The Sixth Sunday of Pentecost, 2018
I came across a wonderful cultural reference to Pentecost over the weekend. I was all set up in a place a few blocks away called, "Smashburger", with a milk shake on one side and a delicious "Triple-Pub Bacon Burger on the other with my trusty paperback copy of "Remembrance of Things Past" sort of in the middle, within reading distance as I paused between bites, alternating between the muscle parade outside (Smashburger is right across the street from LIU's Brooklyn branch) and reading from Proust. I am still at the beginning of Volume III, not much further from where I was virtually a year ago at this time. Marcel is still "imprisoned" by his jealousy-fueled love of Albertine, a young woman he met on the rebound from his break-up with the redoubtable, Gilberte, back in Volume II.
Albertine is one of a group of beach strollers who serve as muses for Marcel while vacationing with his grandmother at the seaside resort known as, Balbec. Volume III takes up the relationship after a period of time during which Marcel's grandmother has died and Albertine moves in with him, his mistress in all but name, and all under the watchful eye of the household factotem, Francoise.
The reference to Pentecost comes while recounting the sickness and slow death of his friend, Bergotte, the writer. he speculated that his fame would last until the end of life on the planet: "It will not be the last animals that will read him, for it is scarcely probable that, like the Apostles at Pentecost, they will be able to understand the speech of the various races of mankind without having learned it."
That explains the tradition that has developed during The Rector's term at St. Michael's, of having us all recite the Lord's Prayer in our native language or in whatever way we said it when raised as children. I remember how difficult it was even reciting it in English without the usual confirming echo chamber of a hundred other parishioners saying it along with you.
Such could have been the case yesterday, when in the absence of a standing choir, the congregation attempted to sing together. It could have been, But, it wasn't. Even without Bing and Colette (they're still in Scandanavia), there were still enough de-frocked choristers to seed the sanctuary with voices where needed.
We are deep into sun dress season, perhaps a little earlier than usual. The fans were on. Men wore t-shirts of every design and description. Marianna calmly rocked her brand-new grandchild on walk tours of the aisle separating the two altars, pausing in front of floor fan before deftly turning her back on its full force. Just about the only people not dressed for the hot, arguably humid, temperatures indoors were the clergy and acolytes who seemed to carry on bravely despite it all.
I erred on the side of comfort, having laundered and hung my favorite t-shirt to dry in the kitchen the day before. If done while still wet, it comes out virtually wrinkle free. I brought along a straw hat to strike a better balance between casual and just plain shabby. In fact, I was moved to commend the Jews who don't just permit their men to wear hats during service, but, indeed require them to do so.
The Bagginses were in full force, which meant places at their table were at a premium during Coffee Hour. But, despite Paradise's absence, I was pulled into their orbit by none other than the son-in-law, Bill, who awarded me a prized berth right next to Bilbo himself. Thus, for the first time in months, perhaps a year or more, I had Bilbo's attention pretty much all to myself.
His attention is as eclectic as mine is. He notices the circuitous route taken by his daughter's coffee cup after she has drained it of liquid and deposited it with the "dirty cups" on the far end of the Parish Hall. Along comes a young tike who playfully removes it (we know it's the same cup because we all made a fuss over the fact that it had the University of Texas' insignia on it) and places it again with the clean cups next to the coffee and tea urns. Eleanor Roosevelt gently pulled him aside and explained that he had put it in the wrong place. Whereupon, he happily and unashamedly retrieved the errant cup and put it back where he had found it.
Albertine is one of a group of beach strollers who serve as muses for Marcel while vacationing with his grandmother at the seaside resort known as, Balbec. Volume III takes up the relationship after a period of time during which Marcel's grandmother has died and Albertine moves in with him, his mistress in all but name, and all under the watchful eye of the household factotem, Francoise.
The reference to Pentecost comes while recounting the sickness and slow death of his friend, Bergotte, the writer. he speculated that his fame would last until the end of life on the planet: "It will not be the last animals that will read him, for it is scarcely probable that, like the Apostles at Pentecost, they will be able to understand the speech of the various races of mankind without having learned it."
That explains the tradition that has developed during The Rector's term at St. Michael's, of having us all recite the Lord's Prayer in our native language or in whatever way we said it when raised as children. I remember how difficult it was even reciting it in English without the usual confirming echo chamber of a hundred other parishioners saying it along with you.
Such could have been the case yesterday, when in the absence of a standing choir, the congregation attempted to sing together. It could have been, But, it wasn't. Even without Bing and Colette (they're still in Scandanavia), there were still enough de-frocked choristers to seed the sanctuary with voices where needed.
We are deep into sun dress season, perhaps a little earlier than usual. The fans were on. Men wore t-shirts of every design and description. Marianna calmly rocked her brand-new grandchild on walk tours of the aisle separating the two altars, pausing in front of floor fan before deftly turning her back on its full force. Just about the only people not dressed for the hot, arguably humid, temperatures indoors were the clergy and acolytes who seemed to carry on bravely despite it all.
I erred on the side of comfort, having laundered and hung my favorite t-shirt to dry in the kitchen the day before. If done while still wet, it comes out virtually wrinkle free. I brought along a straw hat to strike a better balance between casual and just plain shabby. In fact, I was moved to commend the Jews who don't just permit their men to wear hats during service, but, indeed require them to do so.
The Bagginses were in full force, which meant places at their table were at a premium during Coffee Hour. But, despite Paradise's absence, I was pulled into their orbit by none other than the son-in-law, Bill, who awarded me a prized berth right next to Bilbo himself. Thus, for the first time in months, perhaps a year or more, I had Bilbo's attention pretty much all to myself.
His attention is as eclectic as mine is. He notices the circuitous route taken by his daughter's coffee cup after she has drained it of liquid and deposited it with the "dirty cups" on the far end of the Parish Hall. Along comes a young tike who playfully removes it (we know it's the same cup because we all made a fuss over the fact that it had the University of Texas' insignia on it) and places it again with the clean cups next to the coffee and tea urns. Eleanor Roosevelt gently pulled him aside and explained that he had put it in the wrong place. Whereupon, he happily and unashamedly retrieved the errant cup and put it back where he had found it.