Gary's Walk

A Quiet January

2012-01-25T13:34:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-29T07:19:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-17T15:31:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-10-28T09:18:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-23T14:10:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-28T07:35:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-18T09:58:00.001-07:00

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.

Easter 2011

2011-04-25T08:10:00.000-07:00

Have you planted your garden yet? Mimi and I planted ours on Good Friday. That is a Southern tradition, laying the seed in the ground as Jesus went into the ground. Old Methodist women in Georgia taught me that. Of course the vegetables that we planted will not be ready to harvest on Easter Sunday morning, so don’t over think the metaphor. And yes, the timing of Holy Week can be at odds with recommended planting dates. It is late, for example, to be planting lettuce. But I seem to have good luck with this tradition. I’ll let you know in a few weeks. The beans in the photo are Kentucky Wonder Bush Beans. I am reminded of this stanza of the Gaelic poem “Seedtime.”

Friday, it is of blessings the day,
Drops will descend in welcome array
To every seed that in sleeping lay
Since the loveless cold arrived to stay;
Each seed its roots in the earth will grow,
As the King of nature wished it so,
With the fall of dew the braird will show,
Drawing its life when the soft winds blow.*

(A braird is the first green shoots of grasses and crops.)
.
On Holy Saturday I baked bread, another rising of life. On Easter Sunday night we had roasted leg of lamb, a family tradition. We buy Kansas grown meats and this cut was not only delicious but also tender.
The lilacs, tulips, and jonquils are all in bloom. The trees have taken on those tender light green leaves. Saturday I saw my first blue bird of the season and scissors tailed flycatcher. I have also seen a lot of turkeys in the last few weeks and the ring-necked pheasants are calling from the prairie across the road.
Resurrection is all around us.

*(Seedtime is from a collection of Celtic Spiritual Verse from the Gaelic, gathered and translated by G.R.D. McLean, The Pilgrim Press.)

God's Body

2011-02-18T06:28:00.000-08:00

Congress is in the process of budget making. One of the most disturbing parts of the House’s plan is the drastic slashing of the Environmental Protection Agency. From news accounts it would appear that the intent is to gut the EPA’s ability to carry out air and water pollution regulations. One amendment offered by Rep. John Carter (R.-Texas) would block money that the EPA would use to enforce regulations that cut the toxic emissions of arsenic, cadmium, and lead in cement plants.
There is incontestable evidence that these and other pollutants in our ecosystem damage the health of every living creature. Do we reduce the nation’s deficit at the expense of the nation’s health? What of the long-term economic costs of debilitating the health of the planet in terms of a sustainable ecosystem and capacity to grow crops? What about the expense of health care related to asthma, emphysema, and cancer that can be attributed to pollution? Are such drastic cuts economically feasible in the long term? I do not think so. Country wisdom would say it is penny wise and pound-foolish.
On the face of it, these proposals strike me as economically simplistic and immoral. Human beings and the earth will be harmed by such proposals. At a deeper level I believe that the earth is, in part, the body of God. John Muir, one of America’s founding preservationists of nature, once said that nature is the conductor of the divine and the primary source for understanding God. In his book Travels in Alaska, Muir wrote, "Every particle of rock or water or air has God by its side leading it the way it should go… The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness… In God's wildness is the hope of the world.”
When we stop protecting the earth and the many nations of her creatures we demonstrate utter contempt for the Creator. It is egregious blasphemy. On the other hand we worship God in the shelter and nurture of the earth.

Deep Peace of the snow

2011-02-09T16:41:00.000-08:00

The last two days have seen about 18 inches of snowfall at Soggy Bottom. The snow is very dry and fine. Emily made snow angels and a snow fort, which immediately fell in on her. There are drifts on our property that are about four feet high. Mimi and I spent about two hours shoveling out the driveway. The county plowed the road early this evening.
Emily has missed two days of dance classes.
Needless to say, I have not been able to drive into my church office and I have been reading and writing at home. We had the same circumstances last week. I was actually finished with both my sermon and Sunday school lesson by 2:00 Saturday afternoon.
The snow has required us to rearrange our schedules, change our priorities, and do different kinds of work. Of course we still have the basic comforts of a heated house, electronic gadgets to work and play on. No one has to run out to the well and break through a thick layer of ice to fetch the water in wooden buckets. We also have one of those new fangled outhouses attached to the house. The only real things we might need to worry about are the loss of electricity and the propane bill next month.
It is normally very quiet where we live. With the snow it is almost silent. I do love it so. The snow, the shoveling, the silence are blessings that give my heart peace. And I pray the same for you:
The peace of winter
The peace of snowfall
The peace of silence
The peace of God
Drift deeply upon you and yours.

