I love reading the Old Testament... no shilly shally... straight talk between God and Creation... between humans and God. In all of Old Testament life, there is the sense of God’s immediate presence. God is in a rainbow... a burning bush... a rock that gives birth to water... in fleeces made wet and dry. God’s pleasure or anger or grief can be found in the daily lives of our faith family ancestors stories. They talk to God... sometimes talk back to God... whine and complain to God... sing praise to God... give thanks to God... plead and beg from God... and God responds. There is an active listening (I have a husband with a Ph.D. in Pastoral care so I know what these words mean) and active speaking between God and the people... no sense of distance or fuzzy images in the dialogue with the God of the Old Testament.
I wish I could have such a connection with the world around me. I wish I could hear God’s voice in the sound of a donkey’s bray or in the stillness of the woods on the farm. I wish I could see God on top of a mountain or in a thunderstorm. I wish I had the same sense of God in my world that King David and Abigail and Eve and Adam and Abraham and Sarah and Joseph and Rahab did.
Our modern world has so many mysteries explained by science and logic that we have left very little room for the unexplainable. Our need to understand... to control... to make it better... to replicate creation... has pushed the Holy out of our daily living. It is hard to hear the Voice when we are listening to T.V. and iPods and traffic and computers and DVD’s and MTV and news reports of far distant lands and wars and rumors of wars and pestilence and starvation. The Holy goes underground for protection from our obsession with the need to know... to communicate... to change the world.
It is a comfort to know that we can still find the Mystery living with us. All we need are ears to hear ...eyes to see... and time to be still. When I am still, I can hear the voice of the mourning dove crying softly in the early morning light. And I can remember Jesus’ reminding us of God’s care for the birds. How do they live... where do they nest... how do they sing... where do they go when they migrate... how are their feathers so beautiful in life... questions my four year old grandson asks, lead me to the Mystery of Creation in the birds. Matthew isn’t asking for facts or explanations alone. He is recognizing the wonder, the joy, the mystery of birds... giving thanks for their creation and loving them.
Living on a farm helps you understand farmers’ preoccupation with the weather. Sometimes what the weather will do determines if you harvest good hay or hay that has had all the nutrition washed out of it by rain as it lay on the ground to dry. In spite of our modern weather prediction systems, our confident assumptions about our ability to know what is going to happen and when, the weather continues to confound us. Our guesses are more educated but they are still guesses... not the absolute final word about the coming of snow or rain or sunshine.
So I wake up in the morning, look out the window and guess... do those clouds mean snow... what a beautiful color they are with the reflected sunlight... maybe we will have some sunshine today... look at the wind blowing through the willow tree and shaking all the drooping branches... the ground is frozen so if it snows, it will stick... wouldn’t it be lovely to have enough snow to go sledding...the arrival of snow is still a mystery for us.
The Mysterious One is all around me and in me. For Lent, I will stop looking for answers and look for questions... stop expecting to know and let myself be known... stop paying attention to the noise of the world and listen for the silence...stop worrying with what I cannot explain or predict or control and start looking and listening and giving thanks for God around me and in me and still in my world. Like the Old Testament people, I will find the Holy One everywhere I go...I am not in charge, the Mystery is...
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
children of light
Ye are all the children of light... 1 Thessalonians 5:5
Alison sent me some pictures from Uncle Calfrey’s funeral... pictures of Uncle Harold holding her baby boy Aidan. Uncle Harold’s weathered, gnarled farmer hands are tenderly holding the tiny boy... his face smiling through the grief at the sight of this new life in the world. His baby brother’s life has ended but he sees the hope in this new boy baby. The old farmer’s face shines white at his forehead where his hat covers his head... he never goes outside without his cap... two children of light... one beginning his journey and one at the end... precious children of light.
I look at the image of Uncle Harold and Aidan and see the young boy inside the old man and I catch a glimpse of the old man in the baby boy. We are time travelers... and we carry the past and the future within our mortal selves. Aidan carries the family memories in his body. Somewhere in his genetic code lives my dad... Uncle Harold... me... Alison, his mother... my grandma... Michael, his Pop... David his father... David’s parents... all those who have gone before... all those children of light who are a part of his past and his future.
The inner light, an image beloved by Quakers, shines in us all. Some of us are more translucent than others... sometimes the light is dimmed by sorrow, grief, anger or hurt... but the light does not go out. It is a gift that comes to us when we are born... a welcome to the world gift from our Creator. Perhaps that is why we respond so sweetly to babies... the light has not yet been shadowed by the passage of time.
