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We visited St. Peter’s Oakland today, this first Sunday in September, the sun a September sun, warm as though still holding summer but cooled with a brisk breeze.  The Bay Area is clear this Labor Day weekend, the sister towns spread beneath a dome of blue.  The air reminds me of going back to school in the fifties, those first days of early rising, skirt and sweater donned, saddle shoes shined, a boiled egg washed down with fresh/frozen orange juice, the walk up the hill to the bus stop carrying the stack of books in the crook of my elbow, close to my heart.  The days were shortening, and soon we would be rising in the dark.

Before the opening procession moved up the aisle, the organist played the melody of that old childhood hymn, “I love to tell the story…” and I smiled.  For I had been working feverishly on my story all week with my OakTara editor.  Sometimes God’s timing is so perfect, it astounds me.

And for the Offertory we sang (for the third time this summer) my favorite hymn, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, early in the morning my song shall rise to thee…”  Boulder First Pres, St. Thomas’, and now St. Peter’s.  Such joy!

Father Pomroy preached on the Good Samaritan, the Gospel for today, Luke 10, the well known parable Jesus told about the priest and the Levite who did not help the wounded man on the side of the road, but the Samaritan, a man from a group scorned by the Jews, stopped to help.  It is a story told in answer to the question, “If I must love my neighbor, then who is my neighbor?”  The answer is, of course, everyone, but most particularly those with whom we have contact.

But our preacher shed light on another aspect of this tale.  The lawyer who asked the question was looking for a “loophole,” a narrowing of commitment, a way to get around Christ’s commandment of love.  Christ didn’t offer him a loophole.  Just so, there are none in Christianity.  We must believe it all, recite it all, live it all, give all of ourselves.  There is no halfway, no being lukewarm as St. Paul says.

I was grateful for Father Pomroy’s words, for it is this whole legacy of faith that I have been immersed in telling.  It is this legacy, as practiced by our Anglo-Catholic community, our Anglican Body of Christ, that forms the inheritance in my third novel, Inheritance.

I was grateful too that Inheritance is now on its way to the printers, and from there to Amazon, and from there (and other merchants) into the hearts and minds of a few friends and fans.  The book cover is a scene taken from Glastonbury, where Joseph of Arimathea planted his flowering staff and the beginnings of Christianity in England took root.

And today, in St. Peter’s, I saw some of the flowering of that staff planted two thousand years ago.  Thanks be to God.

www.SaintPetersOakland.com; 10:00 Sunday Mass, 6113 Lawton.

We visited Saint Thomas’ Anglican Church in San Francisco today, driving once again from the valley sun into the misty fog enshrouding the City by the Bay.

Saint Thomas’ is a small church, one central aisle, a simple stone altar with a French tabernacle in the center.  It probably seats around eighty souls, one hundred if we squeeze them in.  The sage green tiles and white painted walls that arch to a vaulted ceiling with skylights remind me of a Tuscan chapel.  It is a bright space, even on a gray day like this, and the pretty country Madonna and Child on the pedestal on the Gospel side is a contemplative one, gazing over us.  Yellow flowers bunch in a vase at her feet, next to a flaming blue votive.  Large bouquets of white and gold and fuchsia stand on classic pedestals on either side of the altar.  A crucifix rises above the tabernacle, reminding us of God’s great sacrifice and great act of redemption, of life and love.

From a small choir loft over the narthex entrance four or five voices join and soar to sound like twenty, and our organist trills jeweled notes through the air.  The brisk tempo of the hymns and the liturgy call us to join the great dance, to fly with the angels in this luminous sanctuary.

Our good Deacon McNeely preached on the healing of the man who was both deaf and dumb (Book of Common Prayer Gospel reading for Trinity 12, Mark 7)  Not only could this man not hear, but he could not speak.  His friends brought him to Jesus, and Jesus said, “Ephphatha,” that is, “Be opened.”   The first words the man heard were from Jesus Christ.  The first words were, “Be opened.”  And “straightway his ears were opened and the string of his tongue was loosed, and he spoke plain.”  (Mark 7)

Can we hear?  Do we speak?  Are we deaf and dumb?  Do we simply hear the Word of God for our own benefit, another product to consume?  Or do we speak of God’s great acts too?  Are we opened or are we closed?  Are we alive or are we dead?

