I had a Close Encounter of the Creepy Kind with my iPhone this week. This has caused me to pause and reflect on our relationship with all our bright and shiny electronic doodads.

It happened last Sunday as Eyegal and I attended early service at a local Episcopal parish, as is our habit from time to time. It was the First Sunday in Lent (Note to my Baptist and Church of Christ friends: Lent is a 40-day period of repentance preceding Easter. It is part of the church calendar, which is actually pretty official and has been around a long, long time–like, several centuries before the founding of the United States–and has more on it besides the date of the Ladies Retreat and the next church-wide potluck. It is NOT the little white stuff that you pick off your navy blazer/skirt prior to church, and it’s NOT what you did with your “Come Hither Baby Blue” cosmetic-tinted contact lens to your BFF back in 10th grade, although we didn’t call them BFsF back then).

Lent means repentance which equals solemnity. In Episcopal-speak, that means get there early and hit your knees prior to the Processional starting on the First Sunday in Lent. Of course, we didn’t know that because we’re clueless life-long Church of Christers. Still, the usher smiled, not scowled, at us and handed us our Order of Worship. We made our way to our usual pew, right hand side, two thirds of the way back, flipped down the kneelers carefully so as not to make a racket and joined in just as the priest started to make her way (that’s right, her way–not a typo) around the sanctuary leading the Processional.

It was the Great Litany (the Book of Common Prayer, p. 148) and it lasted a long, long time. So long, in fact, that my knees started to throb a little (Good Lord, deliver us!). But that’s okay, because it’s Lent and a little self-mortification never hurt anybody. Not permanently, anyway.

Now most churches these days remind you to turn off your cell phones and pagers (Pagers? Really? Does anybody still have one of those?) prior to the start of service, usually with a prominent bullet and catchy cartoon on the ginormous PowerPoint JumboTron (or two) hung over the baptistery. Which is, you know, sort of ironic.

I usually don’t have to be reminded of this. I am very sensitive about cell phones going off at inopportune times, probably because I have so many patients pull away from me in the middle of ophthalmoscopy to take that “important call” about Bobby Joe picking up a six-pack of Natural Light for lunch, so could Rufus (my patient in the chair) get some Pabst Blue Ribbon instead? “No problem, good buddy, but I gotta go, Doc’s getting a little steamed over here.”

I then crank up the light on my scope to all the way past 10 to 11. I have vays of making them squeal.

You won’t find a JumboTron anyway near an Episcopal church. Apparently, they don’t believe in them. Instead they put the request in tiny print in the Order of Worship: “Pretty please, if you don’t mind too much, turn off your cell phones and pagers. And even if yours goes off and ruins the moment for everyone, we forgive you and love you anyway and you’re still welcome to join us in the Fellowship Hall after services for coffee and scones.”

I turned my new-fangled techno-jewel off, I swear I did. But as the Great Litany went on and on, and my knees starting to throb more and more, I must have started to fidget and squirm a little. And when I did that, I must have put the tiniest amount of pressure on the “Home” button on my iPhone which was in my front left pocket. [...]

By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
and to dust you will return.”

–Genesis 3:19

and the dust returns to the ground it came from,
and the spirit returns to God who gave it.

Ecclesiastes 12:7

The first time I remember hearing the phrase “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” was when Princess died.

Princess was a pet cat, circa 1968-approx. 1971. I don’t remember that much about her other than she was gray, and I don’t recall having a particular fondness for her, although I’m sure I liked her well enough. That, in spite of the fact that she made me sneeze and my eyes water.

One day my mother was picking up my older sister and me from school. When we got in the car, we knew something was wrong. “Princess is dead,” Mom said, never one to pussyfoot around when it came to hitting you between the eyes with The Bad News of the Day.

“What?” we exclaimed. Princess had been fine when we left for school that morning, so the report hit us hard. I don’t remember Mom’s explanation, if she had one at all. [...]

“Our pew” is on the right hand side, two thirds of the way back. That’s where we always sit when we attend Christmas Eve services at our second church home, Episcopal Church of the Nativity in Huntsville. I’ve written of our experiences there before, and as longtime readers know, that’s our refuge where we occasionally go in order to escape the tyranny of the modern (e.g. PowerPoint!) and surrender instead to the power and holy mysteries of the liturgy.

