Feast Day of Archbishop Luwum of Uganda

Today is the feast day of Archbishop Janini Luwum of Uganda. Archbishop Luwum served in office during the bloody rule of Idi Amin. He protested the murderous policies of the gorvenment and often interceded on behalf of those imprisoned for opposing Amin and his policies.

Here is an excerpt from the brief biography by James Kiefer at Oremus:

The Archbishop called on President Amin to deliver a note of protest, signed by nearly all the bishops of Uganda, against the policies of arbitrary killings and the unexplained disappearances of many persons. Amin accused the Archbishop of treason, produced a document supposedly by former President Obote attesting his guilt, and had the Archbishop and two Cabinet members (both committed Christians) arrested and held for military trial.

On 16 February, the Archbishop and six bishops were tried on a charge of smuggling arms. Archbishop Luwum was not allowed to reply, but shook his head in denial. The President concluded by asking the crowd: "What shall we do with these traitors?" The soldiers replied "Kill him now". The Archbishop was separated from his bishops. As he was taken away Archbishop Luwum turned to his brother bishops and said: "Do not be afraid. I see God's hand in this."

The three (the Archbishop and the two Cabinet members) met briefly with four other prisoners who were awaiting execution, and were permitted to pray with them briefly. Then the three were placed in a Land Rover and not seen alive again by their friends. The government story is that one of the prisoners tried to seize control of the vehicle and that it was wrecked and the passengers killed. The story believed by the Archbishop's supporters is that he refused to sign a confession, was beaten and otherwise abused, and finally shot. His body was placed in a sealed coffin and sent to his native village for burial there. However, the villagers opened the coffin and discovered the bullet holes.

What a courageous man in the cause of justice. What steadfastedness he showed in the face of persecution and death. He lived the Gospel of Jesus Christ without counting the cost, which was his very life.

Yesterday - was it just yesterday? - Archbishop Henry Orombi of Uganda refused to participate in a Eucharist which included Bishop Katharine Jefforts-Schori of the US. Am I wrong to compare the actions of the two archbishops? What is gained by the refusal of the seven archbishops to approach the table of the all-forgiving Lord because Bishop Katharine is participating?

The Preface For the Feast of Archbishop Luwum

.O God, whose Son the Good Shepherd laid down his life for the sheep: We give you thanks for your faithful shepherd, Janani Luwum, who after his Savior’s example gave up his life for the people of Uganda. Grant us to be so inspired by his witness that we make no peace with oppression, but live as those who are sealed with the cross of Christ, who died and rose again, and now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Lord, I'm Retired

Lord, I'm retired. What was the 4:40 AM wakeup about? I really don't need to wake up that early. And what's with the hymn running through my mind as I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to fall back asleep? Lord, are you trying to tell me something? Perhaps George Bush is not the only US citizen that you talk to. Amen.

My dear readers, after prayerful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that God wants me to share this hymn with you. Here are two verses:

Alleluia! sing to Jesus! His the scepter, His the throne.
Alleluia! His the triumph, His the victory alone.
Hark! the songs of peaceful Zion thunder like a mighty flood.
Jesus out of every nation has redeemed us by His blood.
....

Alleluia! bread of angels, Thou on earth our food, our stay;
Alleluia! here the sinful flee to Thee from day to day:
Intercessor, Friend of sinners, Earth’s Redeemer, plead for me,
Where the songs of all the sinless sweep across the crystal sea.

It's a lovely hymn and familiar to many of us, and it is one of my favorites. I like that it makes clear who is boss and puts the powers and principalities nicely in their place. I like the "friend of sinners" part, too.

I'm sorry that I can't put up a musical version of me singing the hymn. I'll let you use your imagination: think of a voice something like a cross between Joan Baez and Joan Collins - the two Joans - and you'll have an idea of what my voice is like. I say this in all humility, but I must speak the truth. Read the words, and hear me singing in your mind's ear, and I think you will profit. Why you could even join in and sing along with me.

Love Them Anyway

I wrote this in the comments at Fr. Jake's in June of last year:

Everyone, please! Love them anyway. What happened to that? We do not give up hope. "Our [help] is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth."

"The Episcopal Church will have no more gay bishops." Maybe for today, but we don't give up hope. Love them anyway.

It's OK to feel sad; it OK to be very disappointed, but love them anyway.

I stand in sadness and solidarity with my GLTB brothers and sisters. Love them anyway.

Pray for Bishop Jefferts Schori. Remember how the Pharisees so often thought they had Jesus boxed in. Perhaps God has a way out of this that we can't yet see. Love them anyway.

Forgive me if someone has already said this, because I have not read every comment. It's a long thread.
janeboatler | 06.21.06 - 8:09 pm | #

That's my old blogger name before I transformed myself into Grandmère Mimi. I'm sorry, but I don't know who said the words in the quote about no more gay bishops in the Episcopal church. "Love them anyway" still stands.