Such a simple choice.  Such an important one, I thought.  To be open to God.  To be open to hear and to be open to express him in our lives.

I received the bread and wine, Christ’s Body and Blood, in the Eucharistic sacrifice, the great action celebrated at the Holy Table by a priest in the succession of Saint Peter, dating back through two thousand years.  I stood with the rest of my parish family, the Body of Christ, my palm open to receive the Host, the Son of God.  I stood with all other Christians in time, open to God’s power.

In that moment of union, I could hear, see, taste, touch, the presence of Christ.  My tongue was loosed.  “Thanks be to God,” I prayed.

As I work on the last edits of my third novel, Inheritance, I pray that God will guide me, loose my mind and heart, as I choose the words to speak of his glorious acts, in the past, the present, and the future.

Saint Thomas’ Anglican Church, 2725 Sacramento St., San Francisco,http://www.anglicanpck.org/, Sunday Mass, 10:00 a.m.

We left the sun of the valley, drove west through the Caldecott Tunnel, and emerged into foggy Oakland.  The change in temperatures during the summer still surprises me – and I grew up in this area – for there is often a 20-30 degree drop from the Walnut Creek area to San Francisco.  Oakland is on the way, and sometimes the fog that enshrouds San Francisco is halted in its journey east by the East Bay Hills and hovers over nearby Oakland.

In the valley we are protected from those cooling temps, for good or ill, for sometimes they rise  to triple digits and we wish for the San Francisco summer fog.  But the cry, “It’s winter in August,” is a familiar one from Berkeley, Oakland and other towns around the Bay.  A warning to San Francisco tourists!  Leave the shorts at home and pack a sweater or jacket.

Saint Peter’s Oakland was quiet today, the service sedate, thoughtful, serious, as we approach the end of summer and the beginning of fall.  The mood prompted reflection, and I listened closely to the preacher’s words, wondering what God wanted to say through him to me.

He preached on the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican, a story told by Jesus, illustrating, I believe, the dangers of pride.  The Pharisee prays with great dignity and arrogance, for he has kept the law, he is better than others.  The Publican prays simply, have mercy on me a sinner.  Our Lord makes it clear which one goes to Heaven and which one does not.

It is one of those black-and-white stories that we don’t always want to hear.  We want to enjoy the shortsighted vision of moving through fog, cushioned by cultural mantras decrying falsehood and truth, lauding relativity and gray areas.  We do not want to stand in the sun for it might burn us, even blind us.

But we should recall that fog is cold.  The sun is warm.  The fog is blinding and isolating.  The sun is clarity and community.  The fog is death.  The sun is life.

I searched out my heart, looking for sins.  And I prayed, have mercy on me a sinner.  I want to be in the sun and see myself as I truly am.  I want to go to Heaven and see the face of God.

And with a scrubbed heart, and hopefully a renewed spirit of humility, I approached the altar.  I received the Body and Blood of Christ, thankful and joyous.

http://www.saintpetersoakland.com/; 6113 Lawton; Sunday Mass, 10 a.m.

My husband and I visited our youngest son and his family in Boulder, Colorado, this weekend and attended his First Presbyterian Church.

My father passed on to the next world many years ago.  He was a Presbyterian pastor, and I have many happy childhood memories of growing up in the church in Lafayette, California.  Choir.  Youth group.  Camping trips.  I remember the sanctuary, built in the fifties, the long, plain, raftered room, the first sanctuary.  Founded by my father, the church originally met in the local Park Theater, my father preaching in front of the big screen, and the Sunday School met in the Town Hall, creating classes with room dividers.  It was an important day when this first sanctuary building was finished and dedicated, although a much grander one would be built later, one that could be seen for miles from the hillside.

