The Nicky Cruz Home

In 1968, I was fourteen years old and stuck in Skipworth Juvenile Hall in Eugene, Oregon.  At first the clean sheets and hot  meals were a relief from the streets, but the locks on the doors started messing with my head.  I needed to get out.

Some months before, I had been living with my cousin and her family.  I had taken my cousin’s mother’s Cadillac for a drive in the middle of the night.  Since it was my first time behind the wheel, I didn’t get too far before smashing it up.  Before I could be sent back to California to live with my dad and crazy stepmother for pulling such a foolish stunt, I disappeared and began living on the street.  I slept where I could and ate what I found.  One night the cops stumbled across me sleeping in the Neuman Center on the U of O campus.  Not sure what to do, the state of Oregon was holding me in custody until someone claimed me.  It had been three weeks.   No one was coming.   It was time to plan another way out of Skipworth.

Most of the kids that get cycled through Skipworth were gone in a day or even after a few hours.  Someone comes to get them out.  There’s no bail, and limited laws, regarding holding minors in custody.  Some kids are held for longer than hours or days for various reasons.  Those of us who remained for weeks instead of hours usually had something in common; we were the throw away kids.  We were the kids who got lost in an adult world of marriages and divorces, poverty and abuse.  No one was coming to get us.

Ralph was one of our small group of half a dozen throw away kids at Skipworth.  But now, Ralph was getting out.  He had hooked up with this Christian group. They were connected to a boy’s group home in Fresno, California called The Nicky Cruz Home for Boys.  It was run by Nicky Cruz, the prominent character in David Wilkerson’s The Cross and the Switchblade.  A home for throw away boys.  I wanted to get into that home.

I was confined to my room in my youth, which is another story for another time.  Those years of isolation became an unusual silver lining, as they made me a reader. Among the approved list of reading materials in my room was a bible.  I had read parts of the bible many times by that point in my life.  I knew the bible.

Prior to Skipworth, I had lived with my cousin’s family for two years.  They went to church three times a week.   Uncle Dub and Aunt Edith (my Grandmother’s sister) were the pastors.  They were old-fashioned Pentecostal fire and brimstone preachers.  I knew that church world. 

The church group was taking Ralph out to a local revival.  I convinced Ralph to ask them to take me along.  They agreed.  By the end of the night, I had run to the altar in tears, given my heart to Jesus, and everyone was singing and praising God all the way back to Skipworth.  I knew I was almost on my way to Fresno and The Nicky Cruz Home.

I’ve always been a Christian.  Not everything about the night of my “conversion” was contrived.  But much of it was.  I was trapped, and possibly even worse, in danger of being sent back to the home of an abusive stepmother.  This Nicky Cruz Home was a way out.  So, I did and said the right things.  

I was accepted into the Nicky Cruz Home for Boys.  Before leaving for Fresno, I was allowed out of the locked doors of Skipworth for one overnight at my cousin’s home.   They let me go to the drive in with friends to see 2001: A Space Odyssey.  We dropped some strong acid.  My cousin knew I was wasted when I got home, and reported this to the church group. 

My church sponsors were very upset as they drove me to the airport the next morning.  They assumed I had completely played them.   It was suggested that I was demonic, among other scripturally-based descriptions.  At the time I wondered if they were right.  They silently watched as I boarded the plane for Fresno.   It was a sad departure, but I was out of Skipworth Juvenile Hall.

When I arrived  in Fresno, Ralph had already been in The Nicky Cruz Home for about a month, so he helped me get settled.  There were usually about a dozen boys, with roughly half being Latino and half being Anglo.  Ralph had blonde hair and blue eyes, so I ended up bunking with the Anglos, which is just as well.  I pass for a Latino, but “no habla Espanol.”   I had a nice bunk and three meals a day.  Life was better.

The deal seemed to be that we boys were expected to speak to churches and youth groups.  We would tell our sad stories and how Jesus had saved us.  Then we’d sing some songs as they passed around an offering basket.   When we boys didn’t have a church gig, we were dropped off downtown with piles of tracks to hand out.  The only one I recall was “The Four Spiritual Laws.”  It boiled down to; God loves you, sin separates us from God, Jesus is the bridge, accept Jesus as Lord and Savior and be saved.   I’ve heard worse things pass for Christian theology, but this was fairly basic stuff, and not terribly controversial.

I did meet Nicky Cruz a few times. He would visit “his boys” once in a while.  Nicky was about five feet tall and five feet wide.  A big little man.  From what I saw, he seemed like the real deal.  For the most part, the staff seemed to be sincere Christians as well.  They were big young guys, looking much more like bouncers than social workers.    They were usually fair, even when breaking up fights and handing out discipline. 

Since we were now bunkmates, I learned more about Ralph.  He would become frightened sometimes, and elated for no reason at other times.  The house had a small prayer chapel.  One afternoon, when Ralph seemed to be having tough day, I pointed to the chapel and said, “Hey, let’s go get high.”  Having been a Pentecostal for a few years, I knew how to pray yourself into an emotional frenzy.   We visited the chapel to get high quite often over the next three months. After twenty minutes of screaming at God, we would emerge from the chapel giggling like we had just smoked the best Acapulco Gold.  Then we would walk to the store for a coke, and sneak a cigarette.  As we retraced our steps, we grabbed flowers and shrubs from front yards we passed and rubbed them on our hands to mask the tobacco smell.

Except for being paraded around as a fund-raising tool, I had no real problems with this group home.  I did not do any drugs while I lived there.  No fights, no arguments with staff.  I was actually starting to imagine that maybe I could be a real Christian one day.

Then September came.  I was told I had to get my hair cut and I had to go to school.  I refused.  Staff carried me to the van and escorted me into the barber shop.  My long locks, which had taken years to grow, were gone.  The next stop was the high school, where the bouncers ordered me to go in or they would drag me in.  I was done with the Nicky Cruz Home.  I wanted out.

  I walked in the front door of that high school, ran down the hall to the rear door, and made it back to the group home before the van.  Grabbed a bag and some clothes, and headed for the Interstate. Stuck out my thumb and was headed north in twenty minutes.  I was free again.

 

In Defense of Saliva Soaked Rags

I wore a mask last week when I took the Harley out.  A short ride, with no stops.  In the midst of this pandemic, my wife and I are being careful.

Wearing the mask on the bike wasn’t so bad.  I’ve worn something similar in cold weather to keep my face warm.  It does cut down on the number of bugs you eat.  But I hated wearing the damn thing.

