A Quiet January

We are deep into January and there is not yet much winter weather to comment about. We have had less than an inch of snow. Drought conditions have not slackened. When I hear the weather reporter on television remark that this is going to be a “great week with a clear weekend forecast,” I know that he or she knows nothing about farming and gardening. It would be a great week and weekend if we could have gentle rains thoroughly drench the soil. Temperatures have been down into the twenties but only for a very brief time. The Kansas wind blows, of course, and can make the wind chill really bite.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the Great Horned owls begin hooting across the winter wheat fields to one another. I love to hear their deep throated questions, “Who, who-who?” Later in the evening the Screech Owl begins its twirring, a subtle song of constant note. Coyotes yelp in the bedlam of their crazy packs. Barnyard dogs bark at the frenzy of night.
And then there are times, both day and night, when there is absolute silence. I do not even hear the grumbling of the Santa Fe trains in the distance.
Orion’s belt has been moving slowly in the southerly sky from east to west. The Milky Way is smeared over our house and I always marvel that our planet is a voting member of that bright system.
So far it has been a quiet winter and seemingly unremarkable. But recall the words of the 18th century English cleric, William Law: “All that is sweet, delightful, and amiable in this world, in the serenity of the air, the fineness of seasons, the joy of light, the melody of sounds, the beauty of colors, the fragrancy of smells, the splendor of precious stones, is nothing else but Heaven breaking through the veil of this world.”

The Wild Goose

Christopher and I were out in the pasture the other day when a flock of Canadian geese flew overhead. They were low enough to the ground that I could hear the rush of wind they generated by the flapping of their wings. They were flying in their usual V shaped pattern, which increases their efficiency. Honking back and forth I knew that another one further back in the formation would replace the goose at the head of the flock. The lead goose takes the greatest impact of resistance and will tire. It is also a fact that if a goose is wounded or sickens and must return to terra firma a companion will see it safely back to land.
There is much to learn from geese and their corporate model is often used in organizational training, especially in the life of congregations. There are other characteristics of geese that must also be appreciated. The fact is that they are wild, and though we know that they generally fly south for the winter, their flight plans often seem random. I have watched flocks flying south and then seem to jag east and sometimes back north. They undoubtedly know what they are doing but it is far beyond the rational thought of most people. Goose guano makes great fertilizer but too much of a good thing can burn a field. Like chicken manure it is high in nitrogen and is too “hot” to put directly on plants and vegetables. (Composted chicken manure, on the other hand, is called “black gold,” and is great for vegetables.) Geese can also eat up the tops of winter wheat faster than it can grow.
Is it not interesting that the wild goose is a symbol/metaphor in Celtic Christianity for the Holy Spirit? We are used to seeing the metaphors of fire, wind, and dove to orient ourselves to the Spirit of Life in whom we live and move and have our being. Columba, founder of the Iona community in Scotland, adapted the wild goose as the metaphor for the Holy Spirit. (An Geadh Glas is how it is understood in many Celtic communities but the ancient Irish is An Gle Flain) Interesting that Columba’s own name in the old Irish tongue is Colun Cille, meaning “dove of the church.”
Why do you suppose Columba chose the wild goose? The symbol of the dove is much more popular, reminding us of the dove who brought a fresh branch to Noah and the dove who descended upon Jesus at his baptism. The dove adorns peace banners, bumper stickers, and Christmas cards. I think Columba chose the wild goose to remind us that the Holy Spirit is not always safe, demure, and peaceful. Like the wild goose the Holy Spirit is often unpredictable, messing thing up, and making havoc with our well-patterned schedules and electronic calendars. In fact the goose does not read the Farmer’s Almanac as to when the seasons are supposed to change according to solstice charts. The wild goose pays close attention to the movement of wind, fronts, and temperatures, moving with the reality of change. I dare say the wild goose leads the way.

