Well, it’s been a full week for the paterfamilias of this particular clan. Dr. Boner didn’t win last Monday’s audition for the Houston Symphony, so that was a downer: the scramble for work continues (good thing his wife has a real job). It’s a brutal way to make a living. A hundred guys showed up from all over the country; guys playing at the level where the difference comes down to, as he put it a month or so back, “What kind of day you are having.” His started out with a dead battery and a scramble for transportation, and continued with just enough other little fates that led me to comment, “The ancients used to talk about the gods being aligned against them. I’m not so sure they were so wrong about that”; garnering a blank stare, then, “Whatever. But I’m responsible for my own performance.”
 
We recalled the conversation we had the night before the audition, in which I mentioned how hard I found it “to play that fucking high G on a trombone”, and was treated to a nod and an audition story: “I’m playing along and know that G is coming up and preparing for it all the way. I nailed it, clear and beautiful.” With a rueful chuckle, “And promptly went on to split the next note, that easy little B below it. So now I’m figuring where to take it from there, because I know what I’m not going to be able to do–which is not what I planned and practiced–and it ends up just not doing anything. So instead of making this bold musical statement, I ended it with a question: ‘You call yourself a trombone player?’” Which, natch, doubled me over, knowing that question intimately from the preacher end.
 
The sexing of Princess Deborah’s baby via sonargram or whatever it’s called–to which she had lovingly invited me three times–was, of course, worth the trip, though I flinched when the sonargram gal said “Hi grandpa” with the retort, “Oh, no. I’m the dad,” eliciting, “Nice try, Dad. She knows Wil (the fiancé and dad).” It was magical looking at this child living within my daughter, formed with arms and legs, curled face down with its ass sticking up, thus hiding its sex. No amount of wiggling, jiggling, or yelling between the legs would get that kid to move. But the sonargram gal finally said, “Well, see that white line there? Usually it means a girl.” “Usually?” says Grandpa/Dad. “Based on your experience, what are the odds?” “About fifty-fifty,” having a good laugh with her princessness. See, there are times when men apparently ask questions that are completely stupid to women.
 
Not to mention vice versa.
 
The darling grabbed the pictures as soon as she got home from work, excitedly demanding, “Well? What is it?” while at the same time making that aww isn’t it adorable moan. I explained the sexing problem of the kid on its hands and knees with legs crossed and ass sticking up, and Mrs. Sensitivity whines, “Loo–ook. It’s praying.”
 
I can treasure that. Though the beauty of the thought is fouled by the use of such images in the propaganda campaign of Christian Totalitarianism. Then, graciously, I was recalled to a story I’d read–I think in the book The God Gene (but, alas, could not find the book)–in which the father caught his three/four-year-old sitting alone with his new-born sister, said, “What did God say to you? I can’t remember his voice anymore,” as if some residual memory of Eden lingered. So perhaps my grandchild was praying. Or maybe just expelling gas.
 
And who’s to say they aren’t more often the same?
 
Saturday brought the coronation of our new bishop, here in the Texas-Louisiana Gulf Coast Synod (in barbershop harmony, “My home, sweet, ho-ome!”). It was a grand time, with an exquisite choir singing reformation-era Bach music exquisitely well, and all us preachers dressed in our white albs and red stoles with a hundred pectoral crosses flashing and glinting like the arrival of the Four Horsemen out of heaven, only, of course, from the back of the sanctuary; standing in lines (finally) with a studied casualness, yo-ho-hoing with each other, while ignoring the prattled instructions of the Assistant Verger. (Ahem, professorially: the Verger is the guy/gal who organizes church parades. The Assistant Verger is anyone who is currently yelling directions.) I was yakking with Spaghetti Jim when I heard, “When you come up, reverence the elements and move to your seat (in the risers behind the altar).” Inquiringly incredulous, “reverencing the elements.’ What the hell is that?” Somebody: “You gotta bow to ‘em, Keene.” “Don’t get your hopes up, bud. I don’t do bows.” My pal Marco, who knows everything there is to know about Lutheran liturgy, observes, “What’s weird is they want us to bow even before the bread and wine is blessed.” “Blessed, unblessed, I don’t give a damn. I don’t do bows.” Spaghetti Jim says, “Yeah, and I don’t lead parades,” and tries to get behind me, making me the leader, but I stood fast. Later, when we got to the altar, there weren’t any elements to be seen, thus proving again that the ten minutes’ worth of directions by the Assistant Verger(s) deserved the lack of attention we had given them.
 