Hate is a strong word.  But it is the term that fits, in this case.  I hate wearing a mask.  It reminds me of a very ugly chapter of my life.

My mother ran off when I was eighteen months old, which is another tangled tale I’ll save for another time.  When I was five, my father remarried.  Within a year, it was obvious that my new stepmother had serious mental health issues.

Unfortunately, I became one of her fixations in her deranged world.  A specific manifestation of her illness was revealed when she became convinced that I emitted deadly “germs,” and had to be isolated for the safety of the family.  I was confined to my room for the next five years.  When I had to leave my room to go to school, I was required to wear a surgical mask as I walked to the door, and deposit it in the bag by the door, where it would await me until I returned from school.  I never left my room unmasked.

My breakfast was left in my room every morning.  Dinner time was a bit more complicated.  Once the family had gathered around the dining room table, I would be called.  Wearing my mask, I would walk into the kitchen, where my dinner was waiting on the counter, which was as far away from the table as the kitchen allowed.  I was required to drop my mask and eat as fast as possible, as I stood at the counter across the room from my family. When I had finished dinner, the mask was raised to again cover my face, as I slowly retreated back to my room.

Sometimes when there were no clean surgical masks, she would tie an old t-shirt around my face.  This made it difficult to breathe sometimes, but since I could not leave my room, any strenuous play was not an option anyway.

When I was eleven, I was sent to live with relatives.  The masks disappeared, although the memory of those saliva soaked rags will never go away.  My ride on the Harley, sixty years later, brought back that bitter taste, and the painful memory it contained.  I hate wearing a mask. 

Having said that, I recently read that as many as 40% of people infected with the virus that causes COVID-19 may have no symptoms. But when they talk, cough or sneeze, they can still spread the virus to others in the form of droplets in the air. The mask traps larger droplets.  So, wearing a mask does seem to prevent spreading the virus.  Everyone needs to mask up.

I hate wearing a mask.  But, if it will help stop the spread of this deadly virus, I’ll wear the damn thing.

J.

The Adventure Begins

I have not checked my email or chanted a word for two weeks.  I am on vacation, which will conclude with my official retirement on March 1.   It feels very strange to suddenly be disconnected from that world.

But, the future is exciting.  Part of that future will include, I hope, a bit of writing.  I'm playing with the idea of using Fr. Jake for that.  The advantage is that I know this world.  The disadvantage is that, since I lost all my comments, this place has been dead.

But, since my topics will wander, perhaps the lack of my previous audience will prove to be a good thing?   We shall see.

My immediate plans are to read, and to sleep, whenever I feel like it.  Beyond that, I'm building a camper van.  I plan on rolling west as soon as it gets warm enough.  I've got five grandkids I haven't seen for much too long.  So I'm headed west to camp for awhile.   That's the first big project.

My wife and I are still in the process of boiling down three houses into one.  That is the other immediate project.  And I now have time for my Jersey grandkids, who are delightful!  That is also a priority.

So, let this new adventure begin!

J.

The Methodists and The Institute on Religion and Democracy

The IRD appears to be a major factor in the Methodists passing the Traditional Plan. Imagine that.

 You folks recall the IRD? They are funded by a bunch of fat cat extremists. Their original rallying point was Communism. People died because of their ugly tactics. They will deny it, of course. But ask them about The CEPAD Affair.

 Episcopalians have gotten to know the IRD quite well. They tried their tricks on us. If you want the whole sordid story, Jim Naughton's Following the Money is the best resource.

 After their shameful participation in The CEPAD Affair, IRD shifted to replacing the leadership of the mainline churches with their own extremist choices (actually, the choices of their Dominionist fat cat funders). IRD has had their eyes on the Methodists for a long time. Consider this conversation with Dr. Andrew J. Weaver, United Methodist pastor and clinical psychologist, from back in 2006:

You could easily call the Institute on Religion and Democracy "The Institute of Sex and More Sex". Because, if you Google homosexuality on their site, an incredible percentage of everything they do is a gay-bashing attack that works, and it really is fearmongering. To the point that the Ku Klux Klan, last summer, endorsed and encouraged on their site, one of the attacks that the Institute of Religion and Democracy made against the United Methodist group with over a dozen bishops attended, in celebration of gay and lesbian Christians. So their target is really fearmongering that turned, in this case, into the Ku Klux Klan endorsing them. That's the level of vitriol that is involved in these groups.

The IRD likes to stay cloaked. So, to push the Traditional Plan in the UMC, they created the Wesleyan Covenant Association. Here is what UM News had to say about them last November:

The Wesleyan Covenant Association began working on a contingency plan for a Methodist movement within or outside of The United Methodist Church — a plan that depends on the decisions coming from the 2019 General Conference. The group held its first global legislative assembly on Nov. 2 and passed four resolutions, including one that said adoption of the One Church Plan would be “untenable and would force us to leave.” The One Church Plan is one of several proposals that will be considered by the General Conference when it meets in February.

The IRD, under the mask of the WCA, threatened schism. Man, does this sound familiar. Here's a bit more from B. John:

For the few who may not know, the Institute on Democracy and Religion (IRD) recently formed the Wesleyan Convenent Association (WCA). It was obvious at the time, and now clear that was the precursor to forming a new denomination as it appears more and more likely the United Methodist Church (UMC) will endorse a plan at a special called General Conference in 2019 to remove exclusionary language from the Church’s Book of Discipline (BoD) against homosexuality. 

I need to provide some background on the IRD. The majority of IRD’s funding comes from the Smith Richardson Foundation. Donors include the Scaife Foundations, Scaife Family Charitable Trusts/Scaife Foundations, Roberta Ahmanson’s Fieldstead & Company, the Adolph Coors Foundation, and The Lynde and Harry Bradley Foundation. The IRD was created and is sustained by money from right-wing foundations and has spent millions of dollars over 20 years attacking mainline denominations. The IRD’s conservative social-policy goals include increasing military spending and foreign interventions, opposing environmental protection efforts, and eliminating social welfare programs. 

What it comes down to is that these wealthy individuals fund the organization for the sole purpose of dividing, and hence weakening the influence, of any mainline denominations which have a social justice mission of protecting workers rights, supporting the poor, etc. Frankly, Mark Tooley, the Executive Director, could give a damn about gay marriage and abortion…those are just the “tools” he uses to drive wedges through mainline denominations he’s been told to dismantle. Unfortunately, gullible people don’t do their research and fall prey to his “culture war” created from whole cloth.