Picture in your mind the quintessential Christmas Eve setting: an old, storied building topped with a 150 foot Gothic Revival spire reaching toward the heavens, the nave bathed in soft candle light and bedecked with festive, seasonal greenery, a 12-foot Christmas tree near the front, beckoning with a thousand starry lights. Hear the beautiful prelude of sacred selections by talented young musicians like our friend Matthew McDonald on the bassoon and Native Huntsvillian Susanna Phillips, a product of Nativity and Julliard, and now one of the world’s rising opera stars, who just last week made her Metropolitan Opera debut in New York in the role of Musetta in “La Boheme.”

I had wondered if she would even make it back to Huntsville with her busy schedule, but there she was, singing her trademark Cantique De Noel (“O Holy Night”) and smiling brightly, eager as always to share her gifts and contribute to the community of believers who nurtured her and sent nearly 140 hooting and hollering supporters (Brava! Brava!) to her Met debut, much to the astonishment of her fellow cast members.

Then hold in your mind’s eye the glorious processional, the fragrant incense, the bowing and reverencing as the crucifer passes by. Then the scripture readings, including one from Titus by my friend Ed from work (I was so proud!) and the stirring passage from Luke 2 (“Do not be afraid!”). Hear the soothing, but stirring homily urging us all onward in the spirit of Christ, and then the recitation of The Creed, the Prayers of the People, the gentle breeze created by the sitting, the standing and the kneeling. Picture The Peace, the kisses and gentle touches passed between lovers, the smiles, handshakes, hugs and greetings of “Merry Christmas” and “Peace to you” passed between perfect strangers bound together in one body–strangers no more.

Try, and I know this is hard, to picture three teenage brothers who, left to their own devices, might be awash in testosterone and their thousand meaningless disagreements, greeting each other, a little reluctantly, but when you’re caught up in the moment like that it’s okay to let go, with handshakes and season’s greetings. That, in and of itself, is a Christmas miracle.

Hear the call to The Table and see the going forward, the kneeling and supplication, everyone, regardless of station, laid bared and level, exposed for who they are–beggars at the feast. The folding and extension of the hands, The Body Broken, The Blood given freely, for me and for you. And then the return to our pews, all smiles now, refreshed in time of famine, renewed and strengthened for the work that lies ahead.

Then picture the recessional and hear the chorus of the closing hymn, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” See the choir as they wrap lovingly around us, one body now united now in song and praise. Then imagine the voice of Susanna approaching from behind you, soaring like that of an archangel on the final verse, and then see her out of the corner of your eye beside you, on the right hand side, two thirds of the way back, just like 2 years ago, which is exactly why you chose that spot in the first place, hoping that it would happen again–and, praise be to God, it did:

Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die:
With th’ angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem.”
Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”

Hold all that together–see it, hear it, imagine it–and you’ll know what it was like to stand in our shoes as we caught a glimpse of glory near the corner of Eustis Avenue and Greene Street at the break of Christmas Day.

The Celtic Christians spoke of “Thin Places”–locations on this earth where the presence of God is so strong that they serve as doorways or portals between this world and another.

As Susanna, a woman who was placed on this earth to sing, stood beside us and serenaded us early this Christmas morning, we could only smile at the great effusion of light and life. We realized that we had found our own “Thin Place,” right hand side, two thirds of the way back, and the veil between heaven and earth suddenly became so diaphanously thin, that we nearly fell through to the other side.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

I promised that I would follow the story that I reported the other day about Lionsgate Picture’s apparent use of Ginny Owens’ “Be Thou My Vision” on the trailer for the upcoming release of Saw V.

This message was just posted on her website:

Friends: Sometime during the afternoon of Friday, July 25th, my voice on “Be Thou My Vision” was replaced by another singer.

The track still sounds nearly identical, and most websites continue to “credit” me for it, but the background music for the Saw V trailer is no longer my original version of “Be Thou My Vision.”

Thanks.

–Ginny Owens

So, to be clear, the person you hear singing on the Saw V trailer is not Ginny Owens, but someone who sounds very nearly like her.

