a streaker in the garden

I was reading the story of Jesus’ arrest this morning in the gospel of Mark. A verse I had never noticed before... never heard a sermon about... caught my eye. The crowd had arrived to arrest Jesus... Judas had delivered the betraying kiss... a servant’s ear had been cut off... the disciples fled as Jesus was arrested... and then this verse. "A certain young man was following Jesus, wearing nothing but a linen cloth. They caught hold of him, but he left the linen cloth and ran off naked". No other information is given... no resolution for his story... no names... no reason for his being there. I wonder who he was? Perhaps he lived near, heard the commotion in the night, wrapped himself in his bedspread and came to see what the fuss was about. He stayed after the disciples ran away... must not have known the danger he was in until they grabbed him. Whoever he was, he slipped away... long forgotten... unnamed... mysterious stranger in the middle of the crucifixion story.
The Bible does this sort of thing with regularity... shows you a part of the story and leaves you to fill in the blanks. God doesn’t make it easy for us... doesn’t provide a AAA triptych to heaven... no clearly marked maps... just bits and pieces... an incomplete treasure map. There is room for us to fill in the blanks and mark our own map to God.
Most of us have been curious enough... interested enough... lonely enough... to go to the garden looking for the Holy One. Most of the times I have gone searching for God have been times of great hurt, loss, grief, anger or despair just like the Garden of Gethsemane. Sometimes my search comes from a regular study or prayer practice. Once in a rare while, I see God’s face unexpectedly... Shimmering Loving Presence... revealed as a benediction... in nature... in the faces of children... in music... in the faces of those around me. I can count those times on the fingers of one hand... but they are enough.
Like the unnamed young man, the encounter with the Almighty leaves you naked... your whole self revealed... warts and all. Judgement Day... nothing can be concealed... all is known, loved, forgiven... I can be free at last, thank God, free at last. I am vulnerable without fear of hurt... known without fear of rejection... loved without fear of losing love... home to myself and to the Source of my creation. How I wish I could be that kind to myself... that honest... that open and unashamed with my deepest self. Instead, I run away from the revelation... the judgement... the forgiveness... the Love... the Life... to keep others ( but mostly myself) from seeing the real me, unclothed and unadorned.
Lent, properly observed, helps us catch glimpses of our real selves... the good, the bad and the ugly, the beautiful... gives us a ritual for preparation for death and true life... new life after the chaff has been blown away. Every year, we have a chance to start over. But one day, all this practice will have prepared us for our final Lent when we, like the young man, will stand in the Presence of God, stripped naked, our true selves, free from the bonds that have held us back... separated us from the Loving One who made us... waits for us... then and now... to come to ourselves and to come back Home.