Ballet on the Prairie

2010-12-15T12:30:00.000-08:00

Taking Emily to ballet lessons the other day we came across a flock of wild turkeys in a winter wheat field. There must have been about 30 of them. On another venture we saw a herd of deer. This morning a good sized coyote ran across the road in a freshly plowed soy-bean field. The Great Horned Owl hoots in a large cottonwood tree near our house. Occasionally a blaze of red streaks across my line of vision. It is the bold Cardinal making a fashion statement in the drab brown and grey of late fall.
The temperature has so far dipped down into the mid-teens this past week. An elctric circuit breaker was thrown in the garage, cutting power to the heaters in the water trough. A two inch layer of ice formed on the top, which I had to bust up and clear out of the way. The horses appreciated the gesture but my leather gloved hands did not.
As we enter the spell of winter I am reminded that our journey takes us through many seasons. The simple minded think that each is distinct and carries its own unique characteristics. Of course that is not true. The fawns that will be dropped next spring were conceived during the last few weeks. The wheat that will be harvested next summer stands like green grass in the fields today.
Our journey with God is the same. The "ages and stages" of life and faith are not distinct cartons of experience. One grows into the other, carrying the remarkable signs of age, vitality, awe, wisdom, joy, and fear. One inspires the other, teaches the other, and warns the other. These are the coursers of our spiritual journey.
Thus we cycle through the liturgical year with Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, and so on. Every step leaves behind and also carries with it the journey we have taken and will take. The seasons remind us that faith is the pilgrimage we must walk if it is going to take us any place at all. Faith is the adventure of the soul, regardless of the changes of climate and season. In our rucksack are fresh apples picked last month and cord seeds for planting come April.
Merry Christmas.

My Soul Once Flowed

2010-10-18T05:53:00.000-07:00

My soul once flowed
like a pristine mountain stream;
pebbles, trout, crawdads
clear beneath the surface.
With time it wandered down
farms, factories, and old cities;
churning mud, sewage, and waste
into a sallow brown of murk.
She is still flowing, but sluggish now,
clogged with old tires, Walmart bags,
and rusty old washing machines.
Yet I gurgle toward some vast blue-green
memory.

The above photo is of Sand Creek in Newton, KS.

Changing Colors

2010-09-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

Despite the hot temperatures in Kansas this week, fall is peeking over the Great Plains. Milo and sunflowers have yet to be harvested and much of the winter wheat is planted. At our house we have begun our own preparations for fall and winter. I have begun cutting and splitting firewood. Arrangements have been made with the hay man for the horses and goats. Mimi will winterize the swimming pool. We must replace the back door that faces north.
This morning I was cutting a locust tree that had died on the corner of my pasture. Though dead it proved itself against my chain-saw and me. It is hard wood, which is why people like to use it for fencing. Resting between cuttings I sat and listened to the wind and the Blue Jays. Above me the Monarch Butterfly flitted silently from branch to branch. I suppose they and other migrants are beginning their seasonal journey. I have seen large flocks of Nighthawks.
Frost and ice are quite late in Alaska this year. The walruses are required to swim onto beach fronts to rest. Normally they would clamber onto an ice-flow and take their rest from feeding. But the ice is not there and they crowd themselves onto the sand. Sometimes in a panic, and the least little thing will startle them, they stampede and crush younger ones. Over a hundred were killed in such a fright the other day. Resting on beaches also means that they must swim farther to find food. I think their future is as precarious as the Polar Bear's.
Yes, the season is changing, like the climate. But I am not sure it is as innocent as red and orange maple leaves, apple cider, and pumpkin pie.

Baptism Refreshes

2010-08-18T03:50:00.000-07:00

I sat on the front porch in the early morning watching the gentle rains splash the earth. Despite torrential rains earlier in the summer, even flood, we had none for nearly a month. The temperatures were in the hundreds for days on end. The grass had turned brown. Deep cracks appeared in the earth. The trees were beginning to show signs of stress with a hue of rust in their leaves. It was so hot our air conditioner strained to keep the house cool but could not. Emily and I would get in the swimming pool about 10:00 at night to cool our body temperatures.
Now this soft blessing of water. I am certain that as I sat on my porch the grass was recovering green. I thought, "Baptism refreshes us."
I know, baptism is supposed to be a once in a lifetime event. But I witness rebirth all of the time in myself, my family, my friends, and the earth. We are washed, restored, revived, and renewed. Sometimes it is like this rain that slakes our thirst. I also drink the holy water when I talk with friends. I taught a summer intensive class this summer at Phillips Seminary. Teaching always renews me.
This tired old self is immersed in some fresh spring and I am cleansed. Sometimes it is a long slow walk, a book of poetry, or the nuzzle of a horse.