Pretty slick, huh? As to the use of this hymn with a motion picture which depicts the dark and sadistic side of humanity in all its Technicolor gore, I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Is nothing sacred anymore? For some in this post-Christian, post-modern world of ours, apparently not.

And to the oily movie moguls at Lionsgate Studios and the other industry movers and shakers who viewed my post on their iPhones and Blackberrys Monday afternoon, I leave you with this thought:

I’m watching you.

But I think I’ll take a pass on your movie.

“Be Thou My Vision,” that wonderful old Irish (we think) hymn, is one of my favorites. And if I have to explain to you why, then you haven’t been paying very close attention these past 3 years.

I’ve always considered sacred music, well, you know, sacred. So imagine my surprise to hear the strains of Ginny Owens’ hauntingly beautiful rendition of that hymn intermeshed with the trailer for the latest installment of the Saw series, Saw V.

We were waiting for the new X Files movie to start Friday night, and the misdirection totally threw me. I was thinking, hey this looks and sounds interesting. That is, until you get closer up and the dude in the glass helmet-trap starts screaming his head off (so to speak).

I looked at Eyegal and said, “What the…? Can you believe that?” Although I’ve become pretty thick-skinned when it comes to the bastardization of beautiful things in the darker corners of today’s culture (overreacting only gives those who traffic in such trash more power and attention), this one really bothered me.

And then I thought: Wait a minute, wouldn’t Ginny Owens or her record company have had to give the producers of Saw V (Lionsgate) permission to use the music for that trailer?

Well, one would think that anyway. So I did a little research and found out that her record company is Rocketown Records, Michael W. Smith’s company, and that they had indeed been approached by Lionsgate for permission to use the music. And do you know what they said?

No.

The information is here on Ginny Owens’ website.

Apparently, there was some part of “no” that Lionsgate didn’t understand, somebody “didn’t get the memo” or else they just brazenly went ahead and used the music anyway.

I’ll be following this to see how it turns out over the next few days/weeks. The cynic in me feels that Lionsgate knows exactly what they’re doing, that they will attribute it to some “mix up in communication,” and after Rocketown lawyers have issued the obligatory threats, they will promptly withdraw the trailer.

But not before the tussle makes it into the new cycle, causes the predictable outrage and produces the extra publicity that the producers of Saw V were hoping for in the first place.

But I could be wrong. Maybe it’s just (ahem) an “honest” mistake.

So, be on the lookout for this one to make the rounds and remember: you heard it here first.

As for the song, yesterday Eyegal and I snuck off for our every-few-weeks liturgy fix, and one of the first songs we sang was “Be Thou My Vision.” We looked at each other and smiled.

It just goes to show you: You can’t keep a good song down.

As long as you notice, and have to count the steps, you are not yet dancing but only learning to dance. A good shoe is a shoe you don’t notice. Good reading becomes possible when you need not consciously think about eyes, or light, or print, or spelling. The perfect church service would be the one we were almost unaware of; our attention would have been on God.

–C.S. Lewis

This is the Roanoke Church of Christ, the congregation where I grew up in the 1960s and 70s. As is our custom, we visited and worshiped there during our recent trip to Virginia. I can remember many a Sunday evening before the second service of the day, hanging (sometimes literally) with my buddies on that front porch:

As you can see, the paint is peeling and the church is pretty old.

How old? Check it out:

Now that’s old.

And so are most of the saints worshiping there today (their paint is peeling too). They number only 50-60 on a typical Sunday now, mostly the same folks who were there 40 years ago when the congregation averaged 175-200, their children having either left the building, left town, or left church altogether.

We noticed something refreshing and a bit old-fashioned, though, during our worship there last Sunday: The utter unpretentiousness of it all.

Simple songs (both old and new), heartfelt prayers which contained no infomercials, announcements or long-winded commentaries, scripture readings galore (imagine that!), a culturally-relevant message which encouraged (rather than scolded) everyone to season the earth with the salt of Christ, and, of course, the Lord’s Supper.

And since they weren’t broadcasting over the internet and didn’t have to worry about “dead air,” there were even extended periods of–get this!–quiet.

No “hey, check us out” hype, no stylized, over-produced operatic drama, no mention of the corporate brand every 30 seconds, and, praise be to God, no PowerPoint slides.

