Remain Episcopal in the Diocese of San Joaquin

Kirstin Paisley

You will notice a new item in the sidebar. Under the St. Aidan’s logo, the red “Remain Episcopal” button takes you directly to the website. Here you will learn about the struggle that the continuing Episcopalians in the Diocese of San Joaquin are facing. You will see who they are, and where they are, and what you can do to help.

My best friend lives in this diocese. Many of you have met Andee; she has spoken to our community about what life is like as a faithful Episcopalian in the Central Valley. She is a member of St. John’s, Lodi, and Contingency Representative to the Remain Episcopal board. Her charge for the past few years has been to help strategize in preparation of a diocesan vote to secede from the Episcopal Church. This vote, first passed in December 2006, was finalized at the San Joaquin convention this past December 8. Her own parish, relatively “liberal,” is safe—but she, and now I, have many friends and acquaintances who worship in exile. (Learn more about these communities here and here.)

For two and a half years, I was very peripherally involved in the struggle in San Joaquin. It was my friend’s work; I supported her, but never claimed it for my own. That changed this past December 23. Andee and I went to St. Nicholas, Atwater, to witness what happened there when the erstwhile, ex-Episcopal bishop of San Joaquin showed up for a visit on short notice. What I saw there crystallized my own calling to minister to the forgotten, the mistreated, the exiled. The vicar, Fred Risard, had only recently dared to speak out against the diocese’s move to split from the Episcopal Church and align with the Anglican Province of the Southern Cone. John-David Schofield proceeded to fire him, in front of the congregation, during the liturgy. Two days later, on Christmas, John-David locked Fred out of the building. His authority to take either of these actions is highly questionable, as he is no longer an Episcopal bishop.

The community of St. Nicholas currently worships in a rec center in Atwater. Fr. Fred's salary is being paid by contributions primarily from outside the diocese of San Joaquin.

I’m currently hoping to do my Field Education in the Episcopal Diocese of San Joaquin. My heart is with the exiles, and I very much want to be part of the re-birthing. Meanwhile, asking for your support is easy to do.

These things are most needed now:

Financial donations. Anything you can give is needed and appreciated. Money goes to further publicity, pay legal fees, and support people like Fr. Fred Risard.

Witnessing. Fr. Fred mentioned that other vicars, clergy who serve at the pleasure of the bishop, had spoken with him. He may represent the first of many confrontations. If you can, worship in the Central Valley. If you hear of a threatened community, go there. Be present to that community, and share what you saw, when you come home.

Worshipping in solidarity. The closest continuing Episcopal parishes to the Bay Area are St. John’s, Lodi and St. Anne’s, Stockton. Further south, there’s Holy Family, Fresno and Church of the Saviour, Hanford. In Atwater, St. Nicholas Mission welcomes everyone to join them in worship. Communities in exile exist in Bakersfield and Turlock, where the parishes voted with the diocese to secede. Faithful Episcopalians hold services elsewhere, most often without benefit of clergy. This means that they pray in community, but rarely receive Communion. (It isn't hyperbole to say that this schism is starving people.)

Worshipping courageously. If you have a chance to worship with a congregation whose leaders voted to leave the Episcopal Church, visit there, too. During announcements or coffee hour, let it be known that you are visiting in support of those who want to stay in the Episcopal Church. Be prepared for some possible unpleasantness--but realize that your visit may be life-saving to some who believe they are isolated and without hope.

Prayer. Hold San Joaquin before God, in your hearts. There are human beings on all sides of this struggle. We speak of it differently, but all seek God, and healing.

On Sundays I’m not here, I’m usually in the Valley. If you are interested in worshipping in San Joaquin, and don’t particularly want to go alone, please contact me.

Father Jake has been following developments in San Joaquin for years, and has been collecting the witnesses of others (including, recently, me). He is the best place to start, if you want to educate yourself quickly.

The relevant postings on my personal blog are here.

Thank you.

UPDATE: One of the commenters at Jake's place mentioned that there were people from St. A's in attendance at St. Nicholas' first Sunday in exile. (Yay, thank you!) If that was you, would you be open to telling your story in this thread? If you'd be more comfortable, you can e-mail me and I'll do it. Public anonymity is OK. They/we are looking for windows on what it was like there--and I'm just plain proud of whomever it was, for going.

ANOTHER UPDATE: I know who you are. Thank you, so much.

Advent 2007, from the Diocese of Washington

From the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, here is an interactive Advent calendar. When you click on a day, you don't get chocolate--you get a carol, a meditation, that day's Daily Office readings, and a giving opportunity. (Yesterday's linked to the Heifer Project, which you can still contribute to.) The art displayed is from the creche at the Cathedral.

It's a really neat site. Go here to explore.

Alternative Christmas Shopping

Kirstin Paisley

Jane Redmont, formerly of the GTU and now teaching at a Quaker college in North Carolina, has a wonderful blog called Acts of Hope. She posted a list of resources for alternative, environmental and social-justice friendly gift buying. Other ideas are listed in the comments. Go check it out!

Media and News Resources

Deborah Frangquist and Kirstin Paisley

At the Adult Forum on November 18, with Bishop Marc Andrus, we talked about being better informed about the Millennium Development Goals and reducing world poverty.