Outside My Window

When I look outside my window I see God – or the Spirit of Life, or the Power of Life, or the Force, or the élan vital or whatever you need to call it. Ralph Waldo Emerson spoke of the universal currents that run through all of us. I resonate with that too.
Outside my window this morning the land was glistening with the sheen of thick frost. The grass and trees sparkled. The head of the Buddha on my lawn shimmered with the morning sun, refracted by crystallized dew. It caused me to look a little closer at this place where I live now through a renewed lens. Yes, I have seen frost on this same yard hundreds of times. But each time I am forced to pay attention and see the land in a new light. The same is true if it is a soaking rain that gives our micro-farm the name, “Soggy Bottom.” Snow redefines our habitat as well as the kind of heat that radiates off of rooftops in August. Kansas wind transforms all of these, exaggerating their character.
Honestly, if I had passed through Kansas in 1870, I doubt seriously that I would have stopped. There are plenty of stories about the people who lost their minds in sod houses. Their souls were afflicted by the constant wind, the push of blizzards, and withering drought.
Because I have lived in so many places I have learned to see the sacral nature of the earth. Sacral is an interesting word, meaning of or about religious rites, and also related to the nerves in the sacral region at the base of the human spine. Nerves are those fibers or bundle of fibers that conduct the impulses of sensation and motion between the brain and spinal cord, every limb and organ. They are the pathways of all that we see, touch, hear, taste, and smell. Without them we could not respond to the stimuli.
I believe there is something amazingly wonder-filled and profoundly religious in the sensation and motion of being human on the earth. I sometimes wonder if the Holy Spirit is the nerve of my soul and the creation. Sometimes it seems to flow out of me, coursing like a spider’s web toward fireflies. At other times it races out of morning dew or the evening sunset, enflaming my imagination.
The same would be true if you plopped me down in a city like Boston, a mountaintop in the Canadian Rockies, or a fishing village on the coast of Maine. I am at home in the universe, every time I look out my window.

I Know How to Do That!

Sunday last was a beautiful fall day in Kansas. The temperature was quite moderate. After church we went to Papa’s Pumpkin Patch, an annual pilgrimage that we make to buy our pumpkins for carving. We also enjoy the pork sandwiches or pulled pork and their wonderful chocolate chip pumpkin bread. Our friends Crystal, Julia, and Jadyn were with us.
After lunch I went home for my Sunday afternoon nap while the girls walked the maze, picked pumpkins, and shot small pumpkin with an oversized sling-shot. When they got home they traced designs on their pumpkins – dragons and monsters. Emily’s pumpkin head had another pumpkin headed monster in its mouth.
Jadyn, who is four, lost interest in the finer arts of fruit carving. As I was walking out to feed the horses she ran behind me and told me she wanted to open the gate. “I know how to do that!” she insisted. She unlatched the gate chain and as the gate opened she hopped on for the ride. “Don’t forget to latch the gate,” I reminded her. “I know how to do that,” she proclaimed once again.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye to make sure she knew how to do it well enough to keep the gate closed. I continued to walk toward the barn. In just a few seconds there was a little four-year-old hand in mine, slightly sticky with the essence of pumpkin.
I thought to myself, “This is a glorious day.”
Jadyn helped me feed Dusty, Bama, and Red, though she could hardly hold the three pounds of feed in the scoop. Nothing was going to deter her and I gave minimal support. She then raced ahead to open the gate where we fine-tuned the art of gate keeping.
We had a dinner of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Later in the evening Mimi, Crystal, and the girls roasted pumpkin seeds. One recipe was garlic-salt and butter the other was cinnamon, sugar, and butter.
Don’t you think this was a fine communion Sunday?