Their beings reflect a clearer image of ourselves as we are meant to be... as we are... as we could be... dependent on others for our nurture and care... unable to control the world around us... having faith that what is needed will be provided... trusting in the loving care of those who surround us in our present and past... children of light whose only task is to grow towards Love and bring our reflection of the Loving Light into this dark world.
As Lent begins next week, I will store in my heart the images of Aidan and Uncle Harold. I will carry their reflected Light in my memory as I enter the time of growing darkness... the journey towards the extinguishing of the Light of the World... and trust that the Light will come alive again... I will wait for the Light to shine on and through me once again. For as surely as day turns into night, night will become day again and I will be bathed in the Light that never dims or fades... the Loving Light of my Creator. Thanks be to God for darkness and light...
Alison sent me some pictures from Uncle Calfrey’s funeral... pictures of Uncle Harold holding her baby boy Aidan. Uncle Harold’s weathered, gnarled farmer hands are tenderly holding the tiny boy... his face smiling through the grief at the sight of this new life in the world. His baby brother’s life has ended but he sees the hope in this new boy baby. The old farmer’s face shines white at his forehead where his hat covers his head... he never goes outside without his cap... two children of light... one beginning his journey and one at the end... precious children of light.
I look at the image of Uncle Harold and Aidan and see the young boy inside the old man and I catch a glimpse of the old man in the baby boy. We are time travelers... and we carry the past and the future within our mortal selves. Aidan carries the family memories in his body. Somewhere in his genetic code lives my dad... Uncle Harold... me... Alison, his mother... my grandma... Michael, his Pop... David his father... David’s parents... all those who have gone before... all those children of light who are a part of his past and his future.
The inner light, an image beloved by Quakers, shines in us all. Some of us are more translucent than others... sometimes the light is dimmed by sorrow, grief, anger or hurt... but the light does not go out. It is a gift that comes to us when we are born... a welcome to the world gift from our Creator. Perhaps that is why we respond so sweetly to babies... the light has not yet been shadowed by the passage of time.
Their beings reflect a clearer image of ourselves as we are meant to be... as we are... as we could be... dependent on others for our nurture and care... unable to control the world around us... having faith that what is needed will be provided... trusting in the loving care of those who surround us in our present and past... children of light whose only task is to grow towards Love and bring our reflection of the Loving Light into this dark world.
As Lent begins next week, I will store in my heart the images of Aidan and Uncle Harold. I will carry their reflected Light in my memory as I enter the time of growing darkness... the journey towards the extinguishing of the Light of the World... and trust that the Light will come alive again... I will wait for the Light to shine on and through me once again. For as surely as day turns into night, night will become day again and I will be bathed in the Light that never dims or fades... the Loving Light of my Creator. Thanks be to God for darkness and light...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Sing Them Over Again to Me...
My first church memories are centered in a white painted concrete block church in north Florida... Pinetta Baptist Church. On Sunday morning, the men would be gathered around outside smoking and talking. Even though a few women smoked, they did so at home, never in public. When you entered the front door, the first thing to catch your eye was the large framed Church Covenant hung behind the choir loft. The knotty pine paneling had turned orange over the years and the wooden pews were too upright to be comfortable... and not padded. The boards that held the Sunday School reports hung on the left side of the platform... attendance, offering, how many read their Bibles last week, attendance from last week. The board to the right held the hymn numbers for the morning... but those numbers were subject to last minute changes.
We were a very poor church financially. It stretched the budget to hire a pastor. Most of our members were dirt farmers with poor dirt... sandy north Florida soil did not grow cash crops easily. A few of the members worked at the local paper mill and had a steady income but most of our congregation lived well below the poverty line. I don’t remember feeling poor or deprived in that church though. It lived large... peanut boilings at the Woodard house after Sunday night service... home made ice cream at the Buchanan house... VBS with cookies and Kool Aid... dinner on the grounds at least four times a year... twice a year revivals... traveling teachers from the Baptist Convention who came to teach everything from music to books of the Bible... gathering at the Ellington house to help with the cane syrup making... and the singing... the songs that lived in the hearts of those people were joyful and spirit filled.
On fifth Sundays, we would have hymn sings during worship. You could call out the name and number of your favorite hymn and we would sing it. Our pastor, Brother Rowan, loved to sing and sort of sang tenor. Mr. Crafton always wanted to sing "How Tedious and Tasteless the Hours" and he wanted it sung s-l-o-w-l-y. Mr. Buchanan loved the old gospel hymn "No, Never Alone" with its chorus punctuated by staccato "No’s". Miss Jeanette loved "How Great Thou Art". I loved them all. I can still sing them today... remember the key in which they are written... feel the joy of singing that surrounded that poor little Baptist church worship on Sunday mornings. I can hear Mr. Buck singing bass... Miss Jeanette and Mrs. Tyre singing alto... Mrs. Ellington singing soprano... Mr. Crafton singing notes of his own choosing. The music lifted our hearts and souls to God leaving behind the struggles of making it in this world. I give thanks for the great gift of joy in music they gave me.
