Gardening

Two minutes after I finished planting my garden -- literally -- we had a hail storm. The rain came down in torrents with chunks of ice the size of giant marbles. I could have collected them and cooled a glass of iced tea. The chard and the beets look a little smashed, and some of the peppers, but I am optimistic that they will bounce back.

I garden for fun and because I love the feeling of wandering out to the back yard to see what I might have for supper. But I think of all those folks who grow things because they must, and I hope for them that the weather is fair and the growing season is long.

This year, the new thing I have planted is dinosaur kale. Even with its tiny leaves, it has a kind of prehistoric look. The beet greens are already red, the rainbow chard yellow, green and magenta. I have two colors of peppers, eggplant and heirloom tomatoes. And I am going to see if it is possible to grow okra north of the Mason-Dixon line. I'll keep you posted!

Beulah Land!

Last Sunday, we sang an old Southern hymn, "Dwelling in Beulah Land." You won't find it in the hymnals in the kind of churches I attend in Connecticut! The chorus has stayed with me all week:

I'm living on the mountain underneath a cloudless sky,

I'm drinking at the fountain that never shall run dry,

O yes! I'm feasting on the manna from a bountiful supply

For I am dwelling in Beulah Land.

There is one place in the Bible, Isaiah 62.4, that speaks of Beulah Land. It is a powerful statement of the promise of God's love fulfilled in the land itself, in the place of grounding, where the people find their life and livelihood. The prophet reminds them: "You shall no more be termed Forsaken, and your land shall no more be termed Desolate;but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her, and your land Beulah (Hebrew for Married); for the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married."

It is odd to think of the land being married, but the old hymn explains the meaning. It is to come to a place of abundance and joy, a place where all that is needed for life is present in overflowing measure. Maybe Beulah Land is all around us but our culture has become so soaked with fear and greed that all we see is scarcity. It is a fact that there is enough food in the world for everyone to be fed, and yet countless numbers die of starvation every day.

I was in my own Beulah Land when I sang the hymn. In the few days I was there, different people showed up with various little gifts: a cabbage freshly cut from the garden, a dozen eggs right from the chickens, potatoes and onions newly dug, squash and blueberries just picked. It was a bountiful supply of manna and we indeed had a feast, several actually!

And the first verse of the hymn starts with these words: "Far away the noise of strife upon my ear is falling." I did, in those few days, feel that the noise of the world's strife was far away; not absent, but not overwhelming either. To live in the place of abundance is to be able to be present in a world that is far from perfect and still to know that God's intention for all the earth -- people, animals, plants, and everything -- is only good, always shalom. It is to remember that the whole universe is, indeed, as Brian Swimme has said, "bottomless vaults of generosity."

Vocation

Charlotte, North Carolina, must have the best airport women's bathrooms of anywhere. They are clean and they have attendants! The woman who takes care of the bathroom in Concourse C is a treasure. She welcomes each person with a smile and a greeting. Traveling is stressful and a lot of us are not in the best mood, but she fixes that. "Come right in, ladies. Plenty of room. Take your seat and pour your own troubles!" It is impossible to leave without feeling less harried; it is impossible to leave without smiling.

Hers is not glamorous work, and I'm sure it doesn't pay very much. But she has made it a calling. She creates a little place of peace and fills it with her own contagious joy. She is doing honest work with integrity and grace. And what a world it would be if we all did that....

Saturday Sabbath

This is the busy season at the place where I work. It seems there is too much to do in the time we have over the next ten days. I have several things I need to complete before Monday, and I probably should have worked on them today. But it was a perfect May day. The sky was clear blue, the sun warm but not hot, and there was a little breeze blowing. So I hung the wash outside on the clothesline. I bought yellow begonias and planted them in my pretty blue pots for the front porch. I filled the little fountain in the front yard and got it going. I read a little bit. And tonight I will have dinner with friends.

The peril of technology is that there is no escape from the workplace anymore. It used to be possible to leave the office behind when I went home -- no more. Now it follows me everywhere, like a stalker almost. The scripture says that even God rested, took a deep breath, in the midst of work. So today I practiced being God-like -- I rested, I breathed, I played in my yard, I visited with my neighbor. And God saw that it was good.

How to eat peas

Go to the field.

Pick the first five fat pea pods of the season.

Pop them open with your thumb,

and eat them raw, right then and there!

Shopping at the Piggly Wiggly is a lovely experience, not a chore at all. The woman in the meat department does not find it at all strange to custom cut beef and pork chops for a vegetarian who knows nothing about meat. The assistant manager knows where everything is; and if they don't have something you want, all you have to do is ask and they will order and stock it for you. The aisles are wide and there are products that you don't think you would find in a country grocery store in the South -- guacamole, Italian wine, smoked paprika, adobo seasoning, polenta. The very best thing, though, is the check out. There is always someone to bag the groceries. The baggers sort your purchases in logical groups, all the cleaning stuff in one sack, the cold food together, the veggies in their own bag. Putting the groceries away at home is simple because of that. But, best of all, someone ALWAYS takes your bags to your car and loads them for you. They do not ask; it is taken for granted that this is part of what you get with your groceries.