One important part of being informed is having good information. Resurgence Magazine, the wonderful British magazine about sustainable living principles for individuals, communities, and nations, is an alternative to mainstream US news media. Whether you subscribe to the hard copy or the electronic version, Resurgence provides an excellent way to know about possibilities, projects, and ideas that we may not ordinarily hear about.

Bishop Marc mentioned the Episcopal Public Policy Network. Registration is quick and easy. Specify your areas of interest, and EPPN will send you updates that allow you to stay informed about pending legislation and the positions the Episcopal Church has taken. The updates that arrive in your inbox include links for more information and to write to your Senators and Representatives when you choose.

It can be really hard as a single Christian to keep up with the public policy issues which relate to the Gospel. EPPN makes it possible to be more informed and engaged as Christians and as citizens.

Links to Resurgence, EPPN, and other outlets have been added to the sidebar to the left, under the heading "Media/News Resources." Please explore them, and post in the comments any links that inform your way of living in the world. (You may also e-mail your links to Kirstin directly; she'll be happy to add them.)

Wonderful Mary!

Tommy Dillon

Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: "I have seen the Lord!" And she told them that he had said these things to her. John 20:18

Have you ever been a victim of type-casting? That question keeps coming to mind lately as I have been reading Susan Haskins' book, Mary Magdalene- Myth and Metaphor. It explores Mary's various assumed or invented roles preserved in literature and art since her entrance into history in the Gospels. You know most of the rumors and speculations. She was either Jesus' wife, lover, confidant; a demon-possessed disreputable sinner, a prostitute; the model of repentance, or maybe all or none of these.

Mary Magdalene's legend often grew out of mistaken identity. There were at least five different Marys in Scripture. (Not surprising, since over half of the women in first century Israel were named Mary, after the Prophet Miriam, the clever and outspoken sister of Moses and Aaron.) Mary Magdalene is often pictured in art as the long haired woman with the little perfume bottle who anointed Jesus' feet, in the assumption the woman was a prostitute and so was Mary. She wasn't. That particular slander originated in an influential sermon given by Pope Gregory I in 591. What the Scriptures do tell us about Mary is that she, Joanna and Susanna financed Jesus' ministry, she was the disciple at the cross, the first witness to the resurrection and, as Susan Haskins puts it, the Herald of the New Life, yet to many people, she is still identified as the repentant prostitute, type-cast in a role she never played.

At least, current scholarship is making a valiant effort to vindicate Mary, but her story is a good reminder to us to avoid being casting directors to those around us. The next time we are tempted to say, "Of course you know about what he used to do?", or "she's just not my kind of person," let's remember Mary. Bad casting can last 1,400 years.

The most fun I've ever had in church

Kirstin Paisley

I couldn't tell you what the Gospel was, if you paid me. But the sermon was about God's loving care for creation.

I didn't hear all of it, because I was helping to pass out balls of white clay, and napkins. We were instructed to make a bowl, a vase, a vessel or container of some sort, while we were listening. It was the coolest thing ever.

Tommy asked, "Do you like it?" I yelled back, "I love it!" I didn't realize he meant the product, not the process. It didn't really matter, because if we didn't like what we came up with, we just squished it up and started over. Like God--who doesn't throw anything away.

Afterward, we all had dried clay on our hands. I felt like I had creation all over me. And I got the neatest mental image: God washing her hands in a waterfall, when she was done. :-)

Grief, and awe

Kirstin Paisley

Rob was a soft-spoken, gentle soul, with the driest sense of humor on the planet. Easter before last, I was serving. I was wearing an alb, and carrying a torch. We were singing "My Jesus Rose." I forgot what I was wearing, and what I was holding, and clapped my hands--thus getting wax all over me.

I was slinking around, looking for an Altar Guild member to confess to, when I bumped into Rob. I asked him, "Now what should I do?" He answered me quietly and completely deadpan, save for a twinkle in his eye:

"Well, you're going to hell now."

I'm still working at the Ranch, and couldn't participate in the vigil that the community kept for him. But everyone who reported back to me told me that he was surrounded by love. People from our community took two-hour shifts, around the clock, to be with him. Jack played his harp for him. The Brothers were with him. His nieces were with him.

Last night, after he died, Ken and Jenny went to Kate and Angela's. They connected me by speaker phone, and we all read Compline for Rob. This impulse to pray--and their desire to figure out a way to include me after I sobbed on the phone that I needed people to pray with--is a piece of the love we all share. The same love that celebrated with me at our parish weekend, when I got up and told a story, completely confidently and without ever once tripping over my mouth.

I know what lifted Rob as he left us. And I know that same beam of light would be focused on any of us in a millisecond, if we needed it.

I remain in awe.

Safe passage

Kirstin Paisley

As I write this, members of our community are keeping vigil with Rob. He is held in the same circle of love that I was so touched by last weekend. The hands that squeezed mine in celebration, are easing his journey to the illimitable Love who embraces us all.

I’m 70 miles away, reading e-mail updates from friends who have visited him at CPMC. You all say the same thing: he is receiving wonderful care, and is surrounded by love. Our community is present with him, around the clock. The Brothers are there. His nieces are with him. Jack played his harp; the same harp he played for us three days ago.

I am in awe, of love. There is an unspeakable sweetness in this. I know Rob, and I know our God; I know that he is safe, in good hands, and going from love, to Love. I’m aware of my own sadness, and we will miss him tremendously. Right now, though, he is being given a gentle, attentive passing. You are doing the “work of the people.” And doing it beautifully and well.