I Am Not in Control

2010-07-05T06:37:00.000-07:00

Do you remember how much of your life has been spent gaining control of your life? It started off with gaining control of our bodies so we could stand up and then walk. Of course there was bladder and bowel control. Then there was the "that's not fair" stage which had little to do with justice and a whole lot to do with what's "mine." As teenagers we fought the raging battle of hormones, which took some of us forty years or so to manage. A huge hurdle was the choice of careers and partners. And then came children to raise the whole question again of "Who's in charge here?" It is still a major theme in the lives of adults who say to others or think to themselves, "Get a grip," or "Get it together."
Apparently I am going to spend the rest of my life learning how to lose control. And guess what? Many of the same themes mentioned above are the ones I have to re-negotiate. Yes, I am talking about my changing body, social connections, and children. They are all teaching me that I am not in control. My Buddhist friends tell me that it was an illusion to ever think so!
It reminds me of the weather here at Soggy Bottom.
A few weeks ago we had about nine inches of rain over a three day period. Our road washed out in several places, wheat fields were underwater, and fences were down. We walked down our road where the high water mark was six to eight feet. Our sump pump died a heroic death trying to syphon all the water. Our basement flooded. Then we had a few weeks of dry and hot weather. The earth cracked, the lawns turned brown, the corn stalks began to lose color, and dust roiled across the prairie. Then yesterday it started to rain again. We had 3.7 inches. Many towns had to move their fourth of July events into churches, schools, or armories. It is still raining. The new sump pump is working its heart out. Our pastures are standing in water. Our white horse is now gray, and all are standing in putrid slop.
There is not a blessed thing I can do about it. I am not in control. I guess that's why Loyola said, "Act as if everything depended on you. Trust as if everything depended on God."

No One Loves a Girl Like a Horse

2010-05-31T13:48:00.000-07:00

I know, you might be thinking, "No one loves a horse like a girl." And that would also be true. This horse is my gelding, Dusty. The girl's name is Ruby, at the wondrous and amazing age of 13, with all of its tragedy and triumphs. The Memorial Day weekend was Ruby's second visit to Soggy Bottom.
I think Ruby is a natural equestrian. This weekend she was able to ride three times. She rode Emily's horse, "Bama." Ruby pays close attention, follows instructions, and is fearless. She is not afraid of the horses nor the hard work that horsemanship requires. She groomed with meticulous care. She shoveled horse manure from the barn without complaint.
Sunday evening a storm came up and she ran out to our western pasture to bring the horses into the main corral. She was disappointed they did not follow. She was worried that they might be struck by lightening. I was worried that Ruby might be struck by lightening.
Before we went out this morning I said to Ruby that you cannot be a real cowgirl without a pocket knife. I then gave one to her. She took it, clutched it to her chest and beamed. She said "thank you," of course, but the smile said gratitude like I have seldom seen.
We then talked about how the young gelding would respond with both Bama and our mare, "Red," out of the corral and away from him. We talked about the security that horses get from being in the herd and that we were basically cutting Dusty out of "safe company." He acted as I said by running wildly around the corral and whinnying with abandon.
This morning she and her mom rode about a mile east of our house. On the way back Bama decided it was giddy-up time and took off at a full gallop. Ruby had not given this command. She brought Bama back to a trot and then a walk. I asked if she was OK and she said, "It was awesome. I loved it." With a broad grin she asked if she could ride some more. Was there any other answer than "yes?"
This is the second time I have had the privilege of introducing someone outside of my immediate family to horseback riding. I am only teaching them the most basic stuff. They won't learn barrel racing from me. But I enjoy it immensely. I love to watch the confidence that shines out as apprehension dissolves. It is a pleasure to see whatever tensions and pain the rest of life gives them become unimportant, if only for a few hours. The care and riding of horses puts everything else into perspectives. It is one of the most therapeutic things I do in my life. I become more whole helping someone else discover a new skill, a new joy, and new friends.

2010-05-03T07:38:00.000-07:00

Drill-Baby-Drill?

My heart is breaking today.
Greasy black fingers creep
Up the throat of the Mississippi Delta,
Strangling the life out of marshes and wetlands,
Choking grebes and otters,
Smothering shrimp and sea turtles,
oyster bars and pelicans.

