Younger Children's Camp

Originally published on the Blog at eccri.org

ECC Blog

July 27, 2015

Younger Children’s Camp

by Charles Lane Cowen

Whew! That’s the word for Younger Children’s Camp. Even though this camp runs

fewer days than the other camps this summer, I am beyond exhausted. I have aches

in places I didn’t even know I had. Turns out that supervising, teaching, playing with,

and keeping track of dozens of younger children wipes me out. If you’re reading this

blog I’m assuming you might know one or more of the children who came to last

week’s camp, so let me assure you that my exhaustion comes not from any one child,

but from the collective. While certain young personalities proved challenging, I can

honestly say I never encountered any “problem child.” As a matter of fact, I was

really touched at how the children interpreted the Bible lessons for each day and

how they seemed to really strive to live into the lessons learned. Their enthusiasm,

exhausting though it may be, is something I hope to emulate in my own ministry.

Along with The Rev. Peter and The Rev. Veronica Tierney, I spent my days in the

Tower of Silence doing not-so-silent chapel. We began every chapel time by asking

the kids to remember the Bible lessons from that morning’s church service. I was

surprised and pleased that the kids always remembered the stories. The best part,

though, was the ways in which they remembered the stories. I grew up having the

Bible read to me by my mother, so I know my Bible pretty well. I go to church

regularly, and am taking Bible classes in seminary. I like to think I have these stories

down. Amazingly, the kids were always able to point out things about the lessons I

had never really thought about, or their focus would be on some detail I had only

glanced over. Taking this idea to heart, Peter and Veronica thought it would be fun

to split each chapel group into three sections. Peter, Veronica, and I would tell a

familiar gospel story to each group and then have them act it out for the other two

groups. This ended up being my favorite day of chapel.

My group got The Good Samaritan. In an effort not to put my own spin on the story, I

simply read it straight out of Luke. The kids had some great questions for me:

What’s a Samaritan? What’s a Levite? Why are the religious people in the story being

mean? How much money is two denarii? After answering all their questions, I asked

them what characters we needed for the story. After casting a traveler, a priest, a

Levite, a Samaritan, and a band of thieves, I said, “Well, that’s it.” For the first group

of the day, I honestly thought that was it, but the kids shouted out in protest, “No!

What about Jesus?” I explained that Jesus wasn’t really in the story, but they insisted

that there be a Jesus on the stage. Not one to squash creativity, I agreed. With very

little prompting, the boy playing Jesus stepped up next to me and began telling the

story. Every now and then he would whisper to me, “What comes next?” or “What’s

that person called again?” Otherwise, he told the story flawlessly. I was amazed at

the enthusiasm with which the kids performed the well-known tale. They even

modernized it with the robbery and robbers resembling something more like a

mugging by a city gang. Their ability to make Jesus’ story their own was powerful.

I’ll admit that watching them perform made the parable I’ve heard a million times

seem much more real—much more understandable.

The other two groups in chapel had similar experiences as they told the story of the

Feeding of the Five Thousand and The Good Shepherd. Even more amazingly, each

of the three sessions of chapel that day insisted, without prompting from me, that

there be someone to play Jesus and tell the story. Maybe I’m reading into this too

much, but the kids’ desire to literally embody the person of Jesus seems to be the

complete understanding of our Christian faith.

Do you remember the WWJD plague of the mid 90s? I do. As a kid growing up in the

Bible Belt, everyone I knew had WWJD plastered all over their lunchboxes,

notebooks, clothing, accessories, you name it. What would Jesus do? Buy all this stuff

to sell his cause? Probably not. I think the kids at Younger Children’s Camp actually

answered this question. Jesus would teach. Jesus would tell stories, and he would

tell those stories in a way that was fun, funny, memorable, and transformative. Jesus

would live a life in accordance with God’s will that we love God and love one

another. Watching these kids show genuine compassion in helping the beaten

Samaritan, sharing their few loaves and fishes, and leaving the flock to find the one

lost sheep, I saw Jesus at work.

