The Lost Art of Conversation

One of the best compliments I ever got was from my friend Jason Harrold.  He said “You really know how to TALK to people.”  

I was surprised to hear that. I’ve always been pathologically shy and I consider myself to be the archbishop of social awkwardness, but after that, I started hearing the same compliment from other people in my life.  I certainly don’t think I’m an expert in the art of conversation but, just in case it might be helpful, I figured I’d share some of the things I do when I talk to people.  

I have seen the Spectre; he has been here, too

After the massacre of nine innocent Christians in Charleston, humanity is again asking:

 “God, how can you allow such things to happen?” 

and God is asking once again, as he does over and over:

 “Humanity, how can YOU allow such things to happen?”

Found Hearts

The main reason I entered the Religious life is so that I can hear God more clearly.  Throughout the Bible, God reminds us that we can all have happier, healthier and more meaningful lives if we just listen to him and follow his loving guidance.

That’s great if you can actually hear him, but I never could.  I was never Horton to God’s Who.  It was kind of embarrassing, actually.  Here I was going to church, reading the Bible and spouting off all kinds of wisdom from what I’d read but I never actually got anything from the horse’s mouth.

I HAVE BECOME COMFORTABLY NUN

Written June 11, 2013

I have been visiting Episcopal Convents on a regular basis for about 14 years, hoping to discern whether I was really being called to religious life or if it was just another one of my crazy countercultural ideas.  For many years I went twice a year to St. Mary's Retreat House, which sits right behind the Mission in Santa Barbara, to see the Sisters of the Holy Nativity.  I also visited the Community of the Transfiguration in Cincinnati and the Society of St. Margaret in Boston.  In the meantime I also met monks from the Order of the Holy Cross, Society of St. Francis and the Society of St. John the Evangelist in my various church activities and travels, and in every encounter with every Monk and Nun I asked the same question: "What is it like?" 

Because I don't want to Flunk Substitutional Atonement

“For I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice,
  the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings.”

--God - Hosea 6:6

“We’ll kill the fatted calf tonight, so stick around.”

--Elton John and Bernie Taupin - Bennie and the Jets

As I’m heading into the mysterious depths of the end of Holy Week this year, I’m trying to wrap my mind around the concept of Jesus dying for our sins.  

It’s baffling to me.  Ever since the first time I ever heard a Baptist preacher proclaim it from a pulpit when I was a child, I’ve periodically pondered it and then decided it was just over my head.  I’ve skipped it in my spiritual development just like I skip math questions on I.Q. tests.  It’s too complicated.  It bounces off my brain like a Nerf ball.  I don’t know the ins and outs of this covenant that God made by sacrificing his only son, but I know it’s the truth – just like I don’t know how electricity works but I know it makes lightbulbs glow. 

This year, though, I am a nun.  I’ve got to get some kind of grasp of this theological trigonometry question or I’ll be struck dumb when some earnest spiritual seeker asks me about it in the future.  I’ve never been to seminary, I’m bored to tears by long intellectual diatribes on the subject and I don’t have any real concept of the correct theology on it so I’ve decided simply to figure out what I, personally, think the whole thing means. 

Jesus, Take the Wheel!!!

Jesus, Take the Wheel!!!

Man:  God, how long is a million years to you?

God:  Only a minute

Man:  How much money is a million dollars to you?

God:  Only a penny

Man:  Can I have a million dollars?

God:  Sure, wait a minute.

My mother, who was born at the Holy Name of Jesus Hospital in Gadsden, Alabama and who has a southern accent so thick and incomprehensible that even southerners can’t figure out what she’s saying, has a tendency to blurt out the phrase “LORRRRD HEPPP!” in moments of tremendous astonishment. My sisters and I think this is so hilarious that we often call her up with shocking information just to hear her say it.  I’ll eagerly ring her up  and say “Mom, my friend Stephanie is getting married on Saturday to a seven-foot tall transvestite named Amanda Hugandkiss and get this - Amanda is a minister at the Pentecostal church.” to which my mother will reply, at top volume, so you have to hold the phone a yard away from your ear to avoid being deafened:  “LORRRRRRD HEPPPPPP!!!!!”

Let's Go Thump Some Bibles Together!!!

