Granddaughter Perry Ledbetter Fenton appearing asFabian in the Prospect Sierra School Production
Of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night
(Perry is second from the left.)
Billie’s Birthday
March 18, 2008
We began the day by listening to Barack Obama’s address from Philadelphia. It was the best speech on race relations I have ever heard or read. If elected, I believe he could bridge the divide over race, religion, and politics in this country and become one of our greatest American presidents.
Then we were off to the Pleasant Hill “Y” for our daily workout, followed by brunch at Mimi’s Café on Willow Pass Road, in Concord.
Phone calls came from Mark, Marian, David, James, and Marty. On Billie’s 25th birthday, my dad called late at night to ask, “How does it feel to be a quarter of a century old?” We both passed that mark a long time ago, but this year Billie said “74 doesn’t feel much older than 73.”
Billie also received colorful cards, email greetings, sweet notes, and gifts on her birthday. The card I gave her pictured a startled Weimaraner on the cover. Inside it said: “Is that a lot of candles or is your cake on fire?” To which I added, “You are the fire that warms my life.” From the day I met Billie, in the summer of 1953, I have considered myself the luckiest guy in the world.
When I asked what she wanted for her birthday, Billie said, “Send a check to The Smile Train,” which I did. The Smile Train is one of our favorite charities. It is an international organization dedicated to helping millions of children in the world who suffer from cleft lip and palate through free surgery. One of the best-managed, cost-effective charities in America, all non-program expenses are paid for by members of the Board.
In the evening, we had dinner at Tahoe Joe’s Steak house in Pleasant Hill. Our server, whose name was Chrissy, was the most attentive waiter I think we ever had. She kept stopping by our table to see if there was anything we wanted. Brandy, who waited patiently for us in the car, was rewarded with some treats from our meal.
The Glass Castle
I may have been the last person among our family and friends to read Jeannette Walls’ memoir, The Glass Castle. It was on The New York Times bestseller list for over a year. Let me assure you, I enjoyed it no less than the rest of you. It just, well, took me longer to get to it.
“All you have to do is read the first sentence,” Billie had said, “and you won’t be able to put the book down.” She was right, as I discovered when I finally picked it up and read: “I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster.”
It is the true story of a family in which the parents often failed to meet the basic needs of their children for food and housing, but somehow managed to nurture their keen minds and give them something of their own fierce independence.
The father was an alcoholic. The mother was self-indulgent. They couldn’t live together and they couldn’t live apart. The kids were often left to fend for themselves. As my friend Susan Lee Vick says, “It (the book) makes you feel a lot better about your own family!”
Reading The Glass Castle I often laughed out loud and sometimes came close to tears. The author writes in straight, unadorned prose and manages to forgive and maintain affection for her audacious parents. She is someone I would like to meet.
What a movie the book would make! I find myself casting the principal roles. Let’s see, Chris Cooper and Frances McDormand for the parents. They would be perfect. And for the author, Jeannette? Hmm…
***
For my friends who read theology and Bible, I recommend the book I turned to next. It is Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, by Jonathan Reed. He begins by reviewing the three searches for the historical Jesus, beginning with Schweitzer, going on to the “second search,” form and redaction criticism, and then taking up what he calls “the third search,” moving from an essentially literary exercise to consideration of “the social history and community formation of early Christianity.” It is a fascinating book, with much to offer those who would like to use a wider lens and take in the culture and times in which Jesus lived.
A Rising Star
Our friends Rob and Sylvia McCann gave us their tickets to the San Francisco Symphony’s rehearsal on March 20. It was the Venezuelan conductor Gustavo Dudamel’s debut appearance with the San Francisco orchestra. On the program were Stravinsky’s Firebird and Piano Concerto No. 1 by Rachmaninoff, with the Russian born pianist Kirill Gerstein.
We arrived at Davies Symphony Hall at 8:30 a.m. for coffee and free donuts in the spectacular glass wraparound lobby, where we chatted with Naomi Chamberlain, a friend from St. John’s, Clayton. Everyone was in high anticipation of hearing the ever-popular Firebird and experiencing the orchestra under the direction of Mr. Dudamel. He is currently in his ninth season as Music director of the Simon Bolivar Youth Orchestra of Venezuela and also Principal Conductor of Sweden’s Gothenburg Symphony.