Once again (sorry I keep beating this drum—it’s my favorite one right now) the kids

taught me something. This is the model for evangelism. By living into the life of

Jesus, we share Jesus’ message of love, acceptance, and hope with the world. Over

the course of the week, we explored the theme that “It’s a Small World.” If all of us

truly approach one another with the love of Jesus, the world indeed becomes quite

small as the one Kingdom of God. I’m not advocating for a universal theocracy here,

but I do think there’s a simple and profound truth in finding the commonality

amongst our differences. Campers at ECC come from all kinds of backgrounds, yet

within our beautiful and exciting diversity there is a beautiful and exciting love

modeled on the love of Jesus that pervades our camp.

I started out by saying, “Whew!” The exhaustion of Younger Children’s Camp still

sits with me, but so does the love. Those of you who have kids of your own or teach

or babysit, or just happen to get annoyed at those kids at the Stop and Shop being

little terrors: Look closely at them. Watch how they love. Look into their eyes, and

see the love of Jesus looking right back at you.

Teen Camp

Originally published on the Blog at eccri.org

July 27, 2015

And when he was twelve years old, they went up as usual for the festival. When the festival was ended and they started to return, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but his parents did not know it. . . After three days they found him in the temple, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. And all who heard him were amazed at his understanding. (Lk 2:42­­-7)

Reading this passage from Luke’s Gospel during Teen Camp last week gave the familiar text a whole new meaning to me. When I asked how many kids in the barn were twelve years old, a sea of hands went up. The story of twelve-year-old Jesus in the temple suddenly had a face to it. Here I was, a seminarian at the Berkeley Divinity School at Yale, looking into the faces of dozens of little Jesuses. (Is that the plural of Jesus? Jesuss? Jeesi? #thingsWeDontLearnInSeminary) That whole “made in the image of God thing became really clear to me. It was my own little encounter with the incarnation

The beautiful thing about twelve-year-olds is that they’re in that strange and trying age where they aren’t still children, but they certainly aren’t adults. They often retain that child-like imaginativeness lost in adolescence, but have the intellectual capacity to really engage in deep conversations. Coming from a background in the theatre, I really appreciate the melding of play and intellect.

As I preached on Luke’s story of twelve-year-old Jesus in the Temple, I pointed out to the campers that Jesus is actively asking questions. I’ve often heard this passage referred to as “The Boy Jesus Teaching in the Temple,” but that’s not exactly what’s going on. Sure, it says that the teachers were amazed by Jesus, and they surely learned from him, but the chief verbs in the story are “listening” and “asking.” I think most adults expect a lot of listening from kids. All day long I hear things at camp like “Listen to your councilor” and “Listen up.” Obviously, listening is important, but how often are kids encouraged to question leadership? To question the most learned? Yet that’s just what Jesus, the twelve-year-old, does.

I told the campers that our faith doesn’t require us to check our brains at the door. As a professor of mine once said, “There is no virtue in blind faith—you have to ask questions and attempt to understand.” I don’t know that our kids are often asked to question authority. As a leader at the camp, I want campers to follow instructions, particularly when it pertains to their safety, but when it comes to their faith, I want them to own it and come to as full an understanding as possible.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I spent the remainder of our week together at Teen Camp fielding what felt like millions of questions: Is Jesus God? Why is there evil in the world? Why can’t I hear God speak like people in the Bible? How can I believe in my religion and study science?  I was so proud of the campers for not holding back. They asked the same questions that have frustrated and confused theologians for centuries, and they showed no shame in not having the answers. More astoundingly, even in the face of these difficult questions I found that the campers have enormous faith. Their love for one another and their love for God permeate our camp property from the waterfront, to the barn, to the edges of the Back Forty. Furthermore, when they asked these tough questions, they offered their own thoughts on what an appropriate understanding would be. More often than not, I could stay silent and listen to the campers discuss among themselves. I felt just like the teachers in the temple. Even though I’m the seminarian studying theology, I was amazed at their understanding.

