Lost Calendar

I've lost my calendar.
Not the datebook I carry with me, not the appointment calendar on my desk, not the scenic wall calendar, or the page-a-day calendar on my dresser nor the one on my Google page or my doc mac site, but the one I've carried in my head for the last two decades. I've lost my mental liturgical calendar, that internal sense of seasons and Sundays that created the rhythm of my weeks and months and years as pastor and preacher.
As one who had the primary responsibility for planning the worship and community life of a particular congregation, I had to carry in my head multiple calendars. At the same time I was dealing with day to day events and preparing for the next Sunday, I had to plan ahead for the next months, the next season, the next holiday. During December, in the midst of Advent and the build up to celebrating Christmas, catalogues would arrive for ordering materials for Lent and Easter. Late winter was almost too late to plan summer activities. By the time school began, folks wanted to know what we would be doing for Christmas.
Whatever the season, Sunday to Sunday served as my markers for the passage of time. That's why I always knew the days of the month that fell on Sundays. The advice given me by an retired pastor proved to be spot on: "Just remember, a pastor's week goes like this - Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday." The relentless march of Sundays demand another sermon, another set of prayers and hymns, another week of preparing and anticipating and build up, and as soon as the service ends, another round begins of getting ready for the next Sunday.
One of the reasons for embarking on this extended sabbatical was to step away from that never-ending responsibility. In a sense, I have stepped out of time, or at least no longer dance to a particular rhythm called liturgical calendar. I knew I'd lost my calendar when the week before Thanksgiving I had to look up the date for the First Sunday of Advent. Nor do I know in what month Easter will be in the Spring.
I've also lost the rhythm of the weekly lectionary, the 3-year cycle of Scripture readings which combines both semi-continuous readings through particular books and seasonally specific passages. When preaching week after week, one is also studying those books and those passages week after week - and always with an awareness of what's coming up in the next weeks and months. Preaching the lectionary becomes one continuous spiral of reading and re-reading - and reading ahead, telling and re-telling the stories that make up The Story. Now that I'm preaching as a guest only once a month or less, and in unfamiliar settings, it feels more like flying in and out from one set of readings to another rather than arriving after a cross country trip. I've missed all the terrain in between.
Now that I know I've lost my calendar, I've realized that I need to find a new one. I must find another rhythm and learn a new dance of days and seasons.

The Night Before the Day Before

Very late on a Sunday night is not exactly an ideal time to channel surf through basic cable but at least I could postpone trying to sleep. I confess that I’ve been feeling more and more anxious about the elections as I’ve been feeling more and more anxious about the state of our nation and despairing for our future.
Would the headlines on Wednesday morning bring the shock and gloom of loss - two more years of unchecked Presidential power, arrogance, incompetance and stubborn ideology? Or would enough votes be cast for change to make a real difference in government?
I remember previous election eves of anxiety about the outcome. How could we endure four more years of Nixon’s enemy’s lists and dirty tricks? At home with a young child, I watched almost every day of the weeks and weeks of Watergate Hearings. All those hours of testimony and revelations peeling back the layers of secrecy and presidential paranoia finally led to that image of Nixon’s awkward farewell from the steps of the helicopter that would take him into virtual exile. Then came Ford’s paternal comfort and integrity followed by the election of Jimmy Carter.
I remember wondering how we could possibly afford four more years of Reagan’s social and economic policies, only to be disappointed again when he was followed by Bush I. On Election night in 1992, those of use who had gathered at the home of one of our seminary professors began to feel almost giddy with delight as “Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow” sounded out as our celebatory anthem.
I remember the frustration with hanging chads and legal challenges and stunned disbelief that someone so unqualified and unsuited for leadership was actually going to take office. I remember the agonizing dread in the months before the Iraq invasion of realizing he was going to take us to war in Iraq as if the consequences of death, destruction and turmoil amounted to nothing more than losing a video game. I remember wanting to believe that Kerry could make a difference and convince enough people to vote for an approach to governance that did not involve fear-mongering. In the midst of the continuing disaster that Iraq has become - for the Iraqi’s, for the Middle East, for the world as well as for the US - of the continuing erosion of constitutional protections in favor of presidential authoritarianism, of the continuing growth in divisions between very rich and very poor, - and so many other reasons for a progressive person to despair - I began to read about various Democratic candidates across the country and the growing anti-war, anti-Bush poll numbers. Did I dare hope that the results of this election would be different?
Now, on the eve of the eve of another election, I was using the remote as a tranquilizer, trying to find some escape. Instead, I found CSPAN and two huge helpings of Hope. To be more precise, I listened to two people preach sermons of Hope. First the author of “The Audacity of Hope” spoke at a campaign rally in St. Louis and then the Man from Hope spoke at a rally in Memphis.
Watching these two men speak, I marveled again at the ability of one person to gain and hold the attention of a large group of people with the simple power of speech. Obama represents a new generation of leaders, a hope for the future. Clinton is now in the role of elder statesman, still able to influence and motivate. Neither spoke down to their audiences or pandered with slick slogans. Obama spoke of faith and the ordinary people who had inspired him. Clinton was the charismatic guest teacher, explaining social and economic and political concepts - and even genetics! - in ways that anyone listening could understand and know why they should care. Each was at times serious and funny. When Clinton said that Republicans were the party of stay the course who tried to label Democrats as the party“cut and run,” but instead, Democrats want to “stop and think.” I laughed out loud. They spoke of the need for us to work across party and racial lines for the common good. Each has that intangible but treasured commodity called Charisma. Neither pandered to our fears and despair but encouraged optimism for the future. Neither promised easy or simple solutions but acknowledged the hard work to be done and risks that must be taken and sacrifices made to make a difference. They speak hopefully and inspire Hope.
I turned off the TV and slept. Maybe, just maybe, this time Hope will be declared the winner of this election.

Changing Seasons

Last Friday night, Adam Wainright threw a pitch caught by Yadier Molina. That pitch was the third strike of the third out of the ninth inning of the fourth World Series Game won by the St. Louis Cardinals The fans in Busch Stadium, the players on the field, and me alone in my living room erupted in championship cheering. But as much as I was happy that the Redbirds won the World Series - after the last few years of coming close and the agony of the last month of the season - I was also sad. The pitch that ended the inning, that ended the game, that ended the Series, ended the baseball season. Only four more months until Spring Training!
Last Saturday night I followed the prescribed rituals to observe one of my favorite days of the year - turning back the clocks an hour. Sunday morning's extra hour was especially welcome this year since I was still trying to recover from spending the previous weekend in the Pacific Time Zone. But the end of Daylight Savings Time is also a sure sign of the seasons changing from light to dark, from fall to winter.
Next Tuesday could (should!) mark another change of seasons, this one in the political climate. Will we feel the warming breezes of hope for the restoration of constitutional checks and balances essential for our democracy to thrive or will the chilling winds of one-party rule become increasingly destructive? When the last vote in the last race in the last precint is finally tallied, I'll settle for the gentle breezes produced by all those sighs of relief from those of us agonizing about the current state of our nation and the world.