The Last Glass of Vintage Port

Alfred came in from the garden with an empty bottle of Cockburn 1994 Vintage Port in one hand and a crystal goblet in the other. Truth be told, he appeared pretty satisfied with himself.

            Mother looked up from her packing and said, “Oh, I was looking for that glass. I wondered where was.” She took the goblet, rinsed it out, dried it, wrapped it carefully in packing paper and inserted it lovingly into one of the little compartments of the box she was packing on the kitchen table.

            She asked, “What were you doing in the garden with a bottle of vintage port and a goblet?”

            “Mother,” said Alfred, “I was offering an libation to God in thanksgiving for all His blessings here in our home.”

            “A libation, Alfred?” said Mother, puzzled.

            “So many changes, Mother, so many changes, so many people we have known, so many good-byes.”

            “Yes, rather, Alfred,” said Mother. It all reminds me of Bilbo’s last speech at his birthday party when he turned eleventy-one.

            Alfred laughed, “Yes, indeed, Mother, very clever. You mean when Bilbo said, “”First of all…I am immensely fond of you all, and that eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits…I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.”[i] It has been over all, mostly good, Mother, despite people like Ima Hatchett, Moana Crutchley and Harry Prudhomme! That is why I was out in the garden offering a libation to our God and Father.”

            “What gave me the idea, Mother was a verse in the Book of Numbers that says, “For the drink offering you shall offer a third of a hin of wine, a pleasing aroma to the LORD” [Numbers 15:7], and I thought why not. That Cockburn 1994 Vintage Port won’t travel very well, and it may take weeks for it to settle after we move. So I took the bottle out to the garden to make a libation to the Lord in a place that has always given me such pleasure.”

            “But, why the goblet, Alfred?” asked Mother.

            “Well, Mother,” said Alfred, “the Cockburn 1994 is after all a very fine vintage port, so I brought a crystal goblet with me. Oh, Mother, you know! One glass for me, and the rest of the bottle I poured out before the Lord. It would have been a shame not to have tasted it after saving it for so long.”

            “Saying good-bye is such an awkward thing, Alfred,” said Mother, ‘so many mixed emotions. I swear, I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I am particularly fond of  Grace and Horace Whittington. I’m really going to miss them, and months ago I would never have thought that I was going to miss our Bible Study group.”

            “Ah, but Mother,” said Alfred, “Just think of the adventure ahead of us. Jeremy and Winnifred are about to have a baby, and we are about to see our grandchild grow up. Not only that we are moving back to the area where we first met and fell in love. Imagine, we have a contract on a home on Beacon Hill and there is so much to do in Boston. Why, The Boston Museum of Fine Arts has a current exhibition on Jamie Wyeth that examines his imaginative approach to realism over the course of six decades.”

            “Alfred,” said Mother. “I’m excited to go, but at the same time, I’m sad to leave.”

“I know the plans I have for you, says the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope” [Jeremiah 29:11].

           

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[i] J.R.R. Tolkien: The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 1

The Four Seasons

            “You wouldn’t know it by Texas, Mother,” said Alfred, “but there are four seasons; winter, spring, summer, fall. That’s four seasons and I love them all.”

            “What are you getting at Alfred?” said Mother.

            “It’s that letter we received from Jeremy and Winifred yesterday. We have reached our seniority, a winter of sorts, and Winnie is going to have a baby, a very different sort of springtime. You know that I have been thinking of retirement for some time now. Jeremy’s letter brings things into a much sharper focus.”

            Mother put down her copy of The New Yorker and looked thoughtfully at Alfred. “Alfred,” said she. “Jeremy has accepted a new job as a Vice President of Summoner’s Insurance in Boston, and Winnie has been offered an Associate Professorship in Literature at a college on the North Shore. Jeremy, Winnie, and the new baby, are going to be a long way from us for a considerable length of time. It would be a shame to miss seeing our new grandchild growing up.”

            “Quite, right, Mother. Quite right!” said Alfred, “If you are thinking what I am thinking, it would be a tremendous change.”

            “Moving, Alfred? Moving!” said Mother. “I dread the prospect, but on the other hand Boston is where we both went to college, and where we met, and where we were married and began our life together.”

            “Mother,” said Alfred. “Let’s take a walk in the garden and talk a little more."

            Mother and Alfred walked down the path from the Solarium and looked around the garden. Alfred asked, “Mother do you remember the poem I wrote last summer?”

