The Only House God Wants

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

July 21, 2024

Year B, Proper 11: The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Samuel 7:10-14a

Psalm 89:20-27

Ephesians 2:11-22

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

The Only House God Wants

So, it turns out that planning your own funeral can actually be a lot of fun.

Who knew?

Last Sunday, after the 10:00 service, about forty of us gathered in the Parish Hall and had a great time talking about Christian funerals and at least beginning to consider lessons and hymns and all the many details that go into the service.

(Don’t worry if you missed out – we’ll do it again in December.)

I pointed out to the group that funerals are evangelism opportunities – and I invited everyone to consider including Holy Communion in our funerals.

We all know that there are lots of people – including many of our own family members and friends – who are turned off by church.

(Not necessarily this church specifically, but “church” in general.)

And often they have good reasons.

The loudest Christian voices in our country tend to be mean and judgmental and hypocritical.

And we all know that the church has been stained and discredited by abuse, corruption, and exclusion.

So, a lot of people stay away – they stay as far away as possible.

But they do still come to funerals.

So, each time we have a funeral, my hope is that we will offer something that is beautiful and meaningful and authentic – and not crazy – something that will get at least one or two people who’ve been away to say, “You know, that was great. I’ve missed that. Maybe I’ll give church another try.”

And a big part of that beautiful, meaningful, and authentic offering is Holy Communion.

For people who’ve been away from church, who’ve been alienated by church, I think hearing our invitation to Communion – that all are welcome – that it’s not necessary to be an Episcopalian or a member of St. Thomas’ – hearing that kind of welcome can be quite powerful.

And way more powerful than the invitation is actually receiving the Body and Blood of Christ – taking Jesus into our body and soul – into our heart.

And our heart is the only house God wants.

If you’ve been in church for the past few weeks, you may remember that we’ve been hearing about the rise of King David.

In today’s lesson from Second Samuel, David’s enemies have been defeated.

He’s firmly in command of his kingdom and he’s living in a house made of cedar – then, as now, an expensive building material.

(We have the bills for our church’s new cedar shake roof to prove it!)

Well, to his credit, David realizes that there’s something off about him living in a nice house made of cedar while the Ark of the Covenant – understood to be the very presence of God – was living in… a tent.

So, David decides that he’s going to build a house for God – and the Prophet Nathan wholeheartedly approves the plan.

But it turns out that God has other ideas.

God has been on the move since the Israelites were in the Sinai wilderness during their long exodus from Egypt – and God is not interested in being kept in a house built by David.

In fact, God turns the tables on David.

God says, you want to build me a house? No, I’ll build you a house – a royal dynasty that will reign forever.

Later, of course, David’s son Solomon will build a spectacular house for God – the Jerusalem Temple.

And although the Temple and the sacrifices that took place there were the center of Jewish life for centuries, there was always some ambivalence, some unease, about the Temple.

Some of the prophets – and later, Jesus himself – will criticize the Temple – reminding people that, instead of slaughtering lots of animals, what God really wants is a sacrifice of the heart.

As God says through the Prophet Isaiah:

“…cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”

That’s the kind of sacrifice that God desires.

And our heart is the only house God wants.

Over the past week, I’ve had several conversations with parishioners who are understandably anxious about the state of our country and worried about where we’re headed.

And I’m right there with you.

And, I’m sure like a lot of you, I’ve been thinking about how we got here – and how we might heal some of our divisions, and soothe some of our anger, and calm some of our fears.

It seems to me that our country is suffering from a kind of spiritual heart disease.

Maybe it’s because of all our distracting gadgets, maybe it’s because we don’t really get to know each other anymore, I don’t know, but we seem to no longer care so much about each other – or, at least, that we don’t care about people who are different than we are, who believe different things, who see the world differently.

Instead, we assume the worst of each other.

We look for opportunities to score points – often cheap and dishonest shots - against the “other side.”

But this game is just a race to the bottom – a race with no winners at all.

Fortunately, we know the cure to spiritual heart disease.

In today’s lesson from the Gospel of Mark, we heard what happens before and after Jesus feeds the multitudes – the only miracle remembered in all four gospels – the miracle that we’ll hear about next week.

But what strikes me about what we heard today is that people are so hungry for Jesus – so hungry for Jesus that they follow him and his disciples into the wilderness – so hungry for healing that they brought their sick loved ones wherever he was – desperate for his healing touch.