In the geopolitical war of oil and profit
Delta is collateral damage.
Leaning against mangrove roots,
Disemboweled,
Holding her organs in her hands
Her life forces leaching away,
Fading from blue and green to brown,
Vitality dying on the Mother's lap.

Something of me is dying today.
May 1, 2010

Earth Day 2010

2010-04-22T10:18:00.000-07:00

If you were to Google "Earth Day" you would discover 74,300,000 links. On YouTube there are 20,200,000. You could spend all of Earth Day reading or watching videos but you could never view all of these items. I don't recommend it.
I have a better idea. Go outside! Walk in the splendor of Spring, even if you have to wear your rubber boots and a poncho. Indeed, jump in a puddle and splash yourslef and anyone around you. Turn your face skyward and feel the rain trickle down your cheeks. Stick out your tongue and drink the sky's cordials.
From my front porch this morning a grand chorus had gathered in the prairie to sing the wonder of creation. The conductor was Maestro Great Horned Owl who sat atop a telephone pole. His direction is most subtle. The leading vocalist was the Mocking Bird whose repertoire was expansive. The depth of her range and complicated syntax was complemented by satirical and comical stanzas. The Ring-necked Pheasant offered a few brief solos, as did the Red-bellied Woodpecker. Other choral members included the Blue Jay, Meadowlark, Mourning Dove, Eastern Kingbird, a variety of Sparrows and Finches, Red-winged Blackbirds, Cardinals, Robins, Plovers, and Starlings. I think someone should have auditioned the Starlings. As usual they were off key and out of tune.
Earth Day must surely be more than articles, speeches, resolutions, videos, and the usual litany of all the things we should do to save the earth. We cannot save the earth unless we are prfoundly in tune with her harmonies. Remember this stanza from St. Francis of Assisi's "All Creatures of Our God and King:"
Dear Mother Earth, who day by day
unfoldest blessings on our way,
O praise him, Alleluia!
The flowers and fruits that in thee grow,
let them his glory also show:
O praise him, O praise him. Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

Forsythian Times

2010-04-01T12:12:00.000-07:00

The forsythia are leaking yellow drops of spring. The sun-faced daffodils dance in prairie winds while the willow weeps slender streams of golden green. The air is twittering with song birds. This morning eight American goldfinch crowded our feeder. The plovers scuttle across the fields. I saw a hawk on the side of the highway gathering nesting straw. I am still waiting for the scissor-tailed flycatcher to return. Let me know if you see them.
This is also Holy Week, the season of betrayal and hope, death and new life. The Roman Catholic Church reels in the scandal of new allegations of child sexual abuse in Europe. Worse still is the revelation that bishops, cardinals, and popes have betrayed children - dare I say raped them again - and their families with denial obfuscation, and concealment of the truth.
As the acorn must go down into the earth in order to resurrect as a great tree; as Jesus died in the face of imperial power in order to offer the hope of life beyond Caesar; so must the Pope resign his seat of power if ever the Roman Catholic Church is to be purged of this scandal. The salvation of the church calls for such an offering and full disclosure of every file and fact. Benedict XVI can only resurrect the meaning and vitality of the church by offering this sacrifce as deep penance for the sins of the fathers.

Waste Management

2010-03-08T07:09:00.000-08:00

The other day I spent three hours shoveling out the horse barn. I then spent another three hours making repairs on it. The barn is an old wooden structure that looks something like a boxcar. The walls are tongue-in-groove and it was well constructed. But it is very old and there is quite a bit of rot in the walls and some sections of the floor.
After our run-in shelter blew down last year the horses had no refuge against rain storms, ice, or snow. I cut a doorway in the eastern wall of the barn, giving them access to a harbor in inclement weather. But that means another building to muck out and the eternal question of what to do with all that waste. Whoever imagined that waste would be an eternal question?
Life is consumed with waste management - the physical, mental, and spiritual. I cannot tell you the amount of manure that I have had to shovel out of congregations, families, marriages, social service agencies, careers, and so on. The hard truth is that wherever there is organic life there will be litter. Human beings, other animals, and every manner of human organization create dregs and dross.
I always have to figure out what to do with all that horse, chicken, and goat poop. Of course we can think up all of the composting metaphors. And, indeed, some of it goes into the garden. Neighbors are welcome to take some for their flower or vegetable plats. Some can be spread across the pasture. But there always remains a pile that just seems to sit there forever. Metaphors have their limits.
Our personal lives, our churches, our corporations, and all of our civic organizations face the same challenge. We have no choice but to do the shoveling. We have to make choices about where to shovel it. If you do not muck out a horse barn with some regularity it not only piles up, its gets stomped down and is ever harder to excavate. It will deteriorate the floor. Hoof diseases can become your next problem. Think what it does to the soul or the mind.
We can expend a lot of emotional energy being angry about the reality of waste management. Or we can pick up the shovel and start to work. It is, after all, an honest days work.

