Being Human

This being human is a guest house. 

Every morning a new arrival. 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, 

some momentary awareness comes 

as an unexpected visitor. 

Welcome and entertain them all! 

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, 

who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, 

still, treat each guest honorably. 

He may be clearing you out for some new delight. 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, 

meet them at the door laughing, 

and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes, 

because each has been sent 

as a guide from beyond. 

Rumi 

from The Guest House

 

Pigs at the Manger

One of our most treasured parts of Christmas is an antique manger scene. My grandmother bought it at the five-and-dime way back when Mama was a little girl, 85 or 90 years ago. In the original group of figures, there were only two wise men but there was a pair of identical twin shepherds so one of them was usually elevated to visiting king status. Baby Jesus broke his neck 30 or 40 years ago, and his head has been stuck back on, first with candle wax and then with super glue. The donkey is thread-bare, camel and sheep wobble on uneven legs, and the angel’s golden wings are a little chipped around the edges.

The manger scene was always set up for us to arrange. We moved the figures around, perched the angel on the roof of the stable (she usually fell off, hence the chipped wings), and sometimes brought in hay for the manger. Counting my mother, four generations of our family have learned the story of the Baby Jesus from that old manger scene. 

When my brother was small, he added some of his toy animals: a black plastic cow, a spotted Dalmatian, and two pink pigs. I can imagine a black cow in that first stable and maybe a dog (probably not a Dalmatian). But I am fairly sure there were no pigs. After all, this was ancient Israel, Mary and Joseph were Jewish, and pigs are definitely not kosher! 

I know that my brother was not making a conscious theological statement with the addition of the pigs; he was just offering his toys to the Baby Jesus. But the presence of the pigs at the manger is important; their presence in our Christmas scene is precious. It is a reminder that those of us who would have been outcasts at the Bethlehem stable are welcomed; that the ancient prophecies of a Messiah are fulfilled even for Gentiles; that God’s love in Jesus is radically inclusive. 

We are all invited to the manger; we are all included in the Christmas story. So come and kneel with the donkey and the dog, the camels and the cow ...and the pigs!  And practice the wild and welcoming Love that came into the world that first Christmas.

 

A Funeral

Last week, my sister and I went to a funeral for a beloved member of our community. He was a life-long friend of my father, and after Daddy died, he continued his friendship with us. He checked on us regularly and showed up often with cantaloupes, corn, and watermelons. The funeral was full of love -- and some tears and some laughter. I think our friend would have liked it. 

My sister and I were the only white people there, but I know we were not his only white friends. We came home talking about the blessing of the pastor’s message, celebrating the warm welcome from some old friends, and remembering our growing up in a community marked by love, faith, harmony, and hard work. It was a sad day and a good day, all at the same time.

 

Spring?

You can't see them very well, and this is just a tiny area,
but there are LOTS of robins out there!

The yard is full of robins. There must be a hundred or more. Saturday and Sunday, the temperature was in the upper 70s, and Friday it was 80. I spent the afternoon outside, cleaning up the garden beds, weeding, mulching – and sweating! I also watered some plantings. We are in a drought. My brother, who flies for the Forest Service, has been called in to work months ahead of “normal” fire season, fighting blazes across the state. We have a flocked Christmas tree on the porch. It looks as though it is covered in snow, but there will be no snow here. We set our little snowman on the steps. He is made of metal, otherwise he would melt. 

It is an unexpected treat to have warm winter days, but it is also unsettling. Over his long lifetime -- 98 years -- my daddy observed the slow but steady change in the weather on the farm. Corn ripened weeks earlier, first frost came later and later, irrigation was a must. And we’ve had “100-year” storms and floods on a pretty regular basis. The robins are lovely, but the seasons are out of sync.

 

Molting

The chickens started molting at the end of September. The first one to start lost her tail feathers. Then another one began to shed feathers. Soon their run looked as though someone had had a giant pillow fight: black, yellow, gray, brown feathers everywhere. And the chickens looked plucked and pitiful – and pained, as new feathers poked their fresh quills through their skin. Then a few weeks later, they stopped laying eggs -- all of them. In past years, they have given me a few eggs all through the winter. But now, not even one egg for the past six weeks. 

Molting is normal even though it doesn’t look that way. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought they were fighting with each other (which they don’t) or were sick (which they aren’t). Chickens shed old feathers for new ones before winter. And some of them, obviously, stop laying, in part because of less daylight, and because their energy is going into producing new feathers. As the days grow even shorter and the nights are nippy, I am glad to see them looking more feathered and fluffy. They have their winter coats on for protection. 

And they prompt me to wonder where I need to molt. What am I keeping that is old and no longer fulfilling its intended purpose? And what do I need to shed -- even if that process makes me feel plucked and pitiful?  From the chickens I am learning that it is healthy to focus on letting go, to rest, to put my energy into the new that will emerge from that process.  It is a good Advent lesson for me!