I want you to know, also, that Rob is being prayed for at the Bishop’s Ranch. Jack Dowling and I talked about him, and I lit a candle in the chapel. I’ll do it again, tomorrow. We are with you, and with Rob.

My prayers and my love go with you.

The power of story

Kirstin Paisley

To this community, the Bishop's Ranch, and to God, all I can say is thank you.

Parish Weekend was a homecoming for me, in ways deeper than words. I’ve been working at the Bishop’s Ranch all summer; being part of this gathering felt like my whole family had come to see me. I got real time with people I’m particularly close to. I got closer to people I’ve respected for a long time. And I got to see for myself, how far I’ve come.

The theme of the weekend was "journeys." We did an exercise Saturday morning, using the metaphor of rocks in our shoes. I asked to be one of the storytellers that night, because the idea didn’t terrify me. I’ve struggled with speaking clearly since I was a teenager; my brain goes faster than my mouth, when I’m excited or nervous, and I almost always have to repeat myself. I knew that I could do this, and I really wanted to. I stood up, in this circle of love in the Ranch House living room, and spoke my truth in total assurance. I knew as I was speaking that I was slow enough; knew that I was loud enough. I didn’t get stuck, and I didn’t get lost. I never once tripped over my mouth. I hadn’t had any prep time, but I didn’t need it. I wasn’t trying to read the words in my head. I just, simply, spoke them.

Are you getting the idea yet, that this is huge ? Because it is. It’s the equivalent of climbing a mountain without ropes, trusting that your hands and feet will grip the rock—and then being proven right, with every fluid motion. I felt completely supported by the community. I also felt completely capable. Part of that assurance comes from being at the Ranch all summer. This is a place of unfathomable healing. The land and the people are good for the soul; joy and justice live and grow here, and I've learned how to breathe. Part of it is the intentional work I’ve done, and that some of you have helped me with. I cannot minimize the gift of this community—the power in knowing that everything offered is received, in love. Questions and critiques come later. The first gift we give one another is appreciation. I’ve witnessed this for two years, and it is palpable.

Here, then, for those of you who were not there, is my story. I had detailed the event in my own blog, and my reflections there took me to a slightly different place. This is more or less how it came in the telling. I'm still learning how to tell this story; I'm still learning how to live it. It happened a little more than two weeks ago.

The rocks I carry with me have never hurt my feet. The rocks I carry with me are liberating.

I’ve been up at the Ranch all summer, working. I’d been needing an ocean fix. Two weeks ago Friday, when I had a day off, I drove out to Goat Rock, to walk around in infinity for awhile. I needed to pray—and I often do that best when I’m moving.

There are signs up everywhere saying, “Stay out of the water.” The “safe” area is more-or-less flat; the danger zone slopes steeply toward the ocean. I was there at high tide; the water came almost to the lip. It was so socked-in that I couldn’t see very far; this was kind of like looking down at a huge, unpredictably roiling bathtub.

I walked toward the rock, slowly, barefooted over sand and gravel. The beach is fairly narrow at high tide, and bounded on the dry side by rusty, windswept cliffs. Something more than curiosity told me to go check them out. I found myself standing, my back pressed to the edge of California, feet thrust into shifting sand, face toward the water and the wind. I was thinking of plate tectonics, how the cliff I was leaning on was slowly pushing toward the ocean.

And I heard, or felt, God, saying, “Go.” Not literally, “jump into these riptides and drown,” but, “Go be in my ocean. Live with and love my people.” The voice inside me was the rock at my back. The water was all life, all possibility, all adventure, all love.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just being with all of this. I walked back slowly, watching where I was going. I noticed a rock at my feet. It was pale grey-blue, light and porous, shaped like a flat egg, barely denser than pumice. It was wet and shiny; the color caught my eye. I picked it up. It was small, flat; I would have skipped it across the water without thinking, had the ocean not been so rough. As it was, I held it for awhile, turned it over and looked at it, then tossed it back onto the ground. But… it seemed to want to come with me. I felt like, if I had the right kind of ears I could hear what it was saying. So I picked it up again, and walked on, watching the ground, trying not to walk on gravel.

The same thing happened two more times. I carried three small, flat, nearly identical rocks home in my pocket. I carry them with me now. Again, I wish I could hear better. I don’t know really what the rocks are about. But what I take from them is this: Listen. Remember. And be present.

A Word of Hope

Tommy Dillon

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Don not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid. John 14:27

Our nation is gripped by the events that unfolded this week at Virginia Tech. Indeed it feels as though another part of our innocence has died. I have not been feeling quite like myself, realizing that my heart grieves for that community. I cannot imagine the horror and fear that those students and their families are feeling. My heart also grieves for the family of the one who perpetuated the violence. I cannot imagine the pain and questioning they are experiencing.

In a world that seems bent on violence and war, we often grieve events such as this. What is the role of faith in the midst of grief like this? Where is God in the midst of times like this? God is found through the power of peace. However, we must be mindful that peace begins with each of us. God sent Jesus to earth, not so that he would die, rather that Jesus would live and in turn teach us to live! God yearns for us to live with the abundance that comes from the peace that we experience with God.

