'Your neighbors are the channel through which all your virtues are tested and come to birth, just as the evil give birth to all their vices through their neighbors.' --Catherine of Siena, The Dialogue

The Medieval Christian mystics (Julian of Norwich, Hildegard of Bingen, Bernard of Clairvaux, Catherine of Siena, and so many others) are an eclectic, curious bunch. While attempting to offer a single, simple definition to capture the richness and variety of their experiences, teachings, and witnesses would surely be impossible, they do hold a few essential things in common. For one, they are all deeply devout religious persons whose faith extends fluidly into the most important social, ethical, and political debates of their day. Their modus operandi, as it were, is that they seek, through constant prayer, worship, and devotion, an uncommon and indescribable direct union with God. Rather than isolating them from the rest of humanity, however, this union functions primarily to connect them with other people, particularly the sick and the poor and the oppressed. In fact, Bernard writes that, while any number of worldy temptations and concerns might distract one from the powerful emotional and spiritual connection to God created by the mystical quest, "brotherly love" is the only acceptable one. For instance, if I in my home having a mystical encounter with the divine, an extremely rare moment (perhaps the culmination of years of ceaseless focus and meditation) of complete oneness with God, and someone knocks on my door, I am to leave that experience of the holy and see how I can help that one. For you see, God is as present in my neighbor as in any other place I could possibly meet God.

I've thought about the certainty of that call for hospitality a lot over the past couple weeks, as I've had the opportunity to play host and welcome committee and tour guide to a number of visitors to our community. Two weekends ago, Dr. and Mrs. Patrick Matsikenyiri spent the weekend with us at the Dwelling. Patrick is a professor of music and culture at the United Methodist-supported Africa University in Zimbabwe and is spending this semester as a guest teacher and workshop leader at Shenendoah University in Winchester. During the weekends he is with us in Virginia, he's traveling around the conference to lead worship at various churches, and Wesley Memorial came up on the schedule for September 12. Will and I gave our guests the grand tour of UVA, filled with tidbits of American history and culture, as well as lots and lots of info on the academic and social life of the University. The other guys and I took them to lunch at Zazus, and then we headed off to Scott Stadium so they could experience the central ritual of fall life in Charlottesville, Cavalier football! In those moments when we weren't rushing around to get as many things done as possible, I was able to have some really great conversations with our guests about the connection between the Church and the Academy (both in Zimbabwe and in the United States), about the political and military tensions which are presently preventing the establishment of much-needed satellite schools of Africa U. throughout the continent, and about so much more. On Sunday morning, I had to be off early to Hinton Avenue (have I mentioned that I'm the teacher for a new combined youth class which is seeking to encounter God through the arts of film, canvas, and music?) while they headed next door, and they were leaving for Winchester as I returned home, so our time together was shorter than I would've hoped. But the experience of meeting, and immediately connecting with, these remarkably gifted and thoughtful people was a true blessing for all of us here in the Dwelling.

This past weekend was Homecomings at UVA, so Caroline and Brian came back to Charlottesville to join in the festivities and go to the Akron football game on Saturday afternoon. They are honestly two of the kindest, most honest and inspiring people I know, and it was wonderful to spend a little time (far too little, unfortunately) catching up with them, hearing about some of the many ways God is using them out in the "real world" to transform the lives of high schoolers and government agencies and everyone they encounter. From Caroline I learned so much about what being a leader at the Wesley Foundation and a person of sincere faith means, and her curiosity and encouragement of me in the things I have going on has been more uplifting than my words can capture. And I'm not sure Brian knows just how important his friendship has been to me . . . he's as loyal and steady a companion as I could ever want, and I hope we get to spend a lot more time together before he heads off for his Peace Corps tour.

And next weekend Scott Bates, who passed through our Wesley community last year en route to William & Mary and blessed us in so very many ways, is coming up for the Syracuse game. Scott has done everything---he's been a full-time student at a major public college, he's spent a year as an Americorps volunteer, he's worked with Habitat for Humanity, he's been a security guard in Washington state, he's spent six months living in Hawaii, and he's spent a week in Yuma, Arizona sharing a tent with Andrew Marshall and myself. I don't know anyone with a more infectious smile, with a more positive attitude, or a more completely affirming personality than Scott. I'm very much looking forward to hanging out with him on Saturday, even if we are rooting for different teams during the game.