Is the IRD and the WCA the same group? The Treasurer of the IRD is gung ho about the WCA. You do the research.

 It's sad when crazy fat cats and their well paid talking heads run the world.

 Press on, brothers and sisters.

 J.

Grace for the Journey

I’ve been thinking about another story today that is drawn from about twenty-five years ago, when I was a fairly new priest. I was very enthusiastic, but still figuring out what it meant to be a priest, so was still making lots of mistakes. This story is about one of those mistakes, from which I gained a little more insight into the nature of the priestly vocation.

The parish in which I was serving was in California. Although I was born and raised in California, I was returning after an absence of about twenty years. Consequently, I was not prepared for the couple who showed up in my doorway unable to speak a word of English.

The fact that they could not speak English irritated me, just a little bit. I have no doubt that a piece of that irritation was drawn from the embarrassment that I could not speak Spanish. I grew up with Spanish being spoken all around me. I even took Spanish in school. But for some reason, I never picked it up. Perhaps it was all that “I’m not a Mexican!” stuff from my last story. For whatever reason, I only speak English. That in itself is somewhat embarrassing. My wife speaks at least five languages. In Europe, the norm is to be multilingual. The expectation that in some places everyone is at least bilingual seems to be just plain common sense. That’s how communication problems are avoided in other places. On that day in California, we had a serious communication problem. The couple standing in my doorway and I had no common language.

I could see the couple’s old pickup through the window in my office. It was late Spring, so I assumed they were migrant workers, following the crops along the El Camino Real. When I was growing up in California, I’d not paid much attention to the migrant workers, who I would sometimes see working the fields under the hot California sun. I picked strawberries and beans to make some money one Summer, so I knew that working in the fields was hard work. So hard in fact, that most folks quickly find easier employment. Without migrant workers, the crops will not get harvested. This couple in my doorway were most likely among those who have been migrating up and down the West Coast harvesting crops for many generations.

I was wearing my clerical collar. Back then, as a young priest, full of vim and vigor, I think I slept with my collar on. So I was determined to help this couple get back on the road. I walked up to them, shook their hands and rubbed my stomach as I said “Hola. Hambre?” That about exhausted my Spanish vocabulary. They looked at each other, muttered something, and then turned to me, smiled, and nodded their heads. The church food pantry was closed, so I gestured for them to follow me in their truck to the local store. I got a cart, and was picking things off the shelf, to be met with shaking heads. So I backed off, and let them take the cart. They chose a couple of pieces of fruit, some tomatoes, and a pack of tortillas. In the parking lot, they seemed hesitant to get back in their truck and leave, so I gestured again for them to follow, and drove them to the motel that I sometimes used to put folks up who needed help from the church.

I hate to admit it, but the motels that will give the church a discount are often “last resort” kind of places. The room the manager let me show the couple was really bad. They looked around, and without even speaking to each other, both smiled at me and shook their heads. I offered them food, and they chose a light lunch. I offered them shelter, and they declined. What did they need? I gestured for them to follow me, and took them to the gas station.

Their tank only took a few gallons. They weren’t hungry. They didn’t need a room. And they were not out of gas. But here they were, in the parking lot of the gas station, staring at me, still not ready to leave. Feeling like a complete failure for my inability to communicate, and so not meet whatever need still had them rooted in the asphalt of that parking lot, I stretched my Spanish vocabulary and muttered “Adios” as I shook their hands.

I turned and began to slowly walk to my car. I heard a voice say “Padre.” I turned around, and the couple I had failed were both on their knees, right there in the parking lot. So I offered them God’s blessing, laying hands on them both and making a large sign of the cross over them, as I knew they didn’t understand the words I was saying. But it seemed to be enough. They both got up off their knees, and, with glowing grins, shook my hand again, and jumped in their truck and roared away.

They didn’t need food, or shelter, or fuel. They needed God’s blessing; they needed an assurance of God’s grace for their journey. Imagine that.

It is so important that we discern correctly the needs of those who present themselves to us. All Christians, including clergy, are called to be clear conduits of God’s grace. We receive the gift of grace, God’s unmerited love, and it flows through us out into the world. The way we allow grace to flow depends on the situation, of course. And in some situations, offering food, shelter and fuel are a good way to express grace.

But in most cases, those seeking out clergy are looking for a priest, not a social worker. That is the lesson I learned that day. And I also walked away with a new respect for my brothers and sisters who are migrant workers, some of whom will endure a stumbling and bumbling young priest with such grace and patience that they become instruments of God’s grace themselves.

 J.

On Being Brown

When I was fifteen, I ran away from a foster home and hitchiked from Oregon to California.  I was born and raise in California, so in my mind, I was going home.  I couldn't show up on the front porch of any family member, as they would turn me in to the police for being a runaway.  Consequently, since the year was 1969, I hitched to Haight-Ashbury, of course.

The next few months were a quick learning experience.  I loved the scene, but being under age meant I had to learn how to be invisible.   Then one day I met two young ladies who were tourists, and really wanted to experience "the hippy life."  So, they turned in their car, checked out of the YWCA, and joined me sleeping in the bushes of Golden Gate Park.  They were miserable.  They decided to go to San Diego, where some friends of theirs lived.  By then I was adopted as their "little brother," so I was invited to join them.

It took two days of hitching and a few more adventures to make the short trip to San Diego.  Only once did I have to pull my "crazy kid" act to get the driver, who was hitting on one of my "sisters," to pull over.  When we got to San Diego, it turned out that their friends were all active duty Navy.  They were not pleased to have some kid hanging around.  So once again, I learned to be as invisible as possible.  I knew that soon it would be time to say good bye to my sisters and head back north.

The night I made that decision, the sailors were having a beer party.  I slipped away to the pier, where I had fashioned a fishing rig of sorts made of  discarded stuff I'd found on the pier earlier.  I'd been there about half an hour when the police showed up.  I was alone on a long pier.  I had forgotten the first rule of being on the run; stay invisible.  I admitted to being a runaway, so as to not get my sisters and the drunken sailors in trouble, and let them arrest me and haul me off to Juvenile Hall.

