Art moves me. Good art takes me out of my own here-and-now and transports me to a new place. Our facilities manager, Jon Fry, is a wood worker. When I hold one of his wood bowls I am taken out my head and focus more on what I hold in my hands. I touch the smooth surface and follow the grain lines with my eyes. For a moment, I forget about the pressures of the day and simply enjoy a work of art. The artist Monet took my breath away. I had the pleasure to gaze at one of his Water Lilies paintings from just five inches away. I saw each individual stroke of his brush and marveled at his pure artistic mastery of paint.
Art moves us. But sometimes we get moved to places we don’t want to go. At some point during Mozart’s Requiem, I am moved to an uncomfortable place. A live performance of the play A Raisin in the Sun made me squirm because of the way it shows race, culture, and the pursuit of wealth. It’s art – it is supposed to move us. Art, after all, is not all roses, water lilies and show-stopping Broadway hits. A story on National Public Radio caught my attention this week. It might seem strange to hear a story about a painting on the radio but it captured my attention. It’s about an artist who is being sued. Her name is Illma Gore. She made a painting that I find offensive, rude and in quite bad taste. Nevertheless, it moved me – in the way that I was offended and preferred that I had not seen it. The painting is of one of the candidates running for president, naked. The supporters of the candidate have threatened her life and have physically assaulted her on the street. Despite how art might make us feel, expressions are protected by our Constitution and Bill of Rights. I don’t like what she painted but that doesn’t mean her work should be stopped or that she should threatened and attacked. Distasteful art is still art. A couple of years ago, there was a protest against police brutality. Using their freedom of expression, angry citizens were marching down a crowded downtown street, all the while being protected by the police. A news reporter asked a police officer how he felt about protecting the marchers. He said they have a right to express their anger; and although he may not see eye to eye with them, his job was protecting their rights. Art and liturgy go hand in hand. (Liturgy is a fancy word for saying what we do during a church service – the hymns, prayers, readings, sermon and colors for the season) The Oxford Movement in the Church of England in the early to mid-1800’s, among other things, sought to restore beauty and holiness to the liturgy. Even in the 21st century, we are left with colorful decorations, revised liturgies, ancient hymns, processions, and lit candles on the altar as a result of the turning to art in liturgy. Some priests who supported the movement were imprisoned; others were censured or removed from their positions. There were rent-a-mob crowds who destroyed art, broke apart marble altars and interrupted liturgies. After hearing about what happened to the artist Illma Gore, I wonder if the same could happen to our churches. We don’t all have to like art the same way. Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder. Nevertheless, I think we should all support art and even tolerate that with which we disagree or find distasteful. At our combined service this Pentecost, we are mixing language and liturgy. Although some may prefer a more modern communion prayer, or that others may prefer a more traditional form of the Prayers of the People, I know we will be one in the Spirit. And what a beautiful expression of love of God and neighbor that will be. -Fr. Marshall On my 17th birthday, a disaster unfolded in Ukraine. Reactor 4 failed which caused an explosion that killed two operators, some firefighters, and eventually many people in the town. Thirty years later, there seems to be irreversible ecological damage. I wondered then and now, where is God in all this?
