Sparrowman’s Perch

I will be toasting this day at 6:06 pm with several buddies from work at our local brew pub.  

I’m a bit tired at hearing that this is the devil’s day since the 666 number is referred to in Revleation 13:18.

"Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six."  (KJV)

Okay, all of you who get worked up with this stuff for this day, do note that Revelation says it’s the number of a man–not a day!  More importantly, this man already existed and his name was "Nero".  It also could have referred to Caligula.  Revelation was the lastest written material of the New Testament and it’s situation in life (sitz-im-leben) was more than likely during the time of major persecutions of Christians; hence, the code-like messages for a particular community (or communities) for a particular time.

I don’t have time or patience at present to get into Biblical interpretation, but further info on this book and "the rest of the story" can be found at this link–which is very similar to what I was taught and currently believe:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/features/biblemysteries/revelation.shtml

The Wikipedia actually gives some rather informative stuff:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Number_of_the_Beast_(numerology)

Ďakujem – It is Slovak for “Thank you.”  Perhaps I should use vd’ačnost which means gratefulness or gratitude.  Vdacny is also a good choice as it means thankful or grateful.  Why Slovak?  It is actually a part of me that I unfortunately do not acknowledge much these days.  I miss some of the traditions from back home that involved Slovak culture.  It is a string from a spider web that holds me to something solid, something from my past.   Life and time take me farther away from “home-ness” (as an existentialist might put it).     

Why a category for “thank you”?  I need to do this and to do it on a daily basis—to be thankful.  Many of you know that I am a “recovering melancholic”.   I do not in any way wish to demean any who are actual recovering alcoholics or to diminish the intensity of those who struggle with that particular addiction.   Depression is something like alcoholism though. 

Cognitive psychology shows us that in many ways “we are what we think”—a kind of paraphrase of Descartes cogito ergo sum, “I think, therefore, I am.”  Those of us who are recovering melancholics must daily be vigilant in realizing how we can develop certain attitudes concerning ourselves can lead to myriads of negative thoughts.  Hence, we then look at ourselves in the mirror like some mutant version of the Saturday Night Live character of Stuart Smalley and say, “I’m not good enough; I’m not smart enough, and dog-gone it; therefore, everyone hates me….”  

I like saying that I’m a melancholic since it has romantic or colorful connotations.  Picture a bohemian artist-type sitting in a pub along the Seine, drinking cognac, holding his head, staring out the window and periodic scribbling something on paper something that could be the world’s next big novel or a plan for a mural or some other incipient opus magnus.   “Depression” connotes that something is “wrong”, it is clinical, it yells for some sort of pill to correct a disease.  I, like anyone else who has come to accept this condition, realize that, yes, this is not a good thing, but I can still, nevertheless, be productive and still somehow creatively provide something positive to both myself and to society.   Lincoln, Dickens, Churchill, and Beethoven are the most notable folks who I admire who were melancholic.  

However I digress a bit here.  It is because of the above that I daily must find something to be thankful for and to.  It helps with keeping negative attitudes in check.  Secondly, I am a Christian and I am reminded in the New Testament that “in everything give thanks, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus" (1 Thes. 5:18). (Notice the preposition “in” and not “for” here).  Other places in the New Testament echo this notion.   My faith (“faith” which is the “assurance of things hoped for” –Heb 11:1) has kept me strong and fixed in times when I become my own worst enemy.  Many of you know that I am a literal conglomeration of two of the most downtrodden peoples of the world, Slovaks and Blacks.  I’m sure there is some Jewish in there somewhere, seriously.  Those folks survived and persevered through the centuries due to faith.  I must do so as well.  It is a big string on that aforementioned spider web for me.  I remain strong and secure despite myself.

So, I must express my thanks, my d’akujem, to the Transcendent who I still feel I can call “Daddy”.  I must acknowledge the fact that I do have good things in life.  That life is worth living.  This expression needs to be done, daily.  I need to cogitate this fact, daily.  Cogito ergo sum.

Therefore, here below is my first d’akujem for this blog.

I am indeed so extraordinarily very thankful for people who love and like me for who I am, who challenge me, who put up with me, who think of me enough even to give me automobiles (three of you), who give me chances, who have helped me financially, emotionally and vocationally or who were just there to listen to my melancholic laments.  Some of you were present in the past and not much now, some now and not much in the past, some now and then, but definitely were present.   You have helped form and mold me, made me feel welcomed and accepted.  Chances are if you are reading this, you are one of those folks.   My friends are a very diverse sort: political liberals and conservatives, agnostics and devote Christians, scientific and theological thinkers, hard workers, creatives, old and young, among others.  

The words of Sirach (an Old Testament book considered apocryphal in Protestant circles) sums up my feelings.
“  A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter; he who finds one finds a treasure.
   A faithful friend is beyond price, no sum can balance his worth.
   A faithful friend is a life-saving remedy, such as he who fears God finds.”

Ďakujem to the Transcendent who is dear.  Ďakujem to you, too, who is and are dear.

I need to be thankful for something every day.
 
–your friendly neighborhood Sparrowman.
 

I was back in my hometown this past weekend and I decided to go to the main Service of the local Episcopal Church.  It was only in the past couple of years that I’ve actually gone to that particular church.  As a kid I actually grew up in the Catholic Church literally just a block away.  Eventually as a teenager I went to the Slovak Catholic church literally a block away from that one.  (They had a good youth ministry and a great priest!)  So this Episcopal miniature castle-like building is kind of like new territory for me. 