I suppose there’s a reasonable chance that in 10-15 years they will all be gone and another group of Christians will have purchased the building, renovated it, moved the altar out of sight and added a big screen up front, and generally made it all comfy and cozy for young, 21st century families to raise their own children “in the Lord.”

More power to them, I guess.

As for me, I’ll likely shed a tear or two of nostalgia when that happens. But there will be no shame, no tsk-tsk at the church who failed to “get with the times,” adopt a corporate GROWTH strategy and finally “died” of old age.

For they will have served their purpose and attended to the most important thing: Enduring to the end, remaining forever faithful to Christ and to each other in this long, messy, slog of a march toward home.

The old shoes never fit so fine.

And that goes for you too, Tulsa Soul Winning Workshop!

Just try getting 48,000 Church of Christers together like these Catholics did for Mass yesterday in Washington DC without some sort of fight breaking out over worship music styles or women’s roles in the church.

Oh wait. Catholics argue about that stuff too. But I bet they didn’t yesterday–not with “Da Man” in town. And he even spoke in English–not Latin.

So, do Church of Christers have a de facto “Pope?” Full Professor Elrod and his shy and retiring chorus consider the question.

You’ve got to hand it to him. He may not be the rock star that Pope John Paul II was, but Benedict XVI can still pack ‘em in. There’s more to him apparently than just his righteous set of wheels.

The lectionary readings on the balcony, freshly-roasted coffee in a pink mug, a gentle Gulf breeze to stir the spirit–Palm Sunday 2008.

Talk about an interesting turn of events.

Yesterday, Eyegal, Number One and I made our way down to our favorite beautiful old downtown church for a Lenten liturgy fix. I had not adhered very well to my promises this year, and I was eager to make amends. Lent, after all, is not merely the stuff that you must brush off your clothes.

The rain poured hard as the service started, and the sound of it pelting furiously against the roof lent an air of drama to the lectionary readings. The music soared, drawing us away from our selfish, petty concerns and upward and outward toward Higher and Holier Things. The homily was short and sweet and very encouraging, like a long, slow draft of cool water on a very hot day.

We recited The Creed, confessed our sins, passed the peace and made ready to receive the The Body and Blood of Christ, “The Gifts of God for the People of God.” Everyone went forward, including small children whose parents led them by their hands or even carried them toward the altar. The parents eagerly showed their small ones how to kneel, cross their arms, and ask for their blessing from the priest, who gladly obliged with kind words and a gentle touch to their little heads.

As I made my way toward the front, I saw a man, about 6’10”, ahead of me in line. Even though I didn’t see his face, I knew immediately who he was. And where he was, she had to be nearby.

He was one of my long-time patients, and walking beside him was his wife, the same woman who had apparently not thought too much of my most recent newspaper column and called it–interesting.

As we made our way back to our seats, he spotted me, smiled and stuck out his hand. She saw me too, looked a little confused at first, but finally smiled.

After the service, they both made a beeline toward us. They were genuinely glad to see us and even invited us to coffee in the fellowship hall (regretfully, we had another obligation and had to decline). But we promised we would come back again sometime and take them up on their offer.

I wondered as we stood there talking if she was thinking about that column of mine that she had found so interesting and if she would mention it again. But she never did.

And you know what? It didn’t matter.

There are two things that soothe my soul these days, three places where I find some much-needed grace and peace…

At a Barnes & Noble on a Friday afternoon, a cup of coffee in hand, perusing the recent releases and the latest bargin bin deals. My reward for a hard week’s work…

Near the end of a Saturday morning 10-mile run, when the endorphins hit my bloodstream with a mighty roar. Natural opiates–a gift from God…

Kneeling at the altar rail of an old, liturgical church, hearing the priest say, “The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven; the Blood of Christ, the Cup of Salvation.” Heaven come down to earth…

I am so there.

In keeping with my current theme of saying little and listening a lot, I will say this: This is what I’m listening to.

Some in my beloved Church of Christ tradition will ask this question: Yeah, but can you understand what they’re saying?

Answer: No, not really (save for a phrase or two now and then). But it doesn’t really matter. You see, there is more to God than print on a page, and there are some things that bypass the left brain and head straight to the soul.