The Kindred Spirit

Yesterday, a friend took me on a long beach walk to visit a spot known as the Kindred Spirit.  It sounds as though it might be a bar, but it’s not!  Instead it is a mailbox on an ancient weathered post tucked into some dunes with two benches nearby. Inside the mailbox are several notebooks and a handful of pens.  People who visit write whatever messages they want/need and leave them.  I wrote in one of the books, a note about gratitude for my visit and the blessing of sea and sky and brisk breezes.  

 

Visiting there reminded me of a story I listened to on “This American Life” about a phone booth in Japan. After the 2011 tsunami, people came there to call their loved ones who were swept away, never heard from again, never found.  The phone is not connected to anything … except hope, memory, grief, love. Those who come dial remembered phone numbers and speak into the wind. The Kindred Spirit wasn’t quite like that, but the messages people left, including mine, were offered up to whomever, to the universe, to God.  

 

Last Suppers and First Meals

Julie Green, an artist who died in October, painted white ceramic plates with depictions of the last meals of inmates about to be executed. She started her project to call attention to capital punishment. The images are beautiful, blue on white, and poignant. She called the collection “The Last Supper.” 

Her obituary includes some of the stories behind the meals. I suppose all the stories are tragedies: lives lost to violent crimes, lives spent with the trauma and mourning of those losses, lives spent in prison, a waste all round of one of the Creator’s greatest gifts. But one story in particular struck me as almost unbearably sad. “In Georgia in 2009, a mentally disabled inmate asked for half a pecan pie. He didn’t understand the concept of execution, and he intended to save some of the pie to eat afterward.” I don’t know what crime this man committed, what horrible act destroyed his life and the lives of unknown others. But he was not able to comprehend his own death, and I wonder if he knew what he had done, if he could participate in his own defense, if there was a point in his life when someone might have been able to save him – and thus save his victims. I don’t know.

https://greenjulie.com/last-supper/

Ms. Green did not stop with paintings of the last suppers. She also painted some “first meals,” what the newly exonerated chose to eat when they were freed. “Working with the Center on Wrongful Convictions at Northwestern University’s Pritkzer School of Law, she reached out to recent exonerees like Jason Strong, who had been convicted of murder. His first meal, ordered at the diner near the prison where he had been incarcerated for 15 years, was a cheeseburger with bacon and mushrooms. As he waited for it to appear, he talked about how much he loved oranges, a fruit he had been denied while he was in prison. A waitress overheard him and brought one from the kitchen. He spent 40 minutes just holding it, turning it over and over in his hands.” 

How much I take for granted: safety, intellectual ability, personal protection, freedom, food, life itself. And oranges.

 

Root-Bound

Just weeks before the pandemic shut down the world, we moved back into our house following a major (and lengthy) renovation. We had planned a big open house for friends and neighbors, but that was not to be. We were able to have a thank you party, though, for those who had worked on our old house, even with boxes all around and without much of the furniture in place. One of the guys came with a small plant, an anthurium, in a little red pot. In all the to-do of the party, I just set the pot on the window sill over the sink. And there it stayed for months and months and months. It was in a convenient place for watering, and it got good sun. But after a while it stopped growing and it stopped blooming. It was badly root-bound. A while back I decided to repot it. With its roots loosened and fresh soil, and in a new sunny spot, it began to grow and put out new shoots that started blooming. 

And I think that so many churches are like that little anthurium – they have become root-bound. It is so comfortable and convenient to stay the same, do things the same way, avoid the kind of uprooting that change can bring. Those churches may not die but they don’t grow either. They don’t flourish. They don’t bloom. 

The pandemic has kept us all in place. Now that the threat seems to be easing, maybe it is time to repot, to change the things that have hindered growth, to look for new ways of being. This is hard and disruptive and often painful. It is so much easier to keep on with what we were doing before the pandemic. But the stark reality for many churches is that if they can’t change, if they can’t spread their roots into new soil, if they can’t enlarge their vision beyond their own s(pot), they will die -- maybe not overnight, but eventually. But those who can be honest about the past, who can do the hard and messy work of repotting themselves, the ones who can change, may just start to thrive and grow and bloom again. May it be so!

Anthurium in a new pot and a good sunny spot!

 

Connections...

Our friend buried her horse at the farm last week. He was very old and very sick, and it was really sad. There is a special connection between horses and their people, and he had been with our friend for a long time.  

And I am reminded that in the beginning, “God brought [the animals and the birds] to the man to see what he would call them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. The man gave names to all cattle, and to the birds of the air, and to every animal of the field.” (Genesisv2:19b-20a) When we name a creature, we bind ourselves to it. It becomes in our eyes what it has always been in God’s eyes – precious. And in the naming, we are connected. Although it might be better to say that we are made aware that we are already and always connected. We are all part of God’s creation, God’s created: humans, animals, birds, fish and sea creatures, plants and ferns and amoeba – everything living. 

We are all connected, but some of those connections are stronger and more powerful. We wept with our friend. The man who came with the backhoe to dig the grave made a cross of small branches, and my sister cut flowers.  And we were glad that she came to this place to lay her horse to rest. She wanted a place where she could return, and she knew we would always be here. We are connected to this farm, and now, so is she.