Valentines in Winter

2010-02-10T10:55:00.000-08:00

The temperature, with wind chill, was zero. The northern wind was buffeting the house. I sat in the living room looking out onto the frozen snowpack. Prairie grass and evergreens were creaking in sharp temperatures and frigid blast. My feet were cold already. I was trying to think of some other thing I needed to do before I went out and fed the horses, goats, and chickens. Excuses flaked away to nothing.
Layered and bundled, I went outside. I looked something like the Michelin tire man. The snow crunched beneath my boots. The goats yammered, the rooster crowed. As soon as I opened the door to the hen house, all the chickens and Rosie the duck ran outside, the rooster in hot pursuit of a hen. BAM! This is his daily routine. Chicken sex has absolutely no romance associated with it.
The mud and horse manure were frozen clods, like walking on a street of rocks. I worried that I would topple over and break something. The young gelding was frisky and wanted to play "Who's the Boss?" That is his favorite game which he plays hourly. The barn cat curled around my feet, just one more thing to trip over. I managed to get the grain in the horse tubs and everybody lined up in their proper pecking order.
I hobbled back to the house, took off my barn boots, coat, sweatshirt, sweater, scarf, gloves, and hat. Back in the bedroom I quietly prepared to take a shower. Mimi's head rose above the quilt. "Did you feed already?" she asked. "I would have helped you."
And she would have. "It was nothing," I said. "Go back to sleep."

In a Fog

2010-01-22T15:39:00.000-08:00

During the past week we have been blanketed with deep fog. Some days the visibility on our country road was only fifty feet. Approaching the blacktop I stopped the car and rolled down the windows so I could hear approaching vehicles. I certainly would not have been able to see them.
Fog has an interesting impact on our lives. Because of the fact that you cannot see very far you are more cautious and anxious. Any reasonable person knows that another vehicle or animal could explode from the deep mist and cause a potentially deadly accident. There were scenes this week when the gray haze rendered a quiet and mysterious presence. One morning we had freezing fog like the one pictured on our fence post. There were times when the dankness cast a mood of despair and people openly wondered if we would ever see the sun again. Someone at the doctor's office today said that with this many days of running fog we would have severe storms in ninety days. I will let you know if that happens.
Fog is a powerful metaphor for fear, terror, ignorance, and superstition. It works the same way in nearly every case. In fear our horizons are so narrowed we cannot discern reality, like the fact that the sun will return. In terror we may experience the brilliance of heroism or the darkness of unending hopelessness. ignorance shields our eyes from possibility. Superstition veils real options for change and maturation. We only fantasy the malevolent and grotesque.
Well guess what? The sun came out this afternoon and the wind is picking up. Nature displays a new set of images to reflect on.
Today the church celebrates Vincent of Saragossa, deacon and martyr from Spain. The church's prayer reads (from Robert Benson's, Venite): "Your deacon Vincent of Saragossa was upheld by your grace and was not terrified by threats nor overcome by torments; Strengthen us that we too may endure all adversity with invincible and steadfast love." Something to keep in mind when the fog rolls in.

With Our Heads Bowed

2009-12-08T11:50:00.000-08:00

We enter the season of Christmas, that jubilant holiday of expectation and promise. Some might even call it a season of triumph with the glorious news that God has entered into humankind with the flesh of an infant.
The magi seem to fit right in with the incessant advertisements on television, radio, and the Internet, provoking us to purchase more things. I sure it is also the patriotic thing to do.
You might expect this meditation to reflect the images of freshly cut Douglas firs, lights, and garlands. But I wonder if the Kansas sunflower is not a more appropriate image to the news that God is with us. You see, as a sunflower's head fills with seed it gets heavier. The seeds swell with the fullness of their being and the weight is so great that the sunflower bows its head to the earth. Its seeming humility is a result of its swollen fruit.
I think that is how we approach the nativity creche. There is nothing new to report from Bethlehem this year. In fact, it is old news, at least 2,000 years old. Hopefully by now our hearts and heads are filled with the good news of God that every person is welcome to the table of life. Every person is made in the image of God and thus have some capacity to do justice, be merciful to others, and walk humbly with their God. Our hearts should be so filled with the love of God that we can only bow our heads.
When we approach the nativity cradle we should find it empty because the Prince of Peace should be in our hearts. We lower our heads in profound respect to the one who taught us to be men and women of extraordinary compassion.
Merry Christmas to you all.