I’d like to take some credit for inviting the campers to ask tough questions, but I don’t know that I can. I think there’s something about the culture of camp that has been here for generations. There’s an understanding here that all are welcome, and that means all ideas and questions are welcome. It’s a powerful thought that these campers have no fear of sounding wrong or inviting ridicule. It’s a mini glimpse at the Kingdom of Heaven where all people come together to understand, love, and serve the Lord. 

Music and Creative Arts Camp

Originally published on the Blog page at eccri.org

15 July 2015

Music and Creative Arts Camp

When Meaghan Brower, the director of ECC, invited me to spend the summer at camp

she gave me two warnings: Camp is exhausting, and camp is transformative. Both items

have proven true. I have bags under my eyes, my joints ache, I have mosquito bites,

sunburn, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t even know I had. That’s all after just one

week of six I will be here! I also am having the time of my life. So far my

accomplishments at camp include but are not limited to:

 learning how to whip and nae nae (Google it)

 creating a life-size paper mache llama

 kayaking

 the subtle art of scream-singing on a big yellow school bus

  coming to a deep appreciation of the effect of humidity on one’s personal comfort

level

 strategies for dominating in a game of Connect Four

I also have learned enormous amounts about God and my neighbors. When Meaghan

said camp would be transformative, I assumed she meant for the kids who camp here.

That certainly is true. I am amazed at the faith and love the campers bring to this place. I

beam when I see a teenage counselors uplift a camper sitting alone and empower the

camper to join in the day’s activities. What I didn’t know was how transformative the

experience would be for me. I hate to lean on the old cliché, but the kids I came here to

teach have taught me so much. I am astounded by the talent, compassion, and generosity

these young people posses.

Our theme this summer at camp comes from Mark’s account of Jesus’ baptism. After

John baptizes Jesus, a dove appears and the voice of God says, “You are my Son, the

Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Mk 1:11 NRSV). All week long we stressed to the

campers that because we enter into Jesus’ death and resurrection through the waters of

baptism, we, too, are God’s beloved. There’s some pretty powerful incarnational theology

at work here—because God became human in the person of Jesus, we worship a god that

knows first-hand what it means to be one of us. Jesus knew suffering, joy, friendship,

betrayal, anger, and all the complicated emotions of human life.

Thinking back to my own teenage years, I can remember feeling like an outsider. I had

horrible acne, I was bad at sports, I was far from popular, and it felt like the pressures of

social expectations would suffocate me. I have had a blessed and wonderful life, but you

could not pay me enough to go back to being a teenager. When I look at the campers at

ECC, though, I see a community where all are loved and uplifted. The greatest moment

of the week for me was watching the much-anticipated talent show. While Music Camp

ends with a large performance for family and friends, the talent show is just for the camp

community. It’s performed in the outdoor pavilion while we all sit at picnic tables or on

the ground. There’s no pomp and circumstance—just lots of fun, laughter, and play. I am

not exaggerating when I say that the talent shown by the campers was astounding. We

are blessed to have in our community brilliant musicians, poets, singers, dancers,

comedians, and artists. What amazed me the most, however, was how supportive every

camper was of their fellow campers. Every single performance, no matter how

complicated or simple, received thundering applause and loud cheers of approval.

Whether it was a large rock band rivaling the charisma of the Beatles or a single camper

reading her poetry, ALL of the acts were greeted and received with outrageous

acceptance. Furthermore, these cheers of approval were far from put on. They cheered

because every act on the stage was performed by one of our own—an ECC camper,

counselor, or staffer. Just as God shouted from the heavens that Jesus was his own

Beloved, our campers shouted from the pavilion that that was their beloved friend.

Without exception. Without hesitation.

