A joy-filled day to you!
We hope that all is well with you and that you are smiling.
Next Sunday's gospel lesson is a story about lepers and healing and thankfulness and more. So, in this Gram, we thought we'd tell you about a "leper" we know. It begins with Steve's reflection on life and the lectionary and moves on to a piece penned by Kevin Swanwick in memory of a man named John. Over on the left you'll fin a reminder about the November 2nd workshop on Compassion (13 seats left!!), a song about our journey to God, and some other odds and ends including a a spot where you can click and forward this epistle to a friend. While you're at it, we ask that you "like" us us on Facebook. . . .
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A Leper Teaches Gratitude
By many accounts, John McMeekin was a leper. Not that he had leprosy mind you; he didn't. He was mostly unkempt, smelled badly, and suffered from the ailments and abuse that comes with being an addict, sleeping in abandoned  buildings, and foraging for food or enough money to get high.
John wasn't looking too good on the day of our first street service in July of 2006. His side ached where he'd been punched or kicked or something the night before. His left eye was swollen shut. He looked as though he'd been dragged down the street for some distance. And, there was a certain air about him. That might have been the way the folks looked at the ten lepers who where hanging around outside the village gates the day Jesus made his way through the Galilee-Samaria border lands as described in next Sunday's gospel reading ( Luke 17:11-19). There were ten people, ostracized by their community, kept away from family and friends and all they held dear because they were afflicted with a disease that others might catch. You see, the ancients took the disease - in fact, any skin disease - very seriously. You'll find two chapters of Leviticus devoted to it . . . and Leviticus 13 verses 45 and 46 even tell how a leper is to live: 45 "The person with such an infectious disease must wear torn clothes, let his hair be unkempt, cover the lower part of his face and cry out, 'Unclean! Unclean!' 46 As long as he has the infection he remains unclean. He must live alone; he must live outside the camp. I don  't know if John ever read that prescription from Leviticus. Probably not. If he had, though, I suspect that he would have said it was the wrong way to treat others. Unfortunately, I can't ask him. A heart attack took John's life earlier this year. You might say that he'd gotten his act together. He was doing really well, living in a nice place and engaging with others. Of course, John always "engaged" with others. He'd do anything to help, loved to laugh and always had a good story. But more than that, John lived in gratitude - thankful for what he had, thankful for a helping hand, thankful for simple things like a holiday conversation with a  sister in Maine or a clean pair of socks. John's gratitude, sincerity, and good humor touched the lives of all who knew him and were privileged to serve him in some way (Below, you'll find a piece written the other day by Kevin Swanwick in memory of John.). He reminds me of the one leper who saw that he had been healed and went back to say thank you and made all the difference to the one who had healed him. And, he reminds me that we are all lepers in some way, all called to see that we have been healed, all called to live in gratitude.
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It's Like Summer - Remembering John McMeekin
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John McMeekin
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Breath. I can still see my breath. This sidewalk is cold. Nobody comes down here during the long dark days of winter. I'm alone, but yes, I am alone and I can be alone.
Breath. I can see my breath.
Sleep. I'll go to sleep again.
My arm is still warm. I never lose that warmth in my arm after it starts with the first sting, a warm flow after my little poke that doesn't bother me anymore. Just a little one and then....warmth. It stays, it lingers; my arm about the elbow stays warm and then I sleep. Go back to sleep....
Oh, it's like summer and I am just here to rest. No one will bother me. Cops took my CD player yesterday, said I couldn't have owned such a thing - I must have stolen it. In our house we would say "he stold it." My sisters, sweet flowers - I wonder where they are? When it's like summer time I think about them and I feel warm, but the sidewalk is cold. I'm gonna guess what time it is - no, I'll sleep.
I want to pick up my spoon. It's frozen to the sidewalk. I saw a rat come out one day and give my spoon a good licking. He fell asleep; we slept, but when I awoke, the birds were picking at him. I should pick up my spoon. There, in my mind I am picking up my spoon. That's good enough.
Newburgh is really something. This east end is my home. Some want to escape from here, but why would I escape? This place never changes. Think of that. How many places can you live where things never change? I'll eat tomorrow, no need to eat now. Father Jim will be there tomorrow. "Don't you go smoking that Crack again dear friend!" No Father, I won't smoke that crack, I don't even have a pipe and it keeps me awake. And I'm a sleeper.
It's black now. People don't really know what night is unless they sleep down here. They don't know how beautiful the river is down here. In the winter I see it like no one else 'cept maybe Sir Henry from his perch on the Half Moon. I'm kinda like him, Sir Henry. He was looking for the great passage and happened on to this river, but later got cozy way up north and then his crew left him. He knew the winter and being alone and cold. Poor Henry didn't have a spoon.
It's slower now. Things slow down...boy this is slow. I should say goodnight fella, you fella. Slower. Breath? I don't see my breath. Is that the dark?
No breath. No.
Kevin Swanwick, October 3, 2013
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