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!