The most valuable lesson I learned at Music Camp came straight from the young people:

God loves each one of us without exception, and we should love one another without

exception. Life’s tough. Sometimes the Roman oppressors crucify you. Sometimes kids

call you names. But in the midst of all of it the voice of God rings from the heavens, “You

are my children, my Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Second Sunday in Lent 2015--Trinity Church, Newport, RI

2 Lent

March 1, 2015

Trinity Church, Newport, RI

For dominion belongs to the LORD,

and he rules over the nations.

To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down;

before him shall bow all who go down to the dust,

and I shall live for him.

Posterity will serve him;

future generations will be told about the LORD

and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn,

saying that he has done it

They shall come and make known to a people yet unborn *

   the saving deeds that he has done.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,  AMEN

I recently went on a retreat at a monastery with my class at Berkeley Divinity School, and I absolutely hated it. With all due respect to the monks, who were gracious and kind, their worship bored me to tears. You see, monastic worship through the Daily Office focuses largely on the Psalms. Great! I love the psalms! Nowhere in the Bible do we more clearly see voices of praise, thanksgiving, lament, anger, you name it. All the feelings. But the monks drone the Psalms. They take looooooooong pauses that I find maddening. The reasoning behind this is that if you read the Psalms slowly you soak them in. They become part of you. In my experience, when you drone them slowly and without feeling your stomach just rumbles really loudly and everyone turns and judges.
Maybe it’s my past life as an actor, but for me the psalms make more sense when I read them out loud and express all the emotions that come with them. The psalms aren’t about quiet submission. Heck, they aren’t even about reverence. They’re about raw human emotion, and sometimes that’s ugly. Today’s Psalm is a little bit misleading because we’re only saying a portion of it, but don’t worry--we’ll get the rest of it on Good Friday. I’m sure it’s one you’re all familiar with because it begins with the words

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

I think that if we’re honest with ourselves, that’s a thought we’ve all thought at some point or another. When I’m late to work and my tire blows out: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When a child has cancer and dies: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When the Son of God is nailed to a Roman torture device and the most innocent among us is brutally humiliated and killed by a corrupt state: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

And yet the Psalmist ends with the words we sang/said today:

Praise the LORD, you that fear him; *

   stand in awe of him, O offspring of Israel;

   all you of Jacob's line, give glory.

Out of lament, out of despair the psalmist can turn to words of praise.

And notice that this praise is communal. It’s not just the individual, but all you of Jacob’s line. The psalmist goes even further, though, as

All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to

the LORD, *

  and all the families of the nations bow before him.

This is a future where all of humanity will praise God and rejoice in his goodness, and this vision comes out of a place of deep lament.

With this in mind, I understand a bit better why Peter’s so upset with Jesus in today’s Gospel reading. When Jesus tells the people, in a rather public way, that he is to endure suffering, Peter gets rather upset. Notice that Mark says that Peter “took him aside and began to rebuke him.” Rebuke isn’t a word that we use very often, so to put it into context, rebuke is the word used when Jesus casts out demons and calms the storm at sea. It’s clearly a strong word. In this instance I can’t help but think of Peter as a petulant teenager:

Jeeeez, Mom! I can’t believe you embarrassed me like that in front of my friends!

The student is lecturing the teacher. When Jesus states publicly that he will suffer, it’s not the image of the glorious Messiah that Peter and the Jews of that time expected. They wanted a king that would reign in glory not suffering. Jesus doesn’t really calm Peter down, or at least he doesn’t calm me down when he insists that those who follow him must suffer. Eep!

I think sometimes that’s what I want from God. I just want to be happy. I just want things to go smoothly and everything to be puppy dogs and unicorns and double fudge peanut butter ice cream. But life’s not really like that, and that’s ok. That’s the whole idea behind Lent. During this time of reflection and self-denial I put away the peanut butter ice cream. You see, our humanity isn’t just joy and neither is it just suffering. It’s a full experience. It’s all the feelings. I cannot tell you why terrible things happen. I wish I could, but I just can’t. Like the psalm that goes from My God, my God, why have you forsaken me to Praise the LORD you that fear him, life moves us through sorrows and joys.