We sat, as I recall, on folding chairs, and faced a raised stage where my father sat to the side in his long black academic robe, waiting to preach.  When the time came, he moved to a lectern and wove a Gospel message of love through three good stories.  “Three good stories,” he would say, “is the secret to a good sermon.  Three points.  Three stories.”  He kept jokes and stories on index cards in a small file box at home.  We sang Holy Holy Holy, Lord God Almighty…

He was well loved, my father.  And he loved well.  I suppose it was easy for me to believe in a loving God the Father, having had such a loving father-on-earth.

So in Boulder on Sunday we sat with our son and his lovely wife and his own son, a precocious six-year-old, in the second pew of Boulder Presbyterian.  The immense sanctuary fanned up and around like a theater, with large video screens high on either side of the raised stage.  The church was packed, people taking seats in shiny oak pews, their feet resting on soft carpeting, some folks settling into an upper balcony ringing the room.  A choir angled in rows to the right of the stage.  High ceilings, a large cross on the back wall rising over greenery, a holy table with an open Bible, a cross, a chalice, a stemmed plate.  A baptismal font to the right, a lectern to the left. The simplicity was familiar, and I smiled when I saw the preacher sitting, waiting, in his chair behind the pulpit.

We began with Holy Holy Holy, Lord God Almighty, and my tears were near.  I prayed my thanksgivings for this moment when my past had, in some remarkable and blessed way, become my son’s present, and I was able to share it with him and his son as well.  I watched as the children sat on the steps of the chancel stage, gathered around the preacher for a lesson, my grandson sitting in the group, proud.

The children returned to their places in the pews, and the pastor preached to the adults.  He didn’t wear a black robe, but a neat jacket and tie.  He didn’t preach from the pulpit, but commanded center stage.  He told a few stories and left us with several memorable points.  The 23rd Psalm was all about redeeming the dark places in our lives.  We are not spared suffering, he said, but our trials are redeemed by Christ, and he is with us as we work through them.  Classic, orthodox Christianity, I thought, proclaiming the presence of God here and now, God’s powerful presence working through and in each of us.

We sang another hymn, following the words on the overhead monitors high above, and filed out, up the soft carpets, following the hundreds of worshipers to the large foyer.

Boulder First Pres wasn’t St. Thomas’ or St. Peter’s where the great Eucharistic liturgy is offered each Sunday in all of its dramatic glory, where the bread and the wine become Christ’s Body and Blood, nourishing us.  But I was grateful for the congregation’s clear belief in an active, loving God, one who lived with us, in us.  And I was grateful to be a mother, a grandmother, sharing this moment in time.

Gratia Deos

Our gentle valley is hazy with smoke this afternoon and I fear there may be fires farther east, this warm California weekend in August. The hills are brown and dry with temperatures climbing into the nineties.  A quiet Sunday afternoon, slow, this day of rest.

At St. Peter’s Oakland we heard a sermon on the Prodigal Son.  This rich tale of a son leaving his father to find his fortune elsewhere and returning a penitent beggar, holds so many images and epiphanies.  In this parable told by Christ, each key figure – the wandering son, the wise and loving father, the jealous brother – reflects our relationship with one another and with God.

The priest who spoke today, however, mentioned a quote I often recall from Oscar Wilde: “The judgment of God is to give us what we want.”  Versions ring in my memory: “Beware of what you pray for, you might get it.”  How true.  What do we really want?  What do, or should, we pray for?

I considered Thursday’s great Feast of the Transfiguration celebrating the scene on the Mount of Olives when Christ’s face was “altered, and his raiment was white and glistering,” as he prayed and spoke with Moses and Elijah. Peter , James, and John waited nearby (they actually fell asleep, something I would most likely do), waiting their Lord’s will.

Transfiguration by God.  Isn’t that what we want?  To know him, to do his will.   In the end, if God’s will is done, we shall be happy, we shall be changed, we shall be transfigured.  Our lives will be one glorified prayer, on earth and in heaven, past, present and future.  Each of us will be that person we are meant to be, that person we deeply yearn to be.  Our heart’s desire.

But how do we know God’s will?

