Tribute-ary: Steve Baker

St. Andrew's Day. It's a pretty disjointed narrative that connects the Jewish fisherman that became Jesus' first called disciple to a day of national Scottish pride. It's a little unnatural to toast a man who was crucified in Greece in the shape of an X with a single malt whisky that wasn't even part of Scottish lore until the last 300 years.

But I had a gratifying day at work, setting up a little demo at the tea bar of Scottish shortbread and Assam breakfast tea. I even took some plaid ribbon from the floral department and make a St. Andrew's cross on the counter. There was one elderly man with a white beard and an argyle cap. Otherwise, my "happy St. Andrew's day!" greetings from the tea demo were met with complete bewilderment. It's particularly fun to celebrate a holiday that no one else seems to notice. And it's always rewarding to tell a story that is rooted in Christ's story.

I was even more gratified to hear my friend Steve Baker's voice (mail) when I called to wish him well on my lunch break. Steve is the most Scottish man I know. And his fingerprints are easily tracable on my soul.

The Rumble Bass. A Rickenbacher riff-off, with the word "Bad Ass" printed on the headstock.

The infinite supply of Polo mints.

The inconsistent Jaguar.

The daily prayers at 4:00 a.m. to claim wholeness for a son with cystic fibrosis.

The greying steel wool haircut.

The trips to South Carolina.

The tears of pain for a family nightmare, and the tears of joy for restoration.

The utter disregard for material comforts.

The daring to find meaning in Old Testament prophecies.

The unwavering trust in the Almighty.

"Did you know the word 'whisky' is gaelic for 'living water'? But it's not; it's only a counterfeit."

"Your grass - it waters itself. And your streets - they sparkle."

"Satan, you have been defeated, you bloody, bleedin' bastard!"

May the bones of St. Andrew continue to raze noble highlanders at least half as faithful as Steve the Baker.

And may Jesus fill you, my friend, and your kin, with an unnending spirit of love and good deeds -- until it comes out your arse!

When is the Cornucopia Too Full?

I've been working some pretty taxing hours at Central Market this week. Our store, catering to gourmet and specialty foods and such, makes about 40% of it's total annual revenue in November and December. For the past 6 weeks our bulk department has been stocking up on holiday essentials -- particularly walnuts, pecans, cranberries and cinnamon. Though it seems impossible to me, we've actually run out of some of these items this week! Even worse, the H.E.B. warehouse ran out of containers and lids! If you want to get a sense of what hell could be like, stand in front of hundreds of crotchety patrons for hours and say repeatedly "no ma'am, we don't have any lids" or "I'm afraid we're all out of pecan pieces, sir."

The notion that these items may not have an infinite supply causes most consumers to be utterly dumbstruck. "HOW can you be out of pecans right before Thanksgiving?"

My favorite retort so far was "well, somebody really f***ed up majorly, didn't they?"

The answer I wanted to give was "you mean our store for running out or you for waiting until the last minute to do your holiday shopping, you gratitude-lacker." Instead, I walked away with a forced grin on my face.

I don't have a hugely drawn out point here. Only that perhaps our culture at large has no conscious need of God partly because it has no conscious concept of finitude. When there is no allowance for the limits of consumption, there can be no appreciation for the One who provides manna and promises "My grace is sufficient for you."

Well, I'm off to work the extended holiday hours closing shift one more time. Oh Lord, grant me a spirit of eucharist and transfer it to every disappointed customer I gaze upon today.

Tribute-ary: Chris

A faithful traveling companion for twelve solar revolutions,
Very seldom can a friend claim.
An honest heart and a rebellious spirit,
Blends the elusive elixir of fugitives, prophets and world changers.
Most cynics hover over their reclusive sidelines,
Afraid of being proven void.
But a man who can ask “why are things this way?”
And also prod himself into the arena of toil
Is a rarer creature still.

Wit has a way of witling people into white and black,
Sarcasm can send sectarian signals.
But when a soul has the courage to include
Himself in his sidewinding word-smithing
With an unsuspecting humility and mischief,
He can only be Chris Margrave -- or Huckleberry Finn.

Curiosity can kill catlike reflexes,
Or it can form musicians, inkslingers
Pipe smokers, inventors, husbands, and fathers.

When a teenager wants to learn the blues
You crack a smile and get him in tune.
When a young man wants to begin again,
You laugh and help him unpack.
When a son becomes the mortar that repairs a family,
You gasp and start taking notes.
When a student becomes your teacher,
You stand agape and stand up straighter.
When a friend becomes kin,
You embrace him and tell him,
“I’m proud of you. Do your thing, brother.
Maybe I’ll catch up when you least expect it.”

Still Identifying With Martin of Tours

This week has been comprised of various people leaving me for one reason or another. The two best friends I have made in the bulk department at Central Market quit on Sunday. Tim got a job that suits him better -- working for Apple. Callaway lef today for Vermont to continue his training to be a certified Craft Brewer.

Then there's the Abbey. Steven boldly packed up his caravan (actually an import) from Bakersfield and moved into the Abbey 3-4 weeks ago. As much as we have grown to appreciate him, it was mutually agreed that the "fit was not right" for him to stay on long term. So, in whiplash motion, he found a couple of like-minded guys to live with and yesterday he moved out.

The biggest blow, though, was the loss of Chris (also last Sunday). We knew from the beginning that he was only on loan to us from his wife Jenny until they could get situated for her to join him here in Austin. And since he's found a job and they've got another place to stay, the family is back together. But our little clan has been deeply affected by his lack of presence.