The Juvenile Detention Center in San Diego is where the story I want to tell actually begins.  I'd been in such places before, so the guards and the keys and the radios and the locked doors  were not new.   What was new was that the next morning, as they lined us up for calisthenics,  I couldn't even do jumping jacks.  I'd been on the street for about six months by then, often going days without food.  My lack of nutrition caused my muscles to no longer work.  I was starving to death.  That was an eye opening realization.

But its what happened next that I have been recently pondering.   At lunch, I took my tray and sat at one of the round tables near the back.  An officer walked up, looked over the four of us sitting at that table, and said, "You Mexicans can't sit together.  Two of you get up and move."

"You Mexicans..."  From what I've been told, I have Native American ancestry on both sides, and a bunch of German and other stuff as well.   I pass for white, but I'd been living outside for six months.  My skin was very dark.  The staff at that Juvenile Center assumed I was Mexican, because I was so brown.

Even though I was only fifteen, this was a shock for me.  I'd grown up in California, and had people walk up to me speaking Spanish, so I knew some folks thought I was Mexican, but I'd never heard it said to my face.

At that time, I had conflicted feelings about this.  In elementary school, my best friend was Paul Mares.  He and I were readers.  We read all the time.  I was a reader because my mentally ill stepmother would not allow me to go outside during recess, and confined me to my room at home.  Paul was a reader because he loved a good story.   Paul and I would often get sent to sit out in the hall by the teacher because we were reading by hiding our books under our desks during something boring like math.   Paul being Mexican was something that never came up in our long conversations about the books we read.  It never entered my mind.

Until I brought my friend Vic home one day.  Vic was a big, funny kid, who lived in my neighborhood, so sometimes we'd walk home from school together.  When I brought him home, my step-mother took one look at this big Mexican kid with a runny nose, and told him to leave.  Then she lectured me about Mexicans.  They all carry knives.  They steal. They were dirty.  I was to never have anything to do with them.  And I was to NEVER bring a Mexican kid home with me again.

By that time, I knew that my step mother was sick in the head, so I took it all with a grain of salt.  Vic might be a little rough looking, but she had not met my reading  friend Paul.  So I knew she was wrong.  Not all Mexicans are dirty.  Not all steal.  And the idea of Paul Mares carrying a knife was almost funny.  But it wasn't.  In her twisted head, Mexicans were not quite human.

So now I am fifteen, locked up, and a white guard just called me a Mexican.  My first inclination was to punch him in the nose.  My second impulse was to correct him, and so alienate myself among all the Mexican boys in that detention center.  Instead, I picked up my tray, and moved to another table.

That was the moment I realize that I had been benefiting from white privilege all my life.  I might have looked darker than the rest of my relatives, but I still passed for white.  And it had opened many doors for me, doors I had never noticed before, until that white privilege was stripped away.   Being fifteen had already stripped me of most of my rights as a human being.  Back in 1969, you had few if any rights as a juvenile.  And being a homeless teen took away even more rights; with no address and no phone, you might as well not exist.   And now I was being stripped of white privilege.

I got out of that place, and was sent back to the same foster home, which I ran away from again a few months later.  Eventually I ended up being placed in Nicky Cruz's Home for Boys in Fresno, California.  There were about ten boys in this home.  Most were Latino.  A few were Anglo.  This was a couple of years after the San Diego arrest, so I had a more street smarts by then.  Eventually, I was asked by one of the boys, "Are you Chicano?"  This time, I knew the safe, and honest, response was "I don't know."  So the Chicanos left me alone.  

But my friend Ralph, who I had known in Oregon, had blonde hair, blue eyes, and some serious mental health issues.  And these were the kind of Mexicans my crazy step mother had tried to warn me about.  They did carry knives.  Of course, so did I by then, as did every kid I'd ever met living on the street.  And they did steal.  When you almost starve, you make little promises to yourself, like "Never again."  If you must steal to survive, so be it.  But the color of the skin  has nothing to do with that ethical decision.    And they were dirty.  When you sleep in the bushes and wash with sponge baths from the sink of the gas station, yeah, you get dirty.  All of us were dirty.

But, I was able to help Ralph.  Being somewhere in the middle between the Chicanos and the Anglos, I was sometimes able to step in and calm everyone down.  Ralph was not easy to pull back from the edge  sometimes, but while I was there, no one laid a finger on him.


I share those stories because it is my personal experience that has shaped who I am.   I recognize the language of those who want to make all those with brown skin the Untermenschen.  And once we are defined as subhuman, the level of required morality allows those in power to treat us as less than a dog. 
What is going on at our southern border has little to do with "controlling our borders."  It is stark racist crap, and it smells of evil.

One more brief story, to make my last point.  When I was eighteen months old, my mother left to move to Hollywood.   I was not to see her again until I was forty-five.   That pain, of losing my mother at such an early age, is a wound that will never heal.  It will haunt me every day of my life.   Taking the children from their mothers at the southern border doesn't just smell of evil.  There is no doubt.  You are causing wounds in young lives that may never heal.  You are creating more young people who will indeed grow up to carry a knife and steal.  This is evil.

One final note...we happen to be reading the Book of Leviticus in our weekly bible study at the moment.  A few weeks ago, we came across this passage:

“When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt; I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:33-34).


That seems fairly clear to me.  Then a few chapters later, we find that the Israelites were not called to simply "love your neighbor as yourself," as some kind of nice idea, but were called to put that love out there in concrete actions:

“And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I YHWH am your God” (Leviticus 24:22).

Children and mothers are weeping at our southern border.  We can do better than this.  In the name of God, we MUST do better than this.
J.

About Guns

I'm listening carefully about proposals for new gun laws. Perhaps my experience with firearms is too unusual to make a solid argument one way or the other. Maybe the best way is to note a few memories, and comment as I go along.

I have three or four memories of my mother. She left when I was about two years old. One of those memories is of her opening a closet door. There, on the floor of the dark closet, was a toy pistol and holster, in a crumpled pile, as if thrown into that dark place.  My mother looked away, and said very quietly, "Those are from your dad." My first gun.

 A few years later, my grandfather's grocery store was broken into, and my dad started sleeping on a cot in the attic of the store. I climbed up there to see his new sleeping quarters. I found it, along with a shiny new revolver on a table next to the cot.  I learned something about my father that day.

 Then came the five years with my mentally ill step-mother. No guns, thank God. When I was sent away at age eleven, my Uncle Dale and his boys were avid hunters. I was trained how to safely handle a gun. A year later, I was taken in by relatives in Oregon, who were also hunters. Pheasant was our game of choice. Then I was given an air rifle. I spent many weekends in the woods after that, killing things.

