Andrew Frantz and songs of Summer from Judson Kids Day to Garrison, New York.
And Moses said unto
God, “Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth
the children of Israel out of Egypt?”
And [God] said, “Certainly I will be with thee.”
– Exodus 3:11-12
We usually travel during the
summer.
Getting away from holy Brooklyn to
parts unknown.
RIP Anthony.Tony why?
But not before school ends.
Judson Kids Day marks the end of
school,
The end of Sunday school,
The beginning of summer,
A trip to Garrison, to take in some nature,
To enjoy being alive.
They’ve been part of Andy’s Kids
Day services for years now.
But not 2019.
The
teenager graduated two years ago.
The little one attended sporadically.
There in spirit.
But they didn’t make it service.
Other things as they grow up.
The teenager out the night before.
The little one had gone to Garrison
with me.
Playing drums chatting with Grandad,
With Nooonu.
Horsing about on the Hudson.
As the day opened into a splendid afternoon.
Growing, greeting the spring.
Dancing with the limits.
Poetry lept from the morning bulletin.
Go to the
Limits of Your Longing
Matt sang to Micah:
Moments of Pleasure
Some
moments that I've had
Some moments of pleasure
Some moments of pleasure
I
think about us lying
Lying on a beach somewhere
I think about us diving
Diving off a rock, into another moment
Lying on a beach somewhere
I think about us diving
Diving off a rock, into another moment
The
case of George the Wipe
Oh God I can't stop laughing
This sense of humor of mine
It isn't funny at all
Oh but we sit up all night
Talking about it
Oh God I can't stop laughing
This sense of humor of mine
It isn't funny at all
Oh but we sit up all night
Talking about it
Just
being alive
It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
On
a balcony in New York
It's just started to snow
He meets us at the lift
Like Douglas Fairbanks
Waving his walking stick
But he isn't well at all
The buildings of New York
Look just like mountains through the snow
It's just started to snow
He meets us at the lift
Like Douglas Fairbanks
Waving his walking stick
But he isn't well at all
The buildings of New York
Look just like mountains through the snow
Just
being alive
It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
Just let us try
To give these moments back
To those we love
To those…
It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
Just let us try
To give these moments back
To those we love
To those…
And Andrew Frantz delivered a
morning homily on moving,
through
through a theology wanderlust which grips us.
My dad
could never stay put.
Find a
home and learn from the world from that place,
Pete
always advised.
Andy
had something to add:
Well, Judson, now that the kids
have left the room, what do you say you and I talk about lust.
In the fall of 1976, while campaigning
for the presidency, Jimmy Carter gave an interview to Playboy magazine in which he confessed to having lust in his heart.
It seemed like a big deal at the
time.
Now, it may surprise you to know
that I am one of the few human beings on this planet not presently running for
the Democratic presidential nomination.
However, I thought that, like Jimmy Carter, I too should make a
confession, and so here goes:
I have wanderlust in my genes.
And like many a lust-filled lad,
I’ve been known to pick up a magazine or two in my time. You know the kind I’m talking about:
Big Islands.
The Sophisticated
Traveler.
Conde Nast(y).
I only buy them for the articles!
Some time ago I came across a
magazine which would seem to be tailor-made for a person with my particular
affliction. Wanderlust, Britain’s “leading independent travel magazine,”
describes itself as “delivering inspiration and advice to travelers seeking
unique and enriching travel experiences.”
How unique, you ask? Here are a
few articles found in Wanderlust
magazine:
“Botswana on a Budget.”
“Island-hop Like A Greek.” For those of you who want to channel your
inner Zorba.
“Pittsburgh travel guide: Is the city really ‘hungrier for culture’
than New York?” Please. Settle down, Pittsburgh.
“Hop On The Old Patagonian,” which
I thought sounded rather painful, especially for the old Patagonian, until I
read that the Old Patagonian is a train.
“Walking With Rhinos.” Walking with rhinos? “An elephant-back safari offers a unique
perspective on Kaziranga’s grasslands – and a better way to get close to a
rhino.” Forgive me, but I didn’t realize
people were looking for “a better way to get close to a rhino,” did you?