So my thoughts return to the Church, and in particular, the parish of St. Peter’s Oakland, where the Body of Christ meet to do just that – to partake in the Eucharist, to worship, and to learn a bit more about God’s love for each of us, his desire to mold us into that people we are meant to be.  For an hour, we are no longer prodigal with our time, our lives, our goods, and we draw close to God.  We are transfigured.

August pulls us through summer.  School will soon start.  The seasons change our landscape and this natural transfiguration, one more reflection of God’s glory, draws us through time, to him.

St. Peter’s Church: Sunday Mass: 10:00, 6143 Lawton Ave., Oakland;http://www.saintpetersoakland.com/

We visited St. Thomas’ Anglican Church in San Francisco this morning, and were happy to see Father Seraphim of Nazareth House Apostolate in Sierra Leone (http://www.nazarethhouseap.org/) .  He knelt in the first pew in his long black robe, his beads looped at his waist, a man of prayer.  A black cap covered his silvery hair as he gazed upon the tabernacle on the stone altar, the red candle flaming to the side.

He stepped to the pulpit to preach, his eyes holding enormous love strengthened by boldness.  I had the sense he was deadly serious, and I had better listen.  Whenever Father Seraphim speaks, I am reminded of John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness.  Would he cry, “Repent!”

Today this holy man calls us to take our beliefs seriously, not half-way, not be lukewarm.  To be authentic, to be real.  This is the only way to live a meaningful life, a life to which we are all called.  How can we do this?  How can we be authentic, real, true?

Father Seraphim gave us three ways.

First, we obey what God tells us to do.  We do his will.  Sounds simple, but what is his will?  We are told to love God and our fellow man, as it says in Scripture, and we can count on Scripture because it is true.

Second, we resist the culture around us when it goes against God’s laws.  Sometimes you have to say no, in order to have a meaningful yes.  We want the Truth that sets us free and makes us real. We want to avoid that which hinders this process.

What is the Truth?  Christ.  God becoming Man, dwelling among us, and bringing us to him, to be with him.   Before Christ came, man suffered for the lack of the Truth.  After Christ came, man suffers for the Truth.  We cannot choose our obedience, but must say yes immediately, not counting the cost.  We shall have nothing to fear, for we shall not be counting the cost.  God will pick up the pieces.  But we must obey him.

At times we find ourselves at a dead end, feeling trapped.  This may be God forcing us to face our disobedience.  How have we disobeyed?  We turn to God’s commandments, that we are to love him and love one another.  To the Ten Commandments; to the cardinal virtues, the deadly sins.

So the third way we can be authentic and real is that we don’t give up.  We pick ourselves up and try again.  For the truth of God, of Christ, fills us, making us real.

I considered these simple words coming from this simple man of love.  In the end, all of theology is really quite simple – a search for Truth, an understanding of our world, the human condition.  But what Father Seraphim is saying, I believe, is that the truth of who I am, who I am created to be (indeed how I spend the rest of this day, this week, this month, my life span) is all found in Christ himself, and once we embark on a relationship with him we shall find a life of meaning, a life of joy.  We shall be authentic.  We shall be real.

How profoundly true.

Saint Thomas’ Anglican Church, 2725 Sacramento St., San Francisco,http://www.anglicanpck.org/ .

Our blog was lost for a few weeks.  Many apologies.  I’ve had to repost all the entries, and unfortunately don’t have copies of the “comments”.  Many thanks to my readers – those who posted, those who visit, those who continue to check out the site.  We should be a little more stable now.

Home now and will post on Sundays, then late September we head for Venice, Florence, and Paris…

We did indeed return with our candles and paper lanterns last night for the Marian procession.  It was an evening I shall never forget.  We joined a group forming behind banners bearing the name, Abbeyleix, an Irish group it seemed.  We thought they would be singing in English and we could sort of follow along. The thousands that joined us on that windy evening were quiet folks, the chairs carrying the crippled pushed by attendants, families of all sorts, young and old.  We began at the Basilica and moved up the Esplanade, singing our chorus triumphantly, Ave Maria.  The Lourdes tune is lovely, Ave, Ave, Ave Ma-ri-a, with a final accent on the last a.  With each Ave, the candle is thrust higher in the air.

