rivers of Babylon / there we sat down / and there we wept / when we remembered Zion…” So this Psalm is the only one that jumps out at me, time after time, and it’s good, useful for today.
Read the rest of Greg’s sermon here.
Listen to the Melodians’ version of Psalm 137 here.
Listen to Don MacLean sing the traditional round version of Psalm 137 that we sang at Jen’s house on Sunday night here.
Listen to a feistier gospel version of Psalm 137 by the Gospel Clefs here.
August 17th, 2011
For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
-2 Timothy 1:7
Dear Lydians,
Here we are in the middle. That beautiful and terrifying place where we are at our most open to all that God is unearthing in us. St. Lydia’s moving to a new place in Brooklyn, a place that we can begin to make home.
It’s been a full week of moving slowly but surely into relationship with the Church of the Redeemer: the people as well as the building. Sunday morning Rachel and I worshipped there, as the rain poured down outside. We sang and prayed and broke bread together. Monday night we met the Bishop’s Committee, and shared a gracious, honest, and hopeful conversation about what living together this building will look like. After the meeting, members of the congregation showed us all around, generously offering to move furniture to accommodate us, and showing us all those little tricks — where the light switches are and how to work the stubborn lock on the front door. There is a lot of excitement about what’s afoot.
Tuesday I packed all our boxes into a zipcar and drove them across the water to our new home. After we unloaded, Rachel and I sat on the floor in the middle of the Parish Hall and prayed about all about the fear and the possibility of this time. We asked to be reminded that it’s not us at the helm, but God. When we finished, I could imagine tables filling the Hall, covered in bright fabric and glowing with lit candles. I can see that this place will be our home.
Tomorrow I’ll pack a few things up into another rented car and head North for ten days of vacation. And Sunday all of you will gather together at our new home in Brooklyn, with Rachel and Daniel to guide you, and give our new home a good scrubbing!
There is a lot of work to be done as we settle in. I can tell you now that the state of the building will present a struggle for us during our time there. Sunday’s rain demonstrated to Rachel and I the extent of the damage: there were significant leaks in the Parish Hall and in the Pacific Street entryway. Next Sunday’s clean-up will do a lot of good, but there’s still painting and unpacking and building of shelving and trips to Ikea that will need to occur, all in conversation with the people of Redeemer. It might feel overwhelming at times, but we’ll get there.
The Episcopal Diocese of Long Island is planning an assessment of the state of the building, to take place in September, at which point we’ll know much more. For now, our job is to settle into our new home, to build a loving and generous relationship with the people of Church of the Redeemer, and begin welcoming our new neighbors to Dinner Church. My job is to continue to be in conversation with the Diocese about the state of the building and our needs.
Let’s be patient with one another and kind to ourselves as we make this transition. Let’s take things one step at a time. Let’s remember, as we sing so often, that what we need is here.
Sitting around a table with the people of Redeemer at our meeting Monday night, we all agreed that God is up to something on the corner of Fourth and Pacific. We may be in the wilderness for a little while, but we won’t be there alone.
Love,
Emily