Our Lenten journey, however, moves us through the suffering and self-denial of life to the suffering of the cross, to the glory of Resurrection. The NRSV translation of today’s psalm ends saying:

Future generations will be told about the LORD,

and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn,

saying that he has done it.

This final phrase he has done it is where Jesus takes his final words on the cross: It is done. The 22nd Psalm moves us from the agony of suffering and death: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me to the glory of resurrection: It is done.

And note what the psalmist says:

Future generations will be told about the LORD.

That’s the real task we’re given here: to tell the story.

Suffering is inevitable. It is part of what makes us human, but even through that suffering God is present in the person of Jesus who loves us enough to endure suffering on a cross. Ours is a God who has known human suffering. Through his incredible gift of life and victory over death by his resurrection, Jesus has given us a story to spread throughout all the world.

Praise the LORD, you that fear him; *

   stand in awe of him, O offspring of Israel

AMEN

I Believe in Laughter

For my Anglican Colloquium class at Berkeley Divinity School at Yale I was asked to write a 500 word essay in the style of NPR's This I Believe segment.  We were to give a personal account of our faith and...well, what we believe.  This was mine.  Not surprisingly, I'm the only person in my class to quote Joan Rivers.

This I Believe:  I believe in laughter.  I laugh at everything.  When I was in college I took a course called Tragedy and Comedy that absolutely changed my life.  The course consisted of reading plays by the Greeks, a few medieval plays, and several works of Shakespeare.  Reading through these works we constantly asked: Is life ultimately comic or tragic?  In Aristophanes’ The Frogs, a group of women worshiping Bacchus get radically drunk, one mistakes her son for a lion, cuts off his head, parades it around town on a pike, and slowly sobers up until she realizes what she has done.  To me, this was hilarious.  My classmates, and professor, were horrified.  I’ll never forget Dr. Roper looking at me, shaking his head, and saying, “Charles, you think everything is a comedy.”  I just smiled and nodded.

But why?  I think the great comedienne Joan Rivers put it best.  After making a Helen Keller joke in Wisconsin a man in the audience told her that the joke wasn’t funny because he had a deaf son.  After a few expletives, Ms. Rivers shouted at the man, “Don’t you know what comedy is?  Comedy is to make everybody laugh and deal with things.”  She gave the further example of the tragedy on September the 11^th:  “If we didn’t laugh, where the hell would we all be?”

Life is hard.  Life is very hard.  There are deaths and diseases and injustices and failures and a whole litany of terrible things.  So why even bother going on?  Quite simply, I believe we go on because life is ultimately a comedy.  We get through by laughing.  That doesn’t mean tears don’t have their place.  Everyone knows that the best comedies also make you cry.  I offer up two examples of my favorite plays.  First of all, Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.  Claudio falsely accuses Hero of cheating on him, and she weeps bitterly.  The injustice and unfeeling nature of the scene always brings a tear to my eye.  How often have I been hurt by someone I love?  I know I have opened up my soul to people only to have them take advantage and rip me up.  Another example:  Robert Harling’s Steel Magnolias.  In the film version Sally Field has a breakdown in the cemetery after the death of her adult diabetic daughter who has just given birth.  I have never watched that without crying.  Yet in both these examples, I am laughing hysterically within minutes.

Does this mean that we just brush off life’s tragedies by laughing it off?  Certainly not.  The Neo-Classical rules of Drama state that if a play has a happy ending, then it’s a comedy.  I believe in the resurrection of Jesus Christ.  My Christian faith tells me that there is a happy ending awaiting.  Hero and Claudio will get married.  M’Lynn and Shelby will be reunited in heaven.  It’s a simple theology, but it gets me through life’s rough spots.  I believe that in Jesus all will be restored, all wounds will heal, and I will laugh boisterously with the saints.  

You can see the Joan Rivers video here.  Fair warning:  it contains some rather vulgar language.