Besides happening on my birthday, my life has intersected with the Chernobyl disaster. Christi and I met two children who were orphaned as a result. Their mom was from the little village in Russia where the orphanage is located. She traveled to Ukraine for work and fell in love with a firefighter. They were soon married. He was one of the brave firefighters who rushed into the reactor building to save lives. He died years later from multiple forms of aggressive cancer. She and her two young boys moved back to her home town where she eventually took her own life. This tragedy is a microcosm of that nuclear and ecological catastrophe. Like a pebble thrown into a pond, the waves from the disaster spiral outward, long after the initial event took place. Our second time traveling together in Russia, Christi and I stayed in a Russian city named Шуя (Shu-ya), built along the banks of the beautiful and slow moving Teza River. As we crossed the river and headed into the central part of the city, I couldn’t help but notice the giant nuclear reactor cooling tower off to my right. I said, “Oh, look, a nuclear plant,” to which our attaché quickly replied, “That is not nuclear, it’s a steam plant.” After a short discussion, I found out that many Russian cities have centralized “steam plants” that provide hot water for the entire town. In my home state, we had nuclear reactors but they were intentionally located far away from major population centers. … for obvious reasons. Or, perhaps, not so obvious until after Chernobyl. This past week, we watched a National Geographic show about Chernobyl thirty years later. It showed the “red forest” which is an area where most of the nuclear fallout landed. The trees turned red after the explosion. What I found surprising and scary is that the dead trees had not decomposed. There was a fallen tree which fell a year or two before the blast. It was as hard as a rock. No decomposing had occurred because the fallout had killed every single insect, organism and bacteria responsible for breaking down trees. The leaves were the same color as when they fell – three decades ago. No composting has occurred. The most surprising thing to me, however, has to do with the cooling ponds. Originally, these were typical Ukrainian ponds with typical animal life. The nuclear facility used the water for cooling. Nevertheless, today there is an abundance of fish in the ponds. Somehow, the fish have developed enzymes and other processes that have reversed genetic mutation due to radiation (aka cancer). Likewise, several bird species are also adapting quickly to living in a toxic waste dump. The hope here is that if scientists can figure out how fish and birds are able to co-exist with their nuclear mutations, they might be able to unlock that capability in humans to cure cancer. Wouldn’t it be surprising if one of the worst nuclear accidents of our time could end up yielding cures to cancer. If you’ve ever wanted to see the fingerprints of God at work around us, oddly enough Chernobyl seems like a good place to start. -Fr. Marshall A few years ago, someone left a dog at Saint John’s. It is a mystery how it got into the fully fenced playfield. The dog had no tag or chip. An incredibly friendly dog, his paws were sore and worn maybe from walking a long way on pavement or, more likely, from being chained on a concrete pad of some kind. Our business manager, Sally, took him home which eventually became his forever home. She named him George. He was a kind and loving animal. One weird thing is that he considered himself human. George sat on the couch like a human – on his rump with his legs spread out in front and his left paw on the armrest.
Another mystery is our church cat, Sassy. She’s been at Saint John’s more than 15 years. Sassy showed up one day and stayed. She’s in poor health and is not very kind or warm; she no longer hunts mice but instead sits around in the sun on the floor of the maintenance office, swears, spits, tells us what to do and says mean things about our mothers. I am sorry to report this past weekend George was sick. His vet diagnosed him with a terminal liver condition. He was put down. Sassy, on the other hand, is still alive. It’s not fair; not fair at all. God is just, truthful and faithful. God is great, glorious and incredibly forgiving. Fair, however, is perhaps not a suitable word to describe God. My thought is that God is just but not necessarily fair. When I say it is not fair that Sassy is alive and George is not, I base it on what I believe is morally right in human terms. George was a pleasant dog who was a good friend. Sassy is not. But God’s morality is different from mine. God knows what is right and what is wrong and quite often he does not consult me for my opinion on the way to run things. Someone close to me has had cancer pop up, again. I don’t think that is fair at all. And, frankly, I’m a little mad at God for letting this happen. Yet, I know that God heals and saves through the working of the Holy Spirit. I have faith that this will all turn out well and good. Yet, I’m still a little mad at what I perceive as the unfairness of the situation. Near the end of his life, Moses recited a poem to the Israelites as they were poised and ready to cross the river Jordan into the Promised Land. Moses said, “The Rock, his work is perfect, and all his ways are just. A faithful God, without deceit, just and upright is he; yet his degenerate children have dealt falsely with him, a perverse and crooked generation.” (Deuteronomy 32:4-5). The Rock, which is better translated as The Mountain, is defined as just. The Hebrew word translated as just, tsad-deek, is used to describe a judge or king who maintains the right and dispenses justice. In the Old Testament, this word is used for both punishing and rewarding. Every Good Friday, there’s a tugging at my heart that says this is not fair. It’s not fair at all that Jesus was crucified. But luckily, determining fairness is not up to me. -Fr. Marshall A suspicion I had about local Chula Vista drivers has been confirmed. We are driving distracted.
