And now for a moment of personal privilege . . .

Photo by Lou Dematteis/Reuters

As some of you know, I was a journalist for many years before entering the priesthood, and I dust off my journalist credentials from time to time. I wrote a 506-page book published in 1996 about Willie Brown, then the powerful Speaker of the California State Assembly who was eventually elected for two terms as mayor of San Francisco. He is still a powerbroker in California politics and still richly entertaining.

I am grateful to still get calls on the aforementioned topic, and I was quoted Wednesday in The New York Times in a profile about Mr. Brown. Here is the top of the story, and you'll need to click on the full story at the bottom to find my quote:

Out of Office, but Not Out of Things to Say
By ERICA GOODE

SAN FRANCISCO — Wilkes Bashford, of the renowned clothing store here that bears his name, places a John Lobb suede oxford, size 11, marked down to $1,650, on the table at Le Central.

“It’s a gorgeous color,” says Willie Brown, the former mayor of San Francisco and Mr. Bashford’s customer and close friend of 45 years. “I wouldn’t even call that burgundy. It’s headed for ... It’s Bordeaux.”

“The color is the reason I brought them over,” Mr. Bashford says. “I wouldn’t push shoes at lunch otherwise.”

“Wilkes, that’s the most sensitive thing you’ve ever said,” Mr. Brown quips.

As repartee, it is pure Willie Lewis Brown Jr., perfected over the four decades he has been a central figure in the city’s political and social life, and served up for almost that long at Le Central, where Mr. Brown, Mr. Bashford and a select group of others — Herb Caen, the San Francisco Chronicle columnist who died in 1997, was a founding member — have assembled every Friday since 1973 to talk politics, restaurants, real estate, children, grandchildren and the occasional pair of shoes.

To read the full story, click HERE.

The man with a fist full of quarters

BERKELEY, CA. -- I arrived Sunday night at San Francisco International Airport after a tedious day of highways, airports and airplanes, and very thankful that my flight to California was uneventful, thankful that there were no weather complications and thankful that my body and bag had arrived intact.

I boarded the BART train at SFO like I have so many times before, and then buried my nose in my Blackberry, catching up on the emails that had chased my across the continent while I was in the air. The train was mostly empty except for me and a few other weary air travelers.

We rode on past San Bruno and Daly City and into the Mission district of San Francisco, making stops along the way, picking up more passengers. As we cruised along, I tippy-tapped my e-mail replies on my Blackberry, oblivious to anything and anyone else around me.

Just then, an old man in the aisle walked up, leaned over and put his face a few inches from mine. He was gray, his face wrinkled, his clothes disheveled, and he held a fist full of quarters. I was startled. He asked me for money, shaking his open hand with the quarters he already had. I mumbled "sorry," and buried my nose back in my Blackberry. The the-old-man-with-quarters moved on to the person in the next seat and then onto the next car. He didn't waste much time.

A few minutes later, a BART Police officer came striding through our car, probably looking for the the-old-man-with-quarters. For a moment I thought to say "he went that-a-way," but I said

nothing.

I've encountered many street people and panhandlers over the years. They don't scare me but I am not usually taken by surprise either. I almost never give money, but I almost always do more than just mumble "sorry." My gift can be a smile, a hello, or asking "what's your name?" A few street people I've gotten to know.

But the the-old-man-with-quarters caught me up short in my own shell; I had slipped all too quickly into the familiarity of my surroundings.

Maybe I notice more in Charlottesville, Virginia, because it is still so unfamiliar to me. There is a street person who is a regular on our corner in Charlottesville. Call him "Joe" (I know his real name). He is heavy-set, he has bad eye sight, usually smells and has drinking issues. He is a musician and he is a survivor. He is always polite, he knows a lot of things and talks a lot. "Joe" came to church on Sunday to our smaller 8 am service. I was happy to see him, happy he is surviving the grinding winter.

After the 8 am service, and after chatting with "Joe," I left the church and drove two hours to Dulles airport to catch my flight and quietly congratulated myself that "Joe" feels comfortable enough to come to my church once in awhile.

