Stewardship
STEWARDSHIP TALK – 2012 – MARY CASTRO
I was a stranger, and you welcomed me. Matthew Chapter 25
Jim and I joined St. Mary’s in 1991 because we had to. It was time for our daughter Elizabeth to receive religious instruction, and we were not the ones to do it. Being new to Hampton Bays, we looked around for a church and we found St. Mary’s. Oh happy day!
We had recently moved out here from the city and we came with a typical city attitude. No sidewalks??? How do you get around? Look at all these trees; where are the stores, where are the buildings. We kept looking up and didn’t see anything! Then one night, I looked up at the sky and it was blue-black velvet with giant diamonds in it. Awesome! I stopped looking for a city skyline!
As I got to know St. Mary’s better I was struck by her sense of hospitality, generosity, and fun, especially fun! More importantly, I saw how all of that was firmly grounded in her spirituality. It is precisely this open spirituality which draws people to St. Mary’s. After attending a funeral service here, an old friend said to me once, “If I weren’t Jewish, I’d join St. Mary’s.” Don’t let that stop ya, I joked. We know how to reach out to people, whether it’s with a glass of wine at our famous Wine Tasting or whether it’s with a warm blanket to shelter and befriend the homeless. No one does hospitality better. But again, it’s hospitality with a solid underpinning of spirituality.
Over the years, our ties to St. Mary’s strengthened; and we found a sense of peace and a sense of belonging here.
I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.
I’ve always been struck with how far back some of our parish family goes. Names like Squires, Hubbard, Grooms go back as far as 5 generations and more! Pretty impressive. They have a real sense of rootedness in this community. Me, I am the first generation born in this country. I thought, “Where do I fit in with all of them?” It struck me on Sunday, March 25, 2012 during our 100th Anniversary Service. This place is where my roots are – 100 years’ worth. My spiritual life began here and it will end here too, when they place me to rest in the Garden of Remembrance.
It is not always with a meek heart and due reverence that I serve this church. Every time another clean-up Sunday rolls around, or another vestry meeting comes up, or another stewardship talk comes at me, I think, “Oh no, not again!” And then I remember how many times St. Mary’s came through for me in thought, word, and deed. I sign another pledge card, dig out the check-book, find my work gloves and serve till it hurts.
Why? Because …
I was a stranger, and you welcomed me. Amen.
I was a stranger, and you welcomed me. Matthew Chapter 25
Jim and I joined St. Mary’s in 1991 because we had to. It was time for our daughter Elizabeth to receive religious instruction, and we were not the ones to do it. Being new to Hampton Bays, we looked around for a church and we found St. Mary’s. Oh happy day!
We had recently moved out here from the city and we came with a typical city attitude. No sidewalks??? How do you get around? Look at all these trees; where are the stores, where are the buildings. We kept looking up and didn’t see anything! Then one night, I looked up at the sky and it was blue-black velvet with giant diamonds in it. Awesome! I stopped looking for a city skyline!
As I got to know St. Mary’s better I was struck by her sense of hospitality, generosity, and fun, especially fun! More importantly, I saw how all of that was firmly grounded in her spirituality. It is precisely this open spirituality which draws people to St. Mary’s. After attending a funeral service here, an old friend said to me once, “If I weren’t Jewish, I’d join St. Mary’s.” Don’t let that stop ya, I joked. We know how to reach out to people, whether it’s with a glass of wine at our famous Wine Tasting or whether it’s with a warm blanket to shelter and befriend the homeless. No one does hospitality better. But again, it’s hospitality with a solid underpinning of spirituality.
Over the years, our ties to St. Mary’s strengthened; and we found a sense of peace and a sense of belonging here.
I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.
I’ve always been struck with how far back some of our parish family goes. Names like Squires, Hubbard, Grooms go back as far as 5 generations and more! Pretty impressive. They have a real sense of rootedness in this community. Me, I am the first generation born in this country. I thought, “Where do I fit in with all of them?” It struck me on Sunday, March 25, 2012 during our 100th Anniversary Service. This place is where my roots are – 100 years’ worth. My spiritual life began here and it will end here too, when they place me to rest in the Garden of Remembrance.
It is not always with a meek heart and due reverence that I serve this church. Every time another clean-up Sunday rolls around, or another vestry meeting comes up, or another stewardship talk comes at me, I think, “Oh no, not again!” And then I remember how many times St. Mary’s came through for me in thought, word, and deed. I sign another pledge card, dig out the check-book, find my work gloves and serve till it hurts.