Across The Atlantic

Yesterday I had the sense that the blogging well might be running dry, but then I went over to MadPriest's site, where I found a comment thread on whether the English like Americans or not. As usual the thread had strayed off topic, which seemed to annoy Bill a bit, but, of course, I put in my two cents, and then got an idea for a post. I have joked that MadPriest is my muse, but I'm afraid that, much as I don't like it, it's true. Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?

In the 1980s, my husband and I took our first trip across the Atlantic. I wanted to go to France first, but friends of ours were in London at the time while the husband of the pair was researching an obscure English poet. We decided to go while they were there thinking they could set us on our way to being good visitors and because it would be nice to know someone there.

We stayed at a small hotel off Sloane Square, which consisted of three Victorian houses, whose walls had been hacked through to make a hotel. It put me in mind of Fawlty Towers, although the proprietors were saner. The hotel would not accept credit cards nor checks. They could not tell us the exact amount we would owe either, because our travelers checks were in US money, whose value with the pound fluctuated every day, so for two weeks, we had to watch our money carefully to be sure that we had enough to pay our bill at the end of the stay, even though we did not know what the bill would be.

I have mentioned I wanted to go to France first, but I fell in love with England, which totally surprised me. I should have known; I had read deeply in classic English novels, which should have prepared me for the love affair. I felt at home. 18th or 19th century London would have been more familiar, but not necessarily better, as the 1980s were good too. I've been back several times and, in my humble opinion, it's been downhill since then - in London, anyway.

We quickly learned to avoid English food, especially hotel food, except for the breakfasts, which they do well - just don't eat the black pudding - and the ploughman's lunches in the pubs, which were usually tasty. We took to the ethnic restaurants, and found excellent food. However, our English professor friend insisted that we have a meal at Samuel Johnson's pub, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where we saw his regular table and were served authentic - soi disant - food from his time, which included some awful hot potato salad and some sort of well-forgotten meat dish.

Our hotel was proper in the way that only the English can be proper. One morning, halfway through our stay, while I was taking my bath, my husband decided he needed laundry done, so he filled up the hotel laundry bag with mostly dirty underwear and socks, and a few shirts. After I was dressed, I went down to the lobby to meet him and, to my horror, I found his dirty laundry spread around the lobby. He had not filled out the list that went with the laundry bag, and there he was in the lobby of this proper English hotel counting, sorting, and filling out his list. Underwear, socks, and shirts were on the chairs and even on the check-in counter. I was humiliated, but my husband was not concerned in the least. How on earth did they permit him to do this?

We learned to make our way around on foot and on the Underground as taxis were expensive. One evening we went to a Greek restaurant on the Tube, where we had a lovely meal. The restaurants in London cram the tables-for-two together so closely that you're only about 5 inches away from the next table, and there's no such thing as a private conversation. The wall of the restaurant was a mirror, and I was seated with my back to the mirror. My husband was seated facing the mirror, and he could see a man a couple of tables down looking at us and paying close attention to our conversation, but he didn't mention this to me. As we finished the meal and were paying our bill, the man and his female companion were leaving too. The man turned to us and said that he had heard us say that we were staying near Sloane Square and that they lived near there and would we like a ride to the hotel. I thought this was kind of him, and I wasn't looking forward to the Tube ride, so I said, "Yes, that would be nice."

As we left the restaurant, and were a little distance from the couple, my husband said to me, "Are you crazy? We don't know who these people are. They could be kidnappers. The guy was watching us and listening to our conversation through the whole meal." Now he tells me. I said, "Well, tell them we won't be riding with them." He didn't, and I didn't, and we ended up in their car, and by then I was thinking of being kidnapped and/or robbed too.

All's well that ends well. They were perfectly nice people and delivered us safely to our hotel, but I can't think why the man would want to spend his dining period eavesdropping on the conversations of other diners.

It was an exciting time to be in little England, since there was a war on. They were fighting the ferocious Falkland Islanders. We took the train to Portsmouth, which was the port of embarkation for troops and supplies for the war. We toured the port in a small boat that was used at Dunkirk to rescue British troops during WWII, or so we were told. It did have a brass plaque attesting to that, so I suppose it was true. My husband was amazed that there was so little security at the port. We went wherever we liked. We could have been up to no good. We saw The Victory, Nelson's ship, and the Gypsy Moth, and had a lovely day there.

We were fortunate to be in London during the Queen's official birthday celebration, which included a parade with military marchers in their colorful uniforms, and, back then, the Queen was still riding her horse in the parade. Just before the parade, a light rain began to fall. We asked a woman standing near us if the parade would be cancelled. She said, "Indeed not. We would be very upset if the parade were to be cancelled." In a short, time here comes the Queen on her horse in the drizzle, riding side-saddle in her plaids. Aside from seeing the Queen up close, I was amazed to see a military band on horseback playing their instruments. The English people around us made way for us to get up front to have a good view of the parade once they heard our American accents. Now, that was a kind gesture, wasn't it?