Entering the 2,743-seat hall at 9 a.m., we were treated to an engaging and informative talk by James M. Keller, the San Francisco Symphony’s program annotator since 2000. A graduate of Oberlin and Yale, he served on the staff of The New Yorker for ten years. He is a knowledgeable musicologist, a great speaker, and very funny. Mr. Keller said the theme of the day was “youth.” The Firebird and Concerto No. 1 were both written at the beginning of the young composers’ careers. In addition, the guest conductor and the guest pianist were both in their late twenties.
Rachmaninoff, we were told, was a spectacular pianist, a composer who performed his own music. He also was a rather aloof person, not easy to know. After they had become famous, Rachmaninoff and Stravinsky found themselves living near each other in Southern California. Stravinsky, a warm, outgoing person, thought he and his wife should invite the Rachmaninoffs to dinner. Rachmaninoff arrived with a pail of honey as a hostess gift.
Stravinsky later remarked that socialization that evening required more effort than it was worth. Rachmaninoff’s “immortal characteristic was his scowl.” Rubinstein, who was there, said the two spent the evening complaining about royalties they had not been paid.
After the orchestra members, dressed informally for the rehearsal, had settled in their places, Gustavo Dudamel entered to warm applause. He was short, with a head of curly, dark hair, and a big, boyish grin. He was easily the most energetic conductor I have ever seen, and at the same time the most graceful in his arm and hand movements. Under his direction, the lavishly orchestrated Firebird was intoxicating. Kirill Gerstein, who won his first international competition at age eleven, was exciting, too. What a time we had, sitting in the McCann’s eleventh row, center seats!
The San Francisco Chronicle headlined “Hottest conductor on the planet dazzles in his Symphony debut” and said Gustavo Dudamel “is a worldwide phenomenon.” Joshua Kosman, the paper’s music critic, described the conductor’s physical movements as follows:
“To watch him on the podium is to see how virtuosically the essence of a musical score can be communicated physically. Dudamel’s rhythmic precision is astonishing, but even more so is his ability to tie structural downbeats together with the connective tissue of melodic phrasing and dynamic contrasts.
“He does it with a full arsenal of physical expressions, a cocked hip, a strikingly balletic left hand—for the rhythmic crashes that show up here and there in The Firebird—a huge top-to-bottom downbeat that resembles nothing so much as a pile driver in action.”
Next year the 27-year-old maestro will become music director of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. The L.A. Phil has hitched its wagon to a star.
The Inner Child
On the Saturday before Easter, I had a chance to re-live childhood memories of coloring eggs. Our granddaughter and her daddy arrived with packets of egg coloring materials. Billie and I spread an oilcloth cover over the glass table on our rear deck, and the four of us sat down to have fun.
When we were children, egg dyes came in a standard packet of primary colors. We could do quite a lot with that, but nothing like the materials of today make possible. There are dyes that produce a wonderful, speckled appearance. With other dyes, you put just a drop of several colors on an egg, and then place it in a plastic pouch and spread the colors in interesting patterns by pressing on the bag. The possibilities are endless.
Perry showed us how to put rubber bands on an egg before dyeing. When the egg is dry the bands are removed to show interesting bands of white eggshell. Billie had boiled three dozen eggs—without any of them cracking—so we had plenty of “canvass” to work with.
We admired each other’s creations, and kept at it until every egg was colored. David produced pretty Easter baskets to carry our handiwork into the house.
Billie prepared a delicious dinner of chicken, a Jello salad, and roasted vegetables. David brought a bottle of Merlot. He and Perry surprised Billie with a birthday cake ablaze with candles. We had a happy time.
The Liveliest Little Church in Town
Easter morning, I drove 22 miles to Brentwood for the 11 o’clock Eucharist at St. Alban’s Church. When you have attended as many different Episcopal churches as I have, it is hard to be surprised by anything you find. This proved to be an exception--in every way.
The 80-year-old congregation worships in an attractive, small, wood-frame building in the old downtown section of Brentwood. The church and grounds have been well maintained. I was there to experience worship with the Rev. Peter Champion, who has been vicar of St. Alban’s for about a year. Peter was recently elected rector of St. John’s, Clayton, where Billie and I are members. He will begin there in May.