 

The Writing Spider

She built her web in the most precarious fashion, a few strands attached to the door of the chicken’s feed room and those on the other side connected to the mountain mint growing by the door. Every time I opened the door, I took care not to detach the web. And she spun and wrote and the web stayed intact. (She was a yellow garden spider, Argiope aurantia, also known as a writing spider.) And then one day, she was gone. The web was still there, but she was not. I thought maybe a bird had gotten her. But no: A few days later, another web appeared, a few feet from the first, but this one in a more stable location. And there she was – I’m sure it was the same spider – weaving and writing away. The nights are cool and the days are shorter, and I think she is getting ready to leave some egg sacs for next year. 

And from the spider, I try to learn the lesson of waiting and hoping. In Hebrew, that is the meaning of the word qavah (Psalm 130:5-6). And it also means stretched out, the tension of pulling from both ends. It can mean strength, the kind of strength that comes from a rope made of twisted cords. And it has the same origin as the word for a spider’s web. 

Ounce for ounce, the fiber of a spider’s silk is one of the strongest materials that exists – 10 times tougher than Kevlar which is used to make bullet proof vests. Medical researchers have discovered healing powers in the spider’s web. And the construction of a web is an amazing thing to watch. How does a spider know measurement and design and geometry? Why do different species build webs of different designs? How did that fragile web survive when it was anchored to a door that got opened and closed every day and a plant that swayed in the breeze? It is all a miracle. 

And this miracle is a kind of parable for human waiting and hoping. I do a lot of that these days, waiting and hoping for a safer world, an easing of the pandemic, a return to sanity in our body politic. And I feel at times like that spider, in a most precarious fashion. What does she teach me? Maybe to anchor myself in the present, even if it feels like a moving target; to weave a strong web of prayer and support to sustain myself in the hard times and the good times; to hope for God’s healing power; to wait for what God will provide. 

Frederick Buechner has said we are to go where our best prayers take us. For me, maybe that means connecting myself to the source of faith, no matter how fragile and wavering it seems, and then casting off into the unknown guided by a thread of prayer, remembering that my prayers are both fragile and tough, always beautiful, guided by God, created in my soul. Waiting and hoping, holding to a thread, praying for a landing place, weaving a web of faith and hope and love.

The first web, falling into disrepair,
but still attached!!

 

The Church

In March 2020, days after our part of the world came to a screeching pandemic halt, I officiated at a wedding – in the backyard, five people present. Last night, I led that couple in a renewal of their vows. This time, they had a ceremony with their attendants, a lovely reception and family and friends around them. And their four-week-old son was nearby! 

We gathered in a lovely old building that has been turned into an arts center. Lots of events, including weddings, are held there. The building dates to 1889, when it was constructed to house St. Andrews Presbyterian Church. That church long ago merged with another Presbyterian church in town, but the building remained with the name above the door and an old Sunday School chalkboard in one of the event spaces. Alexander McClure was the minister for many years; he was active in the community and highly regarded. When he died, the businesses in the whole town closed so everyone could pay respects as his funeral procession passed. He also established ministries beyond St. Andrews. One of them, founded in 1926, was named in his memory: McClure Memorial Presbyterian Church. I was the pastor there for just over four years. There was a picture of him hanging in the hallway at the church. 

And there is a picture of him at the arts center – hanging over the bar. I wondered last night what he would think about that, and about that place where he preached all those years now hosting weddings and fancy parties. 

And I thought that maybe the spirit of the church was still in that place. There was so much love and joy present there. People were looking after each other -- loving their neighbors -- by wearing masks and being careful. We shared bread and wine (and cake!). There were laughter and tears, story-telling, remembering. There were prayers and blessings. It wasn’t a church, but somehow it was still church – people gathered in love, offering thanks for God’s gift of marriage, giving and receiving blessing. 

Sometimes people come to the church (the building), but more and more I think, the church needs to come to the people. Last night, I felt that I brought the church to the people, in that old once-consecrated space that was yet again made holy by Love.

 

Sunday School attendance board

The Rev. McClure's portrait hanging in the bar.....

Ministry

October 4 – today – is the 23rd anniversary of my ordination to the Ministry of Word and Sacrament. Some years I have had a quiet day of personal retreat to reflect on ministry, what God has called me to in the past and what new call might be emerging. I did not do that this year. 

October 4 is also the feast day of St. Francis. And today my ministry was less about the church and more about animals. The horse is lame and has to be dosed twice a day. The dog is on meds for neurological issues. One cat is just back from the hospital and is isolated from the rest. Another cat is on anti-depressants for stress. So I have spent time today caring for our animals. And there is ministry in that, too. 

I am thankful for all the ways my calling has stretched and challenged and blessed me. I am grateful for the churches I have served. I rejoice in the blessing of having a ministry in place, in a place that I love, with people that I love. And animals!

 

The Cross is Everywhere....

Moss growing on the back steps 

leading into the sanctuary where I preach

 

A Lack of Love...

NY Times, 9-25-21, data for Pender County

Every week we hear about someone who has gotten sick with Covid-19. People we know have been in the ICU for weeks and weeks. Some have died. It is heartbreaking. And part of what makes all this so tragic is that it does not need to be this way. 