Dark clouds were forming in the distance over St. Michael’s Gate, and the wind picked up, snuffing our candles.  A neighbor relit mine, again and again and I wondered how she kept hers going.  Finally, I held my candle up with the song, lit or not, my heart alight, my mind full of the moment.  We followed the crowd, singing and stepping slowly, moving forward in time, and somehow moving in faith too, with all these brothers and sisters, a great family.  We returned to the Basilica with all of its light and color, where final prayers were said.  By 10 p.m. the crowds dispersed quietly to their beds for a good night’s rest.

This morning we woke to heavy mist, nearly a rain, and umbrellas in hand walked through the old town of Lourdes, pausing at the sights of Bernadette’s life – the house where she was born, the cachot, former jail, where the family lived in poverty at the time of the apparitions.  The cachot was just like the pictures, and you can walk right in, see the fire place, the two windows, the white walls, the smallness of the space for a family of six.  I recalled she had asthma, and her mother worried, but I also recall theirs was a loving family, and the first years of Bernadette’s life, until this year of misfortunes when her father lost his job and they moved to the cachot, were happy ones.  Her father had been a miller and they lived in the mill, alongside the rushing River Gave.

We walked farther up into town to the parish church with its triple nave and stained glass depicting Bernadette’s life.  A woman was singing before the Reserved Sacrament in the north aisle, another group was reciting the rosary.

The Tourist Office across the street was helpful with maps and information.  Folks spoke English.

We headed back for lunch, the sun breaking through the wetness and scorching the air, and later ventured out again, the rain clearing, the skies brightening.  This time I carried my last two copies of Offerings, thinking to leave them with the Information Center, addressed to the English Chaplain of Lourdes, a Father Martin Moran.

But first we had one more offering of thanksgiving: placing flowers at the feet of Our Lady of Lourdes, who faces the basilica, anchoring one end of the Esplanade, the giant crucifix standing tall at the other end, Saint Michael’s gate, facing the crowds coming in.  We bought two pink roses outside the gate and placed them in the wrought iron fence surrounding Our Lady.  I said a Hail Mary and a prayer of thanksgiving.  We continued to the banks of burning candles, and placed our candles, purchased nearby, in the iron stands and prayed for our Church, our clergy, and our people in these difficult times.  Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

We then went to the Information Office in search of Father Martin.  A lovely lady behind the desk, Christina, came to my aid and phoned Father, and he soon arrived, greeting us with a smile and a handshake.  Father Martin Moran is a tall man, gracious and friendly.  He was most encouraging, taking my novel with thanks and chatting with us about Lourdes and the many ways folks are healed here.  “Everyone leaves changed,” he said, smiling.  And I could see that.

Father Martin suggested I take my second copy back into town to the English bookshop, run by the Griffins.  Which we did.

We walked back up the hill, crossing the river into town, up the rue de la Grotte, turning on the rue du Bourg.  There were several book shops on this quiet street, and we spotted the one with the folding sign outside that read “English Book Shop.”

The Griffins were most welcoming and accepted my little book.  I hope to send them a few  more copies, and wish them blessings with their store in these difficult economic times.  The shop is lovely, with icons and an excellent selection of books in English.  Wish I had spent more time there, although I tend to load my suitcase too readily when it comes to books and icons.  http://www.lourdes-books.com/

I thought my day was nearly perfect, and our last event in Lourdes was yet to come.

Pilgrims meet at the Grotto each day at 5 p.m. for the Eucharistic Procession.

Around 4:30 we walked toward the Grotto to say goodbye to Our Lady, the image poised on the ledge looking down upon the flaming candelabra, the pilgrims moving quietly (silence requested here) in a somber line along the cliff face, into the dark cavern where one can see Bernadette’s bubbling spring through a window in the floor.  Nearby the candles in the sheds were flaming too, and we passed the baths next, closing for the day now, and crossed the rushing river to the other side.  It was here groups were gathering, opposite the Grotto and the gothic basilica, its spires shooting into the afternoon sky.