Not seeing familiar faces in familiar places is painful. It sucks to let people move on. This is one of the prices of love, I suppose.

It occurs to me, however, that I asked Martin of Tours to pray for me a couple of days ago, specifically "that I would send others into unknown wonders." Perhaps, without realizing it until now, there is some of that going on here. Each of these people have gone into these different places with my blessing and encouragement (as meager as it may have been). I'll be telling you more about them in the coming few days, as I want to give tribute to some of the people in my life as a way of practicing Thanksgiving.

For now, Tim, Callway, Steven and Chris,
May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you
Wherever He may send you.
May He guide you through the wilderness,
Protect you through the storm.
May He bring you home rejoicing at the wonders He has shown you.
May He bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.

4 Brown Beers for Saint Martin

"Do you have any wines from Tours, France?" I asked my co-worker friend, Randy. He wasn't sure where Tours was, so I showed him a map of France with "Tours" in big letters. He doesn't know of anything from around there. We ask the other wine stewards and even the wine distributors on hand. Nobody knows.

"Why are you so interested in that particular region?" Randy finally asks me. So I tell him a little story about Saint Martin of Tours, one of the men of Christian antiquity that I admire most.

When I get home from work I do a little more research, only to find out that Tours is the largest city of a major wine-making region! I decided to get myself a wine from that (Loire) region to celebrate the man tonight.

When I get to the big wine store, I discover that they only have super-pricey wines from this region. Bummer. So I instead purchased 4 brown beers that I have been curious about for a while.

6:15 p.m.-- Got home with a double cheeseburger and opened up the new organic brew from North Coast Brewery, the Cru d'Or. I wasn't expecting it to be a dark tripel, but it was pretty nice. It's amazing how you can tell a beer is Belgian immediately when you open the bottle - there's something totally unique about the smell of Belgian yeast strains. No other other region in the world smells like it. This tiny little country produces the most interesting and complex yeast strains and actually ships them all over the world to make local brewmasters giddy. I wonder if this isn't something like what God had in mind when He chose Israel to be a blessing (leaven) among the nations...

10:05 p.m -- Finished reading the first half of The Diving Milieu, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. It is too wonderful outside, so I grab my Nicaraguan cigar and pour Old Peculier into my Abbey goblet and set up the hammock. I was reading a book that said this English Ale went well with smoked meats, so I figured it would go well with smoke, too. The sweet malty flavor does indeed, but there isn't enough body to match the spicey smokiness. Still, this beer is what Newcastle should be. Looking up at the trees blowing about in the wind, hearing the cars soar by on the other side of the wall, being enfolded in the unspeakable goodness of God - this is what my worn soul has been pleading for.

10:50 p.m. -- Sean joins me outside on the porch and we split the Hibernation Ale together. Funny, all I wanted to do tonight was hibernate, to hide away alone in my cell (actually, it's the "sun room") and take in the spirit of the great hermit-bishop-missionary-monk, Martin. But, also like Martin, there were people coming to talk with me. Strangely, they weren't such an interruption. Sean and I hibernated together, words and thoughts -- but mostly silence and presence. The clouds were rolling quickly over the bright lantern-moon. Sean is going to be a great husband and missionary-monk in his own right, and this is one of the most well-balanced heavy beers I've ever had.

12:15 p.m. -- After taking a shower to get rid of the cigar forcefield, I approach the computer with my final sampling, the highly coveted St. Bernardus Abbot 12 -- a true Trappist wonder. I'm up way too late, but the time feels holy. I've found myself in Christ in this little make-shift cell. The Tallis Scholars harken the Middle Ages. The juniper incense swirls thick European romance. The beer is remarkably smooth and pleasing. I want each taste to bring with it the character and flavor of the abbotts of old. I want to be like Saint Martin of Tours.

Some Saints on All Saints Days

I'm currently listening to Mozart's Requiem and trying to keep my tears on the inside.

Just a few moments ago we recited the Great Litanny together here at the Abbey, asking a rather lengthy list of notable Christian characters to pray for us. As we got into a cadence, I became more accutely aware of the "cloud of witnesses" than ever before. I also felt deeply impressed to address a few "saints" that have touched a more personal and intimate part of my soul:

Enoch, pray for me; that I would walk with God.
Jeremiah, pray for me; that I would remain faithful to Christ regardless of any measures of success.
Joseph, pray for me; that I would love my son as you did yours - with awe and wonder and acquiesence that God is the true Father.
Levi, pray for me; that I would drop all and follow.
Luke, pray for me; that I would tell the stories of the foreigners and outcasts.
Paul, pray for me; that I would find the language to cross cultures with the gospel.

Martin of Tours, pray for me; that I would send others into unknown wonders.
Brendan, pray for me; that I would embrace my journey with humility and urgency.
Benedict, pray for me; that I would become an Abbott-daddy to my spiritual family.
Charles De Foucauld, pray for me; that I would deny myself for Christ's sake.
Bonhoeffer, pray for me; that I would embody a monasticism for this time.

Johnny Cash, pray for me; that I would be an oak.

Brother I never knew, pray for me; that I would recognize you on That day.

Kyle Lake, pray for me; that I would be at peace with the God who infuriates me.

Papa, your heart still beats, but your true self is far closer to heaven than earth. Please pray for me, that I would live in your legacy of love and faith.