Vaccines have been available since January – nine months, but just over half of the people in our county are fully vaccinated. The school board had required masks at the traditional start of the school year due to extraordinarily high rates of infection at the year-round school. But they voted to make masks optional starting October 4. One of the members said it was a matter of “freedom,” allowing families the right to choose what was best for them. 

I would rather be free of worrying about my mother getting sick. I would rather be free to go into a store where people were protecting others by wearing masks. I would rather be free to see friends again. We used to say that one person’s freedom ended where another’s nose began, but clearly a large minority of people in my county don’t practice that. 

And here is an irony: Many of those who refuse to wear masks and won’t get vaccinated profess to be Christian. Jesus said that one of the greatest commandments is to love your neighbor as yourself. But for many here, love of self, love of one’s own preferences and comfort, and love of personal privilege have overruled love of neighbor. It makes me sad. And it also makes me angry….

 

Sunday Driving

It seems hard to imagine, but folks once went driving, often on Sundays, just for fun. Piling in the car and slowly motoring along, they saw the sights, explored back roads, took their time. “Sunday driver” is now a pejorative term – someone who creeps along and holds things up. Our vehicles are utilitarian vessels, hurtling us from here to there as quickly as possible. They are not usually meant for pleasurable outings. We are all in hurry, and if you don’t believe that, try driving the 70-mile-an-hour speed limit on I-40!  

My sister and I did some Sunday driving this week. We took my 1949 Ford pickup to church. There are no seatbelts or turn signals, no AC, no radio, no automatic windows. Starting it involves turning the key, pulling out the choke, and pressing the starter. Top speed is under 40 mph. It slowed us down. We had some time to talk. The air blowing in the window was warm and sweet. There weren’t many others on the road so no one was blowing a horn and racing past us. It was a lovely little trip, a brief interlude of Sabbath grace.

 

This Sunday, three years ago....

Reposted

The Gospel, aka the Good News, for September 23, 2018

Mark 9:3-37

They went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.

Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

Maybe the flood waters are starting to recede in some places, but that will only reveal the destruction left behind.  Whole communities are underwater; roads are washed away; thousands are displaced, temporarily or forever.  People have died. A baby and her mother were killed when a tree fell on their house.  Another child was swept from his mother’s arms. There are tragedies beyond knowing, beyond words.  The rich and the poor alike have suffered, but the poor will suffer longer and harder.

I cannot reach my church building, so we are not physically together today. But I hope I have reached our congregation by prayer; I hope we are together in spirit.  I continue to pray that everyone is safe.  Recovery will take a long time and may never happen in some places.

And in the midst of this, Jesus reminds us of resurrection. He was teaching his disciples, and it was a hard lesson.  He would be betrayed and killed.  He would suffer.  But he would also rise again.  They did not understand what he meant and were afraid to ask him – afraid, maybe, because he would explain it and it was easier to pretend they did not know what was coming; afraid, maybe, because his suffering might mean suffering for them, too; afraid, maybe, because they would lose access to the power he had if he was no longer with them.

I think the third explanation is most likely.  He was healing and saving and feeding and touching and teaching, and they were part of that.  It must have been a heady experience, in the presence of all that power. And indeed, it went to their heads, because they started arguing about which one of them was the greatest.  They seemed to think that greatness was the same as power and privilege.  They missed the kind of greatness Jesus was trying to teach them about.  

In the past ten days, I have seen folks open their homes to people they barely know who have no place to go.  People have purchased toys to comfort children who now live in a shelter with food and cots, but precious little to play with.  Others have volunteered to cook and clean up, no questions asked.

Who is the greatest?

State troopers have kept lonely vigils at washed out roads to keep people safe.  Volunteers with boats have rescued people from flooded homes.  Volunteers with boats have gone back to rescue the animals.  

Who is the greatest?

Line crews from Tennessee and Ohio and who knows where else worked on the power on our road.  Nurses drove for hours to get to the hospital that is only 30 miles away.  A grocery store manager paid for food when someone’s credit card was not accepted.  

Who is the greatest?

Jesus answered the question this way:  “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” And then he put a child in their midst. “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

A child.  Not a great and powerful figure, not a person of influence and stature.  A child.  A vulnerable, powerless, needy, dependent child.

There are so many like that child right now – vulnerable, powerless, needy, and dependent.  Those who welcome and care for them are welcoming Christ, welcoming God.  They are caring for Christ, caring for God.

And remember what Jesus was trying to teach the disciples. After his suffering, there would be resurrection.  It will be hard to trust that here, that promise of resurrection.  But somehow already there are tiny signs.  A woman gave birth to her first child in a mobile medical unit in the Family Dollar parking lot.  Someone took a photo (above) of the medical folks with her and her new baby, and she was smiling, they were all smiling.  One couple from our church got married right in the midst of the storm. Another couple, also from our church, got married yesterday in the midst of the floods.  Yet another couple, friends of mine, are hoping to be able to wade to their wedding today.  Elders are pumping out and cleaning up our church building.  Members of our congregation are checking on each other (but, of course, they do that anyway!). People are eating hot meals that they could not cook, finding places to take showers and wash clothes, taking stock of what comes next.  There are glimpses of resurrection in the goodness around us, a goodness that shines like a light in the darkness, serves as a shelter in the storm, gives of itself, welcomes and cares for others.