In the garden where I love to go

I see the hollyhocks all planted in a row,

Peach and apple blossom, hyacinth and golden bell,

The Lily of the Valley, the greater celandine and daffodil.

But nothing can compare with God’s great beauty rare

In this wild profusion of His glory, a sight beyond compare.

Come walk with me a little, while the gentle breezes blow

And share with me the beauty of His garden here below.

            “Even in the shimmering heat of summer, the garden is lovely still,” said Alfred.

            “I know, Alfred. I know!” said Mother, “But winter comes to all gardens, and after every winter it is spring again. If spring happens in another garden far away, what have we to fear? Alfred,” said she, “I love my garden, but I love my family more.”

            “Well, Mother,” said Alfred. “Let us pray together about it and see what further God might say to our hearts.”

“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love” [1 John 4:7-8].  

Reading the Tea Leaves

Mother and Alfred were sitting in the Solarium on a Sunday afternoon. Before them lay the remains of their afternoon tea. The Royal Doulton Old Country Roses teapot stood empty and the matching Royal Doulton teacups and saucers held only the dregs of their afternoon Darjeeling tea. 

Mother swirled the remaining tea in the bottom of her teacup and looked at it in a dissatisfied sort of way, and said, “Alfred, It is grand that we have finally called a new Rector, but I must admit to more than a modicum of anxiety.”

“What is it Mother?” asked Alfred.

“I see trouble in the bottom of the cup,” said Mother looking at the tea leaves, “It’s old Harry Prudhomme. He is just never satisfied with anything. On the surface he seems like such a lovely fellow, socially quite acceptable and so very spiritual, but if you stop to listen to him he is quite disappointing.”

“How so, Mother?” asked Alfred

Mother shook her head, “Well, Alfred, old Harry never seems to stop complaining. There is always something he doesn’t like. It’s gotten so that I just try to avoid him in Coffee Hour after Church.  It’s always something. He doesn’t like the music. He doesn’t like the soloist. The choir robes need to be cleaned. There was a mistake in the bulletin. The sermon was too long. Why can’t they put the better green hanging on the altar? That young Mrs. Wilkins should keep better control of the children. Now he is saying that the Calling Committee didn’t to a good job. If it’s not one thing it’s another.”

“The problem with Church, Mother,” said Alfred, “is that it’s made up of people.”

“Well, you are absolutely right Alfred,” said Mother.  People can really spoil things for others.  Do you remember Mildred Hutchins?  Mildred couldn’t take a hint and just continued grousing; but you know me Alfred, I’m not meek and mild. When she wouldn’t stop grousing I finally said, ‘Stow it, Mildred! No-one wants to listen to you complaining.’  Well, Mildred was furious and went storming out, but not before saying, ‘You’re new.  What would you know about it?’ She was an awful woman.  Isn’t there a verse in Proverbs that says something like, ‘A cheerful heart makes a good medicine, but a grousing spirit rots the bones,’ or something like that?  Even if it’s not there, it ought to be. Well, she is long gone, and I’m still here in our church, but so is old Harry Prudhomme. I just hope that our new Rector has a thick skin.”

“You know, Mother,” said Alfred. “Every church that has tucked some history under its belt has its complainers like Mildred and old Harry.  In the tale of King Arthur and the Round Table Sir Launcelot du Lake said, “It is hard to take out of the flesh that which is bred in the bone” (Mallory, Le Morte d'Arthur).  What Harry needs is not just a heart transplant, but a bone replacement.  The very structure of his life may need to be torn up, so that God in his grace can begin again. Harry is like a ruined pot on the wheel and the Potter may have to scrape him off the wheel, pound the lumps out of him, and reshape him all over again. Even at that Harry might just say to God, ‘I am perfectly fine, thank you. Leave me alone.’ He must be very unhappy; we really need to pray for him.”

Alfred’s Morning Cuppa

            Alfred stood in the kitchen before the open pantry surveying the largesse of imported teas.

            “Mother,” said he, “I hardly know which to choose. I rather enjoy Lapsang Souchong early in the morning. Its strong smoky flavor makes it a real eye opener. However it is too strong a flavor for the second cuppa.”

            “Well, Alfred,” said Mother, “what about the Dao Ren Qianxu tea that we brought back from our trip to mainland China? It’s mild enough to provide a strong contrast to the Lapsang Souchong.”

            “Mild it is, Mother. Too mild by half! But it’s not sturdy enough to stand up to the challenge of the day.”

