The Non-"Gift" of the Father's Day Cuisinart
The Refectory Manager dropped with emotional exhaustion on the bed. Late afternoon yesterday, Saturday. Somehow, a fitful sleep commenced. But he sensed his cell phone vibrating, ringing, and was jarred back to real space and time.
It was his daughter. She calls frequently. It is almost always things of work and their common profession that are discussed. And as the call was nearing its end, in her sheepish little voice, she confessed that she had not bought her father a Father’s Day card or gift. Would he understand? Would he forgive her?
And later he found a short little e-mail from her, full of “Almost One-Liners.”
Health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die.
There are two kinds of pedestrians: the quick and the dead.
The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.
Who was the first person to look at a cow and say, "I think I'll squeeze these dangly things here, and drink whatever comes out?"
Who was the first person to say, "See that chicken there? I'm gonna eat the next thing that comes outta its butt."
If quizzes are quizzical, what are tests?
But the non-gift that this father did receive this season was the Cuisinart that expediently made pate of his heart. So thoroughly emulsified was it that he was incapable of writing. And there was no healing. For he must write to experience healing. And the operation of the Cuisinart has complicated and convoluted instructions. And all of the ingredients could not be considered “kosher.”
On a previous weekend, sitting in his church, he had lit candles of “joy and sorrow.” It is a symbolic ritual whereby parishioners can express a joy or sorrow, either silently or at that special time in the service, shared with the congregation. He had lit three candles. One for him. One for himself. One for them. His heart was lead. And lead pate is a heavy spread. During the service, the candle for “them” had somehow gone out. The lead pate solidified.
And in that same church a week ago, the topic of the service was “Repetition.” Those things in their very existence on which repetition is the essence for all aspects of their lives. The story of an injurious chapter in the church’s recent history was alluded to , but how healing was now taking place with the repetition of covenant, commitment, communication amongst the congregants. And the word “trust” was used in a repetitious manner. And the thought of “trust” now jammed those Cuisinart blades. Mercifully, that thing was coming to jarring stop. For it struck him with an epiphany vision that the central core of the word “trust” is “us.” And without trust, there is no us. Without us, there is no trust.
And the postlude was the increscent repetition of heartbeat. Members of the congregation invited to come forward, go to the back, to collect an instrument of rhythm, and repeat the incessant rhythm of the human heart . . . for nearly five minutes of unrelenting repetition . . . and then the signal to let it rest . . . and finally the solo heart beat of a solo drum . . . expressing the solo commitment of a solo congregation . . . and then the silent internal resonance of the solo beat of a solo congregant’s solo pate of solo frozen heart.
And today . . . in that special place of a sacred worship service, another conjunction unfolded.
As he entered the front entrance of the church grounds from the street, a certain flag with a certain brilliance of a certain spectrum of colors was proudly mounted on the decorative retaining wall.
The prelude consisted of canned music . . . some rock band from some non-parallel universe. The likes of which he had never experienced in the sacred space of worship. A handsome young man went forward, expressed collective appreciation to his father, to all the fathers, to all the father figures as he lit the chalice to commence the worship experience. But the service was not a gay service. It was not a Father’s Day service. It was a day to celebrate youth. A lay-led service by and for the youth of the church . . . in their experience as seekers.
A child-like person moved to the podium. A pre-pubescent boy from “Leave it Beaver” era. But there was something about the conformation of the front the tee-shirt. And then she told her story. A story of her search for her soul-mate and for her Soul-Mate. And a beautiful story it was.
Then from deep within the hymnal, a song with the catchiest of addictive melody and rhythm, repetition all over again,
Guide my feet
While I run this race.
Guide my feet
While I run this race
Guide my feet
While I run this race,
I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Hold my hand
While I run this race.
Hold my hand
While I run this race
Hold my hand
While I run this race,
I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Stand by me
While I run this race.
Stand by me
While I run this race
Stand by me
While I run this race, I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Search my heart
While I run this race.
Search my heart
While I run this race
Search my heart
While I run this race,
I don’t want to run this race in vain!
He had taken his tablet pc to church with him. Hoping for a desperately sought e-mail. But in that service he felt this essence of conjunction, like something was happening. He was furiously writing on the screen surface, the contents of an e-mail that would be quickly sent, describing what was happening to him in the spirit of that sacred service.
And when the same rock group, something about the Gimmee Gees or something, finished a screamingly horrific rendition of that old folk song of the 60’s, The Times They are a Changin’, as the postlude, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
And a distinguished lady sitting behind him asked him of his computer.
The conversation was pedestrian at first. But he sensed it was OK to share a little of his short history in the church . . . told her that he came because of people like that young lady from "Leave it To Beaver," and how open and affirming this church had helped him to feel. And she said that she and her partner used to come to this church. And she told me of the injurious chapter . . . and that her partner still has not healed, but they now want to come back because they sense the healing that has and is taking place in that congregation.
And several gay people congregated together for a few moments after the service.
And the healing is continuing.
And the Cuisinart has it’s blades jammed.
And the “us” is being put back into “trust.”
And that man seeks to be a quick pedestrian.
And frozen pate of emulsified heart is not delectable to quick pedestrians.
And quick pedestrians care little of the depth of things.