lenten caves and purgatory possibilities

We’ve been on a road trip to Alabama... needed to check on Michael’s 94 year old father. He is living in a small assisted living/nursing home in the community where he is remembered and cared for. His home is near one of the many interim pastorates from his retirement and we took him to worship Sunday. Two or three times a month, someone will come and take him to church. Church has always been his reason for being and at church, for a little while, you can see bits of the old pastor shining through the fog of dementia. He hugs the ladies, waves at the children, shakes hands with the men and calls out to the people he sees. While leaning on his cane, he surveys all he sees and for him, it is all good. We stay until the last car drives away, the last hug has been given and we make our way slowly to the car. The animation leaves his face and like a dark, grey cloud, the full weight of his age and dementia settle down on him once again. Being around those who are in the last part of their life always prompts my feeler/thinker/soul to ponder the ways of life and the life after.
I always thought the Catholic concept of purgatory was a little odd... good Baptist girl that I was. I have changed my mind... the concept is valid but the location and timing are off. More of us than not will have some extended time in the land of the old. We will be limited by physical constraints, mental restrictions, and we will lose some of our personal freedoms. I used to see that as a curse... much like my earlier image of purgatory. During this time of the in-between there is room for the Holy One to come and help us get ready for what is next. We have an opportunity to remember, give thanks, grieve our sins and failures, prepare for the final letting go.
I watched my dad live in purgatory for three years while he suffered with his blood disease... regular transfusions... renewed energy for a short while followed by the inevitable decline... periods of almost normal that grew shorter and shorter as the disease progressed. It was not an easy time for his soul or his body. But during that time, he became wiser, gentler, kinder... he remembered, gave thanks, let go of the done and the undone, prepared for death and new life. Perhaps purgatory is not defined so much by age or illness or after death... perhaps we have purgatory with us all our lives and we don’t know it... recognize it... claim its gifts... use it wisely.
As I survey my life during Lent, I can see periods of time that have been time apart... hard times for my soul... times when I have flamboyantly failed... times when I have struggled to keep my body and soul together... times when my life seemed to have no steady direction or course... times when I wondered what the ultimate meaning of my life was... purgatories unlimited. Always... always... there was the solid ground of God underneath my shaky feet. In times of despair and grief, anger and loss, boredom and busyness, purgatory or heaven on earth... I can see now how God was present... giving me time to work on my soul... giving me the tools I needed and the occasional kick in the rear to keep me moving.
The story of the prophet Elijah in I Kings 19 is my story... maybe your story, too. In fear for his life after killing all Queen Jezebel’s pet priests, he fled to a cave. God let him go to the desert where he complained he had had enough... he was ready to die. When he woke up from his sleep with the touch of an angel, food and water awaited him. God sent him on a forty day journey... forty days... the same number of days Jesus was in the wilderness... forty days of Lent... to the mountain of Horeb and the cave that waited for him. God asked him what he was doing there. Like many prophets I have known, he took pleasure in telling God all he had done for the cause and the price he had paid for his faithful service. God was not impressed. After a show of power on God’s part involving wind and earthquakes and fire, the true voice of God... still and small... sent Elijah on a new journey. He left his purgatory cave and moved on to a different future... with a new disciple/replacement, Elisha... company for the rest of his life on earth. Like Elijah, I need to listen for the still, small Voice in my purgatories... during Lent... for the rest of my life... listen for the assurance and direction that surrounds my soul all the day and night long... find my companions for the journey... be about the work I have been given to do. Thanks be to God for caves and purgatories... friends and family... church and community... Jezebels that drive us to the desert so we might hear God.

lent... going to the dogs

Signs of spring on the farm... little green grass pushing up through the brown in the fields... five fawns spotted in the berry patch... the robins flying low over the field... bluebirds visiting their nests from last year... early tulips and daffodils blooming... the basset hounds, Phoebe and Zeke and Barney stretched full length in the warm sun, sleeping...the noisy chorus of peepers at the pond... four pair of wild ducks swimming on the pond... the willow tree buds...two new baby calves running full tilt down the hill with their tails held high... the sunrise comes earlier in the morning. While visiting my friend and next door neighbor Leisa, we step outside her door and both sniff at the same time... reflexively... the earth smells of spring. Everywhere I look, spring is springing. In my soul, Lent is moving still towards death but signs of resurrection in the natural world help me hold on to hope.
My mother and my friend Dianne are weak kneed about enduring cold. They hail from warmer climates and haven’t adjusted well. Spring is a season of hope and disappointment for them. One day it is warm, balmy breezes, flowers popping up, arthritis pains forgotten. The next day we have snow on the ground. Spring season, like life, cannot be depended upon to hold a steady course.
Like dogs and children, I am trying to live in the present moment... content... no worry or anticipation for the future. Of course this only works during the time I set aside for quiet and writing. Real life keeps me hopping... back and forth between family, work, church, income taxes, friends, housecleaning, picking up the prescriptions, washing clothes, planting berry bushes, feeding the cows, paying the bills, changing light bulbs, cooking (now that mama is here, that is a shared creation), picking up and cleaning up as I move through my life sometimes at warp speed.
How do I practice the art of active contentment and not let myself be consumed by tasks and feelings of fear, anger, frustration or sadness?
A quote from Euripides... "The man (and woman and child) is happiest who lives from day to day and asks no more, garnering the simple goodness of a life." Saint Paul said... "I have learned to be content with what I have. I know what it is to have little and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and going hungry, of having plenty and being in need. I can do all things through the One who strengthens me." So there is the secret to being actively contented... the living from day to day in the moment like Phoebe and Zeke... experiencing the simple goodness of our life... at the same time being grateful for all life brings us... easy and difficult... joy and sorrow... times of plenty and times of need...resting in the certain knowledge that the One who loves us beyond all measure is our strength. For Lent, I will give up worry about the future and give thanks for the present... warm sun... loved ones close by... health... moments of pure joy passing through my life... and the steady presence of Love Divine.