            “Quite right, Alfred!” said Mother, “then how about Taylor’s of Harrogate Yorkshire Tea?”

“That’s just the ticket Mother,” said Alfred reaching for the tin of Taylor’s of Harrogate Tea. “A pot of Yorkshire tea steeped in our Brown Betty teapot should stand us in good stead.”

Alfred filled the electric kettle, measured out six teaspoons of tea into a small dish and waited for the water to begin to come to a boil. Soon the water began to boil and Alfred poured a little boiling water in the Brown Betty, swished it around, poured it out, poured the loose tea into the teapot and dropped the tea cozy over the teapot.

Then Alfred put four crumpets in the Dualit Toaster and said, “That should do it Mother. By the time the crumpets are toasted the tea should have steeped almost exactly four minutes.

A few minutes later there was a small ding from the Dualit and Alfred said, “Break out the Dundee Ginger Preserves, Mother! Breakfast is ready.”

“Did you know, Mother,” asked Alfred as they were sitting down, “that picking out the right tea for the right time of day is somewhat analogous to picking the right priest for Rector?”

Mother laughed, “If I remember Alfred, three weeks ago you said that picking out a Rector is like picking out a cigar.”

Alfred looked sheepish and said, “Too right I did Mother! You want a man with substance, flavor and the right aroma, but considered the further implications of picking out the right kind of tea. It really gives us a parable of sorts.

“If you pick a man that is strong flavored like Lapsang Souchong he might be a little too smoky for a long run in a congregation. Even St. Paul wasn’t good for more than a couple of years in any one place. On the other hand if you pick one that is like Dao Ren Qianxu he might have a little exotic snob appeal but end up being just too mild to get the job done. Then again if you pick a strong person that is like Harrogate Yorkshire Tea you may have one that will be strong enough to go the distance.”

“I see what you mean, Alfred,” said Mother, “But consider a further refinement to your parable. There are two kinds of Taylor’s of Harrogate Yorkshire Tea, one is Yorkshire Regular, and the other is Yorkshire Gold. You would think that Yorkshire Gold would have an added attraction, at least the name would suggest a significant upgrade, but we still have a partially used tin of Yorkshire Gold that has worked its way to the back of the pantry. It just didn’t match our water and the result was an inferior cuppa.”

“Excellent, Mother! Excellent!” said Alfred. “I will have to bear that in mind. The person we call must not only be strong and have a good aroma and flavor, but that person must also be a match for the congregation. The right person must not only look good on paper and in the interview process, but must also feel good on a subjective level. There is a subtlety in that, to which we must give heed.

The Old and the New

Alfred tilted the goblet and considered the translucent medium-red cranberry color of the 1983 Cockburn Vintage Port before taking a sip and saying, “Mother, ‘I love everything that is old; old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines.’”

“That sounds like a quote, Alfred,” said Mother looking up from her new copy of Neal Sperry’s Lone Star Gardening book.

“Well, yes it is Mother. It’s from Oliver Goldsmith in The Vicar of Wakefield, but that doesn’t make it any the less true.”

“Let me be the first to challenge that, Alfred,” answered Mother. “Surely something being old isn’t the only value by which we should measure things. What did you think about the Paul Revere House in Boston? It was built in 1680. That’s old, but it’s an ugly house.”

“I see what you mean, Mother,” said Alfred. “The Paul Revere House may be old and historically significant but it’s not beautiful. I love it because it’s old, but I would hate to live in it.”

“Mother,” said Alfred, “I didn’t mean to make being old a universal standard by which to appreciate everything. I just happen to like a lot of old traditional things, as you very well know. Take for instance the new 1979 Book of Common Prayer. It has its critics, as well it should, but it rests on a venerable tradition going back to 1549, and many parts of it go well back beyond that. However some of the attempts to modernize the language fall short of the promise. It kind of reminds me of the Curate’s egg.”

“What on earth, Alfred,” said Mother, “does that have to do with the Curate’s breakfast?”

“Ah, well,” said Alfred, “the Curate was invited to breakfast with the Bishop. As he sat there stirring his boiled egg with his spoon the Bishop looked up from his tea and crumpets and asked, ‘Is there something wrong with your egg my son?’ To which the Curate replied, ‘No, my lord, parts of it are very good.”

“That’s surely not the same thing, Alfred,” said Mother. “There might be some things you like in the new Prayer Book, and a few things you don’t, but you don’t need to let the things you don’t like spoil the things you do like. “However if you have a bad boiled egg, it has to be bad all the way through.”