And a father who is gay has gotten rid of that Cuisinart “gift” of destruction.
And there is a sense that health is healing and that healing is the slowest possible rate at which one can die.
The Refectory Manager
It was his daughter. She calls frequently. It is almost always things of work and their common profession that are discussed. And as the call was nearing its end, in her sheepish little voice, she confessed that she had not bought her father a Father’s Day card or gift. Would he understand? Would he forgive her?
And later he found a short little e-mail from her, full of “Almost One-Liners.”
Health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die.
There are two kinds of pedestrians: the quick and the dead.
The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.
Who was the first person to look at a cow and say, "I think I'll squeeze these dangly things here, and drink whatever comes out?"
Who was the first person to say, "See that chicken there? I'm gonna eat the next thing that comes outta its butt."
If quizzes are quizzical, what are tests?
But the non-gift that this father did receive this season was the Cuisinart that expediently made pate of his heart. So thoroughly emulsified was it that he was incapable of writing. And there was no healing. For he must write to experience healing. And the operation of the Cuisinart has complicated and convoluted instructions. And all of the ingredients could not be considered “kosher.”
On a previous weekend, sitting in his church, he had lit candles of “joy and sorrow.” It is a symbolic ritual whereby parishioners can express a joy or sorrow, either silently or at that special time in the service, shared with the congregation. He had lit three candles. One for him. One for himself. One for them. His heart was lead. And lead pate is a heavy spread. During the service, the candle for “them” had somehow gone out. The lead pate solidified.
And in that same church a week ago, the topic of the service was “Repetition.” Those things in their very existence on which repetition is the essence for all aspects of their lives. The story of an injurious chapter in the church’s recent history was alluded to , but how healing was now taking place with the repetition of covenant, commitment, communication amongst the congregants. And the word “trust” was used in a repetitious manner. And the thought of “trust” now jammed those Cuisinart blades. Mercifully, that thing was coming to jarring stop. For it struck him with an epiphany vision that the central core of the word “trust” is “us.” And without trust, there is no us. Without us, there is no trust.
And the postlude was the increscent repetition of heartbeat. Members of the congregation invited to come forward, go to the back, to collect an instrument of rhythm, and repeat the incessant rhythm of the human heart . . . for nearly five minutes of unrelenting repetition . . . and then the signal to let it rest . . . and finally the solo heart beat of a solo drum . . . expressing the solo commitment of a solo congregation . . . and then the silent internal resonance of the solo beat of a solo congregant’s solo pate of solo frozen heart.
And today . . . in that special place of a sacred worship service, another conjunction unfolded.
As he entered the front entrance of the church grounds from the street, a certain flag with a certain brilliance of a certain spectrum of colors was proudly mounted on the decorative retaining wall.
The prelude consisted of canned music . . . some rock band from some non-parallel universe. The likes of which he had never experienced in the sacred space of worship. A handsome young man went forward, expressed collective appreciation to his father, to all the fathers, to all the father figures as he lit the chalice to commence the worship experience. But the service was not a gay service. It was not a Father’s Day service. It was a day to celebrate youth. A lay-led service by and for the youth of the church . . . in their experience as seekers.
A child-like person moved to the podium. A pre-pubescent boy from “Leave it Beaver” era. But there was something about the conformation of the front the tee-shirt. And then she told her story. A story of her search for her soul-mate and for her Soul-Mate. And a beautiful story it was.
Then from deep within the hymnal, a song with the catchiest of addictive melody and rhythm, repetition all over again,
Guide my feet
While I run this race.
Guide my feet
While I run this race
Guide my feet
While I run this race,
I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Hold my hand
While I run this race.
Hold my hand
While I run this race
Hold my hand
While I run this race,
I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Stand by me
While I run this race.
Stand by me
While I run this race
Stand by me
While I run this race, I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Search my heart
While I run this race.
Search my heart
While I run this race
Search my heart
While I run this race,
I don’t want to run this race in vain!
He had taken his tablet pc to church with him. Hoping for a desperately sought e-mail. But in that service he felt this essence of conjunction, like something was happening. He was furiously writing on the screen surface, the contents of an e-mail that would be quickly sent, describing what was happening to him in the spirit of that sacred service.
And when the same rock group, something about the Gimmee Gees or something, finished a screamingly horrific rendition of that old folk song of the 60’s, The Times They are a Changin’, as the postlude, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
And a distinguished lady sitting behind him asked him of his computer.
The conversation was pedestrian at first. But he sensed it was OK to share a little of his short history in the church . . . told her that he came because of people like that young lady from "Leave it To Beaver," and how open and affirming this church had helped him to feel. And she said that she and her partner used to come to this church. And she told me of the injurious chapter . . . and that her partner still has not healed, but they now want to come back because they sense the healing that has and is taking place in that congregation.
And several gay people congregated together for a few moments after the service.
And the healing is continuing.
And the Cuisinart has it’s blades jammed.
And the “us” is being put back into “trust.”
And that man seeks to be a quick pedestrian.
And frozen pate of emulsified heart is not delectable to quick pedestrians.
And quick pedestrians care little of the depth of things.
And a father who is gay has gotten rid of that Cuisinart “gift” of destruction.
And there is a sense that health is healing and that healing is the slowest possible rate at which one can die.
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 2:23 PM
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