So why did the-old-man-with-quarters on the BART train startle me? I could chalk it up to jet lag and travel fatigue, and that would be partly right. But it is more than that. The truth is that I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings, to the people riding with me in a BART train. They were as connected to me as anyone in an email on my Blackberry, truthfully more so in that moment.

My sin wasn't in my declining to give the-old-man-with-quarters any money -- I rarely do with any street people. My sin was in not engaging the-old-man-with-quarters as a human being. I even resented him for invading my train ("he went that-a-way"). Today I ask God's forgiveness for that.

I also ask forgiveness that we still have old destitute disheveled men who feel they have to get onto trains looking for quarters.

The San Francisco Bay Area is an opulent place, full of dazzling wealth, amazing restaurants, rich intellectual and cultural life, and it is breathtakingly beautiful. I am from here. I was born and grew up here; the water of the Bay flows in my veins and in my heart. I know its history and I am part of its history. My dad's ashes are scattered at the Golden Gate. I know this place better than anywhere else on earth.

But do I really? Noticing those on the fringes is still a challenge for me especially in the places I know best. Doing something about what I see is an even greater challenge. It is for all of us no matter where we are.

Riding along, I noticed an advertisement on the BART train for Riedel wine glasses with a caption that Riedel has the correct "messenger" for every grape variety. The City has so much wealth that people can buy a different shaped glass for every variety of wine in their collection.

Yet we still have the poor on our streets, not enough beds in our treatment centers, and we resent them for asking for a quarter. I would guess that the old-men-with-quarters are not particular about the "messenger" that brings them sustenance, wine or otherwise.

What kind of messengers are we? What kind of messenger am I? Leading a life of faith is not just about tending to my own interior spiritual development; it is about being the hands and feet of Christ in our own hurting world. We are the messengers. The good news is that this is not a challenge for us as isolated individuals but for the entire community of faith. We are called to do this together and there is great strength in that.

The prophet Isaiah 58:1-12 had something to say about this in Monday's Daily Office readings, and I leave you with this:

"Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator shall go before you,
the glory of the Lord shall be your rearguard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am."

+ + +

I am in the Bay Area this week at a meeting at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific and then attending to personal and family affairs. Please keep my mother, who is ailing, in your prayers. I may not post here as frequently as I usually do, but please check back here from time to time.

Blessings to all.

James+

It's Bye Bye Baby!

Sorry, Virginians, I know you probably have no idea what that headline means. Well, click below, and turn up the volume. This jingle has been imbedded in my brain since 1962 when my dad took me to Candlestick Park to see Willie Mays play. Back in those days, whenever Willie or another Giant would hit a home run, KSFO broadcaster Russ Hodges would scream "It's bye bye baby!" The jingle was born.

And by tonight, I will back in the City by the Golden Gate for a little business and connecting with family and friends. Go Giants!

Fog and the City

Good morning! Here is a short film that I hope will brighten your day. Turn up your sound, enjoy, and then go to church. The sermon will be posted here later in the day.

Thanks to Nat Lewis for sending this along. Enjoy...

Another Cloud Reel... from Delrious on Vimeo.

As Real as it Gets: My friend Phoebe

Today I am bringing you an item I hope will warm your heart, and demonstrate that there really are people who God brings to us as agents of hope and healing and wonder.

One of my young former parishioners from All Souls, Berkeley, served in the Sojourn Chaplaincy at San Francisco General Hospital last summer.

This is as hard-core urban a hospital as it gets; gunshot wounds, HIV/AIDS, car wreck traumas and more are all part of daily life at San Francisco General.

Her name is Phoebe Dixon, and she is now starting her second year at Bates College in Maine. By any outward measure, Phoebe is young to be in such a chaplaincy, and many an older person I know would have wilted in such a setting.

Yet, if you know Phoebe, you would know that this chaplaincy was meant for her, and her for it. Her inner spirit shines forth, and she has an extraordinary way of touching the heart of everyone she meets. I was very honored to be asked to write a letter of recommendation for her to Sojourn. She served this past summer at San Francisco General soon after the completion of her freshman year in college. She wrote this description of her experience and sent it to me earlier this week. She gave me permission to share this with you:

A couple of months ago, when I started volunteering as a chaplain intern at Sojourn, the multi-faith chaplaincy at San Francisco General Hospital (SFGH), I noticed people wearing sweatshirts that had “As Real as it Gets – San Francisco General Hospital” written on the back. This tag line has stayed with me all summer. SGH is the public hospital for the City and County of San Francisco and is located in the Mission District of the city. Given that SFGH is a public hospital, there is a very diverse set of patients, including the marginalized, the homeless, and those who suffer from mental illness or substance abuse. It also is the Trauma 1 center serving everyone from northern San Mateo County to Napa County.