Recovery will be a long, long process.  My heart aches for all the loss:  loss of homes, loss of livelihood, loss of life.  In many places it will be hard for folks to rise again.

And so I remember the last line of one of my favorite poems: Practice resurrection.

 (https://cals.arizona.edu/~steidl/Liberation.html):

Practice resurrection.  I don’t hear this as a command to get up and get going, to get past all this and get on with things, to get over it.   I hear it, instead, as a holy invitation, to look for signs of new life, to rise every morning and put feet on the floor and do one more day, to hope, to believe, to trust.  

Because Christ is in our midst.  God is with us.  Welcome the Holy.  

In the Vineyard

I have some friends who live near a vineyard. After the owners harvest the grapes, there are still many left on the vines. I joined my friends yesterday and picked “leftovers.” There were a lot of grapes, and I came home with two big baskets full. We have crushed the grapes and strained the juice, and the whole kitchen smells like sweet fruit. 

I am neither poor nor alien, but I have benefited from one of God’s holy instructions: “You shall not strip your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen grapes of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the alien: I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19.10) I am reminded of the abundance all around me, enough to go around and then some, enough to share. And there in the vineyard with my friends, we laughed and talked and ate some grapes. It has been a long time since I was out and about just for fun. And there was an abundance in that, too – being able to spend time with others on a late summer morning.

 

The "Before"

In late August/early September 2001, I had some friends over for supper. We got together about every six weeks or so, and it was always good to be together. On that late summer evening, I moved tables and chairs out into the backyard. The folding tables were put end to end to make one long table that I covered with a big crocheted bedspread placed over sheets. I think I got out my good china and silver. And candles – lots of candles! Also wine! Supper was ham, potato salad, pimento cheese sandwiches, and something (I’m not sure what) for dessert. We lingered at the table in that sweet twilight, laughing and talking and sharing our lives. Even in the moment, it seemed such a precious time.  

And then a few days later, it was September 11. The towers, and our sense of security, came crashing down. In the space of a morning, it seemed that the world had changed. There was a dividing line between the “before” and the “after.” In the “before” we could get on an airplane without x-rays. Those of other nationalities or faiths were not so overtly demonized. We were not at war. But “after,” a lot was different, and still is. 

But the group of friends that gathered that night in the “before” is still gathering, even the one who is now part of our great cloud of witnesses. We are still laughing and talking and sharing our lives, over Zoom for the most part. A lot has changed, but some of the really important things have not – time spent under the stars, attention to the sacrament of the present moment, laughing with those you love. Every day is precious but all too often we rush through life without noticing. So today: Tell someone you love them. Find something that makes you laugh. Give thanks for all the goodness that surrounds you, even in the midst of terrible times. And say a prayer for all those we lost that day and for those whose losses still loom large.

 

Weeds

Nut grass:  I have a lot in my garden!

It is that time of summer when it seems nothing wants to grow except the weeds. The official definition of a weed is a plant in the wrong place. The grass that won’t grow in the lawn will flourish in the flower bed – where it becomes weeds. I’ve been weeding raised beds in preparation for some fall planting. The squash and cucumbers have died, but the weeds are in full force! A spot that looked fine yesterday has already sprouted back. The weeds have developed survival tactics. They spread by long rhizomes underground; they set seeds early and often; they are drought resistant. Weeding can seem a never-ending chore. But it is a necessary process because, left untended, those weeds will crowd out the beneficial plants. They will suck up the nutrients and moisture and blot out the sunlight. 

As I have been weeding, I have reflected on some churches that I have known where there were “weeds” – people who were in the wrong place. Like the grass in a garden, they tried to take over. They had an aptitude for crowding out others, smothering fledgling ministries. They absorbed lots of the pastor’s energy, taking up more than their share of time and attention. Sometimes I have wished that I could pull them up by their roots, just the way I do the weeds in my garden! But I am reminded that even in that first Garden, things were not perfect. And things are certainly not perfect in the church – any church. And Jesus says that God makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. (Matthew 5:45). And even though some seem to soak up more sun and rain than they deserve, I suppose in God’s garden there are no weeds, nothing that is in wrong place. 

But I still want to uproot some folks and send them to the church down the road!

 

Rush Hour in the Country

On my way to pick up groceries curbside early in the day, I got stuck behind a school bus.  I was on a country road with curves and bends, and it was hard to see a safe place to pass.  So I followed.  The bus stopped at a small house where a man waited with a child in a heavy duty inclined wheelchair, more like a bed than a chair.  A lift unfolded toward the back of the bus and was slowly lowered to the ground.  The man turned the chair around, pushed it onto the lift, and secured it. He handed the large backpack he had been wearing to unseen waiting hands.  The lift slowly rose, and the person inside the bus unfastened the chair and rolled it inside.  I assume there was a similar process of securing the chair in the bus.  Then the lift was folded up, and the bus moved on.