Wayfaring Lent

Some of my favorite old hymns have the word ‘home’ in them.. Come home...Ye who are weary, come home... Jesus is calling, sinner, come home... Come home, oh why will you longer roam? Come home, O prodigal child come home...I’m going home to die no more... and my favorite... The Wayfaring Stranger. The words in this song have haunted my imagination and captured my ear with its minor melody since I was a child. It is the perfect song for Lent... my theme song this year. Like many of the old sacred harp songs, the images are dark and bright at the same time... joyful and sorrowful... transcendent and earthbound... plaintive... a reminder of all we have lost and all we have yet to gain... going over home.
"I am a poor, wayfaring stranger, while traveling through this world below... I am just going over Jordan, I am just going over home". Lent is the season that reminds us of our wayfaring... our unfinished business in this world. We are on a long journey towards home... at home in this world only temporarily, not forever. When we take inventory of our souls during Lent, it can be excruciatingly painful and freeing at the same time. We own who we are... name what we have done and undone... recognize the damage and hurt in ourselves... seek forgiveness from God and those we have wronged... are able to come home to our best selves.
In the church of my childhood, we sang that song year round. Our Easter was not preceded by an understanding of, or practice of Lent. We went straight for the joy, joy, joy. But every time we sang that song, the feeling of Lent trickled through our souls and raised the hair on the back of our necks. Sometimes we heard it as a solo... Mr. Thompson with his deep bass voice or Mrs. Morris with her clear soprano... or we would sing it a capella with our voices blending and distinct at the same time. It always made me cry...
I’ve lived through some of the dark clouds the hymn writer listed. My father, my sister, some of my classmates and friends are over home... some of my path has been rough and steep. But I still want to "sing salvation’s story" and I am still headed towards home. What is it about the image of home that pulls us... comforts us... haunts some of us...is both hope and fear for us?
Some of us had happy homes...homes with laughter and grace... homes that were safe harbors for our tender souls. Some of us lived through homes that were stormy, dangerous, rough and steep... homes that tried our souls. But for all of us, regardless of our experience of home, the yearning... the longing for a true home colors our living in this world. We create home for ourselves with houses, apartments, special belongings, music, ritual, people, the right color scheme... all outward symbols of our need for a place to rest where we are known and loved anyway... loved just because we are. But the only interior design that will help satisfy our hunger for home is the interior design of the soul. If we are wayfaring strangers in our souls, unable to name where our home is, no destination for our journey, how can we ever go home again?
I am going to do some naming... some naming of my homeplaces... in this world and in my soul. Cloverly, Sabbath rest farm, First Congregational, a little farm in Morven, Georgia, the Blue Ridge mountains, the music I hear all the day long and through the night as my soul sings, the sound of children’s laughter, the words in the Bible, the sunrise I see every morning through my bedroom windows, the love that washes and rinses my soul when I watch our church family come forward to take communion, the pleasure of the company of our animals... so many homeplaces... my final resting place... my sweetest home of all... the loving arms of my God held out to me in welcome as I start up the long lane towards home. Thanks be to the One who waits for me over home... for the gift of the journey through this world... for the love I have both given and received along the way... for the homeplaces in my heart and for those yet to come... I am most heartily grateful.