After being greeted at the door of the church and handed a service leaflet, I took my seat in the third row of chapel chairs. The chairs must have replaced pews some years ago. Almost immediately, Lois Laza, “greeter” for the day, came and sat next to me. She introduced herself and asked my name. She told me some things about the morning schedule (coffee hour and Easter egg hunt following the service) and did her utmost to make me feel welcome. This has never happened to me before. I was in mufti, so there was no way she could know I was a priest.
Almost as soon as Lois left, the Vicar himself walked up and shook my hand. I was beginning to think they must not have many visitors if each one is greeted this way. As soon as he heard my name, Peter said, “Well, we have a ringer here. My wife, Susan, met you when you spoke at the Cathedral recently.” He said we could chat at the coffee hour following the service.
Not to be outdone by the official greeter and the vicar, the woman sitting in the row ahead of me turned and introduced herself by name. I began to think I was back in the Baptist church!
Next, the Vicar and a woman Deacon came out with vestments over their arms and robed in front of the congregation. I have never seen that. I thought, “Is the sacristy being painted? Do they HAVE a sacristy?”
Five adults now entered the sanctuary and stood behind the altar. There was a man with an electronic guitar, three women singers, one of whom was Lois, who had greeted me, and another woman with a guitar. One of the singers held a tambourine. The music was loud and fast for the entrance song He is Alive! By Jerry Blacklaw. Here is how that song begins:
He is Alive!
He is Alive!
I can see above the clouds,
And I can hear him call my name out loud!
You will NOT find that in the Episcopal hymnal. Despite the surprising lyrics, the fast paced, up-tempo music was exciting, and the singers and congregation joined in with gusto. I added my voice. When you find yourself in the revivalist tent, join with the saved and sing out.
Now Peter Champion stood before the congregation for the opening salutation and response. “The 9 o’clock congregation did great on this,” he said. “I want you to shout it out, and do them one better.” Then he yelled, “Alleluia, Christ is risen.” I thought we did a pretty good job hollering our response, “The Lord is risen again. Alleluia.” It wasn’t good enough for Peter. He thought we could do better. We raised our voices and made the rafters ring with a second try. “Now I want you to shout it so that we can be heard down the street in the park,” Peter said. The third time we made a deafening noise. He smiled his approval.
The assigned reader hadn’t showed up, so Lois read the lessons. She did an excellent job (and what a difference that makes!). The Deacon read the Gospel in a firm, clear voice. Then it was time for the sermon.
This was what I most wanted to hear. Peter did a workmanlike job. He stood in the center aisle and spoke without notes. He began by asking for a show of hands of those who had read the Harry Potter books. Nearly every hand went up. He confessed to being sad to reach the end of volume seven and know there would be no more Harry Potter books. He said he hates to come to the end of a good story.
Wasting no time coming to the point, Peter said we all hate to come to the end of something--the end of health, of a marriage, of a job we need, of living in a house we no longer can afford. Then he said the message of Easter is that the story doesn’t come to an end. He referenced the Gospel for the day, which told of a great earthquake, an angel descending from heaven with news that Jesus had been raised from the dead, and the two Marys meeting Jesus, taking hold of his feet, and worshiping him. (Matthew 28:1-10)
With God there is no end to the story, Peter said. There is always new life, a new beginning. Our job as Christians is to share this good news by standing with others who have come to some crisis in their lives and helping them through it.
I was glad to hear Peter Champion cite something from our world—the Harry Potter books—and speak about the real problems people experience in their lives today. He clearly offered a Gospel response, saying that with God there is no end to the story, but a new beginning.
However, I was disturbed by his adoption in this sermon of the mythological world view of first century writers. He spoke of the great earthquake and the angel descending from heaven as if these were historical events. I also regretted his failure to mention Barack Obama’s celebrated call on Tuesday of Holy Week for a ‘national conversation’ about race in America. That would have fit the Easter theme of a new beginning and new life.
Nevertheless, preaching on Easter, proclaiming life and hope in this tired, old world, is no easy assignment. I gave him more than an average grade.
The Passing of the Peace, as you might expect from my description of how I was greeted, was done with great enthusiasm. It lasted until nearly everyone had greeted everyone else. I was reminded of the way we passed the Peace at the Santa Monica parish during my 23 years there.