Facing the Storm

2009-11-17T15:34:00.000-08:00

Do you know that American Bison and cattle have different responses to storms? Cattle will turn their backs to the storm and then travel with it. Bison will face the storm and walk against it. The result is that cattle will be in a storm for a longer period of time and suffer greater casualties. Bison walk through the storm and come out of the other side in shorter time with fewer injuries and deaths.
The same is true in water-craft safety. One of the first things that a sailor or boater learns is to turn the bow of the boat into the storm.
Many years ago, me cousin, David, and I were in a small rowboat on a lake a Canada. I was in the stern steering our little 15 horsepower motor. David was in the bow. The lake had a system of locks that would take you from one level of the lake to another. As we approached one of these locks a speedboat roared out onto the lake. It had two 100 horsepower motors, passing us on our port side about 30 feet away. I had just enough time to turn our little boat into the huge waves the speedboat had churned up. Before I knew it David was sitting next to me. Had I failed to turn the bow into the waves we would have been swamped.
I have learned that this is the only way we can live our lives and survive. We have to face the storms and turbulent waters. We have to enter what at first appears to be a threat to us. Perhaps we are facing difficulties in our marriage, or a potentially deadly disease, or an issue with one of our children. If we turn away from it we will be carried away with it and bring greater harm to ourselves and our loved ones. It is like a wound that if left uncleaned and sterilized could fester and cause deep infection or even gangrene.
The sooner we turn into the turbulence the sooner we can get out of it with less damage than we thought we could avoid. So, if you see clouds on the horizon of your life, get ready. If need be, find someone who will help you turn into the gale and get out of the other side as safely as possible.
Like the psalmist declared, "Even though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evils for you are with me."

Silence

2009-10-29T09:16:00.000-07:00

For some time now I have noticed that words cannot fully relieve me of the reality that I am fundamentally alone. This is a difficult confession for a word smith who too often dawdles in the illusion that everything can be named or explained. My career as a preacher and writer is one tall paper tower that reaches up into the heavens. And yet, all that seems to echo down from that pulp is babble.
Words cannot save us. For example, have you ever had the experience of trying to explain to someone a failed marriage? You can talk with them for hours in sublime confidence. They will ask many questions, turning every galling stone, challenging your glosses, and affirming your intentions. But when it is all said and done they still do not understand. You can never fully reveal the pain of betrayal and the sheering agony of defeated dreams. You are still alone.
People frequently ask how long it takes to write a sermon. The tired response is ten to fifteen hours. But the real answer is a lifetime. And I still do not understand the writing of it. I used to believe that it was a matter of reading, researching, outlining, illustrating, and writing with the appropriate rules of grammar. All of those are necessary but they do not account for the hours of fulminating and pacing. Some call it the creative process. Is that what wakes me up at night and insists I take dictation till three in the morning? Is this the sermonic muse that throws open the shower curtain, pushes my wife out of bed, calls the ball game in the fourth inning, and stops my car on the Interstate? I have no words for this experience. I simply obey its commands, having learned long ago that I have less tolerance for its insistent whining for expression, even if the words never experience print.
There are many experiences that words cannot articulate. The more I try to explain some things to people the more we both wander from the truth. History becomes fiction, no matter how factually I am able to recount events. People hear what they want to and my voice has its own filters. I have also noticed that the questions some people bring the story can never answer. The news, the stories, the lore, the poems, the songs, and the metaphors often hide the shadows of distortion.
Some things are best left unsaid when silence is closer to the truth and solitude is the best audience.
I am reminded of Abbot Agatho who kept a stone in his mouth for three years to discipline himself to silence.

The Voice of God

2009-10-19T17:33:00.000-07:00

In the Morning Prayer these words are offered: "We will know Your power and presence this day, if we will but listen for Your Voice."
For most of us that assumes a spoken word. We rather imagine that God will speak to us in American Standard English, offering direction, counsel, rebuke, advice, and hope. Or we expect that when the Bible is read, a prayer rendered, a hymn sung, and a sermon offered we would hear the voice of God. That is all well and good and God speaks to us in such a fashion.
But I do not think the voice of the Sacred is limited to the common vernacular. I do not know why we are constantly trying to put restraints on the Holy. Dare I say it, a muzzle? I experience the voice of the Divine in many fluid and various ways.
Just the other day I was feeding the animals in the morning. I could not hear a human sound or voice. There was not a whisper of automobiles, trains, trucks, tractors, or airplanes. All I could hear was the sound of the wind blowing through the cottonwood and mulberry trees. Horses were chomping in their feed. Rosie the duck was splashing in her wading pool. I dare say, such is the voice of God.
Of course, I hear the Sacred in the choral music of our church; in the organ peeling the wedding march, and in the passionate songs of love and protest. The metered words of poets touch a hallowed tone. I think especially of Mary Oliver and R.S. Thomas. I take great comfort in the giggling of little children, a mother's cooing over her baby, and the gentle talk of older women sewing blankets for impoverished children in Nicaragua.
The problem is not that the voice of God is sparing or muted. The problem is that we do not listen for it. We are paying too much attention to the arguments in our own head, the drone of political commentary, and the nonsense that race across airwaves and cable cords.
If we would but listen!
Today I am thinking of St. Frideswide, abbess of a medieval priory in Oxford, England. The staff she carries indicates the shepherding role of her nuns, with an ox at her feet. She is the patron saint of Oxford University.

