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The past few Sundays, I've been settling into a pretty atheistic routine, much like I had for most of college and law school.
I've awakened, relatively late, due to panpollies of weird dreams. By the time I hit the living room, the actual tactile Sunday paper awaits outside the front door, and Eleanor's got John Pizzarelli's Radio Deluxe going on Jazz.fm.Talk about hard habits to break.
The past few Sundays, I never made it out the door in time for God. There's still an attraction to inky page-turning that doesn't come from reading the paper online (and the Sunday dump of newsprint and ads arrives because the paper charges me less per week to get the Sunday paper delivered than they do to subscribe online-only). And John and Jessica just hum with morning mellow.
Ah, but this is the first Sunday of the month, and they still semi-officially expect me to show up and assist with the litrurgy, so by 10:30 this morning, I'd set aside the paper, tossed on the suit, and headed over to be with The Lord.
Weird, that.
The sermon, hymns and prayers all focused on death. Om nom nom. As I greeted parishioners between the end of the service an a post-service meeting, I actually had one of the choir directors tell me she'd picked up my voice on the lectern mike and it sounded good- I should start singing in the choir!
Erm, no. Back when I occasionally served as liturgist for the de facto Eastman School of Music church choir in Rochester, the tenors and basses on my side of the chancel would cover their ears so they didn't get thrown off by my warbling.
I may still find a Mission From God in my life, but sacred music ain't part of it.
Instead, I stayed a bit to help pass our BS 2013 budget (which shamelessly deprives the conference of $20,000 in "shared ministry" expenses but they apparently expect this from most of their churches),spent the afternoon getting ready for an intense day of work tomorrow, and caught up with almost three of the four remaining Portlandias.
So far, March is no more than a soft opening. Be kind in your comments!
I've awakened, relatively late, due to panpollies of weird dreams. By the time I hit the living room, the actual tactile Sunday paper awaits outside the front door, and Eleanor's got John Pizzarelli's Radio Deluxe going on Jazz.fm.Talk about hard habits to break.
The past few Sundays, I never made it out the door in time for God. There's still an attraction to inky page-turning that doesn't come from reading the paper online (and the Sunday dump of newsprint and ads arrives because the paper charges me less per week to get the Sunday paper delivered than they do to subscribe online-only). And John and Jessica just hum with morning mellow.
Ah, but this is the first Sunday of the month, and they still semi-officially expect me to show up and assist with the litrurgy, so by 10:30 this morning, I'd set aside the paper, tossed on the suit, and headed over to be with The Lord.
Weird, that.
The sermon, hymns and prayers all focused on death. Om nom nom. As I greeted parishioners between the end of the service an a post-service meeting, I actually had one of the choir directors tell me she'd picked up my voice on the lectern mike and it sounded good- I should start singing in the choir!
Erm, no. Back when I occasionally served as liturgist for the de facto Eastman School of Music church choir in Rochester, the tenors and basses on my side of the chancel would cover their ears so they didn't get thrown off by my warbling.
I may still find a Mission From God in my life, but sacred music ain't part of it.
Instead, I stayed a bit to help pass our BS 2013 budget (which shamelessly deprives the conference of $20,000 in "shared ministry" expenses but they apparently expect this from most of their churches),spent the afternoon getting ready for an intense day of work tomorrow, and caught up with almost three of the four remaining Portlandias.
So far, March is no more than a soft opening. Be kind in your comments!