I love church historians...

I love church historians. They have the long view. I am re-reading an autobiography now... The Living of These Days... by Harry Emerson Fosdick that is a long view of the fundamentalist/liberal clash in church. He preached a sermon in 1922 titled “Shall the Fundamentalists Win?” that ultimately cost him his pulpit at First Presbyterian in New York City. Fosdick, a Baptist with views on denominations and the Christian faith that did not meet the norms of his day, built a team of Presbyterian ministers who minded the church, tended the denominational home fires while he was the preaching/pastoral care part of the team. He, by his own admission, was not a good organizer or administrator but he was a top notch preacher. Fosdick defined his sermons as pastoral care for a group unlike the expository style of preaching prevalent in his day. He tried to “reach out and touch” those in the congregation who needed to be lifted up, encouraged, given hope.
I went online and read that 1922 sermon. It could have been preached any time during the latest Baptist wars and been on the mark. And it could be preached to any of our mainline denominations today who are up in arms over issues such as women, LGBT folks, the need for orthodoxy and regulation of the sheep and the shepherds. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
In an earlier church life I had a hissy fit when the words to Fosdick’s great hymn were changed to meet the current norms of liberal theology. It seemed to me then, as it does now, that even though our interpretations of the language may change, we “dis” our faith fathers and mothers, their experience as Christian men and women, when we rewrite their history, their words to suit our needs. We know and are known, our time in history is marked by the language we use and the faith we share transcends our incomplete understanding. I digress...
The tumult and hysteria centered on Fosdick as a liberal faded somewhat when he left First Presbyterian. Fosdick was always careful to distinguish between fundamentalists (mean spirited and on a power trip) and conservatives (fundamental views but honorable). He had friends on both sides of the controversy and valued the differences even as he proclaimed his own truth.
And, wouldn’t you know it, God took that religious war and new life came from it. Riverside Church, built in what was then the God forsaken end of Manhattan Island, away from the posh and circumstance of Park Avenue, became a living testament to Fosdick’s vision of church. The church had ten kitchens... ten... because the buildings were full all week with children’s schools, groups meeting, neighborhood activities and the regular meeting of the church community. Neighbors of Union Theological Seminary and Columbia, Riverside Church ministered to students as well.
Fosdick was known not only for his sermons but also for the prayers he used to open worship. Here is one of my favorites.

Eternal God, the Light that does not fail, we worship you. We seek you not because by our seeking we can find you, but because long since, you have sought us. We do not seek the sun but open ourselves to its light and warmth when it arises. We do not seek the fresh air of heaven, but open our windows, and lo, it blows through. So may our hearts be responsive to your coming and receptive to your presence. Amen.

The long view... God is present even in the midst of our time’s tribulations. God was present for Fosdick and will be present for our children’s children. It is enough for me.

Fall on the farm...

