James Derkits

After the lessons, carols, hymns, incense, prayers... After preaching my first Christmas sermon at Trinity by the sea... After hearing a whole community: young and old, newcomers and those who've been here a while... After the glorious celebration of Incarnation... After the the Birthday Cake and Generous Impromptu Reception... I hopped on my bike,  and rode to the beach,  and stood ankle deep in the Gulf of Mexico. I looked up into the beautiful night sky. I noticed the water wasn't as cold as I expected it to be. And I said a silent prayer of awe and thanksgiving. I hope your Christmas Celebration (that has just begun) will lead you to fully experience your own incarnation, to be grounded right were you are, to say silent prayers of thanksgiving.

"I don't even know why we have December, it never lasts." Thank you to Ellie Wilemon for that precious little quote, and for permission to quote! If you feel like her, first, realize you're not alone. Second, I'm surprised and delighted that you're reading this. December zips by not only as a month, but with December, we suddenly find ourselves at the end of a whole year. My own 2012 turned out very differently than I thought it would. It was a year of transition; when I read back in my journals to last December, there are hints in my writing and in my dreams that something was stirring. December is a darker month for us in the northern hemisphere. It's a reflective time to contemplate where we've been and where we're going. Perhaps because of that introspection, we sprinkle the season with festive celebrations. Parties with friends and families, it seems, leads to more introspection. We see one another grow when we gather together. We see ch

This is a write up by Skip Kasdorf,  long-time member and promoter of St. Mark's, Houston   St. Mark’s Between the Bayous Celebrates Second Anniversary On December 2, the first Sunday in Advent, St. Mark’s Between the Bayous celebrated the second anniversary of its founding with a fundraiser at Liberty Station for victims of Hurricane Sandy that included live music and improvised comedy, concluding with a worship service. St. Mark’s Between the Bayous is an outreach initiative of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, 3816 Bellaire Blvd. The Rev. James Derkits, then associate rector at St. Mark’s, held the first informal gathering and Eucharistic service at Block 7, a wine bar, on November 28, 2010, relying on word of mouth to attract people who might be disinclined to worship in a traditional manner. Derkits recently wrote: “The goal of Between-the-Bayous is not to become another Episcopal church in Houston. It is to be a between place for people at interesting places on th

I'm away. Just five days, and I won't even miss a Sunday. Each year, for about five or six years now, after the first Sunday of Advent, I go on a retreat with a small group of friends. Some are priests, some not. It's a spiritual practice of mine, a discipline that's an important grounding to the whole church year. Retreats, as I recently learned from the Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church came back into practice during the Couter-Reformation, and for the Church of England during the Oxford Movement. I'm almost done, don't zone out; it's really not a history lesson. The essential practice of retreating is much older than the first 1856 retreat held in Christ Church, Oxford, and older than the Jesuit-introduced retreats in the late 16th century. The spiritual practice of getting away, to reflect, to rejuvenate, and to renew is probably as old as the practice of prayer. In a sense it is the same thing as daily prayer: the setting aside time to be i

 It is no accident that we celebrate Christmas on the heels of the winter solstice. You have already probably noticed the daylight hours growing shorter, and the nights growing longer as we make our annual journey around the sun on our tilted earth axis. Or, maybe you have not noticed. We modern people spend a lot of time in artificial environments that make it possible to forget it is dark outside as we go about life with the lights on inside. Our ancestors, of course, didn't have that luxury; they have handed down a tradition that can help us to notice the seasonal changes of daylight hours. The Advent Wreath is a simple circle of greens with four candles set in the wreath. On the first Sunday of December, Christians around the world will light the first candle on the wreath to mark the first week of Advent. Each week another candle is lit until December 23, when the final candle is lit and we have almost arrived at Christmas to celebrate the coming of Christ, our light, into t

I have so many memories from canoeing on the San Marcos River that I have concentrate to separate them into different trips. They sort of get clumped together in a big refreshing, green, sunny memory. I remember catching bass on a fly for the first time, and I remember trying to paddle in the dark of night with a headlamp on (I say "trying" because there were a ton of insects attracted to that light...) I remember breaking a paddle, determined to dislodge some debris so we could drift through. I was able to splint the paddle with sticks and rope, and it worked. My very favorite trips, though, always involved taking people on the San Marcos for the first time. I've always had a love of nature and I value spending time in nature as sacred. That, coupled with learning river processes in geology and geography classes, and I can get pretty geeked out to introduce someone to experience of paddling the San Marcos. I enjoy paying attention to a person's curiosity and encourag

I was driving west on I 10 last weekend and started noticing, along the highway, the huge four legged bases for the new power line that is going in out that way. I had heard about it already, but I didn't realize it was under construction. First these bases were on their side, next to the cement anchors. Then as I drove along they were set up and attached. Further along, I got to see each stage of the process: the towers placed next to the base, then they were on the base, then pulleys were piled along-side, then the pulleys were hung, then I saw the spools of the gigantic wires, and finally, when I reached my destination, I saw the wire strung through the pulleys. They hung loosely there, and stretched out to the horizon as I turned off the highway. I never really thought much about how those power lines, which I've always called "high lines," were constructed. Of course it has to take many, many steps to carry the electricity from its source of origin to the des

