No. of Recommendations: 6
Church was fairly full Sunday, the second in Lent, and I stood in back before the organ prelude, enjoying a cup of coffee and a couple introduced themselves, Tom and Jean, visiting from Washington, D.C. Interesting people. He is newly retired from the Defense Department, responsible for maintenance of nuclear stockpiles, and they were visiting New York simply because they like the city. I didn’t introduce myself: I like the city because I’m anonymous here.
So we sat together in the third pew and I read the bulletin and the Gospel reading caught my eye, from Luke, the verse in which the Lord gathers His own like a hen gathers her brood under her wings, so I scribbled a limerick:
The Bible says God’s like a hen
Who collects His brood now and then.
We are chicks in his sight
And not all that bright,
Including us illustrious men.
There was a long prayer, led by a cantor, praying for the Church, our Bishops, for all who believe in God, for the peace of the world — it covered a lot of territory, some of it tricky — how do you pray for “those in positions of public trust” when many of them you wish would disappear? We prayed for the poor and all who suffer, for refugees and prisoners, and I thought of the migrants deported in chains to El Salvador despite a federal court order. Lord, have mercy, the congregation intoned. We prayed for our enemies and I thought of mine — I have four, and I prayed that they not know how much harm they caused — and we prayed for a blessing on all human labor, and I remembered the doormen in our building and Lulu our cleaning lady, and we prayed for those who have died, and I immediately thought of Alan K. Simpson, the Republican senator from Cody, Wyoming, who died last week.
Senator Simpson listened to a radio show I used to do and he wrote me a fan letter on official stationery and once, when I was in Washington, I had coffee with him and he told me a story about a contest that cowboys used to conduct when he was a boy. They’d take turns dropping their trousers and competing to see who could pick up a silver dollar using only his bare buttocks, and if necessary, have a playoff for a half-dollar or a quarter. There was a genuineness about the man that was pure gold. I knew he was a conservative and it didn’t matter; what was important was the integrity.
I stole the story and used it often in monologues, changing the cowboys to Norwegians, members of the Sons of Knute. It’s an anecdote that never fails.
I confessed my sins, which, the past week, had been mostly things left undone rather than done, failure to love my neighbors, and so forth, and after Communion, I shook hands with my neighbors, including Tom and Jean, and after we were dismissed to go out in the world to do the work we were put here to do, I invited them to come have coffee with me and my friend Richard.
We hiked down Amsterdam Avenue to a lunch place and ordered breakfast and had a very amiable time. Tom and Jean, it turned out, are Catholics so they’d come to my Episcopal church as tourists, and we started telling Catholic jokes. Tom told the best one.
Three nuns die and come to the gates of Heaven and St. Peter meets them and says, “I know you’re nuns and you’ve led holy lives but still I have to ask you each a question. He asks the first: “Who was the first man?” She says, “That’s an easy one. Adam.” He asks the second, “Who was the first woman?” She says, “That’s an easy one. Eve.” He asks the third nun, “What was the first thing Eve said to Adam.” The nun said, “That’s a hard one.” “Right,” said St. Peter, “come on in.”
It was a fine Sunday. I took a detour into Central Park and saw yellow daffodils and white crocuses, small clusters, and I looked around and saw I was surrounded by youth, young couples pushing baby strollers, runners, little kids galloping around the playground, young couples arm in arm, youth out for a ramble, and I prayed for them. The meek shall not inherit the earth, the meek have failed to do what needed to be done; I pray for the young to bring justice and mercy and good humor to the land