the ground of all being... with apologies to Paul Tillich

Michael’s dad was the pastor of an active, growing Baptist church in Birmingham, Alabama during the forties and fifties. He was a charismatic leader who helped the church build a new sanctuary by having a silver dollar drive. The church had frequent banquets, dinners, special revivals and meetings in addition to the regular three times a week services. His pastoral work load was heavy. At one point in his ministry, he became depressed and consulted a doctor. There weren’t any medicines for "the blues" then but his doctor was wise and offered another option. When he discovered H.O. played golf, he prescribed playing in his bare feet...that’s right... his bare feet... he told H.O. that would help and it did.
One of our recent guest preachers, a lively African American woman, kept me giggling as she slipped off her high heels and preached barefooted. At lunch she told us how she was afraid of slipping when she preached her first sermon and didn’t want to appear ridiculous. So, she took off her shoes and something special happened. There was a freedom for her preaching barefooted...a connection between herself and the surface on which she stood that she felt gave her greater freedom and spirit in her preaching.
Yesterday my friend Carolyn and I were sitting in my great room, sipping... no... guzzling wine and discussing the low places we have been this past month... how our spirits are weary and worn and sad. Suddenly, simultaneous hot flashes hit and we both rushed to strip off our shoes and socks to let our naked feet cool us off. She showed me a picture of her feet (she is a photographer) and we talked about our feet... the changes in them... the beauty in them. We had to laugh... ladies of a certain age, if they are lucky, can laugh about their bodies and the ridiculousness of it all.
The day before I had gone to put on my slippers as I got up in the morning. They were not in the usual place so I had to walk barefooted in the house. It was warm enough to stay barefooted. I could feel the slick smoothness of the wooden floors, the fuzzy warmth of the shag rug, the heat bubbling up from the heat registers, the difference between the linoleum in the mudroom and the wood in kitchen... it was wonderful... all those textures I never am aware of when I walk on them separated by slippers or shoes.
Later in the day it was warm enough for me to venture out barefooted into our yard. My feet were tender... ticklish... I could feel the warmth of the stones in our front walk... the damp coolness of the earth... the sharp edges of the gravel caused me to walk lightly and with careful consideration of where to place my feet... I know why that good doctor told H.O. to play golf barefooted.
When you are barefooted, you can feel the beat of the world’s heart... the warmth of creation... the sharpness of stones and prick of sandspurs... you are totally focused on your feet and your connection to the natural world around you. There is no filter or protection for your soul... straight from the earth to your spirit... something magical and mysterious happens. You become a child paying strict attention to the world around you... seeing it differently... feeling it differently... playful and free. And for a little while, your troubles are passed through you to the welcoming good earth beneath your feet... you are removed from your own little world and transformed into a creature of the larger creation... a child of God in a natural world peopled with other barefoot creatures you never noticed before... (with apologies to Paul Tillich) the ground of our being comes into sharper focus and we are able to let go of our hurts, pains, angers, disappointments and blues for the joy of oneness with all creation.
This Lenten season, I will go barefoot... walk the earth with naked feet... feel the joy, the pain and sorrow, celebrate the possibilities as I inventory and clean out my spiritual closet, maybe paint my toenails and wiggle my toes in the dirt... remember who I was, who I am and where I am going... walk the dirt road of life and give thanks for all the sacrifices others have made in order that I might have an abundant life.

The B-I-B-L-E

My mother began working outside the home when I was nine years old. She had a job as a secretary in a local insurance office. Work schedules were arranged with a half day off on Wednesday and work on Saturday morning. All the businesses in town, including banks, followed this time table. This allowed working people to come to town Saturday to do their business tasks, pay bills (we paid bills in person then to real people), shop for groceries, see an afternoon movie and still get home in time for chores. Gayle, my sister, and I would go to town with mama on Saturday mornings.
Mama would park at the McKey Tillman Insurance Agency and we would walk the five blocks to our Carnegie Library. We spent most of our morning there with tolerant librarians who didn’t care if I stayed in the adult section. After I read every biography that appealed to me, I moved on to fiction. O Frabjous Day!!! Murder mysteries, poetry, murder mysteries, novels, murder mysteries, history, murder mysteries... No one censored or regulated my reading. Every week I would check out the limit and return them, read, the next Saturday. With no T.V. and no phone, reading was my main entertainment and an open door to a wider world. I became a word junkie... can you tell?
I perfected the art of reading in a moving car without getting car sick so I could read on the bus while traveling thirty minutes to school. At every plopping spot of mine in the old farmhouse, a book waited for me... plastic covered... full of wonderful, glorious words... new words... old words... words I didn’t understand but words I loved.
One of our favorite family games was the Word Power game in Reader’s Digest. Every month, we would take turns stumping each other with those words and definitions. Mama was a crossword puzzle wizard. We would do the crossword with a timer... each one got only one minute to fill in as many words as you could, using your special colored pen, and then it was someone else’s turn. The one who got the most words right, won.
The richness... the texture... the options... the poetry...the sayings... the sounds of our language ripple through my soul like the mountain creek that runs through the farm...Lord, have mercy... bless her heart... fought like cats and dogs... a tad shy... tilted toward Tildy... I’m fixin’ to go home... set a spell...if wishes were horses then beggars would ride... wonderful, lyrical, descriptive words that paint pictures in our minds and hearts.
I remember the first time I read a version of the Bible that wasn’t the King James version. It was the Good News version in modern English. Published for the first time in the mid-sixties, it transformed my image of the Bible... of the Holy Writ... of the words themself and the soul of those ancient words. When I sat in my first (and last) New Testament class at Southern Seminary and heard Dr. Frank Stagg read the Bible, I was stunned to see he was reading from the Greek and translating as he read. I briefly, very briefly, considered taking Greek. I love to read three or four versions of one verse because each has a new image... a different understanding... calls out something new in me. What a precious opportunity, what freedom to explore the nuances of each interpretation... different voices in a choir that blend into a beautiful whole.
My Bible fell open to Hebrews 2 this morning. I read it first in KJV, then three other translations. Here are the verses that caught my ear as I read it aloud (reading the Bible aloud is a lot of fun... try it... it changes your perception of the words).
" Forasmuch (what a lovely word) then as the children are partakers of flesh and blood, he (Jesus) also himself likewise took part of the same; that through death he might destroy him who had the power of death, that is, the devil: and deliver them who through fear of death were all their lifetime subject to bondage... For in that he himself hath suffered being tempted, he is able to succour them that are tempted".
"Since therefore, the children share flesh and blood, Jesus likewise shared the same things, in order to destroy through death the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death... Because of having been tested by suffering, Jesus is able to help those who are suffering".
"Since, therefore the children share in flesh and blood, he himself likewise partook (love that word, too) of the same nature that through death he might destroy him who has the power of death, that is the devil, and deliver all those who through fear of death were subject to lifelong bondage... For because he himself has suffered and been tempted, he is able to help those who are tempted".
"Since the ‘dedicated band’ were frail mortals, he himself became one, too, so that by dying he might break the grip of the one who controls death- that is, the devil- and set free those people, who all their lives, have been dominated by a fear of death... Since he himself has been tempted and has suffered so deeply, he knows how to sympathize fully with those who are also being tempted".
Each version of these same words reaches me in equally powerful but different ways. The images invoked by the translators... the words, those beautiful words, have such richness and depth ... frail mortals and children... bondage, slavery, domination...but in them all, the fear of death... they all used the same words there... wonder why? So, bring on the words... all the words... Like my librarian in my long ago South Georgia library, let me wander among all the translations... all the books of the Holy... looking for the words that speak to me of freedom and love and hope and joy and peace and forgiveness and no more fear of death... Thanks be to God for Jesus who became a frail mortal, for Lenten disciplines that free me from the fear of death, and for the help, succour and sympathy that are available to me in my relationship with Jesus.