 So, my first experience of guns included the memory of my mother's disapproval. Seeing as she ran off, my inclination was to gravitate towards that which she deplored, of course. As a twelve and thirteen year old, I went out into the woods to kill things. Eventually, thanks to my young cousin, whom you  met in the link above, I got over that phase.

But I think it is worth noting that I was not always alone on these hikes of death. Many of my friends who had also grown up with guns around would often go with me. I think there is a fascination with death among some twelve and thirteen year olds. We cannot create life, but we can take it. That kind of power is a strong temptation for some young people. My experience is that eventually, we outgrow it.

 Now comes the part that is difficult to put into words. From the ages of fourteen through nineteen, I spent most of my time either on the street, or locked up. Living on the street meant engaging in a number of criminal acts. Some involved guns. I never shot anyone personally, but I've pulled a gun ready to use it, and I had guns drawn on me many times.  I was only shot once, but that is another story.  One time, I wrestled with the man with a gun, and he won. And now he was pissed. As he pressed the barrel of that revolver against my forehead, I honestly thought it was all over. I add that detail for those who might imagine I don't realize the danger involved.

I'm not going to dwell on those years, for the simple reason that I did many things during that time for which I am still deeply ashamed. But here's the point I want to make; we either stole our guns, or bought them from one another. We rarely had to look far to find one. During those street years, I cannot recall anyone who bought a gun from a store. In other words, the criminals will always have guns. Just so you know.

 Fast forward a few years. After my time in the Navy, my wife and our young children and I moved to Wisconsin. I now had a .22 semi-automatic and two 12 gauge shotguns. The .22 was a camp gun; good for varmints, both four footed and two footed, while camping. And we did a lot of camping. The shotguns were for deer season. Where I was in Wisconsin, only shotguns were allowed to hunt deer.

A friend of mine and his family fell on hard times. So I let Tinker, his wife, two kids and huge dog move in. Tinker was like me, having spent some rough years in his youth. After a month, I made them move out. The next thing I know, he's trying to move into my father-in-laws house, because they were gone and their young son was there alone. I got Tinker on the phone, and after screaming at him for awhile, he hung up. I got the family in bed, loaded my shotgun, and sat on the stairs all night, waiting for Tinker to come crashing in our front door. He never did. 

There's been a few situations in which I've had to load a gun to protect myself and my family. Why didn't I call the police? In my street days, I was beaten, dragged by the cuffs, and basically treated like scum by "peace-keepers." I'm still working on learning to trust someone who forces me to do his will because he has a side arm on his hip and I don't. In my professional life, I do call the police. In my personal life, I deal with it.

Back to Wisconsin. One day, I came home and found that my two boys, who were toddlers, had gotten into my gun cases. They had pulled one shotgun out, and were working on the second one. That scene scared me.  I sold all three guns within a month.

A few years later, I knew I was going to be traveling and camping a lot, so I wanted another camp gun. I went with a single shot break open 20 gauge. A very simple gun, and quite safe. I still have my "little fire stick." It's a good tool.

 So, I listen to the debates about gun control. Most of the voices are on the extreme. One groups shouts, "They are going to take away our guns!" That's just silly. That's politicians trying to scare you into voting for them. The other group screams "All guns are evil." I assume that is the voice of naivety.

 Let's get something straight. Some animals cannot kill their own kind. Humans can. Human history makes that clear. We are all capable of being mass murderers. It is the nature of our species.

Gandhi knew that only those who were aware of their deep hatred for the British, so deep that they wanted to kill them, could practice non-violent resistance effectively. In order to rein in our dark side, we have to face it. You can only restrain that which is conscious. The most dangerous people in the world are those who hide from their potential for great evil, which dwells within us all. I speak out against killing because I know I am a killer.

 So, regarding gun control; if you speak of me as a "bad" person for owning a gun, I assume you are just very sheltered from some of the realities of life. If you want to arm your teachers, you don't know many teachers. That notion is just bonkers. Seriously.

I think I'll wait until some of the high pitched drama wears off. Maybe then we'll hear some sanity on this issue. In the meantime,  I'll keep my little fire stick, tyvm,  until, as Moses would say,  "you tear it from my dead, cold hands."  ; )


 J.

Secretary Clinton Did Not Lie

I posted this on Facebook, but then realized there were too many people who would scream bloody murder, so deleted it 2 minutes later.  Damn Facebook.  I don't want all my friends in one place, tyvm.  But this issue has me rather pissed off, so to get it out of my system, I'll post it here...not that anyone reads this old blog anymore...with the strong smell of rust and mold,  I don't blame you.

My issue is that sometimes I watch MSNBC...ya gotta love Rachel.  So, last night, Steve Kornacki, filling in for Rachel, rather rudely shut down a guest who was trying to explain that there is a valid argument for at least entertaining the idea that Secretary Clinton did not "lie" when she stated that she never sent any classified emails through her personal email account.  I had heard bits and pieces of that argument, and was rather frustrated that Kornacki shut down the idea so quickly, without apparently even listening to it.  I guess the news was "Hillary lied," according to him.

Then, this morning I caught a few minutes of Morning Joe.  Of course, Scarborough could not go 2 minutes without stating "She lied."  Eventually, he had brow beaten everyone on his show into agreeing with him.  Oh well, Joe can be an ass sometimes.  I shrugged it off, and went to work.

Then tonight, Kornacki did it again...dismissing a guest who tried to make the argument that there is a perspective from which we can hold the view that in fact Secretary Clinton honestly felt she was telling the truth when she stated that she sent no classified emails.

Enough already.  Let's get real, folks. Here is the best article I've found so far that makes the points, and provides the links, to the discussions I had heard, which had informed me just enough to make me wince when Kornacki and Scarborough just plain got it wrong. A few points from the article:

According to Comey, the year-long investigation of 55,000 Hillary emails did not reveal a single email clearly marked classified. Only three — just three — of Hillary’s emails “bore markings indicating the presence of classified information.” “Bore markings” is not the same thing as “marked classified.” In his July 7 testimony before Congress, Comey said that those markings were simply a (c) somewhere in the body of the email and nothing in the header or subject line. He further stated that they were improperly marked and that it was reasonable for Hillary to assume they were not classified...