So I'm not sure exactly what it means that all three of these weekend hospitality opportunities have included Virginia football. I'll resist, for the moment, the incination to discuss the high hopes everyone has for this year's team or my working thesis that UVA football is, in fact, a distinct, constantly evolving, and not entirely unhealthy religious tradition here in Charlottesville, and simply posit that football is unavoidable in our community on gamedays and thus has a noticeable impact on any other plans one might make for those days. I also had a couple great opportunities to practice hospitality of another sort today:

After my 8am Medieval lit. discussion section, I headed to the office to get some work done and ran into John Wilkinson, a member of our church who had dropped off a couple forms with Frances, our office manager. John is a very witty and interesting fellow, who gives more of his time and resources (to the CHS band, to the American Red Cross, to the church, and to our youth group) than anyone knows, and becoming his friend has been one of the great pleasures of my time at Hinton Avenue. Today, despite the fact that I had a long list of things I needed to sit at my desk and do, John needed to talk, and so we did. We stood, first on the church steps, then just inside the front door, and chatted about his service at the old youth camp at Hazel River, about the small real estate business he owns and operates, and about life in our faith community. Nothing we said to one another will heal the world or make our lives complete, but it was an unexpected and joyous opportunity---and in it I met God.

An hour or two later I borrowed Frances's set of keys and headed over to Brown's Lock & Key on Market Street to make copies of them (reference post of September 17). As soon as I walked in the door, I saw Mrs. Marge Brown, a faithful member of Wesley Memorial UMC who was my teammate a couple years ago on an UMVIM trip to Russia, and quickly deduced that she must be the 'Brown' of this business. While my keys were being made, and for a long time after they were finished, we talked about her business, about the international Russia Initiative and the meetings we both wish we had the time to attend, about her new pastor and my career plans, and it was holy.

I returned home just in time to pick up my books and hurry over to Halsey Hall (temporary, highly inadequate home of the Religious Studies department) for my graduate seminar on the formation and reformation of modern identity with visiting professor William May. In this class, Professor may has shown me what it means to be truly, and helpfully, open and vulnerable with his students. In his presentations, rather than citing impersonal case studies, he references his own experiences. In his writing, he is warm and engaging and avoids the mechanical technical language which sometimes threatens to make biomedical ethics unapproachable for the real people (nurses, physicians, patients, and family members) who have the most to gain from its insights. And after class today, he was gracious enough to humor me with a thoughtful conversation about ordination and graduate school (he is himself a graduate of Yale Divinity School who is ordained by the Presbyterian Church in addition to holding a PhD in Religous Studies and has spent his entire career as a teacher), along with the contemporary relationship between the Church and the University.

In all of these places, I think, I was able to share with my sisters and brothers the great gift of hospitality. And through all of these people I am certain that God met me and formed me. Sometimes I wonder, however, whether in these situations I'm responding the way I do less out of deference to the wisdom of the mystics and more simply because I'm wildly extraverted and need to live much of my life in relationship with others. Each Wednesday, our Residential Community is hosting a common meal, to which everyone at the Wesley Foundation (and you, dear reader!) is invited; this was at my urging and is intended to be a way of opening our doors to new people and new experiences, but of course it may just as well be a convenient excuse to get people together to eat and hang out. But perhaps the two aren't actually mutually exclusive . . .

But in response to this concern I've taken a step in a slightly different direction which, though not of ultimate or transcending consequence, might allow me to yield my own interests to those of another in some practical ways. I received an email earlier in the week from UVA's Learning Needs and Evaluation Center informing me that several of my classmates in one of my English classes are in need of notetaking assistance to help them fully participate in the course. I responed to that message, got all set up with the class TAs and with the Learning Needs Center, and today I picked up the special notebook which will allow me to provide this small, but helpful service for a classmate or two. It's nothing huge, but it does mean that on those days when I'd rather be anywhere else working or playing or sleeping (or perhaps even in direct union with God) I'm committed instead to head to class and learn who I am and who God is by serving my neighbor.

Thanks be to God!

In Charlottesville, we are blessed with a true cornucopia of local restaurants and eateries, as well as homegrown produce, meats, and cheeses. We live along side people whose ancestors have literally come from all over the world, and these folks have brought with them distinct and enlightening foods from their own cultures. At the Wesley Foundation, Joel Winstead leads a local foods small group, which meets on Friday mornings, heads to the downtown farmers' market to buy food, and returns to the Foundation to prepare a nutritious, educational meal. Lina Scheider, one of our youth, and I are starting a new program this fall at Hinton Avenue which brings youth from our church and community together one Friday night per month to go to a new local restaurant and then encounter our community in new and exciting ways. In this way, we're hoping to foster a greater since of appreciation for, and involvement in, life in Charlottesville and Albemarle County among our youth.