Next winter, when I am struggling to push a shopping cart through a snow bank and the wind is cold and it is sleeting, I will wish for the good folks at the Piggly Wiggly!

An expedition into ministry

In my church, one of the questions that we ask those taking on particular ministries is:

Do you sincerely receive and adopt the essential tenets of the Reformed faith as expressed in the confessions of our church as authentic and reliable expositions of what Scripture leads us to believe and do, and will you be instructed and led by those confessions as you lead the people of God?

Recently, I was asked that question, except the person asking first misspoke the word “expositions” and said instead “expeditions.” I’ve been pondering that small slip and have decided that it might be a very good thing to ask those setting out to minister in a new role. What if I really did promise to take an expedition into what Scripture leads me to believe and do?

I’m thinking about those who take expeditions like climbing Mt. Everest. I’ve never done anything like that, but I once knew someone who had. The climb itself required months, maybe years, of preparation. There was physical conditioning and training, planning what to take and how to carry it, deciding on only the essentials for life. There was the tricky work of timing, going when the storms would not be quite as threatening. Climbing companions had to be engaged, those who know the mountain and its secrets, its dangers, its passage ways. And for all the challenges, there was an enduring exhilaration in carrying out the expedition.

And I find myself thinking that I ought to take on this ministry as an expedition: preparing myself, working on my stamina and endurance; choosing carefully what I need to sustain me on the journey; considering the conditions, the possibility of dangerous storms, and planning accordingly; and finding knowledgeable and supportive companions to accompany and help.

What if I really did travel deep into the Word? How would I be changed; how would the ministry I do be changed? Would I experience that enduring exhilaration that comes to those who take on what seems more than they can do and even so, get to the top of the mountain?

And from the same occasion of the question to me, this poem that I have known and loved, coming to me again in a new context, with a new meaning, with a new command:

Dark and cold we may be, but this

Is no Winter now. The frozen misery

Of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move;

The thunder is the thunder of the floes,

The thaw, the flood, the upstart Spring.

Thank God our time is now when wrong

Comes up to face us everywhere,

Never to leave us till we take

The longest stride of soul [we] ever took.

Affairs are now soul size,

The enterprise

Is exploration into God.

Christopher Fry, A Sleep of Prisoners (London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1951)

And I hear it now as another call to expedition, to take a long stride with my soul, to explore God, to go looking for what I am being led to believe and do.

Spring!

The flowering trees are like slightly wild party girls on their way home from a raucous night out. They are dressed all in pink and white, but now starting to look a little tattered. They are strewing confetti all around them. The petals litter the sidewalks and the gutters, mixing with the sand left over from winter, looking almost like snow, except for the pink and the rose color.

The peas, on the other hand, are not at all like these extroverted sorority girls. They poke their little green heads up out of the dirt, cautious and timid, as though they are not quite sure what is waiting for them. No wild abandon for them!

The hosta unfurls itself, and the lettuce and the spinach and the azaleas applaud. The world is very beautiful, and there are more shades of green than the eye can take in, more than the heart can count.

In the beginning, God saw that it was good, and, by God, it still is!

The Lord's Prayer

I can't remember when I learned the Lord's Prayer. It seems I have always known it. In English, that is. I do remember learning it in Greek, memorizing it, not because I had to but just because I wanted to. That was quite a wonderful experience: the words curling around in my mouth, strange and beautiful, joining me to the ancients who first recorded and prayed them, sending me in search of translations that led me to fresh (for me) and deeper meanings of words grown overly familiar.

I love to say the Prayer when I am in North Carolina, in the church of my childhood. There is a rhythm, a cadence, that is so different from "up North." Here, sometimes, it almost feels as though we have to say it as fast as we can, maybe because we are afraid God will lose interest if it goes on too long. But when I pray this prayer with the people who have known me all my life, there is a spaciousness between the words, a leisurely pace that seems to provide space to rest and be restored. I hear what I am saying, really hear it, and I have time to think about what I am praying.

The Prayer is outrageous when you really listen to your own words. Even the very first word: "Our." Not "my." Right at the get-go, I am gathered up into the great family of God; I belong. And all those others saying that word "our" -- in whatever language -- belong, too. And because we belong to God, we belong to each other. It is a radical connectivity, one that I mostly fail to live into. But there are other parts of the prayer that help with that: "Forgive us." And then there are the other demands: "Give us;" "Lead us not;" "Deliver us." How can we dare to command God, and yet we do every time we pray this Prayer.

A pastor I once knew who worked with Alzheimer's patients said that the 23rd Psalm and the Lord's Prayer stayed with those who were Christian longer than almost anything else. These are words that we know in the core of our being. But we know them so well that it is easy not to hear them, even when we are saying them out loud. So I cherish my Southern praying, being slowed down, surrounded by those who know and love me best, and hearing -- really hearing -- what I am saying to God.