I’m reminded of the people who come here after they’ve been away from the church for a while – the people come here for a funeral or on any given Sunday – the people who come here hungry for the Good Food – the people who hear the invitation to the Table and say yes.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s offered here every Sunday.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s offered here every week to anyone and everyone who is hungry.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s taking Jesus into our bodies and souls – and, with God’s help, living lives of love and service.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s welcoming God into our heart.

And our heart is the only house God wants.

Amen.

Baptism

Baptism

From the Jersey City piers

I’ve forever admired Gotham’s palisade.

Looks just a stroll away, but there’s

sloshing waves and

relentless current.

My faith’s too weak, and

only Jesus walks on water.

Instead, I straphang under the Hudson,

the PATH train,

metal on metal,

screeching and sparking,

coursing through its dusty tunnel,

through a tube, 

bolted and screwed,

a steel lattice, 

shielding us

from the tides, for now.

For me, there’s no trip more familiar, but

I’m remembering a late summer ride to

my first seminary class.

My turnstile stride was bold but shaky,

starting a holy adventure, yes, but

tempted to cross the platform

and return the way I came, nobody the wiser.

The next morning’s sky will be

famously, heartbreakingly, impossibly beautifully

blue – 

infinitely bluer than the Hudson’s murk.   

Until the smoke and ash curled to Brooklyn.

We all remember that blue sky but

who recalls that it rained the evening before,

the evening of my first seminary class?

A relentless baptism, nearly

as loud as the honking cabs on Ninth Avenue,

where I found soggy shelter 

at the seminary’s door.

“Christian Spiritual Practice,”

taught by a wise, kind, ethereal professor.

Her professor husband placed a table lamp

on her desk, 

bathing us,

bathing our search for God in

a softer spiritual light.

That light welcomed me,

a damp seafarer adrift in fog,

glimpsing a beacon, offering

a path holy,

a path home.

Hours later, my stride was big and joyful

across the long city blocks, feeling out of sight,

bouncing back to the PATH station.

The Chelsea sidewalks –

laughter, music, neon buzzing -

the carefree city promising food for every appetite.

Crossing Seventh Avenue, I glanced to my right

hardly noticing the matching towers, 

washed clean,

sparkling silhouettes. 

The Ultimate Ultimate Thing

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

July 14, 2024

Year B, Proper 10: The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12b-19

Psalm 24

Ephesians 1:3-14

Mark 6:14-29

The Ultimate Ultimate Thing

As you know, because I’ve mentioned it like a thousand times, I grew up and lived most of my life in Jersey City, a medium-sized city just across the Hudson River from Manhattan.

And, while I try to project a tough, gritty, urban image, the truth is that I grew up in a neighborhood called… Country Village.

Country Village doesn’t sound like a very tough place. And it’s not.

Country Village was built in the early 1960s and was designed to be a little island of suburbia in the city, a way of convincing at least some people not to flee the city.

So, there are curving streets named for different kinds of trees, winding along a mix of standalone homes and rowhouses.

Actually, my old neighborhood looks a bit like Rodgers Forge, over in Towson.

Anyway, growing up in Country Village back in the 1970’s and early 80’s wasn’t perfect, of course, but it was pretty peaceful. And, looking back now, fifty years later, it seems downright old fashioned, even idyllic.

All of us kids walked back and forth to school.

In good weather, we rode our bikes through the neighborhood.

And during long and carefree summer days we played ball right out in the middle of the street, yelling out “Car! Car!’ when the occasional driver needed to interrupt our game.

Our parents would call us into the house for supper and, later, called us again to wrap it up when it began to grow dark.

I mention all this because almost two weeks ago, at the start of my second week of vacation, I returned to Country Village to pick up my parents – they still live in the house where my sister and I grew up - and bring them down here to stay with Sue and me for the rest of the week.

And on a perfect summer day, not very hot or humid at all, the kind of day that fifty years ago there would have been a bunch of kids out in that street yelling “Car!” when I turned the corner, on a day just like that, there wasn’t a soul outside. 

I wasn’t surprised – it’s been like this for years – but I wondered:

Where were all the neighborhood children?

Well, we probably know the answer, right?

I’m sure that most of them were inside their houses, inside their rooms, their eyes glued to computers, tablets, or phones.

 

None of this news – and it’s not limited to kids, either.

Our whole society seems designed to keep us distracted.