With these values in mind, one would certainly think that I would avoid national chains whenever possible. But, alas, we are all creatures of habit from time to time, and what follows is a somewhat exaggerated account of the bad karma which abandoning local food brought me last week:

On Tuesday night, April and I were supposed to meet at her apartment to cook dinner together, but after an exceptionally long day and a Modern Identity seminar which went a little later than I had expected, we were both fairly exhausted and instead decided to forego our financially and nutritionally sound intentions and go out. Then, for no sensible reason that I can remember, we found ourselves driving north on Route 29, completely unable to find anything that appealed to us.

And then I did it---I suggested that we simply "play it safe" and enjoy a meal at Chili's. This, you might reasonably think (as I did) is no sin in itself. Chili's is a great place, with tasty and affordable food and a decent atmosphere. But I'm here to warn you that, when you've so diligently encouraged other people to support their culinarily-talented friends and neighbors by eating locally, Chili's isn't always a wise option.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I saw that the very first space was available and decided to seize it for ourselves. And, if I do say so myself, it was a tremendous parking job...I pulled out into the lot, and backed my minivan (this isn't the easiest automotive task in the world, you know) directly between the elevated curb on our left and the green Dodge Stratus on the right.

It was raining pretty hard when we arrived, so I decided to be helpful and do what I could to try to keep April from getting too wet as we left the car. This meant that I had to stop the ignition, open my door, get open my huge golf umbrella while leaving the car myself, return my keys to my left pocket, and shut my door, before heading around the front of the van to get her.

Well, as I was leaving the van and opening the umbrella, I dropped my keys. This really isn't all that unusual, so I thought to myself that I'd have to pick those up once I had managed to figure out the umbrella and get my door shut. Just as quickly, however, I gave up any hope of ever seeing the keys again, as I watched the roaring deluge of water running off of the parking lot sweep them off and down the storm drain, which of course was located directly behind this premiere parking space I had managed to swipe with my brilliant parking job.

April was concerned about not being able to get home without the spare key and about my newly-acquired exile from the Dwelling, from my office, from the Foundation, and from so many other important places. I couldn't stop laughing. But, whether the situation was alarming or amusing, the only thing to do seemed to be to head into the restaurant and enjoy our meal.

After a date with a wonderful girl, a delicious tuna steak sandwich, a gracious visit from Brian and Andrew to bring us the spare van key, and a hopelessly naive attempt to retrieve the keys by raising the manhole cover and shining flashlights into the drain (which was still a raging river), I made my way home, a little more humble, and began the humorous but embarrsing quest to re-acquire these lost treasures.

In other, likely more interesting, news, everyone needs to visit Streams in the Desert and read Alex's post from September 5 ('Back to Mattaponi'). It's his sermon from the semester's first informal worship service at the Foundation, and it introduces grace, humor, and romance into the chaos and confusion of life at the university. You should also read up on the Rowboat Veterans for Truth, because their message is both hilarious and poignant.

Shalom!

(You'll want to read to the end of this one, trust me . . . )

I climbed out of April's window tonight.

Ordinarily, I would not have given such a thing a moment's thought. She lives in a basement-level apartment, after all, and has the external heating and cooling unit for her entire building blocking what little exit one might hope to gain from her tiny windows. But tonight, after much consideration, having carefully weighed the pros and cons of the situation, I fell upon her bedroom window as my only plausible means of escape.

Perhaps a little background information would be helpful here. Around 11:30, after having a day which was far more productive than expected (I managed to finish my English assignments on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, read for my HIV/AIDS class, make it to all my classes on a crazy Monday, make a number of important phone calls, send out the 'This Week at Wesley' email on time, chat with Alex, enjoy a home-cooked dinner with Brian and Andrew, spend some time in the gym, and pretty much finish all 32 items on the day's to-do list), I got in my van and drove over to 13th Street to visit April for a while before heading to bed.

And everything was going great . . . until I decided to leave. Her building allows residents to provide parking for guests, but they have to hang the pass from their rearview mirror. And depsite April's urging that they didn't really need the pass back tonight, that she could get it from me tomorrow and all would be fine, I insisted upon going straight to the car and retrieving for them their valued pass. All this went off without a hitch, friends. I was thinking about the parking job the person in the SUV behind me had done, about how bright the laundry room looked at night, about my failed attempt earlier in the day to secure a couple spots on First UMC's mission trip next summer to Angola, about anything in the world other than the terror that awaited me at the bottom of the stairs.