Written August 2014

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TAtRCJIqnk

I’m always interested in the viewpoints of the people in my life whom I love and respect, but who have completely turned away from religion in all its forms.  I like to engage in discussions with them about why they reject faith and spirituality so harshly, and why they think Christianity in particular is harmful.  I am curious as to why people stop going to church, and why they raise their children to be on guard against being lured into any kind of belief beyond science and reason.

Freedom

Prayer in Schools

There have been many instances in my life when I've been participating in a nice group conversation, happily chatting away and validating the feelings and beliefs of my fellow chatters, when someone looks at me and says "Well of course - YOU believe that there should be prayer in our schools, right?  I mean, of course there should be."

The Peace that Passes All Understanding

Depart from evil, and do good; 

seek peace, and pursue it.  

--Psalms 34:14

On Sept. 11, 2001, my parents were about to leave my apartment in Los Angeles to fly home after a two-week visit with me.  My sister India called just as my stepfather Mike's hand was on the doorknob, ready to roll the luggage out to the rental car.  She said frantically "Turn on CNN.  A plane just flew into the World Trade Center.  DO NOT allow Mom and Mike to go to the airport."  Despite our reassurances to India that it was just an aircraft accident and everything was ok, we soon realized that it was a terrorist attack and that every airport on the country had been shut down.  My parents were stuck in LA for the next 2 days, and they ended up flying to Atlanta's Hartsfield Airport on the first commercial airline flight that was allowed in the air after 9/11.

The Different Ones

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree,

it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”   ― Albert Einstein

When I was a little kid, my sister Autumn and I used to watch reruns of The Twilight Zone and yes, I am aware of the fact that it is not exactly suitable viewing for children under 7 years of age but hey - it was the 70s and kids could watch 20 uninterrupted hours of harmful TV and nobody cared.  Mine and Autumn's young, anxious, paranoid minds soaked up every episode of The Twilight Zone, and we were thrilled to discover that Rod Serling had more fantastic terrors in store for us with his other creepier and more disturbing show - Night Gallery.  Even the opening credits of that show scared the bejeezus out of me and Autumn.  There was an eyeball, and some sort of alien, and some groovy and menacing picture frames.  We probably had 22 years of nightmares just from watching the opening of that show, and we loved every minute of it.  

Phil

Written Feb. 2014

When I was in college I was a typical 1980’s arrogant jerk (pause for everyone to ask “So - what has changed?”)  I went from a small college in my hometown to the theatre program at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and I thought, with my typical smugness, that I was going to rocket to Broadway stardom even before I finished my first semester.  I was a poor kid on scholarships who was working my way through an expensive education through sheer force of will, and I was determined not to blow it.  

Bloody but unbowed

"Discrimination is a hellhound that gnaws at Negroes in every waking moment of their lives to remind them that the lie of their inferiority is accepted as truth in the society dominating them." --Martin Luther King, Jr.

Carol Anderson, who was for over 20 years the Rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in Beverly Hills, was one of the first women priests ever ordained.  She is a giant in the Christian faith, and her sermons and books are a profound inspiration to people all over the world.  She is also a person who I am extremely fortunate enough to have formed a friendship with over the last couple of decades, and although most people don't know it - she has knee problems.

Serenity, with a Side of Panic

Written in early 2008 I hate flying. Its pretty horrendous, sitting on an airplane and getting claustrophobia while being terrified of dying, but surely the worst part of it for me is the airport. Airports are full of those things I have mental blocks about and which I'm therefore scared of - numbers, clocks...people...I get so freaked out about going to airports that I hate having anyone take me or pick me up. I would rather spend a bazillion dollars taking a cab with a non-English-speaking cab driver than have anyone drive me because my nervousness is so great that I seize up and go into slow motion and I can't even make decent conversation. When I'm not having recurring nightmares about losing my purse, I'm dreaming about being in airports and being pelted with numbers and clocks while people are running over me with Smarte Cartes. That's how much I hate them.

A Karma Macchiato

Written in December 2007

A Karma Macchiato

All sorts of weird things have happened to me this year. I had a cancer scare, a stalker, a mean guy dumped me and broke my heart, I got an ulcer and lost 15 pounds, then I lost my job and sprained my ankle. Oh, and I sprained my wrist too.