 I hope that by writing this, I'll learn more about how Trinity by the Sea arrived at our logo--I haven't asked many people about it.  For now, I just want to reflect a bit on it. It's not an original image ; it is ancient and powerful one. It is inherited or adopted and it is appropriate for this church.  I like the logo at first glance, just because it is so unusual. A friend, who is also a priest, was visiting and was commenting on the Trinity-Fish symbol, and how many Episcopal Churches are named for the Trinity. He said, "It's cool that we use the name 'Trinity,' because it says up front that we embrace the mystery." That may be why I like the logo-symbol so much. It's an impossible image. There can't be a single-eyed-single-headed-three-tailed fish. And yet, there it is. It invites deeper consideration, and it points to something beyond itself. There is a tradition in Christianity called apophatic theology that proposes human categori

I remember the first time I camped out on the beach. It was with a few college friends, and we set up right next to the dunes down on the west end of Galveston somewhere. I grew up going to the beach with my family for vacation, but we always stayed in our beach house. That meant we could always shower off, and have a good clean dinner, and sleep in relatively un-sandy beds. Camping on the beach is a different story. We had a good day playing in the surf and we even kept the sand out of most of our food for dinner, but when it was bed-time, it was impossible to keep sand out of the tents. It seemed like as we tried to brush the sand off our feet, or shake out a sleeping bag, more sand would sneak in on the wind. In the end, I had to make a decision to just be sandy and be okay with that. Then the sand didn't really bother me as much as it did when I was trying to stay un-sandy. Recently, after church, I went down to the beach to play with Eli. My sister and a niece and nep

The two questions I find myself asking and being asked again and again are, "How long have you lived down here?" and "What brought you to Port A?" I'm trying my best to remember everyone's name as I meet them, though I've also had to ask people a few times until I remember. But behind everyone's name is a story of how they came to live on this island, and behind how long they have been here is the story of why they stayed. I'm not hearing the stories of people who have left, of course. Maybe I'll hear those as I travel and introduce myself as "from Port Aransas." People of all sorts of backgrounds have moved here, or if they grew up on the island, they chose to stay here because -of the slower pace of life -it is beautiful -they like to recreate in a certain way (fish, sail, surf, etc.) And so far, my answers have been mirrors of theirs. Of course the amazing community I found already at Trinity by the Sea, and sensing a call

Laura, Eli, the dogs and I were neatly packed into Laura's Insight (a car) heading west when we passed the "Leaving Houston City Limit" sign. It was a significant leaving in that we closed on our house, so this time we were really leaving.  I knew it was coming, so I had my camera ready. Laura was driving. I knew the sign was coming, and I knew the moment was coming, yet the picture is still blurry. For a while I tried to figure out the starting point of the path that led to leaving Houston. I started with more recent events, but then I would remember things further back: Nine years ago, before I went to seminary, I stayed in a beach house in Port Aransas only a few blocks away from the vicarage . Was that the beginning of a journey that led us here? Or, perhaps the trips to Crystal Beach with my parents when I was a boy. Maybe that planted a seed in my heart that has come to fruition. I've stopped trying to look for the beginning of the path, when I look back, ther

One of the gifts of working at a church with school, is that I get to learn from the children!  When I see them being creative, imagining, and playing, it reminds me that I too am created to be creative, imagine, and play.  In the adult world, we can forget that because of the many real demands on our time; but creativity is key to living a healthy life. TS Elliot wrote, "The Lord who created must wish us to create." Our children know that in their hearts and remind us daily.  

I finally remembered to count the steps it takes to walk from the front door of my house to the back door of my office: 64 steps. It isn't even far enough to consider my walk to work exercise. I was joking with someone about my 64 step commute, and then started to wonder if it could even be considered a commute. The common American use of the word commute comes from the changing of a daily train fee to a single annual train fee. That would earn the buyer a "commuter pass." Think "mutate." It is about changing from one to the other. It once referred to the change of a type of ticket, but in present common usage, it has come to mean a change in location from home to work, work to home. I was singing the word along with the Roches' " The Train " long before I understood what a commute was. The Roches were probably reflecting on a train commute into NYC. A very different commute than what I'm experiencing each morning and evening. When I dro

Cardboard is really an amazing thing. Forgive as I reveal my ignorance here, but it seems that it is just three pieces of thick paper, with the center piece corrugated and clued in between the other two. Make some simple origami folds with overlapping lids, and suddenly you have the ability to contain everything you own. Once it is contained, you can put it in a bigger container on a truck and haul it anywhere. For a time, everything is hidden. When we went to the moving company to pick up "boxes," they instead gave us what they call "cartons." I stand corrected. We got way too many wardrobe cartons, and got pretty creative with how we filled those. We supplemented with empty copy paper cartons and liquor cartons. We got here, with lots of help.  We did a half pack for this move to Port Aransas. We asked the professionals to pack our more breakable items (crystal, tv, that ceramic pot I made in high school, etc.), and we packed clothes, books, tools, etc. We