I don’t know who that family is.  I don’t know anything about the adult or adults on the bus.  I don’t know if the other children were kind or cruel.  And I don’t know what it is like to spend a life in a chair like that.  But sitting there and waiting and watching made me wonder.  

 

Courage comes in many forms.  Getting up every day to tend to a child in a chair takes courage.  Driving a school bus takes courage.  Going to school in these pandemic times takes courage.  There was so much courage on display during the 20 minutes or so that I sat and waited.  

 

Life for me has slowed some in the past 18 months, but I still find myself rushing around with chores and projects to do.  It was good to stop, good to reflect on the quiet lives of courage and caring that are all around me.  It was good not to rush.

The Glory of God

When my niece was in kindergarten or so, she delighted at the way the sun’s rays shone through clouds. She called it the glory of God. And one day she went to school and declared that the glory of God had appeared in her front yard. Her teacher tried to correct her, telling her that the glory of God was everywhere. And maybe that is true, but that child experienced it in her yard. She saw the shining fingers of the Holy reaching down with a blessing for her, touching her place in the world. 

Driving along the other day, I saw the glory of God -- the rays of the sun streaming down through the clouds.  It was beautiful.  It was a reminder that the glory, the presence, of God is indeed everywhere. Sometimes I am too busy or worried or preoccupied to notice.  I suppose many of us are.

The little girl is all grown up now, but I hope she still encounters the glory of God. I hope she has not lost her sense of awe and wonder. I hope she knows that the hand of God still reaches out to her.  And the Light of the World shines on us all.

 

Burnout

During these interminable pandemic months, some folks have been cooking far more than they ever dreamed. Sourdough was big for a while. Three meals a day at home became the norm for many who were working and going to school from a computer on the kitchen table. Grocery shopping felt like an obstacle course: finding the store with good mask and distancing protocols, reserved hours for those at high-risk for the virus, planning on-line lists for curb-side pickup. I enjoy cooking, and most of the time, we all eat at home anyway, so the pandemic did not change much in my kitchen. I have not been grocery shopping in person since early March 2020, but with advanced planning, my kitchen routine is much as it was in the Before. And I still enjoy cooking. But that is not true for everyone. 

I recently read an article about burnout in the kitchen. Tired to the bone with planning meals and prepping and cooking and cleaning up, the author spoke by phone with a psychotherapist who explained what she was feeling this way: 

“Burnout is not the same as stress. …We experience stress with the adjustment to any life change, positive or negative. Getting married causes stress. Job promotions. But with burnout, you stop functioning. You stop doing the things that you typically care about, or you do them, but not very well, or without much feeling. You begin to lose touch with who you are. The most painful part is that burnout attacks things that we typically love so much, the activities that used to bring us joy and pleasure.” 

I think this explanation applies to much more than the kitchen. And I wonder, too, if some of what we label “stress” is really burnout – or a pressure cooker combination of the two. Things we used to look forward to, like getting together with friends, now produce anxiety and dread. We have bowed out of weddings and vacations and ordinary get-togethers. We have even bowed out of our careers. Health-care workers, teachers, ministers, and others are leaving their posts because there is no joy and pleasure. They have found themselves going through the motions. They have lost touch with who they are. 

One of the remedies offered in the article is a kind of mindfulness – setting aside space and time to be intentional, doing something simple but with care and focus, paying attention to the work and its sounds and sights and smells. And sitting with “the memories that come with those sensations. Even if they’re uncomfortable. Even if you begin to feel grief about the day and the year you’re having instead of the one you’d hoped for.” Rather than bucking up and carrying on, this approach welcomes the present reality for what it is – good and bad, beautiful and hard, fragrant and fatiguing. But the experts quoted in the article both emphasize the importance of taking a break. 

“When you’re depleted and running on fumes,” one of them says, “you can start to feel resentful: you’re doing something you don’t have the reserves to do.” It’s okay, she [says], to not feel okay. And it’s okay to eat toast for dinner. 

And for some, it is okay to walk away, to close the classroom door, to step out of the pulpit. It is okay. Better that than become toast….

 

Going With the Flow

Ten or twelve years ago, I attended a silent auction fund-raiser. There were lots of interesting items, but the one that I bid on and won was four watercolor painting lessons. I met with the instructor at a building with a wide porch surrounded by trees. The setting was lovely and the lessons were wonderful. Some time later, our town recreation department offered lessons, and I signed up. I painted some, and then this and that intervened and the palette was put away. But last week, I dug out the paints and paper and tried again. There is technique to master, I have a lot to learn and re-learn, but I am finding lots of on-line tutorials. It is fun and absorbing and challenging. 

When you put the water and the paint – or the paint and the water – on the paper, it seems to have a mind of its own. It runs and blooms and fills. Sometimes the color is pale, sometimes dark. Water on almost dry paint changes the tint and texture. The paint, not the painter, is in control! And the best results are suggestions not reproductions. 