I mean, almost of all of us carry around little distraction machines in our pockets or purses, buzzing and pinging throughout the day and night.

Our attention spans have been ruined.

(I used to preach for half an hour!)

And we are distracted from what is most important – distracted from ultimate things.

In some ways, with our ability to constantly connect and scroll, this is a new problem.

But it’s also an old human story – we want to distract ourselves from ultimate things – to distract ourselves from God – distract ourselves from the wrong we may have done or the wrong done in our name – distract ourselves from the simple but hard truth that no one gets out of here alive.

Back in the first century, Herod Antipas was a member of a truly depraved royal family, who ruled parts of Israel, at the pleasure of the Romans.

His father, Herod the Great, so called, was the king who tried to use the Wise Men to find and kill the newborn King of the Jews – and when that didn’t work, he just slaughtered all the children born in Bethlehem around that time.

So you get the idea.

Herod Antipas was a chip off the old block, a great builder but also ruthless, taking whatever he wanted, including marrying his brother’s wife.

The firebrand prophet John the Baptist criticized Herod for that, infuriating the wife, and leading to the tragedy we heard today.

The royal birthday party was nothing more than a lavish distraction, a distraction that led to an ill-considered promise to give the dancing daughter whatever she wanted, a distraction that led to the gruesome death of the righteous John the Baptist.

No doubt, Herod went right on distracting himself with all the trappings of royal life and power, but those distractions don’t work forever.

And later, when the Righteous Jesus appears on the scene, did you hear the dread in Herod’s voice when he thinks that the spirit of John the Baptist has returned?

Ultimate Things.

        Yesterday evening we were all reminded, yet again, that we live in a country that is angry, violent, and seemingly so divided. 

        Seemingly so divided that, honestly, I hesitate to say anything about it.

        I will say that those distraction machines in our pockets aren’t helping matters.

        Since we really don’t know each other anymore, we assume the worst of each other.

        And our distraction machines and much of cable news deliberately misinform us and work really hard to keep us frightened, angry, and divided.

        Aside from switching the channel, I have no idea what to do about this.

        But I do know that it’s good for us to be part of a church, how blessed we are to be part of this church.

This is one of the few remaining places where we spend time – meaningful time – with people who are different than us – who come from different places, who have different ideas about all kinds of things – and yet we can and do pray and serve together – we can and do love one another – we can be, and often are, instruments of God’s peace.

And it’s probably not a coincidence that this is one of the few remaining places where we put away our phones. 

Well, most of us, anyway.

One of our newer parishioners has spoken about what a gift that is – to be here free of electronic distractions for an hour or so.

And I would add that another blessing of our distraction-free church is that it gets us thinking about ultimate things.

Why are we here?

What is our purpose?

And what happens after we die?

At a vestry meeting a while back, when I first mentioned the idea of offering an opportunity for parishioners to plan their funerals, there was some nervous laughter, and I got some strange looks.

Of course, I get that planning our funerals can seem morbid – it’s probably the last thing anyone wants to think about.

But, as I’ve mentioned to you, over the years I’ve sat with many grieving families who had no idea what their deceased loved one might have wanted – and so, anxiety and guilt and stress compound their grief.

And I’ve been really gratified by how positive – I know this sounds strange – how excited – so many of you have been about today’s event.

In fact, last week, one couple stopped by the office to purchase their cemetery plot.

They said they wanted to “beat the rush!”

I’d like to think the part of the reason why so many of us have been willing to look ahead and plan our funerals is that those of us who regularly attend church have a lot of practice in thinking about ultimate things.

Acknowledging our mortality isn’t overwhelming because we know the ultimate ultimate thing.

And no matter the violence, anger, and division all around us, we do not lose heart – we stick together - because we know the ultimate ultimate thing:

In our baptism, God has made an indissoluble, unbreakable, bond with us.

This holy bond of love is stronger than anything.

        Stronger than tyrants like Herod.

        Stronger than the sharpest blade, the most destructive bullet.

        And, because Jesus Christ is risen, we know that God’s holy bond with us is stronger than hate, stronger than anger, stronger than fear, stronger than death itself.

        God's holy and unbreakable bond with us is the ultimate ultimate thing.

        Amen.

A Whimper or a Bang

A Whimper or a Bang

“The world is full of places. Why is it that I am here?”