We moved to Eastlake, a suburb of Chula Vista, two years ago. I remember because we moved on my birthday. Things are different in Eastlake from Imperial Beach. We view driving as a sport. It's dangerous, frankly, and a source of concern in my morning prayers. Driving fast and seeing how many lane changes a car can make before stopping at a red light is one competitive event; the record I've counted is ten. More and more drivers that I observe are being distracted by their phones. On the way to Saint John's today, at each of eight green lights, there was at least one car that didn't go because they were distracted by their phone. I'm sure you've experienced this -- a line of cars is waiting for the light, it turns green, some cars go and one car doesn't because the driver is not looking at the light but at their phone. Twice today the distracted car was in a left turn lane. By the time they noticed (usually from the horn sound coming from the car behind them), they hit the gas, barely made the light on the yellow and the rest of the cars had to wait through another cycle. My suspicion about being distracted was confirmed by a recent article in Chula Vista's Star News. Officer Margarita Walker of Chula Vista's finest said that she's witnessed, “[People] talking on cell phones and texting; I’ve seen people facebooking while driving and sadly way too many selfies while driving.” Yes, that's right, people take selfies while driving. As a result, Chula Vista announced a crack down on distracted driving. Around 1,500 citations were given out last year. My morning count suggests we should be able to break that dubious record. Sgt. Jeffrey Meeks said, “Imagine driving for four or five seconds while blindfolded. That can be the effect of looking down to send a text message. In the average time it takes to check a text message – less than five seconds – a car travelling 60 mph will travel more than the length of a football field.” For most folks, driving is the most dangerous activity of the entire day. If we are distracted while doing that, how much more are we permitting ourselves to be distracted by lesser activities during the day. When Jesus went to the home of Mary and Martha, Luke writes, Mary sat at Jesus' feet, a first century phrase that means she was totally focused on Jesus. Meanwhile, Martha was cleaning up in the kitchen and got angry at Jesus because he was allowing Mary to "sit at his feet." We readers know that Mary had chosen not to be distracted but to focus on Jesus and the life to which he was calling her, a more focused way of living where she would know God's presence in every moment. In modern times, I imagine a text conversation between Martha and Jesus would go something like this. M: Hey, Jesus J: Hi, Martha. What’s up? M: Is Mary with you? J: Yep. M: Really, so she didn’t think I’d need help planning our next church event, and writing an article about it, or uploading photos of our trip to the website. Grrrrr… J: Martha, are you driving? M: Yes, Lord. J: Pull over and then we’ll talk. The lesson Jesus teaches Martha is to not fall into the distractions of life but instead to focus on the goodness that he brings into her life. But then, I have always supposed that distracted driving ends with meeting Jesus sooner than expected. -Fr. Marshall I love watching elephants. A zoo is not a real zoo without them. There is something calming about watching them eat, walk, pick things up with their trunks or just stand still. I don’t have statues or pictures of elephants around the house so this is not an obsession – I simply enjoy watching them be.
In seminary we had annual passes to the Oakland Zoo. A fraction of the San Diego Zoo, it nevertheless had elephants. Every morning, zoologists hide their food. Elephants spend hours searching for breakfast. Employees could just pile the food in one area but that’s not good for the mammoth beasts. Elephants are smart, curious and like to explore. They also need exercise. Hiding their food every day, and finding new places to hide it, keeps the elephants active, thinking and engaged in life. And it makes for a good zoo experience because guests get to watch them walk around, discern and eat. Hiding food is not unique to elephants and is done in many zoos for a variety of different species but all for the same reason; animals need to be mentally engaged and physically active. The only zoo I’ve ever hated was in Moscow, Russia. Our girls wanted to go see it – they’d never seen a zoo or any wild animal for that matter besides an occasional wild dog, rabbit or Russian wolf (which, by the way, you don’t want to mess with). Christi and I teared up several times during the exhibit. I have pictures if you want to be disgusted. The animals were in cages that were nothing more than aging painted train cars. We watched a polar bear walk the same pattern over and over and over and over rubbing up against the bars, turning, and rubbing along them on the other side. It’s like the body was alive but the brain was dead. There was a Russian brown bear, the pride and symbol of the people, with open sores on its worked-over body. It was angry and detached all at the same time. I have a photo of a monkey with a metal collar around its neck and a large chain attached to the center of the rail car. I was ashamed of being human and of giving money to this morally corrupt and horrible traveling group of humans and their enslaved animals. They would throw food to the animals within reach of the chains that held them. No searching or exploring for these animals. Back to happier thoughts of elephants… the pachyderms at the San Diego Safari Park are quite well cared for and, for lack of a better word, happy. The night before our Spring Break visit I had a weird and vivid dream. I think it was God talking to me but I’m still chewing on it. I asked God, as many of you have, too, “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to know! Why make me pray, think, read the Bible, talk about the dream to other people, and write about it. Why not just tell me plainly.” And then I saw the elephants walking around looking for a hidden carrot or head of lettuce. I saw joy when one found a hidden cache of apples. And now, of course, you have figured out why I like the elephants so much; like me, they need to be challenged into using their minds, imagination, and muscles. God made us smart, curious and in need of daily exercise. Maybe God feeds us spiritual food in the way zoologists feed Elephants. We have to seek and find in order to be fed. Instead of slop buckets and chains around our necks – spiritually speaking, we have to explore and search for it. -Fr. Marshall Christi and I were given tickets to the IMAX Theater in Balboa Park. We went on Sunday afternoon with the intent of watching whatever was showing. She wanted to see National Parks and I wanted to see Jerusalem but we ended up watching Journey to Space. The best part for me was images from the Hubble telescope. To see the mysteries of deep space on such a large screen was powerful. It makes me appreciate the size and scope of God and God’s creation.