The morning air is juicy crisp and tangy tart like a Stayman apple. Autumn has come to the farm and preparations are underway for winter.
The old high barn, once leaning into the ground like a ship run aground, now stands upright with new beams and sills. Soon the old wood siding will be back in place and holes in the roof patched with old tin. It will be ready for winter this year after nearly sinking into the ground under the weight of our twenty inch snow last Christmas.
Old Ferdinand the Bull, now retired from bulling, is being moved to the horse pasture. His arthritis makes it difficult for him to go up and down the steep hills. He needs extra feeding now that his teeth are so worn down that he cannot graze enough grass to fill his belly. It will be easier for us to tend him when he is in our back yard. My dad would be amused by my inability to act as a proper farmer who would have sent Ferdinand to market years ago, but I couldn’t. That sweet old English shorthorn bull will die here and then Michael and Gary will have to dig the biggest grave of all in the cow cemetery.
Jay Roberts is helping me prepare my flower borders for winter and the big fall church picnic next weekend. Brightly painted mums are beautiful complements to the leaves just tinged with color around the farm. While we were cleaning out one of the beds, clipping back bloomed out seed pods that had been stripped by birds, I saw two bright yellow large spiders, riding spiders, I think, building their zipper webs in the yarrow and black eyed susan stalks. We left them for Aidan and his friend Isaac to see when they came Friday. When I took the boys out to see the two spiders...ooops! In the center of the web, one spider was on top of the other spider who was now dead and being encased as a to go meal along with a grasshopper. Stocking the pantry for the next crop of spiders was an unexpected lesson in the realities of living with Mother Nature.
Autumn... bittersweet memories of summer’s fullness and life’s unending cycles of birth and death... my favorite season of the year. Fall contains new beginnings as well as endings and my memory safety deposit box contains the smell of new crayons and the feel of clean notebooks, the crisp starchy crunch of new dresses for school being worn for the first time, the feelings of a do over, a chance to begin again and an opportunity to do better this year. After the loosey goosey summer, order returns and schedules provide a safety net for me, deadlines and expectations.
Miss Winnie, our eighty seven year old pianist has been ill and I have been accompanying worship on the piano. My skills are a little rusty. Keeping up with what is sung where keeps you on your toes. We sang the final “Amen” a capella Sunday because I was getting ready for the postlude and forgot the “Amen”. Oh, well. Pastor Pat likes to sing a capella once in awhile anyway.
Years spent sitting on the piano and organ benches of various Baptist and Presbyterian churches have left their mark on me and those body memories are flooding back as I struggle to get my fingers in shape. One of my gifts as an accompanist is the ability to play with feeling. I am finding God again not by singing but in interpreting what I hear and feel in the notes and words on the pages of our hymnals. I am grateful for the chance to reclaim this part of my soul work.
Like the spider, I am drawing into the center of my web, making preparation for the season to come, dark night and winter cold. It is time to pull together what I will need for this next season of the soul...deep breaths of autumn air that set my teeth on edge remind me to be grateful for my body, this life and my age... no longer young but full of both memory and possibility. Darkness drawing near with the promise of more light yet to come...
My friend Deryl Fleming wrote these words that are my Autumn Prayer... We do not any of us get what we deserve in life. We live not by just deserts but by sheer grace. And here and there, now and then, we know it. When we do, we who have been graced become gracious grateful creatures of the Giver. Which is why we are here, to render our lives as compositions of gratitude.
And so I shall this winter work to render my life a composition of gratitude. I will write in my new autumn composition book songs of thanksgiving and praise that will warm me in the depths of darkest coldest nights, a reminder of light and warmth yet to come. Thanks be to God for the seasons of the natural order and for the seasons of the soul. Amen.

Clotheslines...