- Wendell Berry, The Long-Legged House

During dithering days 

of discerning, 

a few years ago

when I was starring in my one-man show

“Hamlet on the Hackensack,”

itching, inching to move

from Jersey City to Baltimore County,

a priest friend who knew the new place

tried nudging my trajectory:

“You’ll get to live 

in a banging rectory!”

The “banging” rectory is a stately house

sitting white and proud, aloof,

crowning the curving driveway.

Kind of lonely, but

maybe that’s just me.

All around are green acres, a personal park,

part buzzcut, part untrimmed,

sloping into a stream, just a trickle

for tweeting birds, watchful deer, and

cloaked croaking frogs.

When a car arrives,

startled groundhogs gallop

flabbily, comically, racing 

into the battered barn 

behind the house,

looking like they’re about to lose their pants.

All I want is what I don’t have (but did):

concrete slabbed squared sidewalk

Signs flashing WALK / DONT WALK

Lamps showering harsh alien light

Trucks wheezing and grinding

Buses sighing as they kneel 

Closed-up bodegas fronted by slatted steel

Pigeons pecking butts in the gutter

And faces, faces, faces, infinite 

riffs on the human wonder.

A rule unspoken: 

eye contact forbidden.

Here, I drive from the “banging” rectory

to a rail trail, twenty minutes in the car, 

just for a walk.

Where the Northern Central once chugged, clanged, clacked,

now there’s the harsh honking of Canada geese,

a trail of gravel, crushed and crumbled,

a toothless snake twisting beside

what’s simply a big stream 

oh yeah, one with

a banging name:

The Gunpowder River.

Along the trail, some trees soar,

others take a graceful bow, while

the dead wood rests in open graves.

Bicyclists wheel along, 

calling out “On the left!” 

while impatiently pedaling.

Runners padding and pattering,

the young and fit wearing spandex stretched and snug.

Some oldsters grip sticks like shepherds or bishops,

others clutch leashes tethered 

to dogged companions, 

four-legged loyalists, 

on best behavior

for a journey flatly routine 

but with so much to smell,

so much to savor.

And then 

there are walkers 

like me

alone

obeying 

the unspoken rule

eyes dead

ahead

the future

a whimper 

or 

a bang.

A Future Worth Living

A Future Worth Living 

On a black and white

portable TV

in our Seventies dining room,

I got hooked on 

Star Trek,

as the repeats beamed in on Channel 11

each weekday afternoon.

I’m not sure how or why

this show drew me in like a tractor beam.

Yes, getting transported to other worlds was fun,

for sure.

And maybe I had a clue

that there was more to learn aboard the Enterprise

than over on the Jupiter 2.

As a white kid, in that time and place,

what did I know about racism?

There was no talk of civil rights in my world

but relatives did casually joke that the dog only barked

when a black person passed the house.

Did I realize that was stupid, wrong?

Meanwhile, out in space,

members of the Enterprise crew 

did sometimes mock Spock, 

half-alien, cold, pointy-eared.

But, once, when it went too far,

Captain Kirk chewed out an officer:

“Leave any bigotry in your quarters,

there’s no room for it on the bridge.”

Kirk and Spock and even grumpy Dr. McCoy

were friends and colleagues,

respecting each other,

as they sailed together

into the unknown.

And they were surrounded by a crew

diverse with accents and colors,

working as one,

all more than capable,

the finest in the fleet.

The episodic lessons, 

repeated and repeated:

in the future without fear,

a future worth living,

we would respect differences.

Tolerance.

I’m tempted to write,

who could argue with that wisdom?

But, sadly, we all know better now.

And, really, tolerance isn’t enough,

was never enough.

Kirk and Spock and all of us are called

to something more.

I saw the second Star Trek movie,

the one most claim as best of all,

with my father and sister 

in a tired Jersey City movie palace.

I’m sure you remember,

Spock dies in a radioactive cloud,

a logical and willing sacrifice for the crew 

who used to mock him,

dying for the humans this half-alien had 

grown to love.

All those years ago,

we wept with Kirk

at the death of our green-blooded

friend.

And although it’s now a well-worn story,

one undone by the sequel,

many of us grow teary, still.

More than tolerance.

Love.

Today the little boy watching an already old

TV show seems so far off.

Now even Spock’s sacrifice was long ago.

And, in a time when real villains have taken the stage,

more cartoonish than any costumed alien,

their hate and plans more dangerous 

than the most diabolical Klingon plot,

the ideals of Kirk and Spock 

may seem outmatched,

as feather-light

as a Styrofoam rock.