Regardless of whether any of those
articles appealed to you or not, wanderlust – that “strong, innate desire to
rove or travel” – is pervasive throughout our culture. It’s Joni Mitchell’s “urge for going, when
the meadow grass is turning brown.” It’s
an invitation from Frank Sinatra to “come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly
away.” It’s getting directions from Nat
King Cole: “If you ever plan to motor
west. Travel my way, take the highway
that’s the best. Get your kicks on Route
66.” Unless, that is, you were “born a
ramblin’ man” and find yourself “rollin’ down Highway 41” with the Allman
Brothers. Me? I’m riding with the Boss out on Highway 9,
where “the highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive. …
Someday, girl, I don’t when, we’re gonna get to that place where we really
wanna go, and we’ll walk in the sun. But
till then, tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.”
Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuce!
Wanderlust is going On The Road
with Jack Kerouac, taking a Walk Across America with Peter Jenkins, or
maybe just A Walk in the Woods with Bill Bryson. It could be you’re traveling with Charley and
John Steinbeck, who reminds us that “we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”[1] For those of you suffering from Game of Thrones withdrawal, wanderlust
is Arya Stark, standing on the prow of a ship sailing out to sea, asking,
“What’s west of Westeros?”
Judson is full of wanderlust. Many years ago, during one of our annual
Judson Weekends, the “Question” was: “If
you could live anywhere in the world, other than New York City, where would it
be?” Those of you who were there that
day might recall that what made that question so difficult was having to limit
yourself to only one answer.
That’s not meant to disparage New
York City. Believe me, I’ve seen dinner
theater in Moline, Illinois. I’ve eaten
Chinese food in Troy, Alabama. I’ve
attended the ballet on the Grand View Farm in Washington, Vermont. I mean on
the farm, watching dancers dressed as vegetables and various farm animals
performing in a pasture just downwind of actual vegetables and (somewhat
bewildered) farm animals.
I don’t need to be sold on the many
virtues of life in New York City. As our
beloved Margaret Wright used to sing, “I Happen to Like New York.” But let’s face it: New York is not perfect. No one moves here for the peace and
quiet. A New Yorker’s idea of solitude
is going to see a one-man show on Broadway.
And frankly, there are just too many of us living here. I don’t want to get personal, but some of you
are going to have to leave. I’m not
saying which ones, but it’s too crowded!
So who can blame a New Yorker for wanting to look around.
With so many of us looking, it does
make one wonder what we’re all looking for.
Not too long ago, I chanced upon a documentary called – what else? – Wanderlust,
which is about the history of road movies, everything from Preston Sturges’
Sullivan’s Travels and Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night to Easy
Rider, Thelma and Louise, Rainman, The Motorcycle Diaries, To
Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar by our good friend
Douglas Carter Beane, and many, many more.
One of the talking heads interviewed in the documentary, Chris Eyre, who
directed the native American road movie Smoke Signals, said, “We love
the road movie in America because it’s about the ideology that we founded this
country on. We wish we could just keep
going, but we all want to get to this place of sanctuary, of home. For me, the road movie was really a metaphor
for finding your way home.”
I grew up Air Force and so as I
said earlier, wanderlust is in my genes – and please note, that’s spelled
“g-e-n-e-s,” not “j-e-a-n-s.” Get your
minds out of the guttuh.
Growing up Air Force meant that we
were constantly on the move. From
Georgia to Germany, from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to Montgomery, Alabama,
from Summerville, South Carolina to Breese, Illinois, we lived a nomadic life,
migrating from small town to small town, from Air Force base to Air Force base,
in Great Santini fashion, always
packing up in the middle of the night and leaving for our next destination at
three or four in the morning, because, as my father was fond of saying, “that’s
when the roads are empty and the kids will sleep” – like a band of Baptist
Bedouins or a bunch of flim-flam artists sneaking out of town on the lam. I counted it up once: we moved ten times before my fifteenth
birthday. I mentioned Montgomery, Alabama
– that’s where I was born. That’s also
where my mother’s family is from and where we would return in between
assignments or those times when my father was stationed overseas in places we
couldn’t follow, places like Vietnam or Turkey.