Someday I’ll write about how, as I kid, I’d look at any of those interesting religious buildings and ask my mum, “Hey, let’s go there…!”  I always wanted to know “What goes on in there?”  One place in particular stood out for me—I remember a small, dark brick synagogue.  They always had a big sign out in front that I thought said “Save Soviet Jewelry” and wondered why Russian rings or necklaces had such special value.  Eventually I learned a bit more about “Jewry” and why we should pay more attention to the plight of Jewish people in the Communist regime.  That building was torn down long ago.  The gray castle-like structure was my destination.  Plus, I am Episcopal and the choice was obvious for the day.

As I was en route I was following a couple of riders on their Harleys or “hogs” as some call them.  I think that Pennsylvania rescinded the helmet law since one of the guys just wore a black bandana on his head.  Both had the standard biker ware.  These guys were “real”.  Both the riders and their bikes looked like they had become one with the roads in which they rode, worn yet sturdy.  We followed the same road for quite a while.  I flippantly said to myself, “hey, they’re probably going to St. Stephen’s…”  It was a nice morning.  I figured they were out for a good ride elsewhere of course.  The stone tower with the battlements came into view on my left.  The bikers turned left.  I turned left.  Hmmm.

Sure enough, they pulled into the parking spaces right in front of the church.  A whole bunch of other bikes were lined up.  Black leather mingled with Sunday casual.  (Catholics and Episcopalians do Sunday casual.  Baptists do “Sunday best”).  My original flippant thought turned into amazement and curiosity.  For me, I’m glad I chose this place at this time since “this”, whatever this was, was different.  What was to go on in here today?

Going in was just the same as anywhere else.  Have a friendly greeting, get handed a bulletin ”program” and find a pew.  I saw a section of roped off pews in the back that had a small sign that said “reserved”.  Eventually those seats would be filled by our biker visitors.  This disturbed me.

I now go into my Siskel and Ebert (now Roper) liturgical critique mode.  Some folks might find such a bit “sacrilegious” but in actuality, those of us who have worked or work in churches do this amongst ourselves, especially those of us in more liturgical oriented churches.  Anyway.  Why?  Why did our biker visitors have to be cordoned off in their own section?  There was plenty of room with the rest of us.  Plus, in the back?  Usually those reserved signs are on the pews in the front of the church.   I’m a visitor, should I not have my own particular section off to the side somewhere as well?    I come from the liturgical and theological understanding that in and with the congregation (at least symbolically in seating), there should be no divisions.  Only with weddings and “first communions” could there be any and mostly that is due to logistics or liturgical choreography.

The organ music intoned the first hymn and the processional began.  Time to get down to the nitty gritty.  Funny though.  The organist started off with the recessional hymn.  Someone calmly ran up and told the organist.  He stopped.  Processional stopped.  Now the right one began.  Processional resumed.  I’ve not seen that happen before.

The rector (e.g., “pastor” in US Episcopal churches) gave the usual introductory things, remarks and prayers.  He felt the need to do a “sermonette” though, which is a big pet-peeve of mine in that the liturgy should be able to speak for itself and need no explanation, if done properly.   I discovered later that this was a good thing for the day.  Apparently the rector had a motorcycle when he worked in the steel mills and talked about how he used to drink and ride until one day he “went down”.   Unfortunately he didn’t have any protective leather so he got scraped up a bit to say the least.   He went to work the next day and found that the boss noticed him moving stiffly.  “Are you okay to work?”  “Yeah, no problem.”  The boss put him in some area shoveling salt out of rail cars.  “Purgatory does exist and it’s not what or where you think” he remarked.

I’m not sure how much of a biker he actually was.  From what I know from my previous times there of the rector, he used to be a substance abuser and now tries to help and minister to those who have similar problems.  That is definitely a special and much needed calling, especially in what’s left of that town. 

Anyhow, I don’t like “tailored” liturgies in that I find them too patronizing.  A lector tried to make some commentary geared toward our visitors about the scripture lesson she was to read.  Uggg!  That is not the job of the lector for one thing.  I’m not a biker and I felt like saying “get real”.  The phrase she used in her diatribe at one point “…and for you bikers out there…” still scrapes my memory like untrimmed fingernails slowly pulling over a chalkboard. 

Someone else and not the rector did the sermon.  He had an excellent voice and diction but read something more akin to an exegetical academic essay.  Those things are logical, point-by-point, interesting to read but boring to listen to.   Day-dream mode takes over.  Mind goes into zone and thinks about other things.  Memories stirred.  However, Episcopal and Catholic churches are usually designed so there are enough interesting things to look at so the mind doesn’t stray too far off as to why you’re there in the first place.

Those of you who were young church-goers probably remember some time in which a mass, service, or some other event was geared toward you by those who have no idea who “you” were.  They wanted to “rap”, “get down”, be “cool” with you.  Let’s break out the guitars and play “kum-by-yah”.  (sp?).   There are even folks out there who think that if we have some Black folks in the congregation then we need to start singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” or some sort of Gospel.  From my own Episcopal or Catholic perspective, if they are there, perhaps they like the music, style, etc. of what is already there.  Liturgies, like people, work best when they are honest and express themselves within their own communal experiences.  I preferred listening to an old priest who basically said stuff like “life is hard and we all have our own crosses to bear” than to someone who wants me to rap with my buddy, Jesus.   That’s just me, though.

This “biker service” brought those memories back.  I commend that church for trying to reach out to this group.  They had a blessing of the motorcycles afterwards using an Episcopal equivalent of holy water.   I wish the rector had given the actual sermon since I’ve heard others of his in the past.  No liturgy is perfect or done perfectly since none of us are perfect or live perfectly.  But I do believe that this “work of the people” (what liturgy literally means) should lead us to the Higher Realities and for the true worship which comes from within.