Mama always had a clothesline wherever we lived. So did everyone else we knew. As soon as my arms could reach the line, hanging out the clothes became one of my chores. I didn’t mind it. The wet clothes smelled good and it was fun to make a tunnel by stretching the sheets over two lines. After all the other clothes were hung out, I could run through the sheet tunnel. Hanging clothes out in the winter could be tricky but usually, even on our coldest days, there was enough sun to dry them.
I did hate the pants stretcher, though. Someone invented a contraption that fit down in wet jeans and other pants to stretch them as they dried. Theoretically, this made them easier to iron. Practically, it took longer to get the stretcher in the jeans than it would have taken to iron them wrinkles and all.
There was an order to hanging out clothes. Every family had their own method and children learned to follow the patterns laid down by their mothers. No more than two socks to a clothespin. Underwear hangs from the waist. Link the clothes together with a shared clothespin. Pants hang from the waist as do skirts. Don’t pin red things to white things in case they fade. Hang colored things inside out so the sun won’t fade them. Don’t let anything touch the ground. Sometimes clotheslines would sag and a pole prop would be needed to follow this rule.
Bringing the clothes in was never as much fun for me as hanging them out partly because I hated to fold them. The clothes pins went back in the little bag that hung on the line. The sheets and towels, a little stiff, smelled of the sun. My children insisted that clothes dried at Grandma’s house also had a faint whiff of cow manure but I think they were prejudiced. City kids, they grew up with a dryer and wanted soft sheets and towels not stiff ones.
And now I have a clothes line again. Two metal poles built by my father long ago stand guard at the back of the house. Placement was crucial. The lines needed to be far enough away from the horse fence so curious equines couldn’t reach and nibble on clothes. Clotheslines are in again, a green alternative to power hungry dryers and I am a part of the avant guard. All things old are made new again sooner or later. Mini skirts and clotheslines...
It is hard to be uppity when all the kids on the school bus see your underwear hanging out on the line... humility is an under rated virtue. And, all the neighbors clothes flapping in the breeze gave us kids a chance to see everybody’s laundry (and underwear). Somehow clotheslines brought us together as a community. Driving by Miz Barnes house as she was hanging out clothes, we waved and listened to the adult conversation about her boys and their farm. Washing days varied from family to family but the sight of wash hanging out seemed to start conversations about relationships and families.
I need a clothesline for my soul, a place in the sun to hang out all the stuff I am working on. Hanging out on the line, others can see what is going on with me. This blog is my spiritual clothesline in many ways. I don’t always hang things out neatly but they flap in the breezes of your responses. Good church is another place where I can hang out some of my laundry to dry. I look around and see other clotheslines full of soul work. We could all use some clothesline time... hanging up and out, bringing in the laundry, seeing what is going on with our neighbors and friends, standing in the outdoors away from appliances that need repairmen.
Wouldn’t you know it? The first day with my new clothesline and it is cloudy and rainy. I will have to wait until tomorrow to hang out my laundry. Oh, well. Patience is another virtue I need to learn.

With one voice...

I woke up suddenly to the sound of Barney’s song in the wee hours of the morning. He began his solo under our bedroom window and progressed around the house. I got up, went out on the porch and called him to me. The night was beautiful with clear skies and starlight so I sat awhile in silence with Barney beside me as we listened to the canine chorus singing. I could hear Leisa’s dogs, dogs from the next road over, dogs from the hills and valleys all around the farm, each singing their part in the Night Time Song of Dog. After awhile I went in and lay in bed slipstream thinking about voices and song.
Three grandsons were with us this weekend while their mother attended a high school reunion. Their voices began at 6:30 in the morning and stopped at bedtime. Sometimes they spoke separately but often, like Barney, they sang along with the chorus. A statement by one of them would lead to an accompanying riff from the other two. The ripple effect could be soothing if the decibel level was low or startling if there was disagreement or excitement in the choir.
Sunday morning I was called up to play the piano for worship. Miss Winnie, our 87 year old pianist, is ill and unable to play. The first hymn was “Soon and Very Soon” by Andrae Crouch, a hymn I love to sing but had never played before. It became apparent that what was written in the hymnal was not the way the congregation was used to singing it. We made it through somehow and I threw up my arms in relief to the laughter of the congregation. Thank God for the voices that knew the way it was supposed to be sung, who carried me along even when I played the wrong notes.
Morning time is quieter now as the birds are leaving for warmer winter homes. We wake to quiet stillness broken by the hum of crickets, not birdsong. There is a change in the choir loft as the season of autumn approaches. Different voices have begun to sing as another great cycle of change comes to Sabbath Rest Farm.
I reflect on the different voices I have had during my life... the voice of a daughter, a wife, a mother’s voice, a grandmother’s voice, the descant of a teacher, singing the song of a farmer or a deacon. Whatever the shape of the notes or the words, my prayer is that my voice will honor the One who gave me songs to sing. And if I stumble through an unfamiliar rhythm or my voice cracks on the high notes, I want to be fully present to the moment and belting it out.
Today I will sing the song of the farmer as I spray the cows for flies and feed them hay. When mama and I go to visit Margaret in the hospital, I will be singing as a friend and neighbor. As I pick up the truck from the repair shop, I will sing the song of the helper. In my heart I am singing a lullaby for Rowan and his parents, a lullaby of joy and thanksgiving as well as a prayer for sleep for them all. None of these songs are solos. Like Barney, I sing along with a choir. And I am grateful for all the voices and songs that lift me up. Thanks be to God.