“That raises another question, Mother,” said Alfred. “When I interview people to work in our department store, I want them to ring true. By that I mean I want them to be honest, industrious, and not shirk some of the hard jobs. I don’t enquire about other things. They have to be good enough, but not perfect.

“As you know, Mother, I have decided to serve on the Calling Committee and that raises other issues. I want to know if they have a personal faith, and I want to know if they believe that Holy Scripture is an adequate standard for faith and morality. I also want to know if they love people. I don’t expect a candidate for Rector to be perfect, but we can’t afford to call a bad egg. That just won’t do.”

“For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation for all people, training us to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives in the present age, waiting for our blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ”: [Titus 2:11-13].

The Unwanted Caller

Ah, at last a few moments of quiet and peace; a time for refreshment and solace for the soul. Mother and Alfred are sitting together at the dining table enjoying a magnificent repast that had been prepared for them by Agnes Findlay their Scottish housekeeper.

“What a treat, Mother,” said Alfred, serving himself a generous portion of Agnes Findlay’s horseradish and herb crusted prime rib and a great slice of Yorkshire Pudding.”

“Now this is marvelous, Alfred,” said Mother, spooning out some of the Asiago and Sage Scalloped potatoes. “Just look at this Butter Nut Squash au Gratin, what a treat.”

            They had just loaded up their plates when they were interrupted by the harsh jangle of the telephone. They stopped to listen to the caller I.D. The obnoxious electronic voice said, “Charles Wentworth.”

            “Do you know a Charles Wentworth, Mother,” asked Alfred? “Neither do I. How do these telemarketers know when we sit down to dinner? It’s most unfair.”

            Alfred took his embroidered linen napkin off his lap, placed it on the table, and went to the side board and picked up the telephone saying, “Bonjour, comment ça va?”

            The voice on the other end answered, “This is Charles Wentworth. You’ve been specially selected . . .”

            Alfred interrupted, “Pardon? Parlez-vous Francais?”

            The voice on the other end of the line said blankly, “Huh?”

            Alfred continued, “Je ne parle pas Anglais.” 

            The voice on the other end of the line gives it another try, “I’m calling to offer . . .”

            Alfred says hopefully, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Nein?” Then he tried again, “Spreek je Nederlands? … Parli Italiano? … Snakker du Norsk?” 

            The voice on the other end stammers, “I don’t understand.”

            Alfred gives it another try, “Yabba Wobbi Spork?  Key whocka whacka? Poogi woogi?!” 

            There is a click on the other end of the line. Alfred looked at Mother and said, “That really is a shame. At dinnertime I only accept polyglottal sales calls. If they speak French, German, Dutch, Italian, Norwegian, or even Wobbi Spork they might have a chance.”

            Mother looked quizzically at Alfred, and said, “Wobbi Spork?”      

Alfred sat back down at the table, picked up his linen napkin and placed it in on his lap before answering, “Wobbi Spork? I just made that one up Mother. The point is that we were receiving so many of these calls that it actually is abusive. There are times when we really need to shield ourselves from predatory marketing. I just prefer to do it with a little bit of humor.”

            “Thank you, Alfred,” said Mother, as she took a bite of her prime rib. “You know that since you have started answering those calls we have had a lot less of them. I wish it was that simple in other areas. I’m almost afraid to go into a furniture store because I don’t really want to be preyed upon by an over eager salesperson.”

            “Mother, said Alfred, “there is nothing wrong with setting limits. We have to do that in many areas of life. If we don’t set limits we will be driven hither and yon by every stray wind that blows.”

            Alfred continued, “That is even more important in matters of faith. I was reading Ephesians this morning and St. Paul says that we should aspire to “mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ,  so that we may no longer be children, tossed to and fro by the waves and carried about by every wind of doctrine, by human cunning, by craftiness in deceitful schemes. Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ” [Ephesians 4:13-14].

The Changing of the Guard

It had not been a propitious morning at Church for Mother and Alfred, and perhaps not for most of the congregation. It should be noted that acid-tongued Moana Crutchley actually appeared to be gloating. And certainly Ima Hatchet would have been delighted. After all Father Goodfellow had given her marching papers and she was now well ensconced and infecting another parish.

What had happened was simply this, Father Goodfellow had announced at the morning service that he had accepted a call to be the Rector of St. Walburga’s in Franklin.