What I "see" in my imagination is not exactly what happens on the paper, but, even so, I painted some flowers the other day. Some of them went on to the paper as colored dots, but they “read” as flowers. I am learning to loosen up, to let go, to see what happens. I am learning that an abstract stroke can become a blossom. I am one who usually likes to have things in order, to know what is going to happen, to be prepared. But somehow the lack of precision with watercolor appeals to me. I am learning to go with the flow, literally – good lesson in art and in life!

 

Scraps

My most recent project -- made from scraps in my stash!

 I am a quilter. I have lots of scraps (thousands…), little two-inch squares cut from fabric that I bought or got from a friend or had left over from other projects. I’ve used those scraps over the years to make some lovely pieces with a technique called watercolor. The design of the quilt is made by the printed fabric, all cut into uniform squares, rather than fabric cut in geometric shapes. For me, the design process is more intuitive than intentional. I usually have a general idea of what I want to do, but then I just start and see where it goes. Some pieces fit right in; others get discarded. And no matter how many tiny scraps I use, it seems there are always more! 

My great-grandmothers were quilters. I have been fortunate enough to receive some of their quilts. Two of them are what collectors would consider masterpieces. One is made of solid blue and white fabric, set in a design known as the “Carpenter’s Rule.” The stitches are small and even, covering the whole piece. The other is a “Star of Bethlehem,” made with several different fabrics but all in an even, matching design. The fabric for both of these quilts was likely purchased. They were designed in a certain way, the pieces chosen with care, not made from scraps leftover from other projects. And even though they were made 150 years ago, the quilts are in pristine condition. They were likely used only on special occasions or put on a bed just for show. They are beautiful. 

There is another quilt in this collection, not a masterpiece at all. It is made of random scraps, mostly dark fabrics. Unlike the other two, it is worn, the batting coming out in places. The stitches are longer and seem as though they were put in with haste. This was a quilt not to admire, not to showcase one’s needlework, but a quilt to use. It must have kept generations of us warm. When we were small and it was on the bed, we pretended that it was a countryside, with farms and roads and fields. We made hills by propping our knees up under it. We ran our fingers back and forth, like tractors plowing in the spring. We traced routes up and down like trucks traveling on a country lanes. The quilt was sometimes folded up to make a pallet by the woodstove in the winter or stuffed into a drafty spot. 

When I start on one of my watercolor quilts, I never know exactly how it will end up. Like the great-grandmother who made the scrap quilt, I use what I have, and hope that what I have will be used. 

Once upon a time, I wanted my life to be like those two heirloom-quality quilts, carefully constructed from fabric intentionally chosen, lovely to look at, all planned out. But reality is more random. I so just keep stitching together all the scraps of my life and hope that the outcome will be warm and useful. And maybe even beautiful!

 

A Lesson from the Bees

I started the summer season with three colonies of bees. Two of them were nucs – short for nucleus, five frames, half of a “box,” with a queen and larva or baby bees. One of the nucs grew and grew, new bees popping out and lots of activity. The other one was slower, smaller, not so active. The third hive was on its second year. The girls had survived the winter and were busy multiplying, coming and going, bringing back nectar and pollen. 

Yesterday, I checked on the hives. The small hive is no more. I think they just died out. Maybe the queen was not strong and did not survive. The hive from last year is empty, too. I think it may have swarmed. I’ll do a closer check in a day or so. The third hive, the one that started as a nuc, seems healthy and strong. But the honey super, the small box on top of the hive where the bees put extra honey, was bare. No honey this year. I hope they have put some down below for the winter. I’ll check on that when it is not so hot. 

And even though I was stirring around in the hive, removing the super, shaking off bees, they were calm. They have been calm all summer. We see them a lot at the swimming pool, drinking water, crawling on floats, even perching on someone’s arm. The kids have learned not to be afraid. They know that the bees generally won’t sting unless they feel attacked. And when they do have to sting, it costs them everything: they die. 

 I think of how casually people attack each other for no reason, especially on social media. Many of the attacks are unprovoked. If people don’t like something, they strike, they sting, they harm and cause pain. I wish they could learn restraint from the bees. 

 In his small book The Art of Pastoring, Bill Martin says this: 

I have often wished that martial arts were taught in seminary…. As a martial arts student, I was taught that a true artist strikes only under extreme necessity and always with the minimum force necessary to protect himself. I was also taught that if I ever have to strike, I have lost.

 

A Tale of Two Men

I was part of a small group recently where people were talking about how long they had lived in the same area. Many in the group were life-long residents. Some, including me, had returned “home” after years in another place. One man noted that his family had lived here for over 300 years. Their home had been a large plantation at one time. Another man’s ancestors had also lived here for a long time; they had been able to buy some land that was once part of a different plantation. The first man’s family had owned property for a long time. The second man’s family had been property…. The two men are devoted to their community. They work together for the common good. They are friends. And maybe it is progress that they can and do sit together at the same table. But the sheer energy and persistence of that second man and his ancestors to get to that table boggles the mind. And we have so much more to do to overcome the injustice of the past that lingers on into the present. Lord, have mercy.

 

How to live on a farm

First get some hens 

and then 

add a hive a bees 

and make a garden with peppers and beans 

and plant some flowers. 

And then spend hours 

weeding. 

