So, as many of you know, Brooks and Becca have bought eleven acres of land up on Lake Moraine above Hamilton. I go up there a couple times a week just to sit and look at the water and deer, the family of bald eagles and the occasional fisher cat. It's a great place to just sit and will be a good place for the Catos to live in a few years once they build it out.

I've told y'all about Little Jimmy before. He was the homeless addict that would hang out at St. James, Knoxville. Conversations with him were difficult at times because he sort of took his on logic-path when he was talking. And I had trouble catching up when he's take a sharp turn in the story. But occasionally he would make pretty good sense, and learning about his life stories was actually a privilege.

So, I really dig the Book of Jonah...and not just because it's so short. I like it because it's essentially about a guy throwing a series of fits against God. God wants Jonah to preach judgement against the people in Nineveh, and Jonah throws a fit and runs the other way.

So, I grind my teeth. A lot, it seems. In fact, I grind them so much that the other day I had to go to the dentist because I ground my teeth so much, half of one broke off, and I had yet another hole in my head that needed filling.

So, for those of you who do not spend very much time in the Southeast, I need to tell you about a Southern treasure. I speak of none other than the Krystal hamburger. These depression-era burgers are the Southern cousin of the White Castle, small burgers, steamed in onions and covered with a pickle, mustard, and a soft, little bun. And sometimes cheese. Krystals are soul food for people in a hurry. The restaurants are generally open 24-hours a day, so they are the go-to food for those who would be better off going home after a long night. And they are often the bane of existence of those same people early the next morning. But man, oh, man, they are so good.

So, one night, when Brooks and I were in Jerusalem, we were traipsing through the Old City, we popped into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, one of the holiest sites in Christendom.

So what would you do if I told you that what you do this week could change the world?

During this summer of protests and yet another outbreak of protests and violence and racism and white supremacy in our country one thing that went unnoticed was the feast day on August 14 of Jonathan Myrick Daniels, an Episcopal saint and martyr. I remember it because ten years ago on his feast day marks the day that I began seminary.

So, I remember when I was a little kid, I got a red Schwinn bike with a banana seat and easy-rider handle bars. It was cool! And I remember my grandaddy helping me learn. You see, where he lived, the road started out with the steepest hill in the world and as you picked up speed, it flattened out to a cul-de-sac that was, I don't know, maybe ten miles long.

So, it's kind of odd, this Gospel passage. It seems so nice and subdued. It begins with Jesus taking a break, going away to relax.

In this coronatide, in what free time I have available to me, I’ve been learning to speak German. Well, not really. But Becca knows some German, and she says this phrase occasionally.

So, when I was a kid, my grandparents moved off their farm into the big city of Red Bank, Tennessee, outside Chattanooga. And my granddaddy had a huge garden. I mean, in my mind, at least it was big, but then again, I was little. Everything was big. It wasn't so big that he needed a tractor or other fancy equipment, just a tiller. But it was big enough that, because he didn't have that fancy equipment, planting time could be a big deal.

So, a parishioner of mine in Knoxville was in intensive care. His condition was precarious, and the family was understandably worried about him. I was hovering with his family outside his room. He was sleeping, however, and we did not want to disturb him. Since there was no waiting room near by, we walked down the hall and went into the Surgical Waiting Room to sit and visit and rest and wait.

So, I have been reading Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coats. It is written as a letter to the author's teenage son about the feelings, symbolism, and realities associated with being a black man in the United States.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a scientist. Now I'm sure I didn't now what that meant given that that's such a broad word, but that's what I wanted to be. I was born when President Kennedy was alive, and I was fully on board with every thing “moon landing.” So, science was cool.

So, I need to make a confession. Yesterday morning, early, around 6:15, I stopped in the Price Chopper in Hamilton while it was still Senior Hour. That is my confession. My punishment was this: Nobody noticed me. I fit right in.

If you ever have a chance to do a church tour around England, make your way to Norfolk. The motto of the village of Walsingham, in a reference to it's pre-Norman Conquest roots, is “Welcoming Visitors Since 1061,” and it is home to the Anglican Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. And it is there, in the Chapel of the Ascension, that you will find it. Typically English, and typically weird.

So, I've been rethinking my relationship with the Apostle Paul. I think it's so easy, in our day and age, to give poor Paul a bad rap. The letters of his that we read are often cumbersome with sentences that seem to be going one direction then suddenly veer off in another.

Most of you know that I love Sewanee. I was there this weekend to see the new crop of seminarians get pushed out into the world. But even I have to admit that once the ceremonies and the liturgies and the homework are done, the day-to-day life living in a seminary community on top of a mountain, far away from a city's hustle and bustle, can be fairly mundane, one day blending into the next.

So, I've said this often, and if you were at our post-Morning Prayer discussion on Zoom, you heard Fr. Brooks and I talk about it. And it's this: I always thought Thomas got a bad rap.