Alfred took off his blue blazer, took his leather Anaconda cigar case out of the breast pocket, and folded the blazer carefully over the back of a chair, so that the gold Wilfred Choate school initials were prominently displayed.

“Mother,” said he, “What a shame, and just when we have celebrated our one year anniversary at St. Fiacra’s. I can hardly believe it.”

“Six weeks, Alfred,” said Mother, picking up Alfred’s blazer and hanging it just as carefully in the hall closet.  “In six weeks Father Goodfellow will be gone, then what will we do?”

“As I understand it Mother, “the bishop will appoint an Interim Priest until we are able to call a new Rector.”

“How long is that going to take, Alfred,” said Mother.

With that Alfred opened the Anaconda cigar case and said, “Well, Mother it’s quite a process. The Vestry will consult the Bishop, appoint a Calling Committee, develop a profile of the parish, seek names, visit prospective candidates to hear them preach, invite them for interviews, check with the Bishop again, and if all goes well then call someone to be our new Rector. That all takes time.  One hopes that the first names of prospective candidates will provide a suitable candidate, and if it doesn’t we look for some new prospects.”

“Alfred,” said Mother, “I had no idea it was that complicated,” she paused, then added, “I also had no idea that you knew so much about it.”

Alfred winced, “Well, I didn’t, but Horace Whittington has asked me to consider being on the Calling Committee. I don’t know; it’s quite a time commitment.”

Alfred drew two cigars out of the case, held one up to his nose and sniffed. “Now Mother,” he said, “Selecting a Rector is like selecting a cigar. For instance take these Villar y Villar 754s cigars. At first sight they seem acceptable. They may be hand rolled in Nicaragua, but they are not really a special occasion cigar; far too mild and non-descript for that, sort of a run-of-the-mill smoke.”

With that Alfred dropped the two cigars in the trash, saying, “When we call a new Rector, we want him not only to look fine at first sight, but we want him to actually be fine; to have a good aroma, and after the first year to be just as fine as he looked at the beginning.

“For an overseer, as God's steward, must be above reproach. He must not be arrogant or quick-tempered or a drunkard or violent or greedy for gain, but hospitable, a lover of good, self-controlled, upright, holy, and disciplined.  He must hold firm to the trustworthy word as taught, so that he may be able to give instruction in sound doctrine and also to rebuke those who contradict it” [Titus 1:7-9].

American Camelot

“You know, Mother,” said Alfred, looking up from the New York Times, “Harry Truman was the last President we had that didn’t want to be king.”

Mother put down her Royal Albert Old Country Roses teacup and daintily wiped her lips with her embroidered linen napkin, raised an eyebrow and asked, “How so? Alfred.”

It’s this business about President Obama carrying on the Camelot of the Kennedys,” said Alfred, ”Even if Ted Kennedy did endorse him at the American University in 2008, I still find it a little too difficult for me to contemplate today; especially in light of the current popularity polls.”

At that point Alfred began to sing sotto voce,

We're knights of the round table

We dance whenever we're able

We do routines and chorus scenes

With footwork impeccable

We dine well here in Camelot

We eat ham and jam and spam a lot

 “That is why, Alfred,” said Mother, “I’m going to vote for Queen Elizabeth for President.”

“Now, Mother,” said Alfred, “you know she can’t run; she wasn’t born in the United States of America.”

“Well, neither was Senator Cruz,” said Mother with a twinkle in her eye, “he was born in Canada; but then again you know very well that I always vote Democrat just so that I can cancel your vote.”

            When Alfred stopped laughing he said, “Mother, the thing that started this odd chain of thought was reading St. Peter.”

            “St. Peter,” asked Mother?

            “This morning and I ran into this verse, “Honor everyone. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the emperor” [1 Peter 2:17]. Now I thought to myself, I can understand “honor everyone, and love the brotherhood, and I can even understand ‘fear God,” although I would rather love Him. What causes the problem is ‘honor the emperor!’ We have a democratic system where we do not have a king, nor do most Americans want one. That makes it difficult to ‘honor the emperor.’”

            “I suppose, Alfred,” said Mother, “the uncomfortable application is that we should honor our political leaders‽”

            “That poses a problem Mother,” said Alfred, “what if they are not honorable?”

            “That is what elections are for,” said Mother. “If they are not honorable, vote them out of office, no matter what party they belong to.”

