This was not a good morning.

When I got up the house was cold. I like to start the day by running a mile or so. I looked out and the trees were bending in the wind. I decided to go run anyway, after all it wasn't raining. Half way into my run it started pouring. You know the kind, a cold driving rain that hurts when it hits your face.

I came home, soaking wet, ate breakfast, showered and dressed for work. I needed to run two errands which would only take a minute. The first errand the bank was not open; the second errand was a line that would cause me to miss my train. Driving to the train station, I followed a school bus full of kids and windows so fogged over that no one could see out.

Books so often raise questions that can fill the empty spaces in a day. One novel that I have just finished and that has left me with much to ponder is Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky.

It is a book that almost did not see the light of day. The author, a Russian Jew who fled the Bolsheviks and who had long lived in France, was caught up in the trauma of the Nazi occupation of France. Her reputation as a successful author did not save her from being arrested and sent to Auschwitz where she died in 1942. Her very young children remembered her writing in tiny handwriting in a large notebook. They saved that notebook, thinking it was her memoirs. Some fifty years later they began to decipher it, only to discover it was a novel dealing with World War II.

I have a confession to make. I like to play cards. Not really. Iʼm not a card shark or anything like that. I donʼt know the first thing about playing bridge or poker. But I like to play solitaire. It's simple, quick, and efficient. I can sit down at the kitchen table and play two or three games in a matter of ten minutes, and I find it very relaxing.

I often stop in the midst of my work at the computer or reading a book and pick up a well-worn deck of cards and start laying them out on the table. The thing I really like about solitaire is watching how the cards run. If you play often enough, you begin to see patterns in the way they turn up.

For a while, they seem to play themselves, they turn up so well. You win one game, two, three, four, even five or six. Then they start turning up poorly, so that the game becomes turgid and doesn't seem to work at all. That goes on for one game, two, three, and so on. Finally the luck turns and goes the other way again. Every time I play, I see this, and I think, “This is the way life itself is.

This blog comes to you the day before Pentecost, the birthday of the church, the time when the Holy Spirit, the very presence of God came into the church and gave it new and surprising life.

In much the same way the Holy Spirit comes to people—something surprising, unexpected, pulling on new parts of ourselves, asking us to trust it even if it manifests in strange ways.

Martin Smith, a former monk in the Episcopal church, in his classic book "Season for the Spirit" has written:

Many people brought up as Christians relegate the mystery of the indwelling Spirit to an attic where they store teachings which common sense dictates to be implausible, 'mystical,' remote from reality. As soon as we allow ourselves to be grasped by the truth of it, the indifference we used to show is unmasked as actual resistance which tries to keep the Spirit at arm's length.

Today’s blog picks up from where we left off last week. A very provocative comment came in and I got a bit carried away in my response, so it has become this week’s blog. Consider it a two-parter. And please, weigh in—there is room for more.  Thanks to all who have already done so.

Thank you sooooo much for your comment, socialpoet. You are very thoughtful and have a powerful voice. I am really rocked by the in between-ness that you communicate—with your brother's professional decision and your own keen political and social observations. 

I have been talking to myself all day (some simple self-reflection and some chastisement) about not participating in the marches yesterday. During the period following Diallo’s murder, I was actively involved in the protests. I will never forget going to Webster Avenue in the Bronx for a prayer service and afterwards standing in the vestibule where he was standing. It had not been fixed up then and I saw bullet holes and stood about where Diallo did when he drew his last breath.

I love the lectionary. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what a lectionary is—the lectionary is an orderly listing that contains a collection of scripture readings appointed for worship on a given day or occasion. On Sundays there is usually a selection from the Hebrew Scriptures, a Psalm, an Epistle and a Gospel text. Usually, the texts are linked in some way. This past Sunday was a bit different, the church celebrated the Ascension of Christ as told in Acts 1:6-14.

I love this passage. It is ironic that the writer uses so much humor at such a sobering event. The duh-ciples strike one more time! One last time they prove that they still don’t get it! Christ has been crucified, has died and has risen and appeared too many over the past many days—and—now Christ is about to ascend into heaven.

They ask, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” What I hear them really asking is, “Ok—now that you are not dead, now are you going to kick some butt and take over?” They just don’t get it! I can imagine that Jesus slaps his forehead muttering, “Oy Vey!”

There is a great verse in the opening of the book of Acts telling about the disciples meeting in the upper room. It is the disciples, women, Jesus' mother, and his brothers (who are mentioned in the Gospels only once). This is the early Christian community, probably 15 or 20 people. They have lost their leader, their hope, and their purpose. However coming together as a prayerful group, God is real to them and they find His life giving presence. This is what it means to be the church.

It comes often through the power of connection.

Did you catch the news item about two women's softball teams working as one in an incredible act of sportsmanship? I saw it in the NY Times of April 30, and it has warmed by heart every time I think of it.

It took place during a college softball game between Western Oregon and Central Washington. Sara Tucholsky, a tiny Oregon player, hit what was certainly a three-run homer, over the fence and out of sight. As she trotted to first base, her right knee buckled and she crumpled to the ground, crying with pain as she crawled to touch the base. The Western Oregon coach made certain no teammate touched her, since that would have nullified any further action. What to do now?