Why? Because …
I was a stranger, and you welcomed me. Amen.
STEWARDSHIP TALK – 2012 – JULIE SHEEHAN
Let me confess up front that I struggle with parts of Christian dogma, and yet most Sundays, here I am, participating in the very service that professes these things. I also give to this Christian church, this Episcopal church, this singular parish of St. Mary’s. I do it gladly. I have no idea how my gift stacks up to the donor list, I’m not in an exceptionally lucrative line of work—no one gets rich writing poems—and I’m a single mom, grateful to have a very good job as a professor but still, kind of worried at times about providing for my son on my own.
Nonetheless, my stewardship practice is to give at the threshold of pain, that is, the point at which I believe six months from now I’ll be saying, “Oops, wish I had a chunk of that change back about now.” Interestingly, year after year, a la loaves & fishes, I never miss the money I’ve donated here, and so, the next year, I give a little more.
That’s my stewardship practice, further fueled by hearing those NPR words echoing in the back of my head: “How much do you listen? What’s it worth to you? A dollar a day? Ten dollars a week?”
Which forces me to ask, How much do I listen? How much do I participate in St. Mary’s? If I add up the time I spend here, with the friendships I’ve made, with the great pleasure of singing with Joe Rella and this choir, and, not least, with the bagels I eat at coffee hour, I owe quite a bit just in terms of goods and services. But that’s not why I give, and standing here today has forced me to reflect on the deeper reasons. In a word: it’s beauty.
John Keats, in Ode on a Grecian Urn, arrives at his famous formulation:
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
I’m a bit of a skeptic when it comes to Keats, too, but I do know better than to underestimate the power and purpose of beauty. We so rarely have a mandate to make room for beauty in our lives. It’s perceived as optional. But I don’t think it is. I think without the chance to contemplate and experience beauty, we shrivel spiritually.
I mean, look at the emphasis on beauty in our church: there’s the physical building, which, while its scale is human, creates a space unlike any other we enter through the week. Strange furniture, strange décor, its presence clearly communicates an exceptional purpose. Then there’s the music. I don’t know about you, but when else during the week am I not only invited to hear “a joyful noise” but asked to make one myself? We all stand and sing: that’s how we begin.
Then there’s the heavenly smells. There’s the banks of lilies at Easter that elevate us with their exhalations, the banks of fir and holly boughs at Christmas that in their piney scent and vitality remind us of what’s evergreen in the winters of our souls, the sensory touch of holy water and oil and ash, our magnificent organ’s mighty bass notes, Arlene’s ethereal soprano, and the gorgeous, lush language of the Book of Common Prayer, the Old Testament and New.
In short, we are assaulted with beautiful things across all our senses, our eyes and ears, but also smell, touch and, in the sacrament, taste. I don’t think all this sensory stimulation is a coincidence. I think it awakens us to what’s invisible within us—our conscience, our spirituality, our imaginations, where we dare to envision and, however tentatively in my case, believe.
As a poet, language is naturally close to my heart, and so I turn to the poetry of the psalms, Psalm 96, in particular, the one that begins, “O sing unto the Lord a new song.”
Here’s verses 6-9, which makes explicit connections between stewardship, beauty, and spirituality:
Honour and majesty are before him: strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.
Give unto the Lord, O ye kindreds of the people, give unto the Lord glory and strength.
Give unto the Lord the glory due unto his name: bring an offering, and come into his courts.
O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness…
That’s why I come. That’s why I give. I want to worship in the beauty of holiness.
Thank you.
Let me confess up front that I struggle with parts of Christian dogma, and yet most Sundays, here I am, participating in the very service that professes these things. I also give to this Christian church, this Episcopal church, this singular parish of St. Mary’s. I do it gladly. I have no idea how my gift stacks up to the donor list, I’m not in an exceptionally lucrative line of work—no one gets rich writing poems—and I’m a single mom, grateful to have a very good job as a professor but still, kind of worried at times about providing for my son on my own.
Nonetheless, my stewardship practice is to give at the threshold of pain, that is, the point at which I believe six months from now I’ll be saying, “Oops, wish I had a chunk of that change back about now.” Interestingly, year after year, a la loaves & fishes, I never miss the money I’ve donated here, and so, the next year, I give a little more.
That’s my stewardship practice, further fueled by hearing those NPR words echoing in the back of my head: “How much do you listen? What’s it worth to you? A dollar a day? Ten dollars a week?”
