Bob Bell was not an important man in the way the world measures important. In fact, he was someone that even his friends could often forget about. But for some reason I've been thinking of Bob on this All Saints Sunday. When I was a kid, Bob Bell was a saint I didn't recognize. Not a particularly holy man. Not an defender of rights. Not a fighter for justice. Not a figure of deep theological wisdom. Most of the time, he was about the most pitiful person I could imagine.

So, for some reason, lately, I've been thinking about my first time to visit what is now my home up here in Central New York. I was remembering watching everything so intensely, realizing that life up here is proof that Southerners don't have a corner on the weirdness market, but that wherever I go, as long as there are people around, there will be stories to be told. And sermons to be preached. And here's the first story I remember telling when I got back to Kingsport, Tennessee.

It's no small thing, it seems to me, to be able to uproot a mulberry tree and plant it in the sea: particularly in the way that Jesus describes today --- with no effort at all. I know this for while there is no mulberry tree in the back yard of my grandparents house in Chattanooga, there is a stand of bamboo. It started out as a spiffy idea to their neighbor. She'd just plant a little bamboo, and it would remind her of when her husband was stationed in Japan and the whole family moved there for a few years. She eventually died. . . but the bamboo certainly did not.

So, last May I was back in Chattanooga, Tennessee, visiting my mom for her birthday and doing chores around her new apartment. I stay with my brother who co-owns my grandparents' old house with me. And one of the first things we do when I get home is drive around my stomping grounds of North Chattanooga to look at what has been going on. Chattanooga is actually a booming place, so there's always some new building going up, a new strip mall, new restaurants, all sorts of remodeling. Just loads of hustle and bustle.

So, long, long ago I was a student at Georgia Tech. And while there, I was a member of a fraternity, which explains why I barely transferred out of there just a little bit ahead of my failing grades. Now I lived in the frat house, and I had a roommate. His name was Eddie, but because of his recreational drug habit everyone called him Coke Spoon.

So, one Sunday at St. James, Knoxville, we were having a reception for newly confirmed members with the bishop, when Little Jimmy staggered, probably drunk. Usually, he would wander in before the worship service, grabbing a cup of coffee before he went to one of the back pews for his nap. But this time his arrival was later than usual. Maybe he'd gotten wind of the fact that there would be lots of food. In any case, the new members, all seated together with the bishop,and decked out in their Sunday best, had not really gotten to know Little Jimmy. And they tried real hard not to be offended. But you could see that they were wondering just why we were all so nonchalant.

Her name was Margarita, and she was undocumented here in America. She had come with her parents from Guatemala. I never knew the particulars of what happened, but her father was killed by a gang in Miami, and her mother left her out of fear. She was sixteen. And she had heard that there was a thriving Guatemalan community in Chattanooga based around the chicken plant.

So, when I was at St. Paul's Kingsport, in Tennessee, there was a parishioner, Bill, who was all bent over. Seems that several years ago, he was mowing his yard. Now part of that yard was a small hill with a steep grade, and he took his large riding mower up the hill thinking he could save himself the trip of bringing the push mower up there later. But he hit a bump and the mower up-ended, tossing him off of it. Then the mower came down on him and broke his back.

So, when I was a kid, my family took a turn at trying out First Presbyterian Church in downtown Chattanooga. Now this was a big deal. First Pres was a huge church, a mega-church before there were mega-churches. All the big wheels in town went there. If there was anything resembling the “passing of the peace,” like we do, it wasn't to shake hands, but to exchange business cards.

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.