The blue chairs carrying the sick and handicapped had their awnings pulled out to protect the patients from the sudden hot sun.  Many were grouped under the shade trees.  A gathering of clergy was forming near one of the modern halls on this side of the river.  Perhaps as many as a hundred priests in white robes with stoles waited quietly or listened to assembly instructions.  I guessed most were visitors, and each day a few leaders resident here in Lourdes would instruct their charges in the rituals of this procession.  I wondered how they would proceed, how the procession would proceed.

A canopy was carried by four priests, and soon, the assempled clergy moved to a white tented pavilion nearby where a large monstrance holding the Eucharistic Host was on the altar.  Many in the watching crowd genuflected, some kneeling on the hard pavement.  I did both for a time, then rose, for I do believe that God is in the Host, a reality sometimes difficult to fathom.  Once again I was glad for the help of ritual to deal with such a mystery, and I relied on custom to guide me.

They soon were singing a familiar Easter hymn, one from our Anglican hymnal, and I sighed my thanksgivings for the familiar tune, and joined in theAllelulia!  The procession, the Host carried solemnly, left the altar pavilion toward the waiting crowds with their banners and chairs.  The long swathe of white robed clergy followed the canopied Host, leading the congregation along the rushing river, across the stone bridge to the Esplanade.

It was a smaller group than the Marian procession, perhaps five hundred or so, and we filed toward Saint Michael’s Gate, then crossed the Esplanade to the other side.  This was a different route, I thought, then saw that we were descending into a massive underground chapel.  I had seen pictures of the Chapel of Pius X, but had not visited.

We walked into the earth, and I gasped.  The space was huge, like a football stadium, with an altar in the center raised on a dais.  Like theater in the round, the congregation was assembling everywhere, and I could see many had arrived before us.  The space seats 10,000 and it was nearly full.  I soon sensed my mouth had dropped open and my eyes were bulging.  We found seats.

The clergy had taken their places to the side of the raised dais and a few gathered around the Host in the monstrance now on the central altar.  Large video screens in the congregation gave us closeups of what was going on.  There were readings and songs and finally Adoration, as we sang the wonderful Saint Anselm’s hymn, Now we before him bending… , a second familiar tune, one which I used in Offerings in the scene of Adoration at Sacre Coeur in Paris.

God is good, I thought, weaving together my loose ends, and Mother Mary has watched and loved and cared for me like a good mother.  I was grateful.

Last  night we joined the 9 p.m. procession, as the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary were sung in six languages, the “lanugages of Lourdes.”

The crowd moved slowly, some ten abreast, with handicapped in wheelchairs, children stepping solemnly, elderly with knowing faces, most carrying candles protected by small paper lanterns purchased in town.  Each mystery – each scene from the sorrowful period of Christ’s life, his Way of the Cross – was read in six languages, broadcasted through loudspeakers along the oval esplanade route that would lead back to the Basilica.  We said an Our Father and sang the Ave Maria chorus, candles lifted into the air.

It was still light when we began, but by the end of the route, about an hour later, the flames began to light up the dark.  As we walked I looked at the faces of my neighbors.  They held purpose and devotion to be sure, but there was also a sense of amazement that they were there with so many like-minded Christians.  Many of us live in this world as strangers, sojourners, and to have this sense of “solidarity,” of union with our fellow believers, outside in the balmy air, processing and taking part in praise, strengthens us.  To be together like this, to sing toether, to walk together, to pray together en masse, uplifts us, gives us courage and joy.

The first night we watched the procession from the sidelines, dazzled.  Last night  we took part in the procession as individuals, and thus joined the group at the end of the line, an Italian group, I believe.  We hadn’t located our lanterns yet, so we raised our hands to God.

Tonight we shall return after our supper, this time candles and lanterns in hand and join the throng of praise, song, and lanterns lifted high.
Will we recite the Glorious Mysteries?  I do not know.

Ave Maria, Gratia Deos.