lenten worms and easter butterflies

We moved mama back to the mountains this week. As I moved through the home of my teenagerdom, I was caught off guard by the pictures of me showing the progression of different hairdos that marked my growing into adulthood.
Those were the days before curling irons, hot rollers, hand held hair dryers... those were the days that required serious commitment to the ideal of hair perfection. I routinely slept on rollers... wire brush rollers that had no give... and perfected the art of sleeping with my neck suspended above the pillow, supported by those prickly cylinders. When sponge rollers were invented, all the girls tried them and dismissed them because the curls weren’t uniform... were squishy just like the rollers. Some of my friends whose daddies drank beer ( there weren’t many) rolled their long hair on beer cans and used the beer as a setting lotion. I was envious of their long, sleek, shiny hair that smelled faintly of beer. Sometimes on Saturday night, my sister and I would haul out the hair dryers we got with green stamps... soft vinyl hoods attached to a base that blew hot air over your wet head until it was dry... then slept on the rollers so our hairdos would be fresh the next morning. After teasing our hair into the desired shape ( teasing was the process of back combing sections of hair until they were uniformly stiff... a forerunner of dreadlocks), we would spray it with hair spray until it would stay in place through whatever windstorms came our way.
I went to the cabin behind the main house to get some canning jars to load on the trailer. My gym shorts that I wore in college were lying on the kitchen counter. I went to a state school... Valdosta State College... and P.E. was required. I was the only person in my tennis class passed as a mercy to my teacher. My nearsightedness made it impossible to co-ordinate eyes and hands in time to hit that little ball. Golf was my best P.E. class... that ball stayed in place until I hit it. We had to change into a special uniform for P.E.... navy blue Bermuda shorts with an adjustable waistband... a white blouse with the school insignia in navy blue... tennis shoes. When we walked to the gym or on campus in this outfit, we were required to wear a raincoat over it. I always saw myself as chubby in those shorts... felt bumpy rather than sleek. But when I held those faded blue shorts up, they were small... a size 6.
I was a butterfly who saw herself as a worm... I was both worm and butterfly... not one or the other but both. I was beautiful... I was awkward... I was like my hair... smooth on the surface and knotted underneath by teasing... I was slender... I was overflowing with my insecurities and unease... I was full of promise... I was an empty vessel slowly filling with knowledge and grace... I was my past, present and future looking through a darkened glass at the uncertain image of myself... an image only God could see clearly. As I look at those pictures and gym shorts, I can see now what God saw and I weep for all that was and all that was to come... and I give thanks for worms and butterflies.
My Lenten prayer, an old hymn... Alas, and did my Savior bleed? And did my Sovereign die? Would He devote that sacred head for such a worm as I? At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the Light, and the burden of my heart rolled away. It was there by faith I received my sight, and now I am happy all the day.