A magnificent blast from the magnificent pipe organ in that magnificent (Presbyterian–!–) cathedral announced the start of the parade and, oh, my friends, it was magnificent: the Lutheran version of medieval Rome, the royal priesthood of the church struttin’ our stuff for the–whatever–400 or so civilians there, lacking only the incense. But there was the glittering processional cross held high like the song says, followed by the four torchbearers surrounding a silver-plated book of–well, not really the whole Bible, just those parts of it we read for worship services–held equally glitteringly high. And then came the Grand Pooh-Bah (er, “Presiding Bishop” Mark Hanson, for whom I have profound admiration) of the whole ELCA decked out in the same white and reds as the rest of us, only with the addition of a cope (a kind of hideously expensive Superman cape for fashionable clergy). Then came honored religious guests also decked out in their tradition’s finest, and after that, the eighty or maybe more of us priestly minions, bellowing out our lungs with organ and brass on whatever the entrance tune was. It was cool, if you like dress-up.
 
Which I do on occasion, so long as I am a minion and can ignore the Assistant Vergers.
 
The Pooh-Bah preached a fine–indeed, inspiring–sermon (as much a rarity among bishops as among the minions) based on the verse in Isaiah, “How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good tidings” (used, by the way, at my ordination some 28 years ago). He mentioned the clay sculpture of a foot in his Chicago office, made for him when he was elected as the GPB. What he missed was the irony of the medium of that sculpture: clay. He’s talking about bearing the good tidings of a gracious God and I whisper to Spaghetti Jim, “Feet of clay. He should have said something about feet of clay,” but he doesn’t hear me because he’s paying attention. That pretty much explains why I will always remain a minion. 
 
Then the new bishop–Mike Rinehart, who seems to me to be a pretty decent guy and worthy of support (at least, initially), was called forth to be installed and get his new, 27-pound bejeweled pectoral cross. It’s a very formal thing, with very formal words explaining the duties of the office, requiring public vows to be taken about his performance as a bishop (ala, “Swear to God?!” only in liturgy-ese). Lots of prayers, of course, and then “The Laying On Of Hands”, with the victim kneeling and the pooh-bahs gathered around and, well, laying their hands on his head, praying that he would be led and filled by the spirit of Jesus–a goofy-looking thing, actually, with everybody crowding in and stretching to reach while balancing a hymnal in the other hand. But in the history of humanity, not to mention the whole course of the Bible, human touch has had to do with more than just sex, y’know.
 
New Bishop Mike stood up, arose; with the wondrous look of Mary at the Annunciation (“Guess what, little girl? You’re gonna have a baby, the son of God.”) on his face: “What the hell?” Less formally, the First Family was introduced–his wife, three kids; I’m thinking: two in elementary school, one about ready to burst into full-fledged adolescence. Great rounds of applause, a palpable sense of affection. The offering is received and offered (here, finally, come the elements which were never reverenced) while NB Mike slips into a chasuble, one of those colorful poncho-like apron things with artistic religious symbols pastors wear when presiding at The Meal, which he will do, as is the tradition for anyone installed as the pastor of a community: servin’ up the bread and wine, and takin’ the service home from there. Yeah, buddy. We paraded out just as gloriously as we came in, only to the battle hymn of the Lutherans, which is never a loser, unless you do the original syncopated version; but this was the marching tempo Germans so much thrill to. Hoorah! We sing our way out, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God!” and we feel “proud to be a Luth-er-an!” and proud for NB Mike and we’re happy and re-energized, and cheering and congratulating (and kissing up to) our new spiritual leader. Bon homie flowed like the energy of love.
 
He’s gonna get slaughtered.
 