It is not hard to see that peace has been shattered in Blacksburg, Virginia. The peace that college students existed in is gone. Cho Seung-hui was not at peace. If we are honest, there are times in our own lives where we do not feel at peace either. Hear the good news of our faith: We are Easter people. We are in the season where we celebrate that light overcomes darkness, that life overcomes death and yes, peace overcomes violence.

I offer the words of Frederick Buechner: "Resurrection means that the worst thing is never the last thing." May it be so for those in Virginia, and may it be so for you.

Bishop Barahona to preach and celebrate, May 6

The Most Right Reverend Martin Barahona, Primate of the Anglican Church of Central America and Bishop of El Salvador, will preach and celebrate the Holy Eucharist at St. Aidan's Episcopal Church, San Francisco on May 6th ( 8 AM and 10:10 AM).

Bishop Barahona has been the bishop of the Anglican Episcopal Church of El Salvador since 1992. Before becoming a priest in the Episcopal Church, he was a priest of the Roman Catholic Church for 11 years. He is currently the Primate of the Central Region of America (IARCA), position to which he was elected in 2002. As bishop he has made the mission of the Episcopal Church to "take the good new of Christ to the world" through focusing on migration, human rights, sexuality and other interests. Under his leadership the Episcopal Church in El Salvador has grown in infrastructure and spiritually. He was one of only two primates of the Anglican Communion to lay hands on Bishop Gene Robinson of New Hampshire.

He is a long time friend of our rector, and hosted the mission team from St. Aidan's last October in El Salvador.

Jay Bakker to preach April 29

Jay Bakker will preach at the 10:10 AM liturgy at St. Aidan's Episcopal Church in San Francisco, April 29. Jay Bakker is a 30 year old pastor who grew up witnessing both the good and bad of the church. His parents are Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, ministers-turned-TV-hosts who helped start both the Trinity Broadcasting Network and the 700 Club in the 1970's, and later founded the PTL (Praise The Lord) Club. Jay started a church for those who feel rejected by traditional approaches to Christianity; this church is called Revolution. The idea behind Revolution is to show all people the unconditional love and grace of Jesus without any reservations due to their lifestyles or background, past or future.

Currently Jay is the center of ONE PUNK, UNDER GOD, an observational documentary series on the Sundance Channel that takes an all-access look inside the life of Jay Bakker and his Revolution ministry. Jay travels the country speaking to churches and organizations, encouraging them to reach out to the lost and hurting. His goal is to return to the grassroots of Christianity founded on inclusion, love and grace; his heart is helping people realize that God loves them no matter what.

St. Aidan's is located at 101 Gold Mine Drive in the Diamond Heights neighborhood of San Francisco.

The Message of the Cross

Tommy Dillon

I have a wall in my office that is filled with crosses. Each day as I come into my office I see it, and it floods my memory. One of the things I like best about my cross wall is that I haven't purchased a single cross on it. They have all been gifts to me from important people in my life. They speak of so many of the chapters in my life. Interestingly, the first cross that I received for this wall was from a girl I dated in high school. Another cross is from my parents. A different cross is from the staff of the church I served in Baton Rouge. One of the crosses was given to me at my ordination by close family friends. They all remind me of people and places that mean so much to me and have made me who I am. Ironically, the crosses also provide memories of the times that I let some of those people down.

But even in the diversity of these crosses, they all hold the same image during this season of Lent and especially during Holy Week. They remind me of the death that Jesus and many others have experienced at the hands of governments. I am also reminded that Jesus said that to be a disciple we must follow Jesus into the places we don't often want to go.

But the Easter message that we discover three days after the cross is that even when we do not live up to whom Jesus has called us to be, even when we hurt those we love, we are reminded of the power of the cross. The power of the cross is that good overcomes evil, light overcomes darkness, resurrection overcomes death.

You see, taking up the cross of Christ doesn't simply mean that we share in death; it also means that we share in resurrection! What could be more powerful and humbling than that?

New Orleans Pictures

Kirstin Paisley

I’ve finished uploading and organizing my pictures from New Orleans. You can see them here. The set labeled “NOLA” is mainly focused on hurricane and flood damage. The pictures in “NOLA Fun” are mostly of the swamp tour that Judy, Vivian, and I took on Saturday morning.

I think we’re all still processing the trip; I know I am. Ken and Jenny took me to lunch on Sunday. We were driving through the neighborhood, and I was looking out the window. Suddenly it hit me: no spray paint on the houses! No water marks! The strong foundations and intact structures appeared to be completely out of place. Then I remembered, “Oh yeah. I’m in San Francisco.”

I picked up something called “barotrauma” from the flight home; it’s what happens when you fly when you’re sick, one or both of your eustacian tubes don’t open, and you end up with fluid trapped behind your eardrums. It’s in my left ear, and doesn’t hurt now, but it’s uncomfortable. I’m hearing half-underwater. I called the advice nurse at Kaiser, because this had never happened to me before. She asked how I got it. I answered, “I was in New Orleans….”

She was way more interested in that experience than in my gunky ear, and kept thanking me for going. She said it made her night. I appreciate her thanks; I really do, but it’s kind of surreal. Everyone we met in NOLA thanked us as well. Going down there seemed like an adventure to me before we left; now I’m grateful that I could go, and I wish everyone would. That experience changed me forever. And every little bit of attention or caring helps, whether you’re gutting houses, distributing clothes, or just sitting with people. Praying for them helps. Sending money helps. I think that presence is the best gift of all. If all you can do is witness to the fact that these people exist in these conditions, that is tremendous. They will tell you.