We had planned to travel to other areas of England, but we found that there was so much to do in London, the museums, the old churches, the plays, and much more, that we ended up sleeping in London every night, although we took lovely day trips out from London several times. One of the best was a trip to Oxford. To see that ancient seat of learning was, to me, awesome, indeed.

That's enough of the play-by-play of my first trip across the ocean. We did learn one lesson that was not soon forgotten. We had carried six bags between the two of - yes six. We were insane. It was not too bad until we arrived at Victoria Station and found that we had to go down some stairs to get to the ground floor. I believe there was an escalator, but it was not working. We had to carry down what we could and leave the rest - which you could not do today, because of safety concerns. Then I stayed downstairs with the luggage while my poor husband went up and down to get the rest.

I've been fortunate to be able to travel in Europe a number of times since then, but that first trip to England was the best, and I'll never forget it.

St. Valentine's Day

When I went to the Lectionary page, I saw that today is the feast day of Sts. Cyril and Methodias and not the feast of St. Valentine. I did a search on St. Valentine, and found this in the Catholic Encyclopedia:

At least three different Saint Valentines, all of them martyrs, are mentioned in the early martyrologies under date of 14 February. One is described as a priest at Rome, another as bishop of Interamna (modern Terni), and these two seem both to have suffered in the second half of the third century and to have been buried on the Flaminian Way, but at different distances from the city....Of the third Saint Valentine, who suffered in Africa with a number of companions, nothing further is known.

....

The popular customs associated with Saint Valentine's Day undoubtedly had their origin in a conventional belief generally received in England and France during the Middle Ages, that on 14 February, i.e. half way through the second month of the year, the birds began to pair. Thus in Chaucer's Parliament of Foules we read:

For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne's day
Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate.

For this reason the day was looked upon as specially consecrated to lovers and as a proper occasion for writing love letters and sending lovers' tokens. Both the French and English literatures of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries contain allusions to the practice

There. That's probably more than you wanted to know.

HAPPY ST. VALENTINE'S DAY!

UPDATE: No one sent me a valentine back. I must tell you that I cried. My sweet husband gave me beautiful long-stemmed yellow roses, so that took the edge off a bit, but you, my blog friends, let me down.

(Post edited to highlight the valentine message.)

Thank You, Martin

Martin and I attended grade school together. We shared classrooms for a number of years. He was one of a pair of non-identical twins. Martin was slightly-built and delicate-looking. He was a kind and gentle-natured boy. Over the years, we often walked part-way home together and talked about many things, our classmates, God, whatever was on our minds. His twin didn't join us; it was usually just Martin and I.

As we entered 7th grade I became aware of clothes and boys, in that order. The clothes were more important then, than the boys. I used to fall asleep at night fantasizing about what clothes and shoes and hairstyles I would wear when I grew up.

During the day, I gave a good bit of thought to what clothes I wanted for myself right then. Those were fantasies too, because we were poor, and I was, most certainly, not going to have those clothes. I was more concerned about what I'd wear to the school dance than I was about who I'd dance with.

As Martin and I walked home, sometimes I'd talk to him about my present day wardrobe fantasies, and he would listen. He seemed interested in my clothing fantasy life. He'd make suggestions, and say, "No, I think you should wear this kind of shoes with that dress." He was just so nice that I took it for granted that he would share my fantasies, and he did! I can tell you that there was not another boy (perhaps not even another person) that I knew who would have done that.

Sometime during the eighth grade, Martin stopped coming to school. A short time later, he died of leukemia. I missed my walking-home companion.

For many years, I did not think about Martin. One day, as an adult, I was remembering those enjoyable walks and talks about my clothes and other things, and it struck me that Martin and I had an unusual relationship. Suddenly, I thought, "Was Martin gay?" It seems likely, but he never grew up, so I never really knew.

One reason that I had such a lively fantasy life was because I grew up in a severely dysfunctional family with an alcoholic father and an immature mother, who was beside herself at how badly wrong her life had gone. My books and my fantasies and my Roman Catholic schooling helped me survive those awful years, along with my walks and talks with Martin. Thank you, Martin. You were present in my need.

Oh, and I mustn't leave out the movies. My sister and I and a gang of kids from the neighborhood went faithfully three times a week, Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday afternoons. Another escape from the miserable life at home. A quarter would get you into the movie theater, plus a coke, and popcorn or a Hershey bar. I think about those days when I take my grandchildren to the mulitplex cinemas and shell out a fortune.

The cheery story of my childhood with my dysfunctional family is a story (or several stories) for another day.