During the months I was a chaplaincy volunteer, I witnessed a wide range of illnesses, wounds, and other crises. At first I was afraid that the open sores or missing limbs would be the hardest obstacle I would have to overcome; however, I was wrong. For most patients the physical pain is eased with medication, but the emotional pain is left untouched. As a chaplain intern, my role was to help ease the emotional burdens that patients carried. Like all chaplains, I listened to patients tell their life stories. I heard their frustrations, the sadness and the loneliness they face, and the fear many of them hold about their futures. Chaplains take everything the patients will give—pain or fear or regret—and we hold it for them. Imagine going into a hospital room and carrying an empty basket. You sit down and are ready to fill your basket with whatever the patient gives you. The patient may give you anything from leg pain to fear about death. You gather all of that pain and fear and hold it in your basket, relieving the patient for a short time. Besides offering an empty basket, so to speak, we chaplains help the patients incorporate the injury or illness they are suffering from into their life story.

After a week or two of being a chaplain I realized how much I enjoyed working in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). I loved the urgency of the unit and, more importantly, I loved hearing the stories from the patients and their families. It was from the people I met in the ICU that I learned the most about being a chaplain. I learned that the simple act of listening can do wonders for a family member whose child is comatose. I learned that for some patients, just hearing a voice is comforting and reassuring. One woman I visited frequently had been intubated; that is, a tube had been placed down her throat so that she could not speak. Every time I went to see her, she would greet me with a big smile. At the end of our visit, after I had prayed aloud for her, she would not let go of my hand, and when I had to leave, her eyes would tear up. That woman also taught me that sitting with someone in silence can be just as helpful and comforting as a conversation can be. The stories I heard from family members in the ICU were humbling. The frustration I felt from that morning’s traffic jam would disappear when I heard from a family that was faced with taking a loved one off of life support. I heard lots of grief from family members in the ICU, but never before have I seen such strength in someone who was faced with such hardship. These families were so hopeful; they could see a light in a tunnel that most people would consider completely pitch black.

I later learned that all those sweatshirts, the ones that read “As Real as it Gets – San Francisco General Hospital,” are for a fundraiser for the ICU. The ICU is pretty ‘real’ and I definitely got a taste of reality when I was there. I am not saying that car crashes, head injuries, or the terminally ill are the only things that define what is ‘real,’ but rather, those things play a role in what reality can hold. Throughout my summer as a chaplain, I had the privilege of learning about a whole new world: a world of compassion and listening, of hope and faith, of strength. I saw a world that has light in even the darkest places imaginable.

Lights and fogheads

We are reconnecting with friends and family, Sacramento, Berkeley and the City by the Bay. It is good to be here, good to reconnect. 

I was looking through the many gifts of poetry from our friend, Karen, in Tennessee, and I came across this one by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who is a legend in these parts. 

As owner of the City Lights Bookstore in the City's North Beach, Ferlinghetti gave a place for poets like Alan Ginsberg and Gary Snyder to read their poems. City Lights is still a mecca and worth wandering through for an hour at least, and when you do, that will make you a Foghead like me. 

May you all have many New Years blessings. Enjoy:

The Changing Light
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The changing light
at San Francisco
is none of your East Coast
light
none of your
pearly light of Paris
The light of San Francisco
is a sea light
an island light
And the light of fog
blanketing the hills
drifting in at night
through the Golden Gate
to lie on the city at dawn
And then the halcyon late mornings
after the fog burns off
and the sun paints white houses with the sea light of Greece
with sharp clean shadows
making the town look like
it had just been painted
But the wind comes up at four o'clock
sweeping the hills
And then the veil of light of early evening
And then another scrim
when the new night fog
floats in
And in that vale of light
the city drifts
anchorless upon the ocean