Let the Mystery Be...

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...

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...

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.

Refrigerator Cleaning and Lent

I spent part of my day cleaning out the refrigerator. It was long overdue. Cranberry sauce forgotten in the back on the second shelf... a testament to the efficacy of preservatives... not yet molded... leftovers of all sorts and colors... almost empty packages of grated cheese... an over ripe cantaloupe... two kinds of gumbo and vegetable soup... magic potions and beer... it was an educational experience.
For those of you who have not yet cleaned a refrigerator, there is a proper way to do it. You start by unloading the top shelf. Always start at the top so any drips won’t fall on already cleaned surfaces. Use the cleaning solution of your choice. My mama taught me to use baking soda dissolved in water. Wipe down the shelf and the walls as you wipe off the bottoms of the containers. Replace what is still good and sift through all the items making sure to cull the inappropriate foods... ex. Dill pickles do not belong on the milk and juice shelf. Repeat until the entire refrigerator has been cleaned... take out the drawers and wipe them down... put all moldy food in the compost heap... do not feed to the dogs. When you finish, stand back and admire your handiwork. This is an important step because the next time you open the frig door, it will have transmogrified into its former state of messy glory.
Lent is the liturgical equivalent of cleaning out the refrigerator. There is an order to the Lenten season. We begin by considering the contents of our lives... recognizing and naming the moldy places in our souls... bringing them out into the Light and considering them. As we empty the shelves of our lives, we have an opportunity to re-shape... re-order... reclaim... re-name what is stored in the depths of our being. Not much fun... what we find can be overwhelming, painful. But like the refrigerator contents, until we see what is in there, how can we know what we have?
This season gives us the amazing opportunity to clean up and start over in our soul journey. After I name and claim my moldy spots, there is a chance to see if they can be restored... if I can scrape away the mold to the good underneath and have a second chance. So I am examining the state of my being this season for Lent. I will find some fun surprises... writing is forcing me to be a conscious soul... some nasty items... the mold of procrastination runs deep in a lot of items in my soul’s shelves. The process of examination and cleansing is necessary for my celebration of Easter.
There can never be new life without death. Around the farm I see this repeated every year. An old cow dies as a new one is born... perennial herbs die back in order to grow again... the pasture grass turns brown and withers away, resting until spring brings green growth again. We, too, must have a resting time... a time when we are not "up and running" so that our growth can be strong and true. And like the refrigerator, our souls will grow moldy again... our new green growth will turn brown... Easter does not last all year long.
"For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope... But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it". Romans 8:24-25 I am waiting and hoping with patience ... thanking God for the rituals of Lent... a pattern for living and dying that lets us start over and over and over... like refrigerator cleaning.