Diocese of Wenchoster

In a lapse of good judgement, I had neglected to visit the web site of the UK Diocese of Wenchoster in quite a while, and I find that there's a lot of new stuff up. It's worth a visit. Here's a bit from the must-read description of the official seal of the diocese:

Around the edge of the seal runs the legend "Sigillum Wenceaster Sacra Imago Veronicum" The seal of Wenchoster, the holy relic (or image) of Veronica and in the centre of the shield is a representation of that holy hankie, the prized possession of the Cathedral.

For those who are interested in geneology, the laborers in the vineyard of the diocese and the parishes have most interesting names.

The whole site is a virtual treasure house. You could spend hours there, without getting bored. Just the ticket for me, as I already spend too much time on the computer.

Letter Of Regret

I found this in the Baton Rouge Advocate yesterday morning:

Published: Feb 12, 2007

Letter: Critic voices sorrow at Ivins’ death

I was sorry to learn of the passing of Molly Ivins, although I was one of her critics.

I quit criticizing and reading her diatribes against the Republicans after receiving a letter from Mr. Manship saying that he was going to keep publishing them to wake me up in the morning.

Molly became infuriated at George W. Bush when he beat her friend Ann Richards for governor of Texas a number of years ago, and had that in her craw for all those years.

Both she and Ann Richards were noted for their acid tongues and unlimited attacks on any Republicans in the area.
It is ironic that both of them died not too far apart with breast cancer.

T. Med Hogg
transportation consultant
Baton Rouge

Now, I ask you: does this gentleman sound sorry? Is that his real name? Did Molly and Ann get breast cancer from all the acid in their tongues?

I must add that I liked the publisher's reply to Mr. Hogg. Sometimes the best reads in the newspaper are in the letters.

Thought For The Day

Why is it difficult for us to grasp the vital element of Christianity, that God loves us infinitely, that there are no boundaries to his love, no conditions to be met before he loves us?

Quiet, So Very Quiet

Down in my small pocket of Episcopal land - and it is small, as my area is heavily Roman Catholic - all is quiet. One would hardly know that we have a new Presiding Bishop in the Episcopal Church. Her name is never mentioned, except by a few brave souls who include her by name in the Prayers of the Faithful. She is, thus far, Bishop She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

I watched Bishop Katharine's investiture live, and I loved it. She seemed to take delight in the ceremony, and I did, too. It was dignified and beautiful, as was our new PB.

I'll add this little prideful parenthesis: I picked Bishop Katharine as the best of those in the line-up of candidates for Presiding Bishop, when Fr. Jake posted the video interviews at his web site. Her qualities of quiet dignity and grace impressed me.

I expected to go to church the following day and find others to share my delight, but apparently, no one else watched the investiture, and there was no mention at all during the liturgy nor the sermon that we had a new PB. Later in the week, I asked my rector why no mention. He told me that after the early service, a parishioner had come to him to say how displeased he was about her election, so the rector thought it was best not to mention her. I told him how much I admired her, and how I had enjoyed watching the investiture, and that I would have liked to have had an acknowledgement that we had a new PB - just to go on record to let him know that he had one parishioner who was quite pleased about her election.

Our bishop is Windsor compliant. He states that he has no intention of leaving the Episcopal Church. He follows the Windsor Report's recommendation, in that he has postponed the ordination of a lesbian member of my church, who meets all the requirements for ordination to the permanent diaconate. He attended the recent Camp Allen, Texas, meeting of Windsor bishops, to which Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts-Schori was not invited. I am told that certain African bishops were invited. What little I know comes from sources outside my diocese, for our diocesan web site gives no information about the Camp Allen meeting, who attended, what was discussed. It appears that only bishops were present; no priests or lay people were there, as far as I know.

Bishop Katharine is not mentioned at all on the site, nor is there a link to the web site of the national office of the Episcopal Church.

The Windsor document calls for a "listening process", but to my knowledge, there has been no listening happening in my diocese. I asked one of our lesbian members if she knew of a "listening process", and she said no. No one is listening to her, that's for sure. Therefore, our bishop would appear to be Windsor compliant only in part.

Our small church does not have a particularly strong interaction with the diocese, with the exception of our recent search for a priest, in which the diocesan officials seemed to have a more heavy-handed involvement than usual. The bishop exercises his pastoral duty when we are between rectors by sending interims or suggesting supply priests. He makes his regular visitations, and relations with with him are quite cordial during the visits. We lay out a nice feast for him. Otherwise, we're in our own little world.

There is little to no mention in my church of the national church and its present state of crisis, nor of the troubled state of the Anglican Communion. I don't bring it up either, for if folks are not stirred up, then why should disturb their peace?

I'm uneasy about my bishop's silence. He says he will not leave TEC, but what are the Windsor bishops up to?

Before I finish, here's a link to a Dave Walker cartoon at The Wibsite, explaining the Windsor Report in a way we can all understand.