The Aroma of God

2009-09-28T18:18:00.000-07:00

Today I mowed the lawn. I have always loved the smell of freshly cut grass, and have never met anyone who did not, despite allergies. The other night on my way home from Wichita I drove with the windows down. I made a mental inventory of the smells that delighted me.
The first was the odor of oil being pumped out of the ground just north of Park City. Northbound on K15 I smelled the freshly plowed earth with its deep hardy redolence; newly cut hay and alfalfa; and skunk, of course. When I buy feed for the horses, goats, and chickens I do not always get it into the barn the same afternoon. After a day or so the whole car is saturated with the sweet smell of feed. Around "Soggy Bottom" there are lots of other smells from all the animals, their barns, and manure. An old friend of mine, Ray Haynes" always said his dairy barn smelled like money to him.
I also love the smell of ink in a new book; the blend of coffee, bacon, and homemade biscuits; fresh rain; new babies; and night blooming jasmine that bloomed outside my window when I was a boy.
Olfactory senses must have memory. There are times when I suddenly smell my grandfather's pipe, even though no one is smoking around me. I also smell the cane syrup my grandmother served with her pancakes on Saturday morning. Sometimes these are combined and I am flooded with wonderful memories and comfort.
I dare say, these are the aromas of God, like the scent of a woman. It is a scent that is unique to each and all of her parts - natural and artificial. Combined they offer the bouquet of Mother Earth, the very manifestation of the Sacred One. What is God like? Go outside and take a deep breath. I close with this bit of Celtic blessing from G.R.D. McLean's Celtic Spiritual Verse.
O God, bless my homestead,
Bless thou all in there.
O God, bless my kindred
Bless thou my life share.

Transformation

2009-09-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

The first-planted milo is now a burnt umber. Soy plants are turning yellow. Feed corn stand in faded brown. Sumac, maples, and locust trees offer a pale golden hint of red and orange. The Jerusalem Artichokes are a riot of bright sun blossoms against the blue Kansas sky. The ones pictured here grow close to our house. The sunflower plants are in full head facing the east, waiting for the resurrection. I saw the first wooly worm when I was mowing yesterday. My friend, Karen, says that she is seeing the first signs of winter coat on her horses.
Something is changing this mid-September. The Farmer's Almanac says that it will be a long and cold winter with lots of snow.
What the Buddhists teach me is the impermanence of life. Life is always changing. So much suffering is self-inflicted as we grab hold of some one, some idea, some thing, and hold on to it for dear life. Of course we do not understand that we strangle the dear life out of her in the process of holding on.
My Christian tradition teaches me that our lives are sacred journeys and every day is a gift to discern how we are traveling and to what destiny does God intend us? We are always on the move. We often get blown off course, of course. We sometimes go the wrong direction. And there are all kinds of things to worry about like storms, shoals, and an unruly crew. The worst mistake that we can make is to stay anchored in harbor, as if harbors never change.
I have certainly made many mistakes on my journey. There were missed career opportunities, moral lapses, and just plumb dumb decisions. It is not a good thing when the crew mutinies and you are the crew! But despite all of that, the Spirit of God still fills my sails and moves me in the right direction. I am learning to sail deeper currents, when to change course, and when to tack. And yes, there is a time to drop anchor and rest and resupply - for the next voyage.
Change has brought heartache and wonderful gifts. In the course of my life's changes I have met and married Mimi, we have a beautiful daughter, an expanding family, and so many gifts I cannot list them all here.
From the book of Judith we read, "A new song we will sing to You."