Baking the Bread

On the night he was handed over to suffering and death, our Lord Jesus Christ took bread; and when he had given thanks to you, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples, and said, "Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me. 

-from the Book of Common Prayer



Every Wednesday night the Berkeley Divinity School at Yale hosts a community Eucharist for the wider Yale Divinity School community.  (Wow.  I just used the work community twice in one sentence.  We're big on community here.)  Usually we use the little communion wafers you've probably seen in most Episcopal or Catholic churches.  You know the ones:  flat, white, bland, stick to the roof of your mouth so you have to make that awkward sucking sound to get it loose.  That is not a value judgement, mind you.  The simplicity of the wafers can allow the worshiper to focus on the gift of Jesus' death and resurrection.  Not to mention they are neat.  There's a much smaller chance of crumbs of Jesus falling onto the floor with a tidy wafer.  Having said that, the Berkeley community has decided to try using a more substantial yeast roll baked by students.  I know there are many theologies, opinions, and whatever surrounding the use of yeast and linking the Eucharist to the Passover.  Those are legitimate discussions that I don't intend to have here as it's not the focus of my post.

This week I baked the bread.  Why I signed up to bake I don't know.  I'm not a good baker.  My student apartment has a crappy little oven that's not level and doesn't maintain a constant temperature.  I didn't have any of the required ingredients.  In my zeal to always want to help, though, I signed up to bake the bread.

The recipe was easy, and a quick trip to the Stop and Shop set me all up.  Even with the challenges of a cold-war era kitchen I was able to bake a passably good tray of rolls.  Sure they were uneven, lumpy, and the cross cut into the top didn't really work, but they tasted good.  (Every chef must taste his work, right?)  I just told myself that my lumpy rolls would help people focus on the humanity of Christ.  I'll admit that I worried a bit about how to transport the bread to the chapel.  I didn't have a container that seemed worthy of the Body of Christ.  After much searching through the cabinets I opted for a gallon ziplock bag.  After all, it was just bread at this point, and air tight seemed smart for bread.

This week's service was unusual in that it was a joint effort by the Episcopal and the Lutheran students.  A Lutheran pastor celebrated the Eucharist (beautifully, I might add), and I had the great privilege of serving as an usher.  What I love about ushering is that I get to lead people to the Lord's Table.  When it's time for communion the ushers play gatekeeper and...ush?  is that the verb?  certainly not herd...invite?  I like that.  Invite the congregation to head to the altar.  It's a joy to see the community gather.  To be the one to smile and with my best Vanna White impression gesture the way down the aisle to the table is a great honor.  And then I get to witness the faithful consuming the body and blood of Christ.  I know that to people unfamiliar with Eucharist that sounds gross, but it's really quite beautiful.  The breads I baked were torn apart and distributed to the congregation.  If I had served them at a dinner party people would have politely eaten them, I'm sure, but they weren't anything to write home about.  Through the movement of the Holy Spirit and the love of God, however, my mediocre rolls became the greatest meal one could have.  And I had some small part in that.  It was powerful.

Now here's where I must remain humble.  Yes, it was my skills as a baker that produced the bread, but the graces and beauty of the meal came entirely from God.  It's a great metaphor for life.  Sometimes I give things my very best try.  I sweat and follow the recipe and use my awful little oven, and I end up with a passable if not astounding product.  Even with that just kind-a ok roll, God was able to transform it into something beautiful and holy.  This isn't a defense of mediocrity!  How much better would the experience have been if the rolls were astoundingly good?  Today's Eucharist in Marquand Chapel, for example, featured an incredible homemade Challah bread that I can still taste hours later.  But the graces are the same.  The delicious, impeccable Challah was no holier than my simple rolls.  God's grace knows no limits.  I sometimes look at myself in the mirror and see a lumpy roll.  Should I work on that?  Absolutely.  Does God choose the beautiful person over me?  Absolutely not.