Fishing for Hope

Emily Dickinson wrote, “Hope is a feathered thing.” My own experience is that hope is more like fishing. I stand on a dock or shoreline, or sit in my canoe. I might be bottom fishing or using a bobber. Sitting patiently I wait for that little twitch on the end of my finger or the first slight dip of the bobber. A sunfish or bass is playing with the bait, nibbling with indecision. The temptation is to give the line a little jerk in the hope of hooking the fish. If I move too soon I will frighten the fish away. Sometimes they come back but I have to wait a little longer. Don’t you have hopes like that?
Of course, the fact that fish are biting keeps me at my post. I always think, “Next time.” The sun starts to go down and I say to myself, “Just a few more minutes.” I might change the bait thinking a fresh minnow will do the trick. There are times when hope strikes strong and I reel in a big one. I am so relieved that I don’t have to say, “Yeah, but you should have seen the one that got a way.”
Hope keeps me at the rod and reel. Looking for a feeding hole near a sunken log or slight inlet, I cast here and there. I watch for slight ripples on the water or shadows on the bottom of the lake or stream. I listen for the flop of a bass that has struck an insect on the surface.
I have seen so many people fishing for hope. A mother with two beautiful children hoping that she can recover her marriage. She is willing to do anything to salvage her family - and I mean anything. She does a lot of casting. A family paces in the waiting room for the doctor to return from surgery with a word of promise. Even if the prognosis is grim they keep casting for new chemistry or therapeutic remedies. A senior in high school keeps her eye on the mailbox waiting for an acceptance letter from the university. And if she does not get the big one she will pitch her line to second and third choices that she will later affirm was a better fit anyway.
Hope keeps me fishing. With patience and skill she is mine. There are many more that also get away. You cannot be a fisher if you do not hope. We cannot live without it either. Keep your fishing gear in the trunk of your car or truck. Keep casting.

Famine

Word is slowly getting out. Somalia is in the midst of the worst famine to hit Africa in a generation. Hundreds of thousands of people are fleeing to Kenya in the hope of finding food and security from the violence that is wrenching Somalia. Parents are said to walk nearly a hundred miles or more to find refuge.
One of my favorite Japanese Zen poets is Ryokan. This poem, translated by Burton Watson:
If these sleeves
of my black robe
were only wider
I'd shelter all the people
in this up-and-down world.

It is a wonderful sentiment, echoed by the Psalmist and the Gospels who speak of God as a hen whose brood finds shelter under her wings.
Famine is a fact of politics. The truth of the matter is that at the present time we have enough food to feed the world. The problem is war, equitable distribution of food resources, and most importantly, the political will to find the means to feed the people. Famine is a fact of indifference and racial prejudice. Where there is apathy and bigotry it will be impossible to find the political will to feed the hungry.
I realize that the politically correct language of governments these days is "food insecurity." I call it hunger because it is a reality that sits in the belly of children, pressing against their backbones, swelling their stomachs, and deadening their eyes. Hunger is not a matter of locking the door and joining the neighborhood watch group.
Given the fact that we have the most incompetent and ineffective Congress, perhaps in the history of the United States, I am not confident that we will be able to muster the best of the American enterprise - a generous spirit for the poor and disadvantaged. Perhaps we can keep alive the humanitarian spirit of Ryokan and press the image of open sleeves and generous hearts that will erode the dams of lifeless indifference. The future of humanity lies with the likes of Ryokan, not with political demagoguery.
(Photo found on afaceaface.com)

The Truth Hurts

I listened to Walter Brueggemann preach this morning. His message was addressed to 1700 pastors. He acknowledged that the isolation, pain, anxiety, and anger of clergy is (yes - collective and singular) rooted in the fact that we have not been faithful to the truth that God has given us. We have tried to offer a “nice” gospel to a “nice” world and we know deep in our hearts that neither is true. The world is a body, the church is a body, and we are bodies. All are susceptible to disease, old age, and death. We have been silent about the reality of the body and have feared to speak truth; not only about the obvious fact of our bodies, but of the many dis-eases that afflict them. Our lips are sealed about the powers and principalities of commerce, entertainment, and government. The church has been silent about the war in Iraq, crass materialism, a dying ecosystem, racism, and classism. We know in our hearts “the sins of our people” but will not speak of them. We know in our hearts that God offers a different vision of life and community but we will not speak of that Kingdom.
Until we speak the truth it burns like a fire in our stomachs, minds, and souls. It creates not only ulcers and headaches, but also professional malaise and the general sense that we have not been true to our calling or ourselves.
After the sermon there was total silence. I wept at the conviction of his words. And then the congregation arose to a resounding applause. We sat down again, forgoing the benediction, listening silently to the blessing of the organ.