When shadow crowds out light,

when the familiar old demons of hate –

there’s nothing alien about them -

are on the loose,

we may be tempted to tune out,

and just get lost in our screens.

No.

As Captain Kirk might say,

a future worth living 

demands boldness.

Into the Storm, with Jesus

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 23, 2025

Year B, Proper 7: The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

1 Samuel 17:1a, 4-11, 19-23, 32-49

Psalm 9:9-20

2 Corinthians 6:1-13

Mark 4:35-41

Into the Storm, with Jesus

Today’s first lesson sure is a long one but it’s a great story.

The story of David and Goliath is well-known, even by people who don’t know much of anything about the Bible.

This story of the underdog triumphing over the giant has entered popular culture, just like a few other Bible stories: Adam and Eve, Noah’s Ark, the parting of Red Sea, and Jonah and the Whale (or, actually, the large fish).

We’ve talked about Jonah before but just to refresh everyone’s memory:

God called Jonah to travel to the great city of Nineveh and call the people there to repent. If they didn’t repent, God would destroy the city and all its inhabitants.

But Jonah, he didn’t want to go to Nineveh – it was the capital of the mighty Assyrian Empire – not a friend of Israel – and, apparently, Jonah had no problem with God destroying the city.

So, instead of obeying God’s will, Jonah tried to run away from God by getting on a boat and heading in the opposite direction of Nineveh.

But God doesn’t give up on Jonah or the people of Nineveh.

So, God kicks up a great storm. The storm is so fierce that it terrifies the sailors who are all praying to their different gods.

Meanwhile, Jonah is down below, sleeping soundly.

        The sailors cast lots to figure out who among them has brought about this calamity, and the lots point to Jonah.

        Jonah admits that he’s the problem and tells the sailors to toss him into the sea, which, eventually they do, reluctantly.

        And the storm is stilled, and Jonah gets to spend three days and nights in the belly of the large fish, reconsidering his life choices, before getting another chance to do God’s will.

        Jonah is a charming story – and it’s an important story, reminding us of the need to follow God’s will.         

        And Jonah also reminds us that God’s love extends to absolutely everyone, even the people of Nineveh, even the people we don’t like, even the people we call enemies.

        Jonah was also an important story for early Christians who recognized Jonah’s three days and nights in the fish’s belly as a kind of foreshadowing of Jesus’ time in the tomb.

God didn’t forget about Jonah and Jesus in the depths.

        And when we’re in the depths, God won’t forget about us, either. 

And, finally, the memory of Jonah provides a backdrop for today’s gospel lesson, when the disciples sail into the storm with Jesus.

Obviously, there are some key differences between Jonah and Jesus.

Unlike Jonah, Jesus does not run away from God’s mission. 

Just the opposite, really.

And, unlike Jonah, Jesus is eager to share God’s love and mercy with everyone. In today’s passage, Jesus and the disciples are sailing to Gentile – to non-Jewish – lands. 

The people there need to hear the Good News, too.

And, finally, although, at first, Jesus also sleeps as the storm rages, he’s not the cause of the storm, he’s the one who calms the storm.

Jesus criticizes the disciples for their lack of faith, for freaking out during the fierce storm. But, as someone mentioned in our Wednesday Bible Study: let’s give the disciples some credit, they had enough faith to turn to Jesus in their time of trouble.

Into the storm, with Jesus.

Today’s gospel lesson got me thinking about the storms of my life – the personal storms of sorrow, fear, and regret.

And I also got to thinking about the storms that we experience together.

I mentioned to you once before that I took my very first seminary class at the General Theological Seminary in New York City on the evening of September 10, 2001.

That first class was an exciting and joyful milestone on my road to the priesthood.

But, of course, the next day – a day that started with so much beauty and promise – quickly descended into a storm fiercer than anything most of us had ever experienced, had ever expected.

I was teaching that morning in Jersey City, in a classroom with a view of the New York City skyline.

And Sue was working over in the City, a couple of miles north of the World Trade Center.

It took many hours for us to be reunited, but we were among the fortunate ones, of course.

And I don’t remember how our church – St. Paul’s – got the word out – I guess by email or a phone chain – but that evening our rector, David Hamilton, invited all of us to a Communion service at the church.