Which forces me to ask, How much do I listen? How much do I participate in St. Mary’s? If I add up the time I spend here, with the friendships I’ve made, with the great pleasure of singing with Joe Rella and this choir, and, not least, with the bagels I eat at coffee hour, I owe quite a bit just in terms of goods and services. But that’s not why I give, and standing here today has forced me to reflect on the deeper reasons. In a word: it’s beauty.
John Keats, in Ode on a Grecian Urn, arrives at his famous formulation:
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
I’m a bit of a skeptic when it comes to Keats, too, but I do know better than to underestimate the power and purpose of beauty. We so rarely have a mandate to make room for beauty in our lives. It’s perceived as optional. But I don’t think it is. I think without the chance to contemplate and experience beauty, we shrivel spiritually.
I mean, look at the emphasis on beauty in our church: there’s the physical building, which, while its scale is human, creates a space unlike any other we enter through the week. Strange furniture, strange décor, its presence clearly communicates an exceptional purpose. Then there’s the music. I don’t know about you, but when else during the week am I not only invited to hear “a joyful noise” but asked to make one myself? We all stand and sing: that’s how we begin.
Then there’s the heavenly smells. There’s the banks of lilies at Easter that elevate us with their exhalations, the banks of fir and holly boughs at Christmas that in their piney scent and vitality remind us of what’s evergreen in the winters of our souls, the sensory touch of holy water and oil and ash, our magnificent organ’s mighty bass notes, Arlene’s ethereal soprano, and the gorgeous, lush language of the Book of Common Prayer, the Old Testament and New.
In short, we are assaulted with beautiful things across all our senses, our eyes and ears, but also smell, touch and, in the sacrament, taste. I don’t think all this sensory stimulation is a coincidence. I think it awakens us to what’s invisible within us—our conscience, our spirituality, our imaginations, where we dare to envision and, however tentatively in my case, believe.
As a poet, language is naturally close to my heart, and so I turn to the poetry of the psalms, Psalm 96, in particular, the one that begins, “O sing unto the Lord a new song.”
Here’s verses 6-9, which makes explicit connections between stewardship, beauty, and spirituality:
Honour and majesty are before him: strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.
Give unto the Lord, O ye kindreds of the people, give unto the Lord glory and strength.
Give unto the Lord the glory due unto his name: bring an offering, and come into his courts.
O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness…
That’s why I come. That’s why I give. I want to worship in the beauty of holiness.
Thank you.
STEWARDSHIP TALK – 2012 – NANCY MULLEN
My first vision of God was a huge stained-glass version of that very-familiar-to-all-of-you picture of Jesus praying on his knees in the garden of Gethsemane. It was above and behind the altar in the Methodist church in the little town in Ohio, home of my maternal grandparents, where I was being baptized. Neither of my parents was a churchgoer or even a believer, but my grandmother was a Methodist, so that was where I was baptized, at age 5.
A few days later, I came home with a nickel in my hand. My mother asked where I had gotten it. "A man gave it to me". "Nancy, you know you shouldn't take money from people you don't know!" "But I do know him, Mommy - he's the man who evaporated me!"
So, Jesus praying and "evaporating" me is the basic understanding of God that has remained with me all my life. I think you will agree that it's rather a good thing that a few other elements have been added since then...
By the time I was 8, we were living in Phoenix, Arizona, and my parents decided we children should go to Sunday School, mostly because they learned that the Phoenix Episcopal Cathedral was where the 'fashionable" people spent their Sunday mornings. One of our parents would drop us off and then go out to drink their coffee and read the newspapers while we children communed with God.
And so we did: The prayer and evaporation was fulfilled in the ritual I loved most, confessing my sins on my knees and then being, miraculously, forgiven for all the terrible things I had done during the week. What those may have been when I was in elementary school I can neither remember or even imagine now. But I felt so much better leaving church than entering it!
So much so that I was thrilled when the teacher handed us cards at the end of the school year that we were to have filled in and signed wherever we were on Sunday during the summer.
We were always away about 2 months, our mother driving us across the country in an (of course) un-air-conditioned car to spend time with our grandparents in Ohio and cousins in Massachusetts and New York. My mother found it difficult to object to my insistence on going to church every single Sunday, no matter where we were. I would try to find an Episcopal church, but if that was unavailable, any denomination would do. Now I try to picture that little girl, not yet a teenager, going into an unknown church all by herself, and it's hard to believe I was so brave. But I learned a lot and met nice people, confessed and was forgiven, and it became addictive.