I’ve been introduced to a new word. It’s actually an ancient Hebrew word, “Tzintzum” (zimzum) which means to contract/constrict/condensate. These English definitions incorporate physics and chemistry as their basis and are used in childbirth, breathing and turning invisible vapor into visible water. Zimzum is a powerful concept. When used in talking about God, zimzum becomes cosmic. The theological notion of this word is that God contracted/constricted in order to create the physical world. Think of it like good parenting. Prior to children, “you-yourself” filled your entire life. In order to allow a child into your life, you had to contract and make room. I am amazed at families with multiple children because not only do the parents have to zimzum, but so does each child in order to make room for another sibling. Zimzum does not come natural to humans. We tend to do the opposite – we expand and take over everything. Like water in the bathtub, we spread out, covering everything. Imagine the couple that moves from a studio apartment to a three-bedroom house. It doesn’t take long to fill the house. Yet, zimzum is like the grandparents that occupy a 10,000 square foot home but choose to constrict into an 8 by 10 bedroom so that many others can have a roof over their heads. Theologically, this is what God did to make creation; except that the house is the size of the Boeing Everett Factory and the living space is the size of a mini-fridge. Imagine the zimzum it takes for God to be born as a human. It’s a little like Robin Williams’ cartoon portrayal of Aladdin describing what it’s like to live as a genie in a lamp. He said, “PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS!!! … Itty-bitty living space.” That’s zimzum for Jesus and explains why the tomb couldn’t stay occupied for too long. I wonder if Jesus upon ascending into heaven felt as if he could finally breathe again. Zimzum shows me the depth, length and breadth of God’s love. It is strange to imagine someone with phenomenal cosmic powers willingly constricting for a creation that will eventually turn against its creator. It takes a strangle type of love that is willing to take a huge volume of vapor and condense into a single drop of baptismal water. Or that the King of the Universe is willing to be born in a barn to humble parents and to eventually condense onto a cross. That is some kind of love. I think we are called to zimzum for one another. After all, Jesus said, “Deny yourself, pick up your cross, and follow me.” Perhaps it is easier said, “Zimzum-like-me.” -Fr. Marshall The Church always has been and always will be supported by volunteers. Nevertheless, the world often focuses on clergy, specifically paid clergy. In reality, the clergy would be hard pressed to serve Christ in his Church without volunteers and certainly couldn’t serve Christ in the world. The Jesus movement would disappear if it had to depend exclusively on the clergy. Thankfully, God isn’t letting that happen.