When I reached the level of April's apartment, where she was waiting mere feet from me, I heard a loud, gutteral screaching sound, almost like a cat that was ready to fight. And then I felt a stubborn and confused furry object bouncing off of my nearly-naked, sandal-clad foot. And I too began flailing about like a wild creature, desperate to loose myself of this accursed rodent. When finally I managed to fling aside the beast (or, perhaps more truly, when it figured out what was going on and managed to get out of dodge), I rushed back into the apartment, where April had heard my struggle (apparently I also let out a bit of a shriek in the midst of all the excitement) and was worried that I was in mortal danger.

In between the fits of panic-driven laughter that always follow a particularly obvious instance of overreaction, I managed to let her know that no, there was no ax-wielding manicac or serial rapist on my heels, but rather that I had just had a close encounter with a rat. You see, I have an irrational, indescribable, paralyzing fear of rats. I handle with ease the rabbits and squirrels and chipmunks that make their home in the Dwelling back yard. I even have no trouble with the occasional raccoon or possum I encounter at our trash cans. Heck, just in the past year, I've kicked a groundhog (though this was an accident), eaten a beaver, and held an alligator. But rats---oh, rats are another thing altogether, my friend. Last summer, when a couple papers moved quickly on my desk and I thought I might have a mouse's company, I bolted for the living room and spent the night there. My (also irrational, if evolutionarily effective) fear of dead mammals goes double for this sort of critter...I can set a mean mouse trap, but don't ever ask me to scoop the corpse up by the tail and take it away. Ugh...it makes my skin crawl just to think of it.

So I make it safely inside, take a few deep breaths, return the parking pass to its place on table near the telephone, and begin to reflect on what's just happened. As I do so, I realize that that rat is likely to remain right where I left him....which is precisely where I need to go. April, by far the bearer of the bravery in this relationship, cracks the door open slightly so we can get a look into the stairwell (she may be braver, but she didn't want this rat in her apartment any more than I did, you understand).

And there he is, in the doorway of the apartment diagonal from April's, staring menacingly in our direction. There's good news, though! He's to our left, while the stairs (and my safe return home!) are on the right. So it's simple enough, I convince myself: all I have to do is casually stroll outside, careful not to let him sense my fear, and walk away from the building like nothing ever happened.

And, believe it or not, I really thought this was possible. But then I tried. Several times. But every time I would take a step into the stairwell, he would jump, ready for the attack, and I would retreat to the sanctuary of April's living room. Well, after a while, at my wit's end, I figure I'll just have to move here with the girls, bringing with me only the clothes on my back. This is when April decides to take action. But rather than taking a stick or something and chasing the little demon away, she simply opens the door slightly and snapped her fingers, I suppose in hopes that this would get him stirring.

Well, it got him stirring all right. He stirred all the way across the little room there and began running back and forth in the corner right beside the stairs, a ruthless and unyielding guard on my path to freedom.

And it was at this point that I knew the window would be my only option. I answered Apri's objections with simple, well-researched data about rabies cases in rats and with sincere, loving questions about why she had to live in such a rat-infested, god-forsaken hellhole in the first place (I mean, I actually heard the thing screech...tell me this, who has ever heard a rat make its noise and then lived to tell about it?), and I began making plans for my escape. When I had managed to get the window and the screen unlocked and raised, I let out a few shrill hisses, to be sure there were no predators lurking on this route, handed my shoes to the girl, and shimmied through the wee hole onto the dirt outside. I quickly grabbed my shoes from April, blew her a kiss goodbye, and was off to the races (but the walking races, as I still didn't want to let the vermin of the night know they had gotten the better of me).

I'm never happy to say goodnight to this incredible (and BRAVE) girl. But I am kind of glad to be here in my room, away from the demon-spawned rodents of 13th Street....even if I do still have the uncanny sensation that something's crawling on my arms and legs.

Or peeping at me from the closet.

Or running about in the attic above my head.

Oh man, my window's even smaller.

And on the second floor . . .

Early last Saturday, April, Andrew and I loaded into the van and headed north to Strasburg, where we spent the day praying and worshiping and chatting and feasting in celebration of Bethany and Kirk's wedding. It was truly a remarkable day----the weather was gorgeous, there was a beautiful collection of people from Wesley communities past and present, and we were sharing in the holiest of days for two dear friends.