All of these terrible things have prompted my friends to ask me, one by one, that age-old question: "Why do bad things happen to good people?"

Mollie’s Roommates

Written Monday, October 15, 2007 

One of the many reasons I love doing volunteer work at my church is because it's the only area of my life that, 100% of the time, turns out to be more fun than I expect it to be.  You know how it is. The majority of activities in life are underwhelming. You get all psyched for a party and then you get dressed up and go, and after about fifteen minutes you think "OK. I'm so bored I want to chop my own head off." or - as you're headed home from your friend's show in Pasadena at 1AM on a work night you think "Well, that's twenty dollars and three hours of my life I'll never get back..." Maybe it's just me, but most things don't live up to my expectations. Maybe I'm a bitch.

Scared of Skunks

Written in Sept. 2007

This past Monday night at 8:05 PM, I was standing at my boss' desk thinking "C'mon, c'mon, hurry it up. I gotta get out of here.." as he pondered the items on some invoices. He was taking his time, trying to make sure I hadn't left out any charges to our clients, and I was antsy. 

Finally after an eternity he handed me the sheaf of papers and I asked, crossing my fingers, "Can I possibly do these corrections tomorrow morning?" 

"Yeah, yeah. Go on." he grumbled reluctantly in his low growl.

Are you ready?

Written Wednesday, September 05, 2007 

When I was a kid growing up in the Baptist church, they used to preach a lot about the Rapture. The church I attended with my mom and my grandma, Pleasant Valley South, was a very sweet, nurturing, wonderful place where I had many positive spiritual experiences, but that Rapture stuff - I gotta tell ya - it scared the shit out of me. According to the Bible, the Rapture is that day, somewhere in the future, where God decides to take the righteous people up to heaven and he leaves the wicked people on earth to be judged and sent to purgatory and various levels of hell. You can imagine how this scenario might play out in the mind of a child sitting on a pew chewing Juicy Fruit gum from grandma's purse and listening to Preacher Mathis, with his Navy Tattoos running up and down his arms, expounding on how one of these days - nobody knows when - some of y'all are gonna git left.

Thoughts on love and loneliness in preparation for Valentine's Day

Written on Wednesday, February 07, 2007 

Carol Anderson, the rector at my church, was one of the first women to be ordained as an Episcopal priest in the late 1970's. She is an imposing figure - an intellectual giant who is regarded as one of the world's foremost authorities on theology. Carol is a dear friend of mine and while I love and admire her, I have to admit I am still a teeny bit intimidated by her. While she's preaching she can be very warm and spiritual, but her one-on-one conversational style is brusque and direct, and you immediately sense that you'd better say what you mean quickly and get the heck out of her face because she's very busy saving the world. Woe be unto ye who try to push Carol around. You'll get a razor-sharp rebuttal straight from her genius-level I.Q. and you'll walk away with a red, smarting ego.

Remembering Will

Written Saturday, January 20, 2007 

I went to Will Mecom's memorial service today. It was beautiful and sedate and elegant, with candles and communion and dignified behavior, and about ten minutes into it I thought, "What the hell IS this?" I looked around in horror at all my dry-eyed, quiet fellow mourners and wondered if I was actually dreaming that I was at some ghastly Stepford gathering and then I realized why it all felt so peculiar to me: I've never been to a funeral outside the south. "Ohhhhh .. I thought. This is how non-insane cultures do death. Interesting.."

Hallelujah, By and By

Written Sunday, December 17, 2006 

Will Mecom died today, around 2:30 PM.

He had been sent home from St. John's hospital last week with a hospice nurse, and three of his friends he's known since Berkeley in the '60's flew in to stay with him and see out his last days. They were all due to fly back tomorrow to get back to their jobs and families and Will, being the good friend he was, decided to politely pass into eternity before they left so they wouldn't feel guilty.

I had been to see him this past Wednesday night at his place. He was nearly unresponsive by then from the pain and the morphine, but he had a houseful of people laughing and telling stories about him. The hearing is the last sense to go, so we all talked to him and I played some old gospel songs. Jane said she saw his lips moving as I sang, and that he squeezed her hand. As we were hugging him goodbye he mouthed softly to Jane, "Love you."