So addictive that I have continued the practice all my life. I have confessed in hundreds of churches all over this country and Europe and never failed to feel better upon leaving than upon entering.
While in Europe I flirted with Catholicism because it was so pervasive in France and Italy where I lived most of the time. A couple of things stopped me:
First, I was told that I couldn't be "re-evaporated". It surprised me to learn that even the Catholics, not known for their ecumenism, considered a Methodist baptism as valid as their own.
More important, I came back to New York and married my first husband, who was a cradle Episcopalian: If I became a Catholic, I would be taking the children to church by myself. If I stayed an Episcopalian (I had been confirmed by the Bishop in Phoenix at 13), we would go to church as a family.
I am very glad I made the latter choice for two major reasons:
First, my thinking now on many issues, especially social issues, is very far from current Catholic dogma, and I think it would be very difficult and frustrating for me to be a good Catholic today.
Second, to reaffirm Julie's wonderful presentation last Sunday, is the sheer and overwhelming beauty of the Episcopal Church.
I love its inclusiveness, which seems to me to be an inner beauty: It welcomes and loves us all equally, as Jesus did, everyone who comes to it, regardless of gender, political persuasion, economic or social status, race, sexual orientation, failed marriages or relationships or endeavors.
Also, I always say, only half-jokingly, that I am really an Episcopalian because I have never seen an ugly Episcopal church. Certainly the buildings are beautiful - have you ever seen an ugly Episcopal church? - but also the music (especially with Joe leading it), the language, the liturgy, the ritual, everything works together to create a truly soul-satisfying experience.
So that is an brief outline of why I am a Christian and an Episcopalian. But why at St Mary's?
I was a member of St James in Manhattan for about 35 years: married there, my children baptized there, very involved in its activities, very regular in my worship and support.
When my husband retired and we moved full-time to my house in Quogue almost 7 years ago, I became a member of St Mary's, which I had attended off and on for several years whenever we were here on the East End.
I feel that what I have found here in this beautiful little church has made my faith, and with it, my life, blossom and bloom. St James is also beautiful and does good work in its world, but it is a big urban church, its parishioners all leading very busy city lives, rarely seeing or talking with each other except on church business. Admittedly, I was one of that kind of parishioner.
It is not very original for me to say that what is so important here is that we are a family. We all share in each other's joys and comfort each other in our sorrows. Here people really think about and care about each other. And I think we all get great satisfaction, I know I do, from the feeling that however much of my time, and whatever talent I have, I am able to contribute is valued and appreciated. I admire so many of you for all you do and I aspire to be like you.
That takes care of Time and Talent - our contribution of both of them is vitally important here.
What about the third "T"? What is it, again? Oh, yes, TREASURE! This is often the most problematic of what we give back to our church family, that gives us so much. Especially when times are difficult, as they are now. And it is tempting to think that our gifts of time and talent are sufficient. Like many of you, I imagine, I am not now able to contribute as much of my treasure as I would like, or even as much as I think would be appropriate.
But the treasure is always important: It is what makes it possible to maintain this beautiful place, to engage great people to help and guide us, and to do the amazing amount of good work that is done here. In short, it is what makes this community possible.
I hope that each of you will pledge something, as every gift is of value and is appreciated. To put it even more bluntly, I hope that each of you will pledge as much as you possibly can, so that we can all continue to enjoy each other, this amazing family, this beautiful place, and the merciful and gracious God we worship here.
Thank you.
My first vision of God was a huge stained-glass version of that very-familiar-to-all-of-you picture of Jesus praying on his knees in the garden of Gethsemane. It was above and behind the altar in the Methodist church in the little town in Ohio, home of my maternal grandparents, where I was being baptized. Neither of my parents was a churchgoer or even a believer, but my grandmother was a Methodist, so that was where I was baptized, at age 5.
A few days later, I came home with a nickel in my hand. My mother asked where I had gotten it. "A man gave it to me". "Nancy, you know you shouldn't take money from people you don't know!" "But I do know him, Mommy - he's the man who evaporated me!"
So, Jesus praying and "evaporating" me is the basic understanding of God that has remained with me all my life. I think you will agree that it's rather a good thing that a few other elements have been added since then...
By the time I was 8, we were living in Phoenix, Arizona, and my parents decided we children should go to Sunday School, mostly because they learned that the Phoenix Episcopal Cathedral was where the 'fashionable" people spent their Sunday mornings. One of our parents would drop us off and then go out to drink their coffee and read the newspapers while we children communed with God.