I saw the doctor this morning; my ear is supposed to heal on its own, in “a few weeks.” Meanwhile, I’m developing empathy for hearing-challenged people, and praying that the Sudafed I’m taking works soon.

A blessed Holy Week to all.

Home

Kirstin Paisley

Michael flew back to Berkeley last night; Vivian and I flew together, and got home about an hour ago. Judy is visiting family and friends, and will be back at Eastertime.

Thank you all for your thoughts, your prayers, and your love. Your support has meant more to us than I can tell you. Knowing that you carried me, and us, with you helped me tremendously when what I saw in New Orleans overwhelmed me.

We are perilously close to Sunday morning. Goodnight, and peace be with you.

Rabbit holes

Kirstin Paisley

Michael flew home yesterday afternoon; the rest of us are leaving tonight. Yesterday was our play day. We went to the New Orleans School of Cooking. We had a great time, and were fed very well on crawfish etouffee, shrimp and artichoke soup, bread pudding, and pralines. The chef (Kevin) was a riot; he loved bantering back and forth with us, and he told great stories. It was the most fun I’ve had at lunch in a long time.

We went around the tables and said where we were from, and he asked us what we were doing in New Orleans. People shouted, “touristing,” “eating,” and suchlike. Michael called out, “House gutting.”

Kevin stopped us. “What?”
“House gutting.”
“Thank you.”

Several locals in the audience also thanked him/us. I felt really proud of Michael for having been able to do that; I have asthma and am rightly afraid of black mold. Vivian, Judy, and I did very worthwhile work here, but what is most clearly and widely needed is house gutting. Many neighborhoods in this city have block after block after block of flood-damaged homes. Kevin cited New Orleans Times-Picayune writer Chris Rose, who writes in his book One Dead in the Attic, “Our city has a bathtub ring around it.” From what we saw, that is literally true.

This exchange got me thinking. Most people, who live in cities that are not prone to hurricanes, and who have safe, sturdy houses, would view teams of strangers coming in and taking their houses apart from the inside, down to the studs, as a shockingly gross invasion. Here, the houses were damaged by being flooded with toxic water for up to six weeks. They have to be taken apart to be saved. There aren’t enough contractors in the city to do what needs to be done here, and most people couldn’t pay for that level of labor anyway. So, volunteers come in with Tyvek suits, respirators, and crow bars, and tear apart houses for free—to preserve the homeowners’ property rights.

You can’t just leave a flood-damaged house indefinitely; there are deadlines. One is coming up in mid-April; I don’t know if that is city-wide or only for the 9th Ward. But if houses aren’t “improved” by the deadlines given, they are condemned. Gutting counts as evidence of improvement.

I understand the issue. But the reality here once again makes my head spin.

We met a group of ABSW students for beignets, afterward; the Baptists had traveled from Berkeley to a town in Mississippi that was literally blown away by Katrina, to build houses with Habitat for Humanity. Then we walked around the park, into the cathedral, and back outside to listen to music. You know you’re in New Orleans when the street musicians are good.

After that, my friends visited a voodoo temple; Michael had met the priestess ten years ago. There was too much incense for me to stay, so I sat outside in the courtyard and called Molly. She gave me a piece of wisdom she learned in El Salvador. She told me, “I was there to do the work, but I was really there to let it change me.” One week is not enough time to save the world, or New Orleans. It is enough time to be changed forever, to be more deeply committed to being the body of Christ, to loving people everywhere, and to raising people’s awareness so that more can be done.

I really feel that I’ve found a piece of my calling. I can’t wait to get home and test it.

Getting it

Kirstin Paisley

I figured something out, yesterday. It happened in the course of two phone conversations.

First, I did get to talk to Tommy, in between writing yesterday’s entry and posting it. We talked for about 20 minutes, about what it is and was like to be here, what I’m experiencing (and why the hard things are so difficult), and the conversation I’d had with Bill Terry+ at St. Anna’s. Tommy’s really excited about the work that the Diocese of Louisiana is doing. They’ve shifted focus completely away from caring about anybody’s sexuality, and are totally committed to serving the people most affected by Katrina. There are so many great projects happening here.

Hearing that, lit me up. I’d been thinking about how to continue this work at home, and we’re going to talk about it when I get back.

I called a friend at bedtime. I said to her, “I wouldn’t work with this organization again. But I’d come back here, and do this work, in a minute.” Coming here, to this third-world situation in my own obscenely wealthy country, has given me more empathy for all such situations. I’ve always cared. But I’d never felt compelled to go outside of myself, until I’d seen with my own eyes how the poorer people in New Orleans live. Fifteen minutes from the 9th Ward, is the bustling, happy, touristy French Quarter. I have genuinely had a lot of fun there. We’re going back today, to play. But the proximity of these two opposites makes the dichotomy too obvious to miss.

I’m going back to Berkeley tomorrow night, to one paper that’s late already and to a project I’ve just asked for an extension on. I miss my church community more than I miss taking showers, and I’m ready to go back. School right now doesn’t feel real to me at all. The mission bug has bitten me, hard. But coming here is only a small piece of this; it’s essential, but we’re limited to what we can do in one week. I’ll know if I’m truly called to this, if I continue the work at home. I already know that I’m a good organizer. I can’t wait to start experimenting.