The pianist was a teenager, Carolyn Woodard. She played beautifully and was a music major in college. I wanted to be like her... play the piano like her. Her music gift shared with the church family provided a model for me... a place for me... My first piano lesson was at Mrs. Buchanan’s house on her piano. She was keeping us during the summer while mama went to business school. I learned to play "Wonderful Words of Life" by memory... key of G major... one sharp.
"Sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life; Let me more of their beauty see, wonderful words of life. Words of life and beauty, teach me faith and duty; beautiful words, wonderful words, wonderful words of life". And those wonderful words of life sung every Sunday morning in worship and sung while I iron and feed the cows continue to teach me faith and duty... show me the beautiful way of Love. How can I keep from singing?
We were a very poor church financially. It stretched the budget to hire a pastor. Most of our members were dirt farmers with poor dirt... sandy north Florida soil did not grow cash crops easily. A few of the members worked at the local paper mill and had a steady income but most of our congregation lived well below the poverty line. I don’t remember feeling poor or deprived in that church though. It lived large... peanut boilings at the Woodard house after Sunday night service... home made ice cream at the Buchanan house... VBS with cookies and Kool Aid... dinner on the grounds at least four times a year... twice a year revivals... traveling teachers from the Baptist Convention who came to teach everything from music to books of the Bible... gathering at the Ellington house to help with the cane syrup making... and the singing... the songs that lived in the hearts of those people were joyful and spirit filled.
On fifth Sundays, we would have hymn sings during worship. You could call out the name and number of your favorite hymn and we would sing it. Our pastor, Brother Rowan, loved to sing and sort of sang tenor. Mr. Crafton always wanted to sing "How Tedious and Tasteless the Hours" and he wanted it sung s-l-o-w-l-y. Mr. Buchanan loved the old gospel hymn "No, Never Alone" with its chorus punctuated by staccato "No’s". Miss Jeanette loved "How Great Thou Art". I loved them all. I can still sing them today... remember the key in which they are written... feel the joy of singing that surrounded that poor little Baptist church worship on Sunday mornings. I can hear Mr. Buck singing bass... Miss Jeanette and Mrs. Tyre singing alto... Mrs. Ellington singing soprano... Mr. Crafton singing notes of his own choosing. The music lifted our hearts and souls to God leaving behind the struggles of making it in this world. I give thanks for the great gift of joy in music they gave me.
The pianist was a teenager, Carolyn Woodard. She played beautifully and was a music major in college. I wanted to be like her... play the piano like her. Her music gift shared with the church family provided a model for me... a place for me... My first piano lesson was at Mrs. Buchanan’s house on her piano. She was keeping us during the summer while mama went to business school. I learned to play "Wonderful Words of Life" by memory... key of G major... one sharp.
"Sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life; Let me more of their beauty see, wonderful words of life. Words of life and beauty, teach me faith and duty; beautiful words, wonderful words, wonderful words of life". And those wonderful words of life sung every Sunday morning in worship and sung while I iron and feed the cows continue to teach me faith and duty... show me the beautiful way of Love. How can I keep from singing?
Monday, February 12, 2007
the coyotes of lent
Last night the coyotes were in full voice. This is the closest sound to a wolf’s howl you can hear in the mountains now. The sound makes the hair stand up on your neck... just like a rattlesnakes rattles... or a fingernail scratch on the blackboard. Some sounds just yank me straight up and out of deep sleep... coyotes howling accompanied by our dogs howling back will keep me awake for awhile. First I have to put the dogs up and lock them in... no small feat in mid-winter night cold air. Then I get to lie awake listening to the coyotes and worrying about Annie who is calving tonight. We have lost one newborn calf to them and it is a shocking sight to see a calf gutted and half eaten by coyotes. Mother Nature is an unforgiving parent. The strong and hungry eat the weak and defenseless.... a black and white proposition in my world of shades of grey.
As far as I can tell, the coyote has no socially redeeming features. They have migrated to our part of the world because their natural predators have been eliminated... one more place where man’s meddling with Mother Nature has not helped. When they move in, rabbits disappear as do squirrels. All baby livestock is at risk as are the wildlife babies... turkeys, deer, foxes. They will circle prey and run in nipping at its heels until blood loss weakens the animal and it can be killed.