And so we did: The prayer and evaporation was fulfilled in the ritual I loved most, confessing my sins on my knees and then being, miraculously, forgiven for all the terrible things I had done during the week. What those may have been when I was in elementary school I can neither remember or even imagine now. But I felt so much better leaving church than entering it!
So much so that I was thrilled when the teacher handed us cards at the end of the school year that we were to have filled in and signed wherever we were on Sunday during the summer.
We were always away about 2 months, our mother driving us across the country in an (of course) un-air-conditioned car to spend time with our grandparents in Ohio and cousins in Massachusetts and New York. My mother found it difficult to object to my insistence on going to church every single Sunday, no matter where we were. I would try to find an Episcopal church, but if that was unavailable, any denomination would do. Now I try to picture that little girl, not yet a teenager, going into an unknown church all by herself, and it's hard to believe I was so brave. But I learned a lot and met nice people, confessed and was forgiven, and it became addictive.
So addictive that I have continued the practice all my life. I have confessed in hundreds of churches all over this country and Europe and never failed to feel better upon leaving than upon entering.
While in Europe I flirted with Catholicism because it was so pervasive in France and Italy where I lived most of the time. A couple of things stopped me:
First, I was told that I couldn't be "re-evaporated". It surprised me to learn that even the Catholics, not known for their ecumenism, considered a Methodist baptism as valid as their own.
More important, I came back to New York and married my first husband, who was a cradle Episcopalian: If I became a Catholic, I would be taking the children to church by myself. If I stayed an Episcopalian (I had been confirmed by the Bishop in Phoenix at 13), we would go to church as a family.
I am very glad I made the latter choice for two major reasons:
First, my thinking now on many issues, especially social issues, is very far from current Catholic dogma, and I think it would be very difficult and frustrating for me to be a good Catholic today.
Second, to reaffirm Julie's wonderful presentation last Sunday, is the sheer and overwhelming beauty of the Episcopal Church.
I love its inclusiveness, which seems to me to be an inner beauty: It welcomes and loves us all equally, as Jesus did, everyone who comes to it, regardless of gender, political persuasion, economic or social status, race, sexual orientation, failed marriages or relationships or endeavors.
Also, I always say, only half-jokingly, that I am really an Episcopalian because I have never seen an ugly Episcopal church. Certainly the buildings are beautiful - have you ever seen an ugly Episcopal church? - but also the music (especially with Joe leading it), the language, the liturgy, the ritual, everything works together to create a truly soul-satisfying experience.
So that is an brief outline of why I am a Christian and an Episcopalian. But why at St Mary's?
I was a member of St James in Manhattan for about 35 years: married there, my children baptized there, very involved in its activities, very regular in my worship and support.
When my husband retired and we moved full-time to my house in Quogue almost 7 years ago, I became a member of St Mary's, which I had attended off and on for several years whenever we were here on the East End.
I feel that what I have found here in this beautiful little church has made my faith, and with it, my life, blossom and bloom. St James is also beautiful and does good work in its world, but it is a big urban church, its parishioners all leading very busy city lives, rarely seeing or talking with each other except on church business. Admittedly, I was one of that kind of parishioner.
It is not very original for me to say that what is so important here is that we are a family. We all share in each other's joys and comfort each other in our sorrows. Here people really think about and care about each other. And I think we all get great satisfaction, I know I do, from the feeling that however much of my time, and whatever talent I have, I am able to contribute is valued and appreciated. I admire so many of you for all you do and I aspire to be like you.
That takes care of Time and Talent - our contribution of both of them is vitally important here.
What about the third "T"? What is it, again? Oh, yes, TREASURE! This is often the most problematic of what we give back to our church family, that gives us so much. Especially when times are difficult, as they are now. And it is tempting to think that our gifts of time and talent are sufficient. Like many of you, I imagine, I am not now able to contribute as much of my treasure as I would like, or even as much as I think would be appropriate.
But the treasure is always important: It is what makes it possible to maintain this beautiful place, to engage great people to help and guide us, and to do the amazing amount of good work that is done here. In short, it is what makes this community possible.
I hope that each of you will pledge something, as every gift is of value and is appreciated. To put it even more bluntly, I hope that each of you will pledge as much as you possibly can, so that we can all continue to enjoy each other, this amazing family, this beautiful place, and the merciful and gracious God we worship here.
Thank you.