Healing

Kirstin Paisley

I just finished my last shift at the “orange house,” or women’s shelter, run by Common Ground. I did a little bit of work on their resource database, and hung out with the women there. It was exactly what I wanted to do, on our last work day here.

Yesterday, I worked at the “blue house,” or distribution center; a combined clothing bank, food pantry, and tool library. It was strange to see the levee just a few blocks over; it’s a completely nondescript concrete wall. It doesn’t look imposing. And yet, its presence was in the back of my mind the whole time I was there.

Common Ground workers are staying in one of the houses on this block, and using four others, while their services are needed. (One has a functional bathroom; the other a kitchen, complete with filtered water. Another holds supplies that often end up in the distribution center.) The houses they use are mostly gutted; ubiqutous blue tarps apparently protect them from whatever gunk is still in the walls. One of the women who runs this particular project is a 19-year-old from Olympia. Six or seven years ago, I worked for her mother. We chatted a lot about home.

People come here from all over the country to help. That is deeply encouraging.

We got to go to church last night, at St. Anna’s. One of the women at the orange house told us about it, and we all wanted to go. Tommy is friends with the rector there. We really, really, oh, so really—needed the worship. All of us were hungry. And all of us were fed.

I completely fell apart during the service, but it was a good falling-apart. I can’t remember what the hymn was, but there was a whole lot of soul in it. (St. Anna’s uses LEVAS, apparently heavily, and they have a better-than-decent worship band.) It hit me that I’d seen the horror of the effects of this storm, and that had overwhelmed me. Listening to this music, I saw beauty again. People can suffer so much, and still be beautiful. That realization was as wonderful, and as disorienting, as I imagine any resurrection would be. I was an absolute mess.

A woman sitting behind me held my hand as I was crying. I couldn’t go up for Communion or anointing for healing, because of the incense. The priest brought them to me, and my friends stood around me. I don’t quite know how to say how I felt, but it was definitely better.

I sort of feel silly, falling apart as much as I have this week, because this is not my home. It’s not my city; not my life, and I’ve only seen strength, and graciousness, in the people I’ve met who live here. But it’s also good to cry for something bigger than myself. I’m going to do something with these experiences, when I get home. This church has a benefit potluck dinner for musicians every Wednesday, and a free legal clinic, acupuncture, and a couple other services at the same time. I asked the priest, “What would you want me to take back to California with me?” He answered, “Peace. Hope. And send us money.” I’m going to work on that when I get back. I cannot come here and not do something after I leave.

Michael just called; we’re going out to dinner in ten minutes. Time to post this and go. Thank you all for your prayers, your thoughts, and your love. We definitely feel them.

I thought I knew poverty...

Kirstin Paisley

I didn’t. I was a Catholic Worker for a year in Olympia, WA. It’s a white, middle-class state capital and college town, with a vocal, active underclass who are still not as poor as they think they are. I thought I knew racism. I worked in non-profits; I was given all the proper diversity trainings, by white, middle-class Olympians. They taught what they knew, and they meant well. I begrudge them nothing. But no amount of repeating, “Power + prejudice = oppression,” equals the experience of three days in Louisiana.

The people in New Orleans are caught, quite literally, between Mother Nature and Big Oil. They have Lake Pontchartrain on one side, connected tenuously to the Gulf of Mexico. The river’s on the other. And down from the river, fed by its delta, are the wetlands, disappearing at a rate of an acre every 33 minutes. That disappearance is accounted for both by efforts to control the river, and oil companies drilling the bayou. Levees prevent the river from changing its course. They help to protect the city from normal, cyclical flooding—they also funnel the silt the river carries directly into open, deep water. If the river were allowed to run, silt would be distributed among the wetlands, keeping them intact, slowly increasing their area. As the wetlands are drilled, they sink, leaving the coast—and the city of New Orleans—ever more exposed.

When a hurricane hits, every three miles of wetlands reduce the category of that storm by one. Katrina had just downgraded to a Category 3 hurricane when it made landfall. It took 43 days to pump New Orleans dry. Half the population of the city has not returned from the evacuation. Without wetlands protection, and with the increase in hurricanes (due partly to global warming), more Category 4 and 5 storms will hit here. Recovery? What’s that?

I was told by one of the women’s shelter coordinators, something about the racism issue that just makes me seethe. The 9th Ward is/was primarily African-American. There is evidence to suggest that some of these levees were blown on purpose, during Katrina. Also, a casino company wanted to raze the houses and build a casino here, protected by a 14-foot levee. The people sued to keep their houses, and won. Essentially to punish them, the destroyed 10-foot levee is being rebuilt. “Sure, you can have your houses. But we’ll leave you with less protection than you need.”

I’m going to have to research that, but it’s easy to believe.

I called Kate last night, from the emergency room at Tulane University Hospital. (We had to take Michael there for a gash in his leg. He’ll be okay.) She gets it, and I knew she would. The first thing she asked me was what they could do for me. (Whether she meant she and Angela or the St. Aidan’s community, or both, is beside the point.) “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Pray a lot.” We talked about violence, safety, building in floodplains, and how when I get back, I’m not going to know which of these worlds is Earth and which is Mars. One is so wealthy; the other so poor. I was a self-confessed “poor hippie” in Olympia. I didn’t know what I was talking about. I have choices, and resources, that the poor people of New Orleans couldn’t dream of.

