Wednesday, December 26, 2007

On the second day of Christmas

St Stephen depicted by Carlo Crivelli on the Demidoff
Altarpiece
, 1476 (source
Wikipedia Commons)

As if we didn't have enough challenges with relatives getting drunk at Christmas, today the deacon gets stoned. Life is never simple.
When Stephen, young and doomed to die,
fell crushed beneath the stones,
he had no no curse nor vengeful cry
for those who broke his bones;
but only in his heart a flame
and on his lips a prayer
that God, in sweet forgiveness' name,
should understand and spare.

--Hymn # 243, The Hymnal 1982
words by Jan Struther (1901-1953), alt.

Ormonde Plater has a nice post up on Stephen, as does Grandmère Mimi at Wounded Bird. I shan't try to add a third, I just wanted to get in that terrible pun.

I would like to say, on this feast of the first martyr, how grateful I am for deacons and the restoration of the diaconate in our time. I have seen deacons ministering faithfully in the world and in the church, bridging the two, diligent heralds of the Gospel. On Christmas Eve I got to be the "servant of the servant," holding the Gospel Book for Deacon Karly as she sang the Christmas Gospel.

This puts me in mind of Christmas Eve 1989. I was a freshly-minted transitional deacon (don't get me started on that, I do NOT view the diaconate as a stepping-stone to priesthood and support both per saltem ordination for presbyters and the full independence and integrity of the sacred order of deacons), and thus had the chance to chant the Christmas Gospel at St Mark's, Berkeley. I had donated a brass-bound Gospel Book to St Mark's in memory of my mother. This meant I would be holding that particular Gospel Book as I chanted. That might have been challenge enough. But the last time I had seen my mother (barely) conscious was on Christmas Eve a few years earlier, just before her death, and in the hospital room I read to her the Christmas Story from Luke.

So, as I practiced the Gospel tone in the week leading up to Christmas I kept breaking into tears. I wondered how I would make it through at the Midnight Mass.

God, in her mercy, gave me something else to think about when the time came. I was, blessedly, rather thoroughly cried out by the time Christmas arrived. The more immediate challenge now was being in decent voice late at night with incense swirling in the air. As we concluded the sequence hymn I unthinkingly began the chant on the concluding note of the hymn. This was right near the very top of my range, so as the words "The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ according to Luke" came out of my mouth for the congregation to hear and respond to, my mind was uttering "holy shit I'm never going to get through this." Well, I did, though the strain on my mind and vocal cords was considerable. And several musically savvy folks in the choir, recognizing what had happened (these are the folks who pay attention to pitch, after all) were having the same silent thoughts I was. We were all relieved when I made it to the end.

If your true love happened to give you a partridge in a pear tree yesterday, I confess I have no idea what to do with a partridge. As to pears, however, I can recommend the Tarte aux Poires à la Bourdaloue found on page 642 of Volume One: Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child, Louiette Bertholle, and Simone Beck. I haven't made it in years but I can guarantee you will impress and delight your friends.

There are of course, plenty of recipes for dove meat, though I simply prefer to listen to them coo and have always considered doves a happy sign of spring. They are randy critters, however, and I was given the repeated spectacle of their amorous pursuits on my deck rail in California. Also incredibly stupid when it came to nesting. Some of them would try to lay eggs on the tinest of ledges without lip, dooming the eggs to rolling off and falling to their doom. Tsk, tsk. In their defense, however, I also got to see them encouraging and modeling the art of flight to their fledgling when it came time to kick the little buggers out of the nest and get on with life. Very patient and persistent. I've also watched a mother dove act as a decoy to lure attention away from her chicks by doing the injured bird act.

UPDATE:
Well, Maddy's sent folks off to meet new bloggers (poor sods) and, holy Mother Mary, I think I've gone and fallen in love. She's taken, but the lovely Charlotte, whom Maddy calls babelicious (how does he get away with this?) has yet another wonderful idea for pears! Check out her Pear Tarte. (Control yourself, folks, it is not a euphemism.)
--the BB

18 comments:

Kirstin said...

Urggghhh. Horrible pun.

After Christmas, though, who could blame the deacon?

Beautiful story about chanting the Gospel. Thank you. I know some of the St. Mark's choir; they invited me(!) to sing Compline with them at the Ranch. Possibly some of the same people.

Pears, yum!

June Butler said...

Didn't he ramble, didn't he ramble
He rambled all around, in and out of town
Didn't he ramble, didn't he ramble....


I won't quote the whole chorus, because the ending is unfortunate.

But what lovely ramblings, Paul. St. Stephen, puns, a hymn, deacons, cooking, doves' nests, the wrong pitch, and the poignant words about the memories of your mother, all so nicely done. Did I leave anything out?