We lived in five different homes in Montgomery alone, three of which
were on the same street!
When you grow up on the run, as I
did, wanderlust comes naturally. No
matter where you are, knowing you’ll be moving soon, you have a tendency to
long for the perfect place: the “dream”
house; the friends who won’t leave you or you won’t have to leave; happiness;
fulfillment; Promised Land. But whether
you grew up on the road or lived your whole life in one place, anticipating a
“land of promise” is probably something we all do. We tend to grow up believing the Promised
Land is not where we are right now but somewhere up ahead, just around the
bend.
When we were very young, we
couldn’t wait to go to school because we thought school kids were having all
the fun – school was the Promised Land.
When we were school children, we couldn’t wait to become teenagers
because teenagers were cool – “coolness” was the Promised Land. Of course, it didn’t take long to realize
that if you weren’t cool at twelve . . .
As teenagers, we couldn’t wait to turn sixteen because that’s when you
got your driver’s license and were allowed to date. A mobile sex life – sounds like the Promised
Land to me. At sixteen, we couldn’t wait
to turn eighteen – they were seniors – and as high school seniors, we couldn’t
wait to go away to college because everybody knows the Promised Land is not
living with your parents. But then
you’re in college and you quickly realize, this ain’t the Promised Land, this
is college. It’s close, but there are no
required courses in the Promised Land.
And on and on it goes. From “once I graduate” to “once I pay off my
student loans.” From “once I meet the
right person” to “once I meet a different
right person.” From “once the kids have
grown up and are on their own,” to “once I’m able to retire,” etc., etc.,
etc. And one day you wake up and
realize, as John Lennon sang, that “life is what happens to you while you’re
busy making other plans.”
You know the story of Moses – or at
least you’ve seen the movie. From a
burning bush, Moses hears God’s voice telling him that God has heard the
suffering of the Israelites and wants Moses to lead them out of Egypt to the
Promised Land, this “land flowing with milk and honey.” Well, to make a long movie short, Moses goes
back to Egypt where he confronts Yul Brenner, yada yada yada with the plagues
and the miracles and Edward G. Robinson, until finally Yul lets the Israelites
go. Moses and company flee Egypt, only to discover
that apparently, the King and I had his fingers crossed the whole time and is
now in hot pursuit. Waters part. Israelites skedaddle through. Here come the chariots. Waters close.
No more chariots. End of story. Except this only gets us to Exodus, chapter
14. We’ve still got 25 more chapters of
the Book of Exodus alone, never mind the 27 chapters of the Book of Leviticus,
the 36 chapters of the Book of Numbers, and the 34 chapters of the Book of
Deuteronomy, all of which have to take place before these people can ever get
to the Promised Land.
If only Moses had a map.
If Moses had a map, we could
probably have wrapped this story up in about three or four more chapters – say,
somewhere around Exodus 18 or 20 at most.
But he didn’t. Instead, he chose
to follow a “pillar of cloud by day” and a “pillar of fire by night,” which
meant that instead of taking the quickest route to the Promised Land, which
would have been northeast, along the Mediterranean coast, they went south,
toward Mt. Sinai. Folks, I’m no
geographer, but this is like going from Manhattan to the Bronx by way of Texas. It’s no wonder it took them 40 years.
Now, because I am the Grand Poobah
of All Things Judson Sunday School, and, therefore, technically required to minister to you people, I’d
like to quickly summarize the rest of the story and save you the trouble of
ever having to read the books of Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. There’s no need to thank me. I get paid for this.
I think I can condense these books
into three easy-to-remember catchphrases.
(And to all you seminary babies out there, do pay close attention,
because my exegesis is excellent and my theology is rock solid!)
First, the Book of Leviticus. The best way I can summarize this book is
with the phrase, “Keep your hands and feet to yourselves!”