I remember walking the few blocks from our house to the church, still in shock, still numb after everything that had happened, and very frightened that maybe this was just the beginning of the storm.

And I remember gathering in the church – it was late enough that it was already dark out – and so the church was lit only by the lamps and candles.

I don’t remember much about the service itself, but I do remember feeling grateful that Sue and I were together and that we were gathered with Dave and some of our sisters and brothers, gathered in our beautiful old church building.

You may know that the main part of the church, where you’re sitting right now, is called the nave – from the Latin word meaning “ship.”

Despite the numbness and fear, I could feel the presence of Jesus in that place, in that boat, with those people. 

And, I thought, maybe, we’re going to get through this.

Into the storm, with Jesus. 

We all know that our personal storms can churn up in a moment: one wrong step, one word spoken in anger, one phone call or email.

And anyone who was around for the catastrophic storm that arose suddenly on a beautiful September morning nearly twenty-three years ago, knows that those kinds of storms can arise without much warning.

And then there are the storms that we can see looming out there on the horizon, storms that seem so big and unstoppable and leave us feeling dread, feeling like we’re up against a seemingly unbeatable Goliath.

Storms will continue to rile the waters and we will sometimes be terrified or maybe just grow numb to all the suffering.

This is why it is so important to be right here, in the boat.

Be here with our sisters and brothers, this perhaps unlikely mix of people, this community of love, this community of faith, this community of remembering.

Be here, praying to Jesus, praying with Jesus.

Be here in the boat, sailing into the storm with Jesus.

Trusting Jesus, who is wide awake, and way more powerful than any storm.

Amen.

Kerouac Alley

Kerouac Alley

It’s not true 

that I left my heart in San Francisco,

but If I could live anywhere,

it would be there. 

I first visited the city more than twenty years ago. 

I participated in a weeklong seminar at Stanford and then extended my stay for 

a few days of exploration. 

My friend Jim suggested a cheap but convenient hotel, 

the Grant Plaza, 

just up the hill from the Dragon Gate 

that welcomes people 

into Chinatown. 

My first day, 

after I checked into the hotel, 

I made my way 

along Grant Avenue, 

lined with souvenir shops, 

all selling hoodies for tourists 

unprepared for “summer” in San Francisco. 

There were restaurants, a tea shop or two, 

and a butcher with freshly slaughtered chickens. 

As I walked along, passing the neighboring dive bars named for 

the Buddha

and Li Po, 

I called my wife Sue and said, 

“I’m walking the streets of San Francisco!” 

Just before Grant Avenue crosses Columbus Avenue, 

just before Chinatown meets the old Italian and Beatnik

enclave of North Beach, 

there is an alley that, at first, looks 

like the other alleys in the neighborhood. 

I don’t remember what was on the walls back then 

but in recent years there is 

a Chinese astrology mural, 

which I’ve never taken the time to study.  

When I first visited, this was still just an ordinary alley 

but that’s no longer true. 

Now it’s named for 

Jack Kerouac. 

And although the alley is just one short block, 

it always feels like a much longer journey 

to another, nearly lost world.

Along the way, there are poetic quotes engraved in the ground: 

words from Li Po 

Ferlinghetti, 

and Kerouac himself. 

How extraordinary, 

magical even, 

that a city would name an alley for a writer 

and etch poems into the street! 

Poetry is the shadow

cast by our streetlight

imaginations.

In the company of best friends,

there is never enough wine.

The air was soft, the stars so fine,

the promise of every cobbled 

alley was so great.

And then, the journey ends at my favorite corner, with

City Lights Books on the left and Vesuvio Café on the right. 

I could happily live my life right there, 

shuttling between these two literary temples.

City Lights is bright, 

managing to squeeze in a lot of books 

on wooden shelves but

always feeling light and airy,

even when crowded with booklovers and tourists. 

On the walls there's a sign in Ferlinghetti’s distinctive script:

“Stash Your Sell-Phone and Be Here Now.” 

Vesuvio is a much darker temple 

dedicated to keeping the Beats alive. 

Antique and charmingly risqué postcards are 

lacquered into the tables

and posters of long-ago readings and concerts line the walls. 

There’s even the 

“Lady Psychiatrist’s Booth” in the upstairs gallery. 

Vesuvio manages to be both a neighborhood dive bar 

with regulars who I recognize during each annual visit

and a mecca for tourists who order a “Jack Kerouac” 

and probably regret it.