Of course, the service itself was wonderful and held within it so much of the personality and faith of the couple. We sang 'Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing' and 'Be Thou My Vision', listened to New Testament accounts of the institution of marriage read by friends and family members, and witnessed Bethany and Kirk own for themselves those historic, solemn vows which connect them to one another, to the gathered faith community in that place, and to the Church universal which has developed this rich, challenging tradition of understanding the inseparable union between two persons.

There is much to celebrate and share in the service itself. I am tempted to offer a treatise on why marriage (like baptism, confirmation, the Eucharist, confession/penance, ordination, and the anointing of the sick and dying) ought to be understood as a sacrament. The rings we exchange, and really the entire office, is, after all, "an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace, signifying to us the union between Jesus Christ and his Church," which is, in some pretty important ways, the working operational explanation of sacraments in the Wesleyan tradition. Fully aware that I'm combating hundreds of years of Protestant thought with these claims, let me nonetheless suggest that all who were present on Saturday (and, for that matter, all who have been present for services of ordination, for the administration of extreme unction, or for the realization of any of the other traditional Catholic sacraments) found themselves enountering the love and revelation of God in ways that were powerful and even sacramental.

I am tempted, also, to simply bask in the depth of the marriage vows. Kirk and Bethany swore to take one another as husband and wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do they part. The elegance and grace in that language, and the love and dedication it reveals, is rare in our culture, even (perhaps particularly) among church folks, and it was a refreshing, prophetic experience to be present on this great day.

Maybe someday I will have the time (and the eloquence) to explore more fully these scattered thoughts. In the meantime, however, more than anything I find myself needing to ruminate on the important witness offered by the assembled Church, which hears these vows and offers its blessings. When we attend a wedding, or a baptism, or a confirmation, we are more than mere observers; indeed, we are full participants in the new thing that God is doing through those rituals. We pledge our love and support of the persons entering into this new covenant, and we affirm that all of us together form one community, the Body of Christ.

When pressed, I must confess that this understanding of the wedding ritual leads me to opt for pot luck feasts over catered receptions and for celebrating communion during the service rather than finding new ways of telling the world how I "feel" about my partner (really, I'm not convinced that love or marriage has much of anything to do with "my feelings", but that's another post entirely). I think, though, that even without these theologically nuanced changes, the wedding is the fullest expression of the inclusion of the entire community in one couple's relationship and life.

At least, it should be. The brief description I've offered of the Church's presence at and blessing of these services is, in my view, the ideal, but it is not where we always find ourselves. And I think that may be what was most striking to me about the festivities on Saturday, the reason I couldn't feel fully settled until I'd offered some reflection on the day. Bethany and Kirk were tremendously graceful in ensuring that all their guests felt at home during their wedding and reception and in truly inviting us to love and support them with our whole selves. They must have spent hours seating everyone at the most appropriate table (all of which were named after places at UVA and in Charlottesville which have been meaningful to them---the Moosetrap, Christian's Pizza, McLeod Hall, Scott Stadium, etc.) with complementary friends and family members. Bethany individually wrapped chocolate bars for each guest, and Kirk put together a great, hilarious slide show to share with all of us. Before they left for their honeymoon in Hawaii, the couple even insisted on getting all the folks from the Wesley Foundation together for a huge group picture.

On the drive home, Andrew pointed out that it was the photographer who insisted that Kirk and Bethany move to the front of this photo. Otherwise, they were just in the crowd, with their arms around all of us. And that is exactly what they've done for the entire time that I've known them. Oftentimes, the coupling syndrome that strikes churches and campus ministries can be exclusionary and deadening. It can make people feel awkward, uncomfortable, or just unwanted, and quickly becomes unhealthy for the dynamics of community. But for Bethany and Kirk it has always been different. They are what every couple---young and old, courting and married, friends and neighbors---should try to be, two of the most fun people I've ever known, who live their stories in such an open and honest way that I feel entirely comfortable around them. In fact, just as they make one another better and stronger through their love, I think spending time with them, individually and especially together, makes other people better.

It has been a true blessing for me to share spring break mission trips, Virginia football games, Residential Community Thanksgiving dinners, and so much more of my life with this couple. Saturday provided a great way for me and for so many others to celebrate all they are and all they're becoming. At Stasburg United Methodist Church, at the Bowling Green Country Club, and deep in my heart, their thoughtfulness, and the rich liturgical tradition of the wedding, gave voice to the grace and love of Christian community. Deo Gratias!