She closed the conversation with, “We love you.” I know they do. And that little bit of humanity, from my other world, meant so much.

We were at the ER from 7 p.m. until about 12:30 a.m. Everyone in there was African-American, but us. Some had obvious emergent injuries. One man left paintbrush-sized swipes of blood on three chairs, from a stab wound in his back. Others appeared to simply need routine health care. One man was vomiting; a family held their coughing infant. A woman cussed out one of the techs; she called security immediately. I finally broke down while they were treating Michael. I haven’t slept well since I got here; I don’t feel safe in the building we’re staying in, and that plus the effects of everything I’m seeing caught up with me.

The night after we got here, we went to get beignets in the Quarter. The next afternoon, we went driving around the 9th Ward, and I took 60 pictures of the neighborhood. (I’m struggling to upload them here; I’ll display them as soon as I can.) I won’t describe them now; I’ll wait until I can show them in context. Yesterday, we spent five hours in the emergency room, and a man came in with a stab wound in his back. What kind of city is this? I don’t know how to make sense of what I’m experiencing. And I know that I can go home. For these people, this is their home. This is their life.

I woke at 3:45 this morning, and broke down sobbing again. My friends took care of me. Judy sat with me, talked to me, prayed with me. Vivian rubbed my shoulder. Michael moved his cot to between me and the door, and held my hand while I lay down, until I was calm. I got up to go to the bathroom, and ended up talking to Roderick, an African-American long-term volunteer from Georgia, who had given us our midnight tour of the building when we first got here on Friday. We talked about poverty and racism. I didn’t know what to do with my outrage, but sharing it helped, and we laughed a little. Then I went back to bed, and slept some. I want to get up and go work—but I’m still so tired. I haven't slept well since I got here.

I need to call Tommy. I need to talk about what’s happening here, with someone who is not here anymore, but who knows it well. I came here thinking I was supposed to share the presence of God. The women at the shelter have more faith than I do, here. They have nothing, materially, but their spirits are strong. All I have the strength to do—all I think I ever could effectively do—is hear their stories, and share them at home.

I said something on the phone to Kate, that she said I needed to write down. I cannot imagine myself, any group I belong to, or anyone I love, being this completely forgotten. (As uneasy as I feel about some aspects of our host organization, they are doing more than FEMA.) I cannot, and will not, ever forget this.

First impressions of New Orleans

Kirstin Paisley

We're staying in what was St. Mary of the Angels Catholic school in the 9th Ward, until Katrina. (There are lots of abandoned schools around; literally half of the city hasn't come back after they were evacuated, 19 months ago.) We sleep on cots in the classrooms; the room where our group sleeps currently hosts 18 people.

The shower (there are 4, but two don't have hot water) is a contraption involving propane tanks and PVC pipes. You get the temperature you get; you can't adjust it. Dishes are washed in tubs with soap and bleach, but still manage to feel greasy all the time. We can wash our hands to our hearts’ content, and are encouraged to, but there is nothing to dry them on.

They ask us to work three shifts here, as well as 40 hours/week at our placements. I pulled a security shift from 3-9 this morning. I was on the third floor, where long-term volunteers sleep. During the night, someone tried to break into the refrigerated truck out back, holding our food.

Urban camping is more of a challenge than I was ready for. But the conditions here are not very different from some other places in the neighborhood.

Judy, Vivian, and I worked in a women's shelter yesterday; an average-size house that 17 people call home. I don't know how they do it. I talked for a long time with a cargo worker from the Port of New Orleans, who is staying in the shelter because her second house since Katrina was condemned two weeks ago. She's tried twice to leave, and got sent back by her union (or so I understand). She says that because she’s from New Orleans, she’s having a terrible time finding work at other ports. The city’s reputation for violent crime precedes her wherever she goes. I asked her, “What do you want me to say about New Orleans when I get home?” Her answer: “Get the troops out of Iraq, and bring them here. This is a war zone.”

She was essentially calling for martial law. I am very uncomfortable with that entire idea—but this is not my city, not my home. I don’t have the right to make decisions about what happens here. I can use my voice to amplify the voices of the people who live here; that is what I am doing.

I went to get a glass of water, and the "cold" tap didn't work—but the "hot" only had cold water running out of it. I was told that one of the bathrooms only had hot water. The residents only use the upstairs toilet, because the downstairs one doesn't work. Someone said that's typical; there's sea water underneath the city, messing with the pipes. They can't fix it, because there's not enough money to do that kind of work in the city.

We three will be back at the shelter tomorrow; they want me at 7 a. m. to ride with people on the bus to the walk-in clinic that opens at 8. Apparently it's a 15-minute bus ride, but the buses come at odd intervals that nobody can figure out. There are not enough mechanics to fix them when they break down, which is often, on these pothole-covered streets. They come when they can. And last time, 30 people waited in line for the clinic to open; only the first 9 were seen.

Michael, the only one in our group who's been here before, took us to Café du Monde for beignets last night. It was a bustling, happy place, full of sugar and laughter. We walked around the Quarter for awhile, wandering into shops, looking at monuments, feeling the history. It was busy, brightly lit, and filled with other gawkers just like us. They were filming a TV pilot in the park. That's one of the strange things about this: working in a disaster area, and then going out to a different neighborhood, playing tourist, having fun.

My task today is to begin telling as many people as I can, what is happening here. I'll upload pictures later.