            “I suppose, Mother,” said Alfred, “underlying all of this is, that in our case, it is the Office that should be honored, both by the politicians and by the people who elect them, or vote them out of office.”

            Alfred continued, “St. Peter also said, “Be subject for the Lord's sake to every human institution, whether it be to the emperor as supreme, or to governors as sent by him to punish those who do evil and to praise those who do good” [1 Peter 2:13, 14], because if we don’t honor authority, whether elected or not, the whole system falls apart.”

            “I think, Alfred,” said Mother, “that the same thing applies to the Church, even though that in the Church it can be just as difficult.”

“Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with groaning, for that would be of no advantage to you” [Hebrews 13:17].

Zoot!

“Well, I don’t know, Mother,” said Alfred looking down at his new Zoot Ultra Kalani 3.0 running shoes. “I know I need to exercise, but when I get right down to it, it’s very hard to start.”

“A man, must do, what a man must do,” said Mother unsympathetically. “I’m going to Gloria’s Golden Spa instead. You won’t catch me wobbling around the streets.”

“You know, Mother,” replied Alfred, “My Pater was never much for exercising; I always addressed him as Pater, which as you know is Latin for Father. He always said, “If God intended man to exercise He’s have given man better knees.”

“Excuse me for saying it, Alfred,” said Mother, “but your Father wasn’t exactly the paragon of physical perfection.”

“That is really unkind, Mother,” said Alfred huffily.

“Well, it’s the truth,” said Mother. “Any man who thought that a cigar and shot of John Jamison a day would keep the doctor away, isn’t destined to be a model of athleticism.”

“Too true, Mother, too true,” said Alfred. “But I do wish he had lived longer. I remember his one foray into physical conditioning.  General Mountebank at the Officers Club had recommended the Royal Air Force Dynamic Tension Exercise System to him, not that General Mountebank ever exercised himself.  Pater wrote off for the booklet and began a program of exercise. It lasted for about a month, and Pater lost interest in it and it went by the wayside.”

Alfred stood up, stretched, attempted to touch his toes, then headed for the door. Twenty minutes passed. Mother took another sip of Earl Grey tea, and turned to the International Section of the morning paper, and muttered, “You would think that nothing happened in the world that was more important than the World Cup.”

The front door slammed. Alfred came in and stood by the front table, puffing and blowing. “Mother,” he said, “Pater had a point. Man’s knees aren’t made for running; nor for that matter, man’s lungs. I might have to give up smoking.”

Mother raised her eyebrows, but said nothing, which for Mother was an accomplishment.

Alfred, picked up a Special Reserve Churchill Cigar and regarded it wistfully, then put it back down unlit. “You know Mother,” said he, “my health might be more important than small pleasures. But it’s very difficult to come to the point. This morning as I was reading the Psalms and I received a bit of a jolt. “The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty” [Psalm 90:10]. That is not something I usually like to think about.

Mother put the morning paper down and regarded Alfred thoughtfully. Finally she said, “Alfred, sometimes one needs to walk before one starts to run. Perhaps what you should do is get a physical trainer?”

“Now that’s an idea, Mother,” said Alfred, “But what about you?”

Mother quickly picked up the paper, opened it, and hid behind it, muttering. It was her morning for muttering. “Alfred,” said she, “I’m younger than you.”

“Yes, I know Mother; you have reminded me of that more than once, but after all what’s good for the gander is good for the goose.”

“Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed” [Hebrews 12:12-13].

Bloom Where You Are Planted

“It seems to me, Mother,” said Alfred, “that I had just no idea of the amount of turmoil there was in the Episcopal Church when we first joined St. Fiacre’s.”

“That’s the truth, Alfred,” said Mother, “nor had I expected the turmoil that has been caused by people like Ima Hatchett and Moana Crutchley. Gossip and backbiting is really tiresome. I might complain about them to you, but that’s safe. I’m not going to compound the problems by joining in the fracas.”

“Well, Mother,” said Alfred, “I don’t really find them easy to deal with either. The press and the internet just love to pick up negative stuff and run with it. Have you ever noticed the artificial excitement of news commentators when they are puffing up the next juicy tidbit?”

“Alfred,” said Mother, “It just goes to show: Never do anything wrong on a slow news day. Sure enough you will end up hitting the headlines.”

Alfred replied, “The complainers in the parish and the commentators on larger church affairs are all cut from the same bolt of cloth. It’s a power thing. Sometimes they are right, and sometimes they are wrong; but whether right or wrong they just stir up fears and stress in those who listen to them.”

