DEAREST NICHOLAS

Dearest Nicholas,

Thank you for your kind words. This has indeed been a difficult year for everyone; we are working overtime in the divine intervention mines to combat what the big guy upstairs is calling “clusterf*ck 2020.” I know, he says the asterisk out loud like he’s ready for a radio edit. But he’s right, it’s been a hell of a year. Literally, you know. I’ll admit an angel or two has found themselves injured in the mines (one jab may not seem too bad when you have a thousand eyes, but every one of these blinking things is quite sensitive). Ah, I’m sure you deal with your fair share of workplace accidents quite well up north; I’ll leave the HR banter to the ‘Chief Elf Capital Officer’ or whatever Hugo’s title is these days. How is the little rascal, anyways?

I’ll get right to the point. I’m at a loss, Nick. Professionally speaking, I mean— six days of the week it’s business as usual, but this new sabbath is throwing me for a loop. See, it used to be a solid routine: 6:00am: wake up, drink coffee, shake out the daily paper and see what I’ve inspired folks to do recently. 7:00: choose my outfit; flames or dove? Honestly, sometimes I think you got it right all those years ago when you settled on the red getup with white trim. One look, and you’re good to go. Would it be altogether campy if I chose the same? Red “suits” me, haha.

So, 8:00 generally lands me at St. Mary’s for the solemn Rite I crowd; not a lot of music, but I’m only on my first cup of coffee and “still small voice” is exactly my speed. Then there’s a little break where I usually hang out with a family trying to wrangle their kids into a minivan (horrible things —how do you get them to leave you cookies? I’d love a good snickerdoodle), and then by 9:00 I’m in the pews at St. Michael’s’ Rite II moving children to throw their crayons at the rector when she goes way off-base theologically during the children’s sermon. A little bit of chaos to spice things up, you know? You have to plant the seeds of righteous rebellion somewhere. Children are so gloriously horrible.

So, 10:30 is another Rite II at a St. James,’ which is fully bop o’clock. I’ve got the congregation praising, loud! I’m always telling my coworkers up here, we’ve got to get more energy in the room. I’m not afraid to say it— this sect is getting a bit older, a bit stuffier, a bit more preoccupied with retirement accounts than rattling chains. Choral tradition is wonderful, but sometimes you need to escape the formality. Live a little! Sometimes I’ve been known to speak in tongues... Okay, yes, at a quartevenly (quarterly heavenly, we invented that around the same time the folks downstairs invented “synergy”) report meeting, but get over your divine self. Spreadsheets just aren’t ineffable like they used to be, you’ve got to add a bit of mystery. Anyways, I digress.

I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting with people in their sabbaths, carrying their intercessions and thanksgivings, crying with the grieving, celebrating with the joyful. It’s a lot of emotions so, by the time I get to the 5:00 Celtic thing with the harp at St. Christopher’s, I’m pretty exhausted. We’re usually quiet, though, because we’re trying to listen to that harp. Is it appropriation if the culture is in the Anglican Communion? I’m sure some Christian ethicist somewhere has worked on that. I’ve asked a couple, but when I show up for a conversation they keep trying to “define” me and it really messes with my communication style.

Here’s the long and the short of the problem: they sent everyone home! Yes, it’s a good thing, and I am so grateful to the pastors turning on a dime and learning how to do that thing Joel’s been trying for quite some time. Tele-vision? I think? I mostly torrent Ken Burns documentaries so I’m not quite with it. So yeah, just about everyone’s worshipping from home, and I’m sorry but it’s wreaking havoc on my commute.

I show up to St. Mary’s and my sweet sweet Rite I friends are home safe, but Barbara lives way across town and Clarence, bless his 91-year-old heart, hasn’t seen a soul in person for a few months. The St. Michael’s children are climbing up the walls and you’re kidding yourself if they watch the livestream with any regularity. I’m just impressed when breakfast doesn’t end up on the ground/walls/ceiling/vents. Kids, I’m telling you. So that’s been some get-some-prayer-in-edgewise work, especially when Kayleigh locks herself in her room, Oliver’s in time-out, and I have to send down my spirit on each of the siblings separately. And don’t get me started on the folks at St. James’! Packed pews are great in church, but boy howdy those parishioners live all over the county and I still haven’t worked out the bus routes.

I’m begging you, Nick. Give me some advice. I need to know how to reach every single home, individually, get in and out (without sacrificing meaning-making), and not make a ruckus. Snickerdoodles are a bonus. Now, I’m not willing to buy a sleigh. Firstly, I don’t trust Doug or whoever sold yours to you. Pretty sure half his stock are lemons, and I don’t want to figure that out 15,000 feet over the Atlantic. And most importantly, no creatures. No reindeer, no big red noses, or whatever. I still haven’t gotten over clowns since that gig I worked with Steven King (shudder) and, like I said before, we don’t have an angel to spare up here for stable maintenance. Plus, no time for training.

I know that’s a lot of limitations, but I figured you’re the guy who’d know. I appreciate it, pal. But think about it — if we can make this happen, if we can really truly worship in everyone’s homes, how great will Christmas be? Picture it, dude. Freaking amazing. So many snickerdoodles.

You know where to find me.

Yours in life, love, and laughter,
the Holy Spirit