...Hillary’s opponents are left with this, from Comey’s statement: “110 e-mails in 52 e-mail chains have been determined by the owning agency to contain classified information at the time they were sent or received.” Let’s break that down. 110 out of 55,000 emails are said to have contained classified information. That’s just 0.2 percent of her emails. Crucially, these emails were not marked classified. And there is absolutely no indication or accusation that classified markings were concealed or removed.

Kornacki kept saying tonight that Hillary sent 110 classified emails. No no, no! They were not marked classified. The FBI and the "owning agency" (apparently the State Department), many years after the fact, decided they were classified. There were only three that had the rather obscure (c) on them, and the State Department has already suggested two of those three were marked (c) in error. So, there is ONE possible email unaccounted for.

So what about the other 107 emails the FBI is saying were classified? If they were not marked as such, how was the Secretary to know?

Put differently, why would classification markings even exist if the Secretary of State was required to divine the contents of all her emails? If everyone who has access to classified information “should know that the subject matter is classified,” then why do we even have a system that marks classified information? The U.S. Secretary of State is one of the busiest people on the planet. It is unreasonable to expect that part of her job is to magically divine what is and is not classified — when it is unmarked. Especially considering she is working within an infrastructure where there exists a standard for marking classified information, and thus she is entitled to a reasonable expectation of not receiving classified information unmarked.

And finally, I think we can agree that Hillary Clinton is an intelligent woman, regardless of what you think about her otherwise. Why in the world would she hand over the emails, and then insist over and over again that she sent nothing classified unless she honestly felt that was a truthful statement? She knew there would be an investigation.

Even if you set all these points aside, the fact that Hillary has been honest about her emails is really just common sense. If she knew she had sent or received classified information and also knew that there was an ongoing investigation that could result in a public finding, she wouldn’t make a knowingly false assertion. If she really is a scheming liar who tries to cover up misdeeds, why on earth would she say something that could be publicly proven false?

Do go read the whole article, and follow the links. And please, MSNBC, stop trying to push the "Hillary is a liar" story. We've got Faux News for that kind of garbage. This stupid issue is over. Let it go and move on.

And Rachel...enjoy your vacation...but COME BACK SOON! We need you.

J.

More Anglican Shenanigans?

I've been reading the many reactions to the latest Primates Meeting.  Since I've "retired" from being a blogger, and am enjoying the life of a simple parish priest, I was hesitant to say anything about this matter.  But, perhaps the perspective of a simple parish priest might be helpful?

First of all, it seems important to me that we remember our history.  To begin, we might recall where GAFCON came from:

As one example of how this "secret funding" works, remember GAFCON? You might recall that most Ugandan bishops chose to attend GAFCON over Lambeth. All kinds of reasons were given for this choice; refusal to sit with the Western apostates, solidarity with their brother bishops not invited to Lambeth, etc. Well, as it turns out, their expenses to travel to GAFCON were paid by "unnamed friends" of Abp. Orombi. Imagine that.

That was back in 2009, when Abp. Orombi was the Primate of Uganda. The new Abp. of Uganda, Stanley Ntagali, seems to be following in Orombi's footsteps, as he dramatically abandoned the Primates' Meeting after two days.  In Uganda, the Kill the Gays Bill is still alive and well, yet we are still waiting to hear one word from the Ugandan Anglicans about this bill.  Oh wait...we did hear from an Ugandan Anglican Bishop about this matter, didn't we?

...Ugandan Parliament, the watch dog of our laws, please go ahead and put the anti- Gay laws in place. It is then that we become truly accountable to our young and to this country, not to Canada or England. We are in charge!

Yet, Abp. Ntagali, in whose Province such hateful laws are being considered, and supported by Anglican bishops, imagines he has the high moral road, and abandons the Primates' Meeting because he cannot sit with Americans who audaciously suggest God allows one to choose their own life partner.  Amazing stuff.

If you want to understand the GAFCON Primates response, in the infamous words of Jim Naughton, all you have to do is follow the money.

There is another part of our history we might want to remember.  We have been here before.    My response to these most recent "punishments" is not so different from my view back in 2010:

 There will be those who will have some anxiety about TEC being removed from membership in all the Instruments. That would have the appearance of TEC no longer being able to consider herself to be Anglican. And that would leave a void, which ACNA would love to step into. I no longer see that as a serious possibility. ACNA has been sufficiently revealed as part of the problem, not part of the solution. TEC is seen by some to be part of the problem as well, but the nature of our problems are quite different. By recognizing ACNA, the leaders of the Anglican Communion would be sanctioning Primates pillaging parishes in their own backyards. That notion will give them great pause. If they must choose between two problems, I think it is safe to surmise that TEC will be their choice for some time in the forseeable future.

There is an important difference this time, however.  In 2010, some of the Provinces involved in the border crossings to plunder wealthy parishes were also asked to step down from leadership positions.  This time, it was only TEC asked to take the lower seat.  What do we do with that?

We seek to understand, even if we disagree.  Abp. Welby had a decision to make.  If he backed TEC, GAFCON (and their wealthy Western donors) would walk.  If he let TEC be the scapegoat, we could take the hit.  Which we will.  And schism was avoided.  Not much of a gamble, really.

So, we take the lower seat, for a season.  We still show up at every meeting of the Communion, maybe silenced, maybe without vote, but still present.  We practice the ministry of presence.  We act as witnesses for all those suffering from unjust oppression.

J.

 

Fundraiser for Missy's Daughter

Received this in my inbox today.  Passing it on:

I'm sort of reaching out to the old Fr. Jake's / Episco-blogging crowd here…

Many of you may have seen Missy Francis posting on Facebook about a fundraiser to help send her daughter Marigrace on a college trip to Europe. And I know you're all aware that Missy is pretty low on funds, what with being a single Mom and all.

So in case you haven't thought about it yet, I'd encourage y'all to go to her GoFundMe site and chip in a few dollars:

   http://www.gofundme.com/rk7qph8

And if you know the email address for other folks that may be from our old crowd, please feel free to forward this. I think it would be neat if the old "Fr. Jake's" crowd could help out a little here…

Thanks, and have a good one,

David

Thanks, David.

J.

Another Way to Re-Imagine the Church

From here:

Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and on those in the tombs bestowing life! Alleluia!

This website is the result of conversations over the last few months among a group of Episcopalians who are passionate about our church’s health and witness to the world. We believe that we have reached a critical juncture in the life of our church, and respectfully submit A Memorial to the Church calling for our beloved Episcopal Church to recommit itself to the spiritual disciplines at the core of our common life, to go into our neighborhoods boldly with church planters and church revitalizers, and to restructure our church for the mission God is laying before us today. We hope for the renewal of our beloved church. We offer A Memorial to the Church along with many signatories from across the church. These signatories support the vision of the Memorial and its call to action...