Yesterday I was listening to radio coverage of the recent shooting in Colorado. The host was taking calls from across the nation, inviting people who had had similar tragedies in their cities to call in and share stories of their experience, and the short term and long term learnings. One caller was a journalist who was on the scene at Columbine, releasing the first reports of the shooters. He along with many others initially described the shooters as unpopular loners who were taking revenge on "jocks" at their school. On the phone call yesterday, he said something like, "I was wrong, we were all wrong, but that's what he world remembers about those guys." I was caught up in the stories I was hearing about other tragedies, about communities coming together in the aftermath of such shootings. I heard a woman say that in one case when the criminal received the death penalty, the town and victim's families lamented that it was just one more death, and didn

Confession: before Sunday night, I had never been to Fitzgerald's (nor Zelda's, downstairs.) I've been to quite a few music venues around town, and sadly, seen a few close up shop. Fitzgerald's recently reinvented itself, renovating the interior, and reigniting the spirit of the place (so I'm told.) Laura Derkits spent her fair share of time there when she was in High School. She has history with the place, so when we showed up Sunday night during the opening band ( Lost Lander ) she was giddy with anticipation. We were there to hear Blind Pilot . We got a couple of their CD's from some friends for Christmas, so I knew a little bit of their music, but didn't realize how much I would enjoy the show. Wow! For the first band, we stood on the floor, and we enjoyed their music enough to buy a CD. Then we made our way upstairs and found a great perch where we could peer down from stage left. It is a powerful experience to watch people make music. Th

I have been blessed to be part of some wonderful communities, beginning with my biological family: four older sisters and two parents, all loving. St. John's, Silsbee comes next: my first church community, where I learned the spiritual practices of the Episcopal tribe. But those two were part of me before I was conscious enough to know I was part of a community. Camp Allen was the first community I was conscious of entering . You've heard plenty of my Camp Allen stories, but here I'll mention that when my parents were ready to leave after dropping me off and getting me signed in, they had trouble finding me to say goodbye because I was helping another camper get moved into the cabin. I jumped into that welcoming community with no hesitation. I was 8. I even found transitioning to college life in San Marcos fairly easy, not only because I went there with one of my friends from camp, but because so many other freshmen were moving there looking for a new community as w

I wanted to be in two places at once on Sunday evening. I wanted to be sitting at the bar and experiencing what it was like to hear bits of the verses of "Halleluia, we sing your praises" drifting in from the next room. I wanted to catch glimpses of bread and wine being lifted up and words being spoken in unison by a community. I wanted to see what it was like to be a regular at the bar, and wonder what was happening in the next room. But I couldn't be in two places at once. Tuesday night Charles Bishop set up the projector and already had  Wasteland  playing when we showed up at Liberty Station on Washington. This was our second "Sustainability Series" movie night and brought out about twenty people, once again. And, like the first one there were only a handful of churchy types there. Word went out through Urban Harvest's newsletter,  Pancho and Leftey's  blog, fliers  at Liberty Station and Catalina Coffee, and most importantly word-of-mouth. T

You already know these guys if you know me. You have heard stories about Kevin and Billy if you have heard me preach or if we have shared a beer. That first picture is Kevin and I at Camp Allen when we were in high school as some improvised characters for a skit. Kevin and I had already known each other for about nine years when that photo was taken. Then we went to college together in San Marcos where we met Billy. I had never known a banjo player before. (It took him a while to BECOME a banjo player. The banjo is loud whether you can play well  or not.)  Now the three of us have been playing music together for about fifteen years, our most recent performance at a Camp Allen fundraiser. It all seems to come full circle. All that to say, the three of us know each other quite well. A week ago, I got to go fishing on the Lighthouse Trails near Port Aransas. The trails cut through the inland pools and thick vegetation that is the home of an array of wildlife. We took home a few fi

Last Sunday was Pentecost Sunday. The day we celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit who (literally) inspires us Christians and empowers us to continue the work God. It was an emotional Sunday, for the Derkits and several other families  are all moving on from St. Mark's to new things, new places. Having journeyed for a while int his community, we are being sent out from this St. Mark's Family. But on another level, everyone was being sent out, kicked out for a time. One of  my favorite parts of our liturgy is the end when we are collectively sent out into the world to do what we've been shaped to do, and become the people we are being transformed into. This time, though, we were sent out so that the space where St. Mark's gathers to worship God could be transformed. The first thing to receive the kiss of spinning teeth-of-metal was the altar rail. It was sawed out to be moved into Hauser Hall where St. Mark's will worship until the renovation and restoration i