The Fifth Sunday of Epiphany
A Eucharistic service was held in Mendhan, New Jersey yesterday. It was the last day of the Men of St. Michael's annual retreat and came on the heels of approximately 48 hours of what, essentially, was an extended group therapy session.
Frank Lee, Bing, Joinus and a murderer's row of present and former Vestry members joined two fairly new faces and liftied their voices in three old standards from the Hymnal Book. One of them was "I Am The Bread of Life". The last one, sung after Communion was No. 653 which Frank and I personally requested.
The celebrant was our Assistant Priest, an erudite man none of us knew much about other than the fact that he could deliver a thoughtful sermon when the occasion called for it. He was supposed to co-lead the weekend with The Deacon who bowed out at the least minute. The two new faces were both gay, one an Elder whose connection to St. Michael has hertofore been limited to the 7:45 service and occasioanlly, to Intersection.
The other was a younger guy, a member of Frank's young adult group. I'd seen him before at Morning sevice , but, having been burned multiple times before, had not paid too much attention to until I knew him a little better. And, of course, like Simon and Matt, he seldom stayed for Coffee Hour. He presents possibilities. He's a southerner, a bit of an activist and seems to have a visible means of support (unlike Tiger - gosh, remember him?) which - with any luck - will keep him in New York long enough to continue getting to know him.
But, let's be clear. Communion was the probably the only extended period during the weekend when the eleven men gathered together seemed to be pulling in the same direction. Or, when the same voices didn't dominate the conversation. Over and over again, from virtually the moment we gathered that first Friday night, one singularly testosterone fueled voice was the first one to be heard, the one with the most endurance and the last one ringing in my ears as I headed to bed. By Sunday morning, I was suffering from sensory overload. There was nothing I wanted to hear less than the sound of another male voice.
Unless it was in song.
Frank Lee, Bing, Joinus and a murderer's row of present and former Vestry members joined two fairly new faces and liftied their voices in three old standards from the Hymnal Book. One of them was "I Am The Bread of Life". The last one, sung after Communion was No. 653 which Frank and I personally requested.
The celebrant was our Assistant Priest, an erudite man none of us knew much about other than the fact that he could deliver a thoughtful sermon when the occasion called for it. He was supposed to co-lead the weekend with The Deacon who bowed out at the least minute. The two new faces were both gay, one an Elder whose connection to St. Michael has hertofore been limited to the 7:45 service and occasioanlly, to Intersection.
The other was a younger guy, a member of Frank's young adult group. I'd seen him before at Morning sevice , but, having been burned multiple times before, had not paid too much attention to until I knew him a little better. And, of course, like Simon and Matt, he seldom stayed for Coffee Hour. He presents possibilities. He's a southerner, a bit of an activist and seems to have a visible means of support (unlike Tiger - gosh, remember him?) which - with any luck - will keep him in New York long enough to continue getting to know him.
But, let's be clear. Communion was the probably the only extended period during the weekend when the eleven men gathered together seemed to be pulling in the same direction. Or, when the same voices didn't dominate the conversation. Over and over again, from virtually the moment we gathered that first Friday night, one singularly testosterone fueled voice was the first one to be heard, the one with the most endurance and the last one ringing in my ears as I headed to bed. By Sunday morning, I was suffering from sensory overload. There was nothing I wanted to hear less than the sound of another male voice.
Unless it was in song.