Do go read the whole thing.  Note the names of the group who put this together.  I'm sure you will recognize some of them.  Then go read the Memorial, and add your name to it.   After that, take a look at the proposed resolutions.  There's some good ideas there, although some need to be talked about a little more, it seems to me.

J.

Bruce Shipman Resigns from Yale After Claims of Ant-Semitism

The Rev. Bruce Shipman has resigned:

Rev. Bruce Shipman resigned from his post as priest-in-charge of the Episcopal Church at Yale on Thursday — two weeks after his remarks in a New York Times letter garnered national media attention for their alleged anti-Semitism. In an Aug. 21 letter responding to Emory professor Deborah Lipstadt’s Aug. 20 New York Times essay titled “Why Jews Are Worried,” Shipman put forth his idea that Israel’s actions in Gaza contributed to growing anti-Semitism in Europe. He added that stalled peace negotiations and Israel’s occupation of the West Bank were also factors. As a result of the piece, Shipman faced a wave of criticism from those who accused him of making anti-Semitic statements. In an email to the News, Shipman said he resigned because he could not garner sufficient support from his board to survive the adverse publicity.

Here is the letter. It's short enough to post:

To the Editor: Deborah E. Lipstadt makes far too little of the relationship between Israel’s policies in the West Bank and Gaza and growing anti-Semitism in Europe and beyond. The trend to which she alludes parallels the carnage in Gaza over the last five years, not to mention the perpetually stalled peace talks and the continuing occupation of the West Bank. As hope for a two-state solution fades and Palestinian casualties continue to mount, the best antidote to anti-Semitism would be for Israel’s patrons abroad to press the government of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu for final-status resolution to the Palestinian question. (Rev.) BRUCE M. SHIPMAN Groton, Conn., Aug. 21, 2014

Those three sentences resulted to angry responses like this one from Joshua Isackson:

...Though he likely desires a peaceful end to the conflict, Rev. Shipman insinuates that the Israelis are conducting genocide against Palestinians by using these terms. Such a statement is indefensible. Israel is protecting its borders and its citizens from rocket attacks and tunnel penetrations. No nation would permit such a threat to its citizens and national security from a radical terrorist group... ...I,like many other Jews and students on campus, am astonished and appalled that Rev. Shipman would say such untrue, hateful words about Jews and Israel. I am deeply ashamed, however, that the “Yale” name appears next to his at the bottom of that letter. Yale must be a place for honest intellectual debate. Yale University and the Yale community stand to lose when leaders on its campus — whether or not they are directly employed by the University — spew hateful, anti-Semitic speech.

I am not anti-Semitic...but I am growing more and more anti-Israel. No, I have no defense for Hamas shooting rockets into Israel. But, look at the stats; 132 Israeli children have been killed by Palestinians and 2,045 Palestinian children have been killed by Israelis since September 29, 2000...1,184 Israelis and at least 9,075 Palestinians have been killed since September 29, 2000...10,849 Israelis and 69,602 Palestinians have been injured since September 29, 2000. Doesn't it seem that Israel is being quite heavy handed? Doesn't that cause you to ask yourself some questions about what Israel is doing?

 If you don't see where I'm headed, I'll let musician Brian Eno say it more bluntly:

What is going on in America? I know from my own experience how slanted your news is, and how little you get to hear about the other side of this story. But – for Christ’s sake! – it’s not that hard to find out. Why does America continue its blind support of this one-sided exercise in ethnic cleansing? WHY? I just don’t get it. I really hate to think it’s just the power of Aipac [the American Israel Public Affairs Committee]… for if that’s the case, then your government really is fundamentally corrupt. No, I don’t think that’s the reason… but I have no idea what it could be.

The America I know and like is compassionate, broad-minded, creative, eclectic, tolerant and generous. You, my close American friends, symbolise those things for me. But which America is backing this horrible one-sided colonialist war? I can’t work it out: I know you’re not the only people like you, so how come all those voices aren’t heard or registered? How come it isn’t your spirit that most of the world now thinks of when it hears the word “America”? How bad does it look when the one country which more than any other grounds its identity in notions of Liberty and Democracy then goes and puts its money exactly where its mouth isn’t and supports a ragingly racist theocracy?

Here is just one example of what is going on in Gaza. Here is one more. Do keep in mind that stat page I offered above. Note that during Fiscal Year 2014, the U.S. is providing Israel with at least $8.5 million per day in military aid and $0 in military aid to the Palestinians. That explains why Amnesty International is calling on the US to stop supplying arms to Israel:

...“The US government is adding fuel to the fire by continuing its supply of the type of arms being used by Israel’s armed forces to violate human rights. The US government must accept that by repeatedly shipping and paying for such arms on this scale they are exacerbating and further enabling grave abuses to be committed against civilians during the conflict in Gaza,” said Brian Wood, Head of Arms Control and Human Rights at Amnesty International...

I find it very unfortunate that the Rev. Bruce Shipman felt compelled to resign. Yes, Hamas must be held accountable for their violence, and I clearly renounce it. But, as a US citizen, the state-sponsored terrorism of Israel has certainly caused me to decide it is time the US stopped providing the arms used in this slaughter. J.

Need to Shout About Schismatic South Carolina

Mark Lawrence and his crew really bug me.  They bug me so much I just had to say something here finally.

I call him Mark Lawrence because in my mind, the man is no longer a Bishop.  I know, I know..."once a Bishop always a Bishop, etc.  I'm not buying it.  The guy has lost all integrity.  He no longer deserves that title.

Why does Lawrence bug me so much?  Because we all saw this coming.  He was the rector of a large parish in San Joaquin.   He voted for that diocesan schism.  He ran off the faithful Episcopalians in his parish.  Then he gets elected as Bishop of South Carolina.  As a known schismatic, who thought it was just too cute to dance around questions of his loyalty to TEC, he did not get the required consents.  The extremists in South Carolina had a fit, of course, and elected him again.  This time Lawrence makes a clear statement that he will not abandon the Episcopal Church.  He got the consents.  He was consecrated.  Then, a short time later, what did he do?  He abandoned TEC.  Surprise, surprise.