For thine is the kingdom,

the power and the glory,

for ever and ever.

Amen

Christmas Eve

Christmas Bread

Micah 5:2-5a

Luke 2:1-20

What does Christmas smell like to you? Cinnamon, maybe, from cookies made with once-a-year recipes? How about pine needles from the tree set up in the living room? Or the warm, acrid smell of wood smoke from a fire in the fireplace? Maybe special company is coming and the house is full of the smell of wax and silver polish. There is also a special smell to a frosty December night when we are up late, waiting.

Christmas has many smells but I suspect that the smell of baking bread is not commonly considered a Christmas smell. Really, though, it ought to be. There is nothing more Christmassy than bread. But I doubt we think about our light bread or corn bread or biscuits as special Christmas food. Bread is so ordinary.

Except it isn’t, is it? As we gather around the Table here, the bread that we share is a powerful sign of God’s love in our midst. The bread that we break is the body of Christ. Nothing ordinary about that.

There is something about bread that feeds our bodies and our souls. When we speak of breaking bread, we are really talking about fellowship, nourishment for our hearts. Mother Teresa, a modern-day saint if ever there was one, spoke about her work with the desperately poor of Calcutta: "We give dying people bread," she said, "because they hunger and perish not just for bread but also for love. When we hand them bread, we are also giving them love." To be given bread when you are hungry is to be given love. That is what God does with us here, at this Table, on this holy night. God gives us love.

And tonight we turn our hearts to Bethlehem. We remember the little town where Jesus was born. We sing about it in our hymns. We picture it lying still under the starlight. We turn our hearts to Bethlehem, the little town whose name in Hebrew means House of Bread: bet which is house and lechem which is bread.

It was to Bethlehem, of course, that Mary and Joseph made their way. There was no room for them in the inn so they found shelter in the stable. There was no meal prepared and waiting for their arrival so they must have eaten the leftovers from their travels, hard crusts of bread perhaps washed down with milk still warm from a goat or a sheep in the stable. They were poor people. We kind of forget that when we look at lovely paintings of the holy family, clean and glowing, robed in blue and white.

And Bethlehem was a poor town. It was already an old village when Jesus was born. Although it was central in the history of David, in all truth, it was probably an insignificant place to all except those who lived there or had family connections there. It was close to Jerusalem, about five and half or six miles away, but certainly not as well known or important. It was just an ordinary place, nothing special – except in God’s eyes.

In fact, God had spoken through the prophet Micah to signal Bethlehem’s place in human history. It would be the place where the Messiah would be born, this tiny place. This “little clan of Judah” would be the origin of the one to rule the people, the one who would feed the flock, the one who would bring the peace the people hungered for. All that from just a little place.

Isn’t that so often the way God works, taking something small, insignificant, seemingly unimportant and using it to bring salvation and justice to the world? That is just what happened in Bethlehem, the little town whose name means “house of bread.”

Two simple, ordinary words for two simple ordinary things: house and bread. Except maybe not so simple and ordinary. A house is shelter, bread is food. These are the basics of survival; without them we would die. So Bethlehem, house of bread, comes to be that place that gives us what we need for life.

God’s miracle of a Messiah came into the world in that place. As the baby grew inside his mother, God was shaping the whole of human history. As a baker mixes the yeast in the dough, so God put eternal life in fragile flesh. Invisible at first, small and insignificant, growing and developing, coming forth to provide what we most need for life.

And as that baby grew into a child and into a man, he claimed for himself the legacy of his birthplace. He broke the bread and fed the multitudes. He gathered his disciples at the table. And he told a parable about the way God was at work in the world, at work in him. The kingdom of heaven, Jesus said, “is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measure of flour until all of it was leavened.”

And there is God for all of those centuries, kneading, shaping, working the yeast into the dough of the world until finally it began to rise in the womb of a young girl and she brought forth her firstborn son. She would name him Jesus and we would come to know him as the Bread of Life.

The gift of the Christ child, this good news of great joy for all the people, is like the gift of bread to the starving. The Messiah, the Bread of Life, fills our emptiness, answers our deepest hungers, renews and restores us, and gives us strength for the journey.

And as he is bread for us, so we are to be bread for the world. We are to be like loaves in his hands, taken, blessed, broken and multiplied, given in love to feed the hungers of a needy world.

There are many this night who cannot find their way to Bethlehem, who do not know the life giving presence of the one who is the Bread of Life. And there are many others who have no Bethlehem because they lack shelter and food. The one who has given us everything on this holy night calls us to give in return so that this weary world may know the coming of Christ that changes everything, when all will be fed and all will find a place to belong. The one who has given us everything calls us to make every house a Bethlehem, a house of bread, where Christ can be born and find shelter and nourishment. And where we, too, may be shaped by the hand of God into bread for the world, so that all who encounter us may know the glory of God and the peace of Christ just as those first residents of Bethlehem did so many years ago.

Every home a house of bread, every heart a Bethlehem. May it be so. Amen.

(c) Martha C. Highsmith 2009