At Saint John’s, we have several prayer teams. None are paid; if they were, even at minimum wage, we would not have enough left off to heat and cool the church. Heather Wallace leads our Sunday School, and she just led had an awesome Easter Egg hunt. She’s a volunteer. Many knit prayer blankets — volunteers. The Vestry, Men’s Group, Women’s Group, choir, counters, ushers, greeters, readers, altar guild – all volunteer. No one got paid to do The Watch from Maundy Thursday through Good Friday. Volunteers help with the school – from office duty to reading to students. Volunteers bring treats on Sunday and other times. Our fundraising and outreach teams volunteer their time and are some of the biggest contributors. Part of being Christian is to volunteer time to support the mission of the Church. And by the way, let me put in a good word for those of the cloth—priests and deacons volunteer above and beyond their job descriptions for the Church. We have two fine examples with Fr. Tolley and Fr. Stott – both volunteer; but even before retirement, when they were salaried, they went far beyond what they were paid to do. I’d like to point out one volunteer after receiving his permission to do so on Maundy Thursday, Dean Peters. You’ve seen his work and benefited from his volunteering. A retired electrician, he served in the Navy. His work in electronics is still top secret. He was called a “super-spook”, whatever that means. What I do know is that he loves the Lord, his wife, Rose, and his church. Dean is always willing to serve. I can ask for help and find he’s already started. This past Maundy Thursday service, I needed him for a reading. Two-minutes before the reading he said, “Yes, of course,” in true Dean fashion. He had already prepared, just in case. Tuesday of Holy Week he single-handedly cleaned and trimmed our meditation garden for use on Easter. He was also a part of a conference call talking about a possible solar project. He was present on Monday at our Men’s Group meeting and also at Wednesday’s Vestry meeting. After all that, he looked me in the eye Thursday and asked if I was holding up okay. When I think about what it means to be Christian, I think of Dean and his commitment to his wife in sickness and in health, his commitment to the Lord to serve without being asked. I think the country and Jesus’ Church need more Deans. The country and the Church could also use more Marj’s, Mark’s, Claudia’s, Tim’s, Lynn’s, Gretchen’s, Norma’s, Judy’s, George’s, Wilma’s, Barb’s, Craig’s, Linda’s and David’s. And the list goes on and on from all our incredible volunteers at Saint John’s. Saint Paul told us to imitate him in following Jesus. That’s a hard act to follow. Emulating the lives of the saints, starting with Saint Peter, might mean being crucified upside-down. But, our volunteers at Saint John’s makes it easier to be a Christian. Their Christianity is more approachable than trying to follow Martin Luther, Thomas Aquinas or Desmond Tutu. Our world is desperate for people who love the Lord and are willing to serve Christ and his Church. My hope for this Easter season is that we all be-like-volunteers for Christ. -Fr. Marshall Tradition has it that three nails were used to hold Jesus to the cross – one in his right hand, one in the left, and one for his feet. But there was something else that held him there, too.
Three of the Gospel writers say that passers-by who saw Jesus on the cross derided him saying things like, “Save yourself and come down from the cross.” I think that some of those folks were mocking Jesus but I imagine others wanted to see him perform another miracle. That is interesting because it suggests they thought Jesus had the power to remove himself from the torture instrument of the cross and to save his life. Why anyone would mock that kind of power from God is baffling to me. I believe, as most of us do, that Jesus is God in human flesh; that God has total power and that God through Christ can do anything. Certainly making the nails disappear would have been well within Jesus’ power. After all, Jesus calmed the storm that nearly sank the boat the disciples were on. The disciples said to themselves in amazement, “Who is this; the winds and water obey him.” (Lk 8:25) Speaking of power over water, Jesus actually walked on it. (Matthew 14, Mark 6, John 6) The devil tempted Jesus to turn a stone into bread indicating the devil believed Jesus had power to change one object into another. (Mt 4:3, Luke 4:3) Speaking of molecular physics, Jesus turned water into wine. (John 2) He turned two loaves of bread into enough to feed more than 5,000 people. (Mt 14, Mk 6, Lk 9, Jn 6) And then there are the numerous, uncountable, healings – withered hand, leprosy, sickness which leads to death, high fever, hemorrhaging, blind to seeing, lame to walking, severed ear, dead to life. The reading of minds – “Jesus, knowing their thoughts said, ‘Why do you think evil in your hearts?’” (Mt 9:4) And, one of my favorite miracles, the ability to disappear. (Luke 4:30, John 5:13, 8:59, 10:39, 18:6-7) With the power to do those things, Jesus could easily have removed himself from the cross. In addition, there were angels who helped Jesus during his forty days in the wilderness. I believe angels were present with him on Golgotha. Jesus said that at his command, twelve legions of angels would protect him. (Mt 26:53) But, he goes on to explain that if he used his power to benefit himself that the Scriptures would not be fulfilled. Unlike angels, Jesus had free will. The nails would not have held him had he been inclined to remove himself from the cross. So, what held him there? It was explained to me that compassion, mercy and love held Jesus to the cross. And thus, even if we’ve tried to remove ourselves from God, Jesus won’t leave us, ever. Even in our disobedience, those things that hold Jesus to us are compassion, mercy and love. -Fr. Marshall The reflection for this week was written by Richelle Thompson who wrote it based upon Jesus’ words in Matthew, Chapter 25, “I was sick and you took care of me.” It is published in the book, Meeting Jesus in the Margins.