Moses, a murderer with stage fright can lead God's people out of slavery.  Mary, the lowliest handmaiden can be the mother of God.  Jesus, the son of a carpenter from a small town can save the world.    Each of us can serve the Lord.  Thanks be to God.

 Magnificat

 Luke 1:46-55

My soul doth magnify the Lord, * 

    and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior. 

For he hath regarded * 

    the lowliness of his handmaiden. 

For behold from henceforth * 

    all generations shall call me blessed. 

For he that is mighty hath magnified me, * 

    and holy is his Name. 

And his mercy is on them that fear him * 

    throughout all generations. 

He hath showed strength with his arm; * 

    he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. 

He hath put down the mighty from their seat, * 

    and hath exalted the humble and meek. 

He hath filled the hungry with good things, * 

    and the rich he hath sent empty away. 

He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel, * 

    as he promised to our forefathers,

    Abraham and his seed for ever.

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit: * 

    as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be for ever. Amen.

One Love One Life

"One life with each other
Sisters, brothers
One life but we're not the same
We get to carry each other, carry each other
One"  -Some Irish Dudes who have a rock band


This past Wednesday I attended an admitted M.Div. students' day at Yale Divinity School/Berkeley Divinity School.  I had been really excited about making the trip, and even more excited that my wife Katherine was joining me.  "We get to go to church three times in one day!" I told her.  She didn't look as excited as me about that, but she cam along anyway.

We left Newport at 5am in order to be to the Berkeley Center for 7:30 Morning Prayer.  It was a beautiful service in my native tongue (The Book of Common Prayer) where I felt very much at peace and at home.  There was even beautiful organ and piano music accompanying the traditional chants and hymns.

I felt a bit cautious about going to the ecumenical service at Marquand Chapel at 10.  I've been before, and I was less at home with the more evangelical style of worship.  To my great joy and surprise there was again beautiful organ music accompanying the hymns that I recognized along with a moving sermon about Noah given by one of the world's foremost Hebrew Scripture scholars.

Then the fun time came.  Every Wednesday night the Episcopalians at the divinity school put on a Community Eucharist for the wider YDS community.  This week they were incredibly excited to be joined by Dylan Breuer the creator of something called the U2charist.  Now, I know who U2 are, and I've been to many a Eucharist in my day, but never have these two things met me jointly.  Let me begin by pointing out the good:  The musicians were incredible, the chapel was expertly laid out, every detail was given close attention, and the entire event was lovingly, expertly, and faithfully executed.  Now the bad:  I hated it.  Katherine kept staring at me sending me silent messages as only a spouse can do.  The poor guy standing next to her looked so uncomfortable that I honestly felt bad for him.  I know I title this blog the "Unorthodox Christian", but I was looking for something a bit more orthodox in my worship.  I stood there feeling awkward, not wanting to dance, not wanting to sing along as the band played U2 songs all the way through.  To make matters worse, I was sitting in the second row in full view of the band.  I didn't want to insult them by looking uninterested, or worse, judgmental.

Then came time for communion.  We said Eucharistic prayers familiar-ish to me.  The same bread and wine we always share was broken and poured.  As I walked down to receive  the body and blood of Christ I looked into the eyes of my friend Sarah, a student at Berkeley/Yale, who placed the bread in my hands and recited the familiar yet still moving words, "The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven".  As I ate the bread and drank the wine I felt overcome with a sense of peace, love, and community.  Even in the midst of something that made me uncomfortable, Jesus was present.  Even in the midst of something I found awkward, the Holy Spirit was present.  Even in the midst of something I found unsettling, God was present.

My parish priest, Mother Anita Schell, often tells me that when I feel uncomfortable or frustrated I should ask what God is trying to teach me.  At the U2charist God taught me that his love and presence can be found ANYWHERE.  I actually found myself bopping along to the music and singing out a bit more after receiving communion.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'll ever enjoy the U2charist, but I do believe that the love of God was abundant in that room.  I left uplifted and humbled, and for that, I give thanks to God.

"For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”--Matthew 18:20 (NRSV)