All farmers face hard choices...black and white choices. Do we hunt and kill coyotes as a method of crowd control? Do we buy a donkey or llama to protect our animals and let the wildlife fend for itself? Do we do nothing and hope they move on when the food supply is decimated here? All these choices have side effects... just like medicine.
If you hunt, you must have hunters you can trust who will not give up or endanger your livestock. The coyote is a wily animal indeed and difficult to kill. If we buy a donkey or llama, we have another mouth to feed that cannot be sold or produce for a profit... a guard animal that protects is a good option but has a price... feed is not cheap. Waiting until the food supply is gone means we will not be seeing baby rabbits playing in the orchard... or watch squirrels race around gathering walnuts in the fall... or see the foxes hunting in the meadow on the hill for mice...and the sound of the turkey gobbles and the grouse drumming will become scarce music for our ears.
Lent is a season of black and white. There are no shades of grey in the story of the journey to the cross. Jesus is traveling towards death... and he knows it... and we know it... a story we have lived ourselves as we have died in many different ways. When I am marked with the ashes, the contrast between my pale skin and the black, oily ashes reminds me there is a time to choose... a time to name... a time to remember what is good and what is evil. What is the Christian way in a world that sees nothing wrong with children going hungry in a country that is rich? What is the Christian way in a culture that does not value the sanctity of all life... on death row, at war, in the woods and mountains, unborn babies as well as those who live out the ends of their lives forgotten in warehouse nursing homes? What answers do we have for those in prison and on welfare... for our neighbors whom we cannot call by name and do not know?
Perhaps this is what Jesus was feeling when he wept over Jerusalem just before he went to the Temple and cleaned house... this feeling of sorrow over black and white choices that have unintended consequences. I will be temple cleaning for Lent... looking at choices I have made that need to be changed... relationships damaged by my angry words and strong feelings... places where I have taken short cuts and not been willing to stay the course... my wounded self and the wounds I have inflicted... all are welcome at Lent and the clear choice comes... stay the same or change? Be honest or hide behind the shield of unknowing?
I think we will look for a hunter... and get a donkey... and improve our wildlife habitat... and pray for resurrection and new life.
As far as I can tell, the coyote has no socially redeeming features. They have migrated to our part of the world because their natural predators have been eliminated... one more place where man’s meddling with Mother Nature has not helped. When they move in, rabbits disappear as do squirrels. All baby livestock is at risk as are the wildlife babies... turkeys, deer, foxes. They will circle prey and run in nipping at its heels until blood loss weakens the animal and it can be killed.
All farmers face hard choices...black and white choices. Do we hunt and kill coyotes as a method of crowd control? Do we buy a donkey or llama to protect our animals and let the wildlife fend for itself? Do we do nothing and hope they move on when the food supply is decimated here? All these choices have side effects... just like medicine.
If you hunt, you must have hunters you can trust who will not give up or endanger your livestock. The coyote is a wily animal indeed and difficult to kill. If we buy a donkey or llama, we have another mouth to feed that cannot be sold or produce for a profit... a guard animal that protects is a good option but has a price... feed is not cheap. Waiting until the food supply is gone means we will not be seeing baby rabbits playing in the orchard... or watch squirrels race around gathering walnuts in the fall... or see the foxes hunting in the meadow on the hill for mice...and the sound of the turkey gobbles and the grouse drumming will become scarce music for our ears.
Lent is a season of black and white. There are no shades of grey in the story of the journey to the cross. Jesus is traveling towards death... and he knows it... and we know it... a story we have lived ourselves as we have died in many different ways. When I am marked with the ashes, the contrast between my pale skin and the black, oily ashes reminds me there is a time to choose... a time to name... a time to remember what is good and what is evil. What is the Christian way in a world that sees nothing wrong with children going hungry in a country that is rich? What is the Christian way in a culture that does not value the sanctity of all life... on death row, at war, in the woods and mountains, unborn babies as well as those who live out the ends of their lives forgotten in warehouse nursing homes? What answers do we have for those in prison and on welfare... for our neighbors whom we cannot call by name and do not know?
Perhaps this is what Jesus was feeling when he wept over Jerusalem just before he went to the Temple and cleaned house... this feeling of sorrow over black and white choices that have unintended consequences. I will be temple cleaning for Lent... looking at choices I have made that need to be changed... relationships damaged by my angry words and strong feelings... places where I have taken short cuts and not been willing to stay the course... my wounded self and the wounds I have inflicted... all are welcome at Lent and the clear choice comes... stay the same or change? Be honest or hide behind the shield of unknowing?
I think we will look for a hunter... and get a donkey... and improve our wildlife habitat... and pray for resurrection and new life.
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