In the first attempt to get consents, when Lawrence was asked how he would work to keep the Diocese in TEC, here is his too cute response:

I shall commit myself to work at least as hard at keeping the Diocese of South Carolina in The Episcopal Church, as my sister and brother bishops work at keeping The Episcopal Church in covenanted relationship with the worldwide Anglican Communion.

Needless to say, for this and other forms of doubletalk, he did not get the needed consents. So, when elected a second time, and realizing he needed to stop being too cute, here is his new and improved statement:

I will make the vows of conformity as written in the Book of Common Prayer and the Constitution & Canons, (III.11.8). I will heartily make the vows conforming ‘…to the doctrine, discipline, and worship’ of the Episcopal Church, as well as the trustworthiness of the Holy Scriptures. So to put it as clearly as I can, my intention is to remain in The Episcopal Church.

Did you get that? MY INTENTION IS TO REMAIN IN THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH. That's what the man said. And it worked. He got the consents. Even I got hoodwinked by that one. So, Lawrence states he's going to stay in TEC in March, 2007. Then, he makes this statement in his parish newsletter in August 2007 (after he's gotten the necessary consents, of course):

I also hold strong convictions on remaining in covenanted fellowship with the worldwide Anglican Communion, rather than following, as some have suggested, the pathway of an overly autonomous provincial or national church

He's an Anglican, you see...he doesn't need no stinkin' "national church." So much for his good intentions a few months before.

I won't bore you with all the details of what happened next. Most of you know the story. It took a few Diocesan Conventions, and a dramatic walking out of the House of Bishops, but it became clear that South Carolina was headed out the door. Of course Lawrence claimed "I did nothing." Exactly...when resolutions were presented at Diocesan Convention which further distanced South Carolina from TEC, he did nothing, when it was within his authority to declare those resolutions out of order.

When TEC took measures to stop the apparent plan to run off with the Diocese, Lawrence started complaining of the oppression of those evil liberals from the North. Then he and his Standing Committee secretly met and passed a couple of failsafe resolutions, which called for immediate removal from TEC if any attempts were made to discipline the Diocese. But Lawrence didn't do it...of course not. The Standing Committee did it. What was the poor Bishop to do?

My point is, I now believe that this was the plan all along, from the time Lawrence was first nominated. It looks to me that South Carolina has been following a carefully written script...with the first draft probably written back in 2004. And we all bought it as reality, instead of the staged drama it was.

And for now, it seems to have worked. Lawrence snatched up most of the parishes, properties and assets of South Carolina, without having to bow to the authority of any other provincial or national entity. In other words, no assessment, no tithe. The Diocese can assess the parishes, and keep it all. And Lawrence is answerable to no one except God. Sweet deal. Unfortunately, it is not an Anglican deal.

So, Lawrence now gets listed with Schofield, Duncan and Iker...scoundrels everyone. This is the fifth time we've seen these scripted dramas play out. Are we ever going to learn?

This still bugs me. And it even further bugs me that for the most part everyone is being so nice about it. Come on. We're talking about out and out theft here, from my view. This type of unchristian behavior needs to be confronted.

 J.

The Clergy Letter Project

Someone pointed me to this last night (thanks evo!), and thought others might want to sign this open letter as well:  

The Clergy Letter - from American Christian Clergy 

An Open Letter Concerning Religion and Science 

Within the community of Christian believers there are areas of dispute and disagreement, including the proper way to interpret Holy Scripture. While virtually all Christians take the Bible seriously and hold it to be authoritative in matters of faith and practice, the overwhelming majority do not read the Bible literally, as they would a science textbook. Many of the beloved stories found in the Bible – the Creation, Adam and Eve, Noah and the ark – convey timeless truths about God, human beings, and the proper relationship between Creator and creation expressed in the only form capable of transmitting these truths from generation to generation. Religious truth is of a different order from scientific truth. Its purpose is not to convey scientific information but to transform hearts. 

We the undersigned, Christian clergy from many different traditions, believe that the timeless truths of the Bible and the discoveries of modern science may comfortably coexist. We believe that the theory of evolution is a foundational scientific truth, one that has stood up to rigorous scrutiny and upon which much of human knowledge and achievement rests. To reject this truth or to treat it as “one theory among others” is to deliberately embrace scientific ignorance and transmit such ignorance to our children. We believe that among God’s good gifts are human minds capable of critical thought and that the failure to fully employ this gift is a rejection of the will of our Creator. To argue that God’s loving plan of salvation for humanity precludes the full employment of the God-given faculty of reason is to attempt to limit God, an act of hubris. We urge school board members to preserve the integrity of the science curriculum by affirming the teaching of the theory of evolution as a core component of human knowledge. We ask that science remain science and that religion remain religion, two very different, but complementary, forms of truth.

You can see this letter here.   You can add your name by sending an email to 
mz@theclergyletterproject.org.  Include your name, church affiliation, city and state.

J.

Tueday; the Last Shopping Day of Convention

Some great things have happened at General Convention, which I'm sure you have already read about elsewhere. Both transgender resolutions passed. The rites for blessings passed the HoB and will most likely pass the HoD later today. Gay Jennings was elected President of the HoD with a large majority. Also on the agenda is a resolution on the Covenent. Mark Harris, whom we all know is no fan of the Covenant, spoke on behalf of his committee who drafted this resolution. To sum it up, it sounds like it is neither a "yes" or a "no," but instead a "maybe." As you can imagine, some folks are not pleased. Personally, I trust Mark's judgment. He had the conversations with a diverse group crafting this piece of legislation. Even though I disagree personally, a "maybe" might not be such a bad thing. No word on the restructuring resolution yet, although I've heard some good things about the work of that committee.

They're doing the joint session budget thing now, which is something I just can't make myself endure again, so I'm taking some time to talk with the dozen of you who haven't given up on Jake's place.

The exhibit section of Convention closed down promptly at 2:00 today, so I quickly made some last minute art purchases. I'm moving into a new home, and need art for the walls.

First, there is this Celtic Cross, hand painted by artist Carol McRay:

You can't see the design very well in this photo, but one arm of the cross depicts scenes from the Hebrew scriptures, and the other scenes from the New Testament. The four achangels are also depicted. I also chose from the same artist individual depictions of the archangels. Here are Gabriel and Ariel:

...and here are Raphael and Michael:

My final choice was an icon, Pantocrater:

Ok, maybe more later...they should be done with the money talk by now. Time to get back to Convention.

J.