I like your art better than mine.

Paul said...

Grandmère, when you tease like that I am forced to google. My ex-father-in-law would have been able to finished the chorus for me--great fan of Louis Armstrong.

I shall try to avoid butchers.

susan s. said...

Oh, Kirstin, I don't believe there are any choir members that were at the ranch that heard Paul chanting the Christmas Gospel. Even tho I was living in Berkeley then, I had not found my way to St. Mark's except for the rare solo gig....Paul, was David Higgs the Choir Master/Organist then? He was the first I sang for there.

I will be interested in looking at the Book for evidence that we still use that one! I'm sure it is, as once we Episcopalians start with something, it is hard to get us to turn loose of it. ;-)

Merry continuing Christmas!

Paul said...

Susan, I came there in fall of 1981 though 1989 when I served at St Alban's, Albany. David Lee Maulsby was the organist-choir director initially. When he died, David Higgs came there, so it would have been David Higgs that Christmas.

Jane R said...

Feh -- all these St. Mark's people. You, Mickey, et al. Some of us are from Good Shepherd, nyah! (In my case, Good Shepherd Berkeley plus a year at St. Paul's Oakland.)

Seriously -- a beautiful story, and I love bad puns. You are back in fine fettle, Padrecito Pablito. You should have Christmas food with chiles in it more often ;-).

Me, I have Clumber's whiskey cake in the oven. Well, not Clumber's but Clumber's recipe. I am just trying to become a good Southerner by making something with pecans and bourbon and sugar in it at year's end.

Paul said...

Dear Jane, I am relieved you have not snaffled Clumber's cake, only made use of his recipe. And pleased that you are joining in southern culinary traditions. Hard to go wrong with pecans, sugar, and bourbon.

But you must give me some credit as an ecclesiastical slut--I hung out at more places than St Mark's. I too worshipped at Good Shepherd in between gigs and even was blessed to do a baptism there and celebrated a lesbian relationship in Spanish (the couple was from Mexico City). This latter is recorded in the service register as a private Eucharist but what a creative event that was!

I was at St Alban's, Albany; St Peter's, Redwood City; St Aidan's, SF; St Cuthbert's, Oakland; and did pulpit supply for El Buen Pastor on the Peninsula and Santísima Trinidad, Richmond.

We can't help it if many of us have been St Marxists along the way.

Kirstin said...

I went to St. Mark's once; can I be in your in-group?

LOL. I found St. Aidan's, and that was it.

Paul said...

Oh f**k! We're a group now? Who knew?

Was it the letters "SM" branded on our foreheads? No, wait, that's a different group (and I'm not into that).

Jane R said...

I went to St. Mark's once too. No, twice. Found the place rather stiff, though the music was lovely.

Paul, I had a hunch you had bopped around a lot but I always knew you as the St. Cuddy's guy.

I just took the cake out of the oven and it is DIVINE. I wrapped it in foil and am cooling it off just as Clumber said but you know I had to break off a little piece just to taste and make sure it was okay. Lord have mercy. And me a good tofu eater and partaker of healthy Mediterranean diet (not at the same time -- doesn't go with tofu). I can't believe I made this. Good thing I went to the gym today. Do you know that in addition to all the rum and sugar there is a half pound of butter in that thing?

June Butler said...

...can I be in your in-group?

Kirstin, I don't believe that it's an exclusive group. It seems that he let's anyone in, just so you type the letters. Look, I'm in, and I didn't even ask.

Kirstin said...

[choke]

[sputter]

ROFL!

Paul said...

Contessa mia, I try to avoid foods with less than half a pound of butter in them, though I confess that Paula Deen scares even me. With holiday baking I lost count of the pounds of butter I've gone through.

Indulge, it's Christmas!

Paul said...

Once one gets past the membership hurdle of navigating past the incomprehensible "Byzigenous" bit, we stop checking credentials. There is a preferential option for sinners but that doesn't mean Jesus doesn't love good people too, he just has to work harder with them.

Kirstin said...

So all you have to do is be able to spell, and be naughty?

[happy sigh] I'm in.

Paul said...

Typos are overlooked and/or forgiven too.

Anonymous said...

That Charlotte is fabulous! And she can write! And cook!

I now have an Argentinian Christmas cake in the oven (that one I do every year) -- a second one (the first was yesterday) because I am sending it to my parents. (Long family story behind that, a sweet one.) Then I am going to bed. Enough butter. Paul darling, you are a Swede and butter is in your blood, but I am from the land of olive oil and all this butter is making me faint. Or maybe it's the bourbon.

Paul said...

I suspect the bourbon which is not in the gene program for either of us. I'm sure it's God's way of telling you to have a lie down and get some rest.