Because that’s what we do with bishops: we dress ‘em up, parade ‘em around, pray for ‘em, and then start taking shots at ‘em, becoming the instruments of the very forces we just prayed that God would protect them against. There are just plain mean people in the church; more appallingly, people who are masters of deceit, servants of the lie. And they’ll be coming after you, pal, looking,sniffing, like the ravenous lion of I think it’s Peter’s Letter. I told my pal now Ex-Bishop Paul (er, Bishop Emeritus) at breakfast some years ago that the bishop’s chasuble ought to have a smiley face on the front and a bull’s-eye target on the back, and he thought it described the position perfectly. In fact, he was one of the Pooh-Bahs sitting up on the stage for the hands thing. On my way to get the unreverenced but blessed elements from just installed NB Mike I Leaned over to EB Paul and said, “Can we start complaining about him now?” but being a pooh-bah there on the stage, he could only smile, settling contentedly into the comfort of his ex status.
 
I’ve been astonished over the past six or seven years to discover how mean the people of the church have become. Not all of ‘em, of course, and, in fact, not even most of ‘em. But there is a mean streak of them out there, a spirit of self-certainty and intolerance driving them to attack the leader, the pastor, personally, sowing misery among the whole community with lies, innuendo, secrecy, and bullying power grabs;and eventually openly working to destroy the pastor in order to assuage their paranoid self-righteousness. They behave with no regard for human decency, even simple human politeness, not to mention, say, like a disciple of the prince of peace: they are on a crusade. I suppose it’s the fruit of twenty years of Limbaugh and Falwell (RIP, thank God) and their ilk spewing their venom throughout society, and that venom being legitimized in a claim to divine righteousness as public discourse by the likes of Rove and his company: we have the truth; those who see things differently must be destroyed–and then we’ll have the power to inflict righteousness.  It is, of course, the Spirit of Totalitarianism, dressed up in an evil caricature of pagan religiosity, the War-God Christ, really, settin’ out to destroy all his enemies, just like he did in, um, where? I call it “Post 9/11 Insanity Shit.”
 
Because anxiety makes people insane; and since 9/11 our national leadership has done nothing but spread fear and manipulate national anxiety. It’s no wonder this paranoid spirit of war has infected the church, too. Here’s a secret: on that evil day I turned on the tv in the den just in time to catch the second plane slamming into the second tower. And a little tiny voice whispered, “Your days at Messiah are numbered, Keene.” The Mean Spirits were already stirred up over–what else?–youth ministry, as well as the upcoming discussions about homosexuality. No way I was going to be able to make them happy and maintain any integrity in my preaching. I was right. I hate it when I’m right.
 
But I was not the only one. Since then I have seen a steady march of pastors–and congregations–being savaged by little, nasty people led by spirits that are of anything but Jesus; they don’t care who they hurt nor what they destroy in the voracious effort to satiate their paranoid anxiety; wolves, as the teacher put it, in sheep’s clothing. The thing about being the bishop is, though, that not only are you the target of Post-911 Insanity Shit amongst the civilians, you gotta deal with it among (some of) the clergy, as well. Yeah. Anxiety makes us crazy. Nonetheless, as Dr. Boner put it, “I’m responsible for my own performance.” So NB Mike will, if not yet, soon be under siege from, as St. Paul puts it, “The principalities and powers of this world.”
 
While at the same time trying to keep his teenagers out of jail. This ought to be good.
 
Being bishop isn’t all bad, of course, ’cause you get to live in the church at a different, broader level–traveling around, y’know, all over the world sometimes. You get to see marvelous things, wondrous people. And especially you get to play dress-up and march in all the wonderful medieval parades of the priestly minions who stand with alone before their churches week after week in the engagement with the powers and principalities, a smiley-faced, isolated target with clay feet. It’s good to come together and play dress-up occasionally; to be in and among the present and historical community; together as the Jedi, as it were, of the faith. And then to return to the solitude of the local office renewed, encouraged, enlivened by the parade. Yep, I love a parade.
 
But I don’t do the bows, because too many people take it literally, not understanding that we’re at play, here, dressing up for fun. It’s recess time, before we go back into the action.