A rousing offertory song, Above All, by Lenny LeBlank & Paul Baloche, was accompanied by rhythmic clapping of hands by the congregation and the clergy at the altar. That, however, was calm compared to the exit song, for which a large basket of maracas was brought out so everyone in the congregation who desired to do so could join the musicians in a joyous rendition of Gary Oliver’s Celebrate Jesus:
Celebrate Jesus, celebrate!
Celebrate Jesus, celebrate!
Celebrate Jesus, celebrate!
Celebrate Jesus, celebrate!
He is risen, He is risen
And He lives for ever more.
He is risen, He is risen.
Come on and celebrate
The resurrection of our Lord!
(Repeat)
By now the joint was really jumping. The Deacon seemed carried away. When she sang out the Prayer book dismissal—“Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit. Alleluia, Alleluia”—she added seven more Alleluias! And we, of course added seven more to our response.
All of this would have seemed to be enough, and more than enough. We had, after all, reached the end of the Prayer Book liturgy. However, in this little church they celebrate birthdays with dancing, and they had given up dancing for Lent.
The Deacon now asked all those who had birthdays since the beginning of Lent to come forward. The musicians began a raucous birthday song the congregation knew by heart, and the birthday people began dancing. There were adults, teens and an eleven-year-old-acolyte, and I must say they did a very good job of it. One teenage boy locked arms with an adult woman and they twirled around in great style.
Never in my wildest dreams…
There was coffee and pastries in abundance at the coffee hour, and soon children came in lugging baskets full of colored eggs they had “hunted” in the side yard. Peter and I chatted for a few minutes. I said I had never experienced such a “lively” church. He told me the style of celebration was established before he came. Hearing that, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Folks seemed to take a genuine interest in me. A man who works for CISCO told me about his travels around the country and introduced me to his wife, a grammar school science teacher. She was great fun and had a lot of interesting things to say about teaching. I could have talked with her all day.
Soon it was time to leave. As I walked to my parked car, a man came running up and breathlessly described the monthly meeting of the men of the church. He told me they have a 6:30 a.m. (!) breakfast on the first Saturday of the month. He was sure I would enjoy it. When I asked about the program, he said, “That’s the best part. We don’t have a program. Just a great breakfast and good conversation.”
When he left, I chuckled and said to myself, “That is the liveliest little church in town.” I thought of all the kids who complain that church is boring. No one would be likely to say that about St. Alban’s. More than anything else, it reminded me of the small, Pentecostal church in one of my favorite movies, The Apostle, starring Robert Duvall.
The worship at St. Alban’s wasn’t my cup of tea, and I could only imagine what a traditional Episcopalian would make of the place, but there was a joyful, celebrative spirit that seemed heartfelt and sincere. To my surprise, I felt almost giddy as I pulled away from the curb and headed the car toward home.
Obama for America
Kris Ingram is an old friend. She is an author, artist, teacher, and licensed preacher in the Episcopal Church. She taught David art at St. John’s Parish Day School in Chula Vista. He says she was the best teacher he ever had. Kris told me to buy RollingStone magazine for March. She said it had Obama’s picture on the cover and an endorsement by Editor and Publisher Jann S. Wenner. Here, in part, is what Mr. Wenner wrote:
“The tides of history are rising higher and faster these days. Read them right and ride them, or be crushed. And then along comes Barack Obama, with the kinds of gifts that appear in politics but once every few generations. There is a sense of dignity, even majesty, about him, and underneath that ease lies a resolute discipline. It’s not just that he is eloquent—with that ability to speak both to you and to speak for you—it’s that he has a quality of thinking and intellectual and emotional honesty that is extraordinary…
“We need to recover the spiritual and moral direction that should describe our country and ourselves. We see this in Obama, and we see the promise he represents to bring factions together, and to achieve again the unity that drives great change and faces difficult, and inconvenient, truths and peril…”
I am reminded of what someone said about FDR, that he had “the perfect temperament” for the job of being President. I believe I see that in Obama.
Richard Thompson Ford is a law professor at Stanford University. This is what he wrote about Obama’s speech on race (The San Francisco Chronicle, March 26, 2008):
“Obama’s speech was the boldest and most direct statement on race relations by a major political figure in more than a generation. His willingness to take the risk of confronting one of America’s most volatile and intractable problems head-on is striking. It gives us sense of how Obama might use his considerable rhetorical skills not just to win elections, but, also to lead and to govern.”