Going to New Orleans

Kirstin Paisley

I am traveling with a group of fellow CDSP students to New Orleans, on Friday. Last night, the four of us held our last pre-trip gathering. We heard from a Baptist pastor, now living in the Bay Area. Pastor Dwight had lived for the past two decades in New Orleans; he still travels there frequently. He told us something of what to expect of the people we meet there, and how to be genuinely helpful. The most effective volunteers that Pastor Dwight had met there were a group of Buddhists. They approached the people they were serving without presumption; without any preconceived notions about who they were, what they needed, or how they got there. They were present, and patient.

I am not at all sure I can do that, but I will try. It feels very strange to be going to a place that is so famous for its culture, to work in a disaster zone. I am focusing on approaching this as openly as I can.

I talked to Tommy this morning. He gave me ideas for places to go on our off-time, and told me to take his cell phone number along. I also spent a few hours online, learning about the physical environment of the Delta in general, recovery efforts, and the general political feelings there. I feel a little more prepared—and very much more naïve.

Our group has been taking turns leading our Tuesday night meetings, which all conclude with some sort of devotion. Last night, there were metal coins strewn all over the coffee table in Gibbs Hall. Most had a picture on one side, and a word on the other. We were instructed to look at the coins carefully, and choose one to mentally take with us. The first one I picked, I knew was right for me. It depicted a sailboat; the word on the flip side was “Explore.”

I am going where the wind of the Spirit takes me. I am called to be open to this adventure; to travel fearlessly into my own soul, to meet the souls of others. I am called to explore my own sense of (white middle-class) privilege, my own desire to serve others in a place I’ve never been; my own trepidation and joy at doing this. We are called to be the hands and feet of God, and to find and honor God in all people, everywhere. I get to be pulled out of my books for a week, and go to New Orleans, to do this.

I really can’t wait.

CDSP Mission Trip to New Orleans

Kirstin Paisley

A group of CDSP students is planning a trip to New Orleans over Spring Break, the last week of March. I've set up a blog for us; click on the title of this post to see. So far it consists of organizational updates, requests for prayers and resources, and the prayer I passed out at church last Sunday. All are welcome to read and comment.

Feel free to share this information with your wider communities. Thanks!

Let's Throw Him Off A Cliff

Tommy Dillon

The good news today is that God loves us and calls us to love one another. Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 13:4-13 that love is patient, love is kind, love rejoices in the truth and love never fails. We are called to be people of great love; to treat every human being as our sister and brother with an all inclusive, forgiving, compassionate love. Jesus embodied this kind of love and showed perfect love when he went back to Nazareth. Unfortunately, they tried to throw him off a cliff. They were not very loving to him in Luke 4:21-30. Talk about being rejected!

I’ve heard "no" a lot in my life but no one has ever tried to throw me over a cliff, at least not yet.

Apparently, Jesus denounced their lack of faith, their injustice and their support of violence, and concluded that no prophet is ever accepted in his home community. Specifically, he said no prophet was ever sent to them because they were so unfaithful, and worse, those who were sent, were sent to heal and serve their enemies. They did not want to hear that.

Jesus had no problem "speaking the truth."

We are reminded in Corinthians and Luke that speaking the truth in love and grace will not always be a popular choice. It may even be a "costly" choice. Too, you may be called cynical or negative.

Why did Jesus talk like this? I think he was trying to wake them up, to shock them into awareness. How would we feel? We’d probably be insulted too, but the challenge today is not to kick him out like they did, not to try to kill him, but to humbly say, "Jesus, you’re right. Help us to turn back to God, to repent, to reach out in love to everyone, including our enemies."

A Word of Hope

Tommy Dillon


"Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff – they comfort me." (Psalm 23:4)


Advent is the liturgical season of anticipation. It is the time when we anticipate the coming of Jesus into our world. But this past Advent, I waited for more than the coming of the Christ child, I waited and hoped that three climbers on Mt. Hood would be found alive. I felt as though I got to know Kelly James, Brian Hall and Jerry Cooke during the three week ordeal. I vividly remember watching television the day they thought they had found the snow cave. I found myself constantly checking news reports of any updates on the three climbers. I never met any of the climbers, I've never climbed mountains and I've never even been to Washington State. So I began to question why not only me, but what seemed to be the rest of the world was so captivated by this story. As I thought more about it, I began to realize that we were so hopeful that the three men would be found alive because for what we could tell, they had done everything right. They had left notes on their route and their climbing abilities with the park rangers at Mt. Hood. They even left notes on what they would do if something went wrong. Indeed something did go wrong and climber Kelly James was laid to rest in Dallas last week; and the other two remain missing.

Do you ever feel as though you are doing everything right and yet nothing is going the way you intend it to? Do you ever wonder if God has simply abandoned or given up on you? The first week of this new year has been really tough for me and members of our parish family with news of illness, broken relationships, family tensions, unhappy former employees, financial woes and death of loved ones. The reality of human existence is that there are difficult times when things do not go "our way." Even if we do everything perfectly by human standards, it does not mean that life always turns out the way we want it to. However, as a people of faith, we are guided by the one thing that can NEVER be taken away from us... our relationship with God. If we will turn to it, God is the source of strength in difficult times and never leaves us in the "darkest valley." May the light of the newborn Christ child guide us when we feel as though we are walking in darkness.

"Creator God, grant me your strength in difficult times. Amen."



Tommy+