Flesh-eating bacteria. Have to cut until it’s gone. Critical condition. The doctor’s words arrive in my head but jumbled around, almost nonsensical. Down the corridor, my thirty-five-year-old husband lay in intensive care, covered in sweat but shaking with cold. I sank to the chair in the family waiting area. At a new church in a new city, our support network was nascent. I called a friend and then the deacon of the congregation. At 9 p.m., we were allowed into the ICU for ten minutes. I leaned down to kiss his forehead, and his eyes fluttered. But in his delirium, I’m not sure he knew who I was. I held his hand and held back tears as the deacon said the words of Compline. The Lord Almighty grant us a peaceful night and a perfect end. Amen. Our help is in the Name of the Lord; The maker of heaven and earth. I looked up. The words fell out of his mouth. Mumbled but coherent. He began to pray with us. Almighty God, our heavenly father… As the prayer ended, the tears flowed freely. The tests showed later that he didn’t have the flesh-eating bacteria – necrotizing fasciitis – but a wicked infection. He still spent two more weeks in the hospital and came home with an IV for another long round of antibiotics. But he was home and, eventually, well. I met Jesus that night in the liturgy, as it provided words when my husband couldn’t form his own. It gave him structure and form so he could offer prayers of petition, contrition, and thanksgiving when sickness took everything else. When we comfort the sick, we meet Jesus, and we meet him again when he comforts us right back, embracing the hurting and the worried alike. Thanks be to God. -Fr. Marshall I had a poster in college that had a number of sayings on it. “Happiness is a choice” was one of them that has stayed with me. Yet I am now wondering if that is really true. There were many happy times in college and some that were not. Despite the unhappy times, my poster would suggest that I had a choice – to be happy or not. But what about happy or unhappy times that are often thrust upon us. One of those times came at the return of my first English paper. I worked hard on it and thought it was one of the best things I’d ever written. The professor handed it to me, ungraded. He said it wasn’t worth grading; emphasizing “worth” with his New England accent. It was hard to make the choice to be happy with that. Somehow I still got a “C+” in his class and thus started my love/hate relationship with writing. The next year, after finals were over, I had a great conversation sitting on top of the roof of our three-story residence hall with folks who are my friends to this day. We watched the sun rise on that June morning and pondered our futures. That was a happy time. Not much of a choice needed there but it is important to note that I could have chosen to be unhappy in the very midst of a happy time.
I think there is a difference between happiness and joy. Joy requires no choice. Joy happens. I didn’t choose joy when we walked off a plane at Sea-Tac airport with our newly adopted girls. Joy happened. There were a lot of elements about international adoption that required us to choose to be happy when circumstances could have taken us in a different direction. But, on that day, joy showed up. No choice required. When Ethan and Elijah were born, I didn’t have to choose joy. Unrestricted and free flowing joy just showed up. Happiness may be a choice; but I think joy is a gift from God. When the Wise Men saw the star in the sky, they were filled with joy. (Mt 2:10) They didn’t choose joy; it just came upon them like a gift from God. The father of John the baptizer was tending to his priestly duties one day in the Temple when suddenly the angel of the Lord appeared. The angel told him that his wife will bear a son and, “You will have joy and gladness and many will rejoice at his birth.” (Lk 1:14) The word for “joy” appears at the beginning of Luke’s Gospel in this passage and in the second to last verse of the Gospel. The disciples witnessed the risen Jesus ascend into heaven, “And they worshiped him and returned to Jerusalem with great joy.” (24:52) Same word, same gift from God. Saint Paul would probably agree with me. He wrote that the Spirit gives love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness. (Gal 5:22) I was told a simple formula if you are looking for the gift of joy. It is as follows. J – Jesus O – Others Y – You The gift that God gives us is in Jesus, in others, and experienced in you. Now that is something to be happy about. -Fr. Marshall |