Epiphany Light...Lenten Light

A winter storm is coming. The schools are closed in anticipation of snow and sleet. Our daughter has called to tell us it is already snowing at her house. The boys are so excited about the big fluffy flakes falling... and the special waffle breakfast that comes with snow days. The normal routine is set aside and there is a feeling of anticipation in the air. Whatever had to be done today, will wait. Snow days... a small window in time... room and time to play, rest, set a spell without feeling the pressure to do something... be somewhere.
We will put on a pot of soup... call our neighbors and invite them over... check the cows to make sure they have bedding in the barn and enough to eat... feed the ducks on the pond an extra ration of corn... turn the heat on in the basement for the dogs... fill the bird feeders... and check the oil lanterns to make sure they are ready if we need them. I’ll draw some water in the bathtub in case the power goes out and the pump won’t run for water. The wood box is full for the fireplace and we are ready.
Waiting... expecting... hoping... preparing... letting go of the usual... not just for winter storms but also for this Epiphany season. The Light that came to us in Christmas is slowly dimming... setting like the sun behind a distant mountain outline. We see a transformation underway... a new Light coming... the Light of Lent.
Epiphany light is represented by the Star... bright night light that guides and gives hope and direction. It can lead us to the home of the One who came to live among us as God’s Son... help us find a pathway to the Holy... the One who waits for us in this life and the next. This light is comforting, kind, trustworthy and bright. We have only to look up and see where we should go... follow the star... to find God... a clear path brightly lit to our soul’s home.
Lenten light is different. It is like snow light... the light grey brightness that contains promise and requires preparation. When Lent snowlight comes, one must listen carefully and look closely to see the path to Easter. There is no bright star... no full moon... no streetlights to mark the way through Lent. Our souls find the path dim, murky with our own darkness, shadowed by the pain and grief of our world that reminds us of Jesus’ pain and grief to come. This light is cold, sometimes harsh, flickering with bright splashes and dark patches... no rest for the soul here.
I used to hate Lent. It reminded me of John Bunyan’s Pilgrims Progress and Dante’s Inferno... prickly, uncomfortable, relentless, no fun at all... holding my spiritual feet to the fire and requiring sacrifice of me... what can I give up that won’t be too difficult? Now Lent is my favorite liturgical season of the year. When taken seriously, carefully tended like a garden, Lent can yield wonderful fruit for the soul. It is a time for honesty... time out from celebration and hoohah... time for preparation... time for setting a spell and seeing what is coming up... what is growing in your soul... time to do a little weeding if necessary. The Lenten Light can provide enough illumination for your soulwork... dim light that keeps one from growing too quickly... time to put down roots for the rest of the year. Like the Psalmist, I will rest in the Lord this Lent and wait patiently for the Light to show me the way.
Thank you God for all the light that shines in my life... the light of Epiphany and Lent, the light of Easter and Christmas, the light of Pentecost and Ordinary Time. Each Light leads me closer to you. Give me eyes to see... a heart that understands and a soul that does not fear the dark. I love you... because you first loved me. Peggy

Lint, Lent and Life

Lint, Lent and Life
Those of us who wash and dry clothes are intimately acquainted with lint...the fluffy stuff that fills up the filter and prevents the free flow of air. Our spiritual lives often are equally cluttered with the lint of living that keeps us from reflection, honest self appraisal, and regular communion with the Holy. The liturgical season of Lent offers us an opportunity to clean the lint from our souls so that we might celebrate Easter with fresh, clean spirits.
Many images used at Lent make us uncomfortable... remind us of past religious abuse... confront us with our own set of limited knowledge and our own failings... It can be a dark, barren, internal time where we face ourselves honestly with judgement for things done and undone... where we experience confession and repentance individually and as a church family. Difficult as this time can be, it can also be the richest, most rewarding time of the church year as we reflect and prepare for the new life of Easter. Two images are central to a full understanding and appreciation of Lent.
The first image is the cross. This one symbol perhaps more than any other is the most painful and mysterious of our Lenten experience. It reminds us of suffering and death... raises theological questions about the sacrifice of life in atonement for sins... brings us to our spiritual knees as we try to find an appropriate meaning for taking up our own crosses in our own lives. It is not a happy symbol that is easily understood. The cross is a paradox where death, sin, darkness and sacrifice intersect with our own life experiences of loss, grief, anger, sin and pain. Our cultural norm is to view life on the bright side and discount the power of the painful. Lent rubs our noses in the imperfect... the pain... the wrong choices... the darkness...in the shape of the cross.
The second powerful image for Lent is the chalice... the cup used in the Passover supper before the crucifixion. It also is a paradox. As we pour the wine out, the chalice is emptied. The chalice can also be filled again and again. So we empty ourselves, we pour out our lives for one another and are filled again as we gather around the table for communion... communion meals that grew from the last meal Jesus shared with the disciples. We empty ourselves of our past darkness and we are filled with the new life and light that comes when we honestly own who we are during Lent. The new wine cannot be stored in the old wineskins... it will spoil. The new life cannot come until the old wineskins of our lives are replaced with new containers... new outlines for who we hope to be.
I will be marching towards Jerusalem, expecting and praying for the transformation and new life that comes when the old self dies and a new self comes into being. I want to clean out the lint that is keeping me from having an open, free flowing relationship with the Holy and with others. My prayer is that I will be able to keep a listening ear to hear how God is speaking... clear vision to see where I have missed the mark... an open heart ready to receive the forgiveness that only requires me to recognize the need I have as an imperfect being for wholeness. Thanks be to the God of second, third, and fourth chances.