We’ve all been on those long family
car trips. And isn’t that what the
Exodus really was – the longest family car trip in history, minus the car, of
course? And we all know the importance
of a few simple rules of the road. When
I was growing up, with as much traveling as we did, you can imagine just how
aggravating my sister and I could be. My
parents had two rules: stay on your side
of the car and keep your hands and feet to yourselves. The way you knew which side of the car was
yours was by the hump in the floorboard of every car we owned. That hump was the Mason-Dixon line. As long as you stayed on your side of the
hump, there would be peace in the valley.
And that’s Leviticus: the rules
of the road. Oh, it has a few other little
things to say about hats and homosexuality, but trust me, you don’t want to
read that.
Next, the Book of Numbers, best
epitomized by the song, “Ninety-nine Bottles Of Beer On The Wall.”
When traveling with small children,
whether on vacation or moving across country, you no doubt know from experience
that the only way to survive with any sense of your mental faculties intact is
to have plenty of activities to occupy your children’s time – whether it’s a
coloring book, or these days an iPad or DVD player. But sooner or later the crayons melt, the
batteries wear down, or honestly, how many times can your children watch Frozen
– “let it go!” – and then it’s time to play the “counting game.” Hey,
Jaime, how many cows do you see? Hey, Khaleesi, how many horses can you
count? That’s all the Book of
Numbers is – a long list of everything they saw on their trip. It’s the “I Spy” game of the Torah. “I spy ‘the descendants of Reuben the
firstborn son of Israel. The number from
the tribe of Reuben was 46,500.’”
Which brings us to the Book of
Deuteronomy, the book I will call, “You Can’t Get There From Here.”
I don’t want to spoil the rest of
the story by giving away the ending, but guess what? Moses never gets to the Promised Land. Let’s put this in some perspective. Those of you who have traveled with your
family know that even as sweet as they can be, there are times when a one-hour
car ride to Great Adventure can feel like all four years of our current
President Jackass. The joy of travel
lasts about as long as the Lincoln Tunnel, and then it’s an endless procession
of: “Are we there yet?” “How much longer?” “I’m hot!”
“Make her stop hitting me!” and “I’m telling you I can’t hold it any
longer!” And that’s just from your
spouse.
For more than forty years, Moses leads his cranky family through the desert and wilderness, and you know the joy of this
trip must have lasted about a day. Then
it’s “Welcome to Whine-ville.” Day after
day of bickering and fighting, and there’s no hump in the middle of this car. Moses, desperate for some rules of the road,
goes up a mountain to see God and God gives him ten. Moses brings these Ten Commandments back down
the mountain only to discover that his people have forsaken God, having made a
golden calf, and are worshiping it – which, when you think about it, was sort
of the religious equivalent of not being able to hold it any longer. Rim
shot!
For more than forty years, Moses
led his people all the way to the very edge of the Promised Land and that’s
where his story ends. The last chapter
of the Book of Deuteronomy tells us that Moses climbed a mountain overlooking
the Promised Land and died. And your
first reaction upon reading this is to say, wait a minute: I thought God promised Moses that he would
get to the Promised Land. But when you
read the scripture that A’jani read this morning, you see that when God asked
Moses to lead the Israelites to the Promised Land, the only promise God made
Moses was, “I will be with you.”
Promised Land means different
things to different people. For some it
is a land flowing with milk and honey.
For others, it’s New York City.
Of course, Promised Land doesn’t have to be about geography at all. It could be found in the arms of a lover, the
joy of family, the passion of one’s work, the hope for good health, the service
of others. But there are no
guarantees. Maybe we’ll get there, maybe
we won’t.
Moses spent most of his life in
search of a land in which he would never set foot. And yet we measure the greatness of Moses’
life not by the place where he stopped walking, but by every step he took along
the way.
Perhaps our greatest hope lies not
in whether we ever reach the Promised Land, whatever or wherever that may be,
but rather, through all of life’s journey – the joys, the difficulties, the
open road, the wrong turns, the dead ends, wherever you may find yourself –
like Moses, perhaps our greatest hope lies in the promise of God’s presence
along our way.
Vaya con dios!
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