“What can we do, Alfred? What can we do?” said Mother.

“Put things in perspective, Mother,” said Alfred. First, as for those on the parish level, whatever we do, we can’t give them credence. If we don’t like what they are saying we can choose to ignore it, or when the time is right just say ‘I don’t feel that way about it.’ If we play the game with them, they win, and we only end up being upset.

“There’s really nothing new under the sun,” said Alfred, picking up a book from his desk. “I was reading Alfred Plummer’s, The Church of England in the Eighteenth Century, the other day. Listen to what he has to say, In 1771 some clergy petitioned Parliament in England because they wanted to abolish the traditional teaching of the Church. Edmund Burke, a member of Parliament replied,

“These gentlemen complain of hardships: … They want to be preferred clergymen of the Church of England …; but their consciences will not suffer them to conform to the doctrines and practices of that Church.  … They want to be teachers in a Church to which they do not belong; and it is an odd sort of hardship.  They want to be paid for teaching one set of doctrines, whilst they are teaching another.”

“Our parish is named after St. Fiacre, the patron saint of gardeners,” said Alfred, “Instead of pulling up our roots to go look for better soil, we should work on cultivating our own spiritual garden and bloom where we are planted. There has always been stress in the Church because the Church is made up of people. But the poet John Donne put things in the right perspective when he said,’ The Scriptures are God’s voyce; the Church is His eccho.’ The denial of the authority of Holy Scripture leads to confusion and spiritual despair.

“Everyone who comes to me and hears my words and does them, I will show you what he is like: he is like a man building a house, who dug deep and laid the foundation on the rock. And when a flood arose, the stream broke against that house and could not shake it, because it had been well built” [Luke 6:47-48]. 

Murder Will Out

           “You know, Alfred,” said Mother, “I really love reading English Mystery stories, certainly Agatha Christie and her stories about Hercule Poirot, and the inimitable Miss Marple. On a more erudite level I enjoy reading the Lord Peter Wimsey stories by Dorothy Sayers. Lately I have discovered P. D. James and her detective Adam Dalgleish.

The odd thing is that the Church of England forms the background for each of these writers. Not only that, but they breath the very air of England. But there is something about each of these mystery writers and their stories that leaves me a little unsettled.”

“Why is that, Mother,” asked Alfred?

“Well, Alfred, it’s this. Often you can tell just who is going to be murdered. You might not know who the murderer is, but to borrow a word from one of these mysteries, you can tell who the “murderee” is going to be, you know, the one who is about to be murdered. I find myself thinking, ‘That person is so nasty and troublesome they really deserve to be killed; and sure enough they are.”

“I know what you mean, Mother,” said Alfred, “but that raises a moral question. Is it right to say Mr. X is such a bad fellow that he ought to be done away with? But then, on the other hand, Mr. X really is a bad fellow who is destroying the lives of others and making everybody else miserable.”

“That is exactly my point, Alfred,” said Mother. “I’ve been reading ‘A Certain Justice,” by P. D. James. The murderee is a brash obnoxious woman who is just nasty to everyone. When she is murdered I think, “Well, she won’t cause any more trouble, and there is no end of people who have a motive to murder her. On the other hand I’m aware that someone will have to pay for murdering her. It’s odd. It seems to be an act of justice that she is killed, but at the same time someone will have to be hanged for it.”

“One of the benefits of these stories, Mother,” said Alfred, “is that each of these writers has a strong sense of moral accountability that not only affirms that there is right and wrong, but that justice ought to be done. I might point out Mother, that accountability is not very popular today. We have quite a few people who are of the opinion that a savage murderer ought to be treated with mercy, and perhaps even be paroled back into society.”

Alfred continued, “Jesus, Himself, embraces the law and at the same time makes us look deeper at its meaning.”

"You have heard that it was said to those of old, 'You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment; whoever insults his brother will be liable to the council; and whoever says, 'You fool!' will be liable to the hell of fire Matthew 5:21-22].

“Ouch!” said Mother. I guess that means that I had better lighten up on the antics of that magic mouth Moana Crutchley! Murdering her with my mouth really only makes me upset. ”

Alfred sighed, “You are probably right Mother. When she starts her stuff, I suppose that the appropriate thing to do is ignore it, or tell her forthrightly, but kindly, that we disagree with her.

“Not only that, Alfred,” said Mother, “but I think I had better add her to my prayer list instead of getting angry.”