During seminary, a seemingly endless stream of tornadoes swept through Alabama and Southern Tennessee, including Monteagle Mountain, my seminary, Sewanee, was located. And while we missed out on the majority of the devastation, we were without power for a few days.

So, before I owned a coffee shop, and certainly before I became a priest, I ran the largest HIV/AIDS clinic in East Tennessee. In some ways I stumbled into it. My predecessor had moved to Texas, and I was looking for a new job, having done about all I could do in my previous nonprofit. 

I think I've shared this story before, but it seems to fit the world today and this wonderful miracle of Pentecost. So, Andrew Forsthoefel was 23 years old when he decided to try walking across the Continental United States from his home in Philadelphia all the way to the Pacific Coast. No rides. No smart phone. He carried a backpack containing camping equipment, a camera, a food bag stocked with jerky, tuna fish and PB&J, and a sign hanging off the pack that said, "Walking to listen."

So, something you probably don't know about me. I am a huge fan of Plantagenet history. From Henry II up through the Wars of the Roses, I will eat up anything written about those days in Merry Old England.

Back in dark ages, I did a ten year tour of duty of universities east of the Mississippi. I say this was the dark ages because it was before you could register for classes online. It was before there even was an online. This was the era of computer punch cards that represented a slot in a class, and standing in long lines trying to get one of those cards.

So, Thursdays I tend to set apart as reading day, which means that I'll take some books and drive up to Hamilton to sit at the Catos' while they are out. This is a good way to get off alone with the added bonus of spending time with Cotton the Dog. Cotton and I were preparing for my new class, and I had the news sort of burbling in the background when I heard that the crowds in Rome had seen white smoke, signifying that the cardinals had already chosen a new pope.

So, back in the nineties, I ran a nonprofit research organization in Chattanooga. We were responsible for providing other nonprofits and governmental agencies with outside, nonbiased information so that they could make decisions and stuff like that.

It's so easy for us, right? We did our weeks of Lent, being somber, walking through Holy Week, coming to the gob-smacking realization that sometimes (probably most of the time), it just simply isn't about us.

I remember Brooks' ordination in Newport, Arkansas. Lots of clergy and family and friends all crammed into little St. Paul's Church. And, being that it was an ordination, it was very formal. Everyone had their holy roles to play, like all the parts of the body, that St. Paul tells us about. And the bishop did holy things, and the people responded with holy words, and then there was the holy descent of the Spirit upon Brooks' head, and I was there to be a part of it all.

So, I was checking out at the Hannaford over the Christmas holidays. It wasn't very busy at the time, and this usually means that the baggers and cashiers are chattier than usual with each other. And this bagger, a young guy, barely out of his teens, was talking about his sister and how she'd done him wrong. And how he could never forgive her for whatever it was she'd done. And the cashier, an older woman, was saying how life is too short and too hard to go it alone. And you better make amends because you never know when you're going to need a sister. And you don't know what was happening to that sister at the time to make her do what she did. And she's family. All that that you would expect someone with a little more wisdom would say.

So, finally he had the kind of life he was searching for. He was amazingly good with sheep and goats. The herds were thriving, he had a growing family, and his father-in-law was respected in the land so nobody questioned him on his past. Life was good. Very good.

So, one day I was visiting my grandmother. She was on the decline, her mind sometimes here and sometimes somewhere else with her memories. I had stopped and gotten a couple Bojangles chicken biscuits, and we were sitting around talking. All of a sudden she busted out laughing. I asked why, and she said the chicken suddenly brought up a memory, and she told me a story.

So, I thought this would be a good week to update you on the Dyshkos, the Ukrainian family in Hamilton that so many of you financially supported and prayed for, without even meeting them, because you thought it was the right and welcoming thing to do. A thing Christians and Americans, in normal times, do without blinking an eye.

So, I'll bet a whole lot of y'all here remember the fad of all those WWJD bracelets that lots of people were wearing back in the 1990's. WWJD – What Would Jesus Do? These bracelets tended to be worn by teens and young adults and were seen mostly at Christian youth gatherings, and like most things in our youth-loving American society, they soon grew over-used, going from a sincere reminder to the wearer to think about how their actions affect the world and their own spiritual life to being an object of ridicule and stereotyping a certain brand of Christianity.

So there is this word that is a lot of fun to say. It is “recrudescence.” Recrudescence. It means “the return of something bad after a brief reprieve.” It applies to all sorts of things in life, and I'm sure we can find plenty to apply it to. But it has some antonyms that we may be more familiar with (because we often seem to want to look on the bright side of things): resuscitation or rejuvenation.

So, I still remember the exhilaration I felt, skittering over the surface of the Pamlico Sound in North Carolina on a small sailboat. The sun was shining, and all was well with the world in that way that seems to happen magically when you're on a boat.

So, how many times have we heard the story of the Magi, the wise men, the THREE wise men? Legend give them names: Melchior, from Persia; Caspar, from India; and Balthazar, from Babylon. All from the east; all bringing valuable gifts: gold, frankincense, myrrh. Gifts for the Christ child, gifts for a god, symbols of kingship, of deity, of death.

So, Merry Christmas! With that merrymaking out of the way, this Sunday we get hit with the other side of Christmas, a story most of us, especially us Protestants, tend to ignore because it doesn't fit in with all our jingle and Crosby and yule logs and gingerbread. It's known as the Commemoration of the Holy Innocents.

So, way back when I was beginning my discernment for the priesthood, a church committee would meet with me to discuss things. And one guy one time paused and asked, “How do you see your job as a shepherd?” I paused, was about to respond, and paused again. And I paused some more, to the point that people probably thought I'd sort of dozed off with my eyes open.

A half-hour bus ride from St. George’s Cathedral and the Old City walls of Jerusalem takes you to the extreme western edge of the city, to a small neighborhood called Ein Karem. It used to be its own village, but time and the creeping expansion of urban centers is eating it up like a slow moving amoeba.