Feed the goats

and the horse, of course.

Sow some sunflowers 

for the bees. 

After the peas 

are picked 

plant some pink and purple corn 

and spend the morn 

mourning over the deer damage. 

Pull up the root 

vegetables – carrots, turnips, radish— 

and watch the shoots 

of nut grass take their place. 

And when it is hot, hot, hot 

absolutely do not 

venture past the porch, 

with a cool drink 

and time to think 

of getting ready for winter. 

Retreat to the kitchen 

and pickle and jam and can 

all that you can. 

And rejoice in abundant life: 

the earth rife 

and ripe with all that is needed…. 

even when it is not weeded!

 

Connectedness

The Overstory was part of my summer reading. It is an epic tale about …trees: all their parts from root and seed to crown, their impact on people, their tenuous place in our world. It is a story of activism and engagement, love and loss, life and death. Above all, I think, it is a story of connectedness – how the trees are connected to one another and how humans are connected to trees and each other. 

Just as I finished the book, I read a news article about staghorn ferns. The ferns connect and communicate with each other, fulfilling different functions depending on where they are located on the trunk of the tree. The ferns high on the tree have developed fronds that direct rainwater into the centers of the other plants; those lower down have spongy leaves that collect that water; and some of the ferns don’t reproduce at all but seem to exist just to store water for the rest. Researchers call this kind of collective behavior eusociality. It is usually seen in bees and ants, insects that live together in colonies and have developed sophisticated divisions of labor. Scientists are increasingly aware of interconnectedness in the natural world. Within and among species, the whole is more than the sum of the parts. Insects, ferns, and trees connect and communicate and protect themselves. 

Long ago, a poet-priest wrote this: 

No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. 

We are not isolated; we are connected to all of life, all of nature. If a tree falls and dies, we are diminished somehow. And we are only beginning to understand our connectedness and how essential it is – for the trees, the ferns, the bees and the ants. And when they suffer, the bell tolls for us, too.

 

Smoke from a distant fire

There is a song from back in the day about betrayal and lost love with these lyrics: “Your eyes have a mist from the smoke of a distant fire.” I was thinking of that song when I was out weeding the garden. Our skies have been hazy this week, and the air this morning smelled faintly of smoke. Huge fires burning out of control in Oregon and other places west have generated smoke plumes that have travelled the width of the country, blown on easterly winds all the way to us. We are breathing the ashes of dead trees 3000 miles away. We are breathing the effects of climate change. Our eyes have the mist from the smoke of a distant fire, but those distant fires are not so distant after all.

 

Sunflowers!

The field of sunflowers has bloomed and faded. While they were in their glory, we cut great bunches of the sunflowers for the house and for church. And the bees were all over them! The conventional wisdom has been that sunflowers don’t have much to offer the bees, certainly not the nectar that they are seeking in these hot summer days. But research from NCSU shows that a diet of sunflower pollen can dramatically lower rates of certain infections that plague honeybees and bumble bees. The bees apparently don’t subscribe to conventional wisdom! They know instinctively what is healthy for them. And it was healthy for us, too, to have those cheerful blooms nearby.

 

Bounty!

Send out your bread upon the waters, 

for after many days you will get it back. 

Ecclesiastes 11:1 

My Daddy was a farmer. He loved the land; he loved growing things; he loved his neighbors. And few things made him happier than giving away his crops. He planted and watered and worried over his corn so he could give it away to others. He opened his field of peas to anyone who wanted to pick them. In his last years, the whole point of his farming was to share with others. 

And I am the recipient of his generosity. Almost every week this summer, one friend or another has arrived on my doorstep with something from their gardens: blueberries, blackberries, corn, squash, cucumbers, cantaloupe, watermelon, okra. We have had more than enough, and I have made jelly and jam and pickles. Now when someone arrives with bounty to share, I can share, too. Daddy cast his corn upon the neighbors, and after not so many days, it has come back to us!

A Party!

We had a small dinner party for the first time in a very long time.  It was lovely, and we started preparing for it far in advance of the date.  We invited some folks who didn’t know each other but we thought would have common interests.  We planned the menu, shopped, and prepped.  We cleaned the porch, arranged flowers, got out the silver and the crystal (to go with the pottery plates!).  When the evening arrived, we were ready to welcome our guests and celebrate being together.  We had a great time!

Our experience makes me think that worship ought to be like a dinner party – something we look forward to, plan and prepare for, a celebration of being together.  We might think about including new people, inviting those who don’t know each other to come together in fellowship.  And how wonderful it would be to make it special, to bring out all of our best – singing voices, generous offerings, fervent prayers – rather than treating the occasion as just another day.  

 

There is always the hope and possibility that worship will transcend the ordinary, that something wonderful will happen.  When we prepare ourselves, when we anticipate the holy, we are more likely to see how God is always present.  

 

And worship is not like a party that we give for God, but the reverse:  Worship is a grand feast that God has prepared for us.  Every Sunday we are invited to “taste and see that the Lord is good.”  Every Sunday we are welcomed to God’s great banquet, where the best of everything is waiting for us. Every. Single. Sunday!