The Transparent Soul

2009-09-03T16:24:00.000-07:00

As a child growing up in Florida, I would often lie down on the grass under the bright sun. After a time it seemed to me that the light and warmth of the sun flowed right through me into the soil. I could not tell a difference between the sun, my body, and the earth. It was very much like leaning my head on my mother's breast as she sang Judy Garland songs.
I had a similar experience snorkeling off of Spanish Wells, Bahamas. The surf that surrounds that island is relatively shallow. I was right on the surface of the water, peering down onto a large colony of sea urchins, like the one pictured here from the University of Massachusetts. Again, the sun was shining on my back. I could feel and see a change of light as a small rain cloud passed overhead. In the distance the pitter-patter of rain could be heard. It danced with cold feet on my back. The cloud moved on and the heat returned. In the meantime I watched the silent world below me as black tentacles swayed in the current.
There was no distinction between ocean, urchin, body, sun, cloud, and rain. Everything was one whole piece of life. My mind was the sieve that observed the harmony and beauty that flowed through it. I do not presume to call this enlightenment, but it was a profoundly religious experience that still inspires me.
Paul wrote to the Ephesians (4:6): "Everything you are and think and do is permeated with Oneness." (This rendering by Eugene H. Peterson, The Message.
Today the church celebrates Cuthburga, who founded the nunnery in Wimborne, England in 725 A.D. Cuthburga was said to be quite severe with self discipline but kind to her nuns, who were exceptionally well educated.

Space at the Table

2009-08-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

Have you ever watched hummingbirds at a feeder? One shows up at a feeder with four perches. It slurps in the nectar with concentrated effort. A second hummingbird arrives to determine which of the three remaining stations it will drink from The first bird will chatter and charge the second bird. This can go on for a quite a long time. Despite the fact that there are plenty of perches for both birds - plus two more - the first bird will not give the second an opportunity to feed. In fact, they both could be eating rather that fighting.
My horses are the same way. Each receives a quart of horse feed in his or her pail at the same time. When my youngest horse, Dusty, is done with his food, he puts his nose in Red's feed pan. Then he will pull the bowl away from the mare, nibbling up the remaining grain.
Our goats butt and push each other at the food trough. These goats are so gluttonous that we have to give them overeaters shots.
All of our animals are well fed on a fairly consistent schedule. Not a day goes by that they are not offered food in the morning and the evening. If you could see them you would know that they are not wanting for food. Yet there is a constant competition for food.
Some animals will eat until they founder or suffer colic. As a nation we are facing an obesity crises that takes its toll on human beings with such diseases as diabetes and heart disease. I have been fighting the battle of the bulge for years.
What I do not understand is famine. We are told that there is enough food on the planet to feed every human being. Yet, we consistently fail to make space at the table for them. Do you think we are too much like humming birds?
Today the church remembers a Dominican recluse, Rose of Lima, who worried that we are confused about the real meaning of wealth.

Sheep from the Goats

2009-08-17T18:00:00.000-07:00

A goat kid is perhaps one of the cutest newborns in the animal kingdom. Goats, even at a young age, display all the attributes of their parents. They are curious and will approach a stranger for no other reason than to be sociable or in the hope that food will be offered. Goats are inquisitive and intelligent. There are reports of trained goats. Like all herd animals they will stick together, more or less, and maintain an independent streak at the same time - kind of like my family. As they grow larger they become more assertive and feeding a large group of goats is not without its risks. Some nannies are aggressive with their young and will butt new born kids or deny them the teat, especially if it is a runt.
Sheep represent a different species of animal. They too are herders, but rely on the herd much more than goats. Herding is, of course, their main protection against predators. Unlike goats, sheep are more reticent to engage strangers, but will follow the voice of their shepherd. Some argue that goats are smarter than sheep but I think that depends on whether you are a goatherd or a shepherd. Sheep are more likely to run away from threats than goats are.
There are a lot of people who raise goats in Kansas, especially Boar goats, which are harvested for meat. In fact, 70% of the world's population eats goat meat. There are also goatherds that raise milk goats, such as Nubians. Their products include not only milk, but also cheese and butter. We have one of each. The kid pictured above is a a Boar. Our original plan was to raise a few Boar goats for meat. That project fell apart when Mimi and Emily named them - Katie and Hannah. They are now what you might call "pasture candy."
So, what is the issue in Matthew's gospel about separating the sheep from the goats? Both were important to the economy of Israel. Both were necessary for meat, goats for milk, and sheep for wool. Sheep dung was an important source of fuel. Young goats were favored as sacrificial animals. Perhaps that was the issue for the early church. The church wanted to distance itself from the old cult of blood sacrifice and the goat's reputation for being the image of sin and selfishness. The church now had its own "Lamb of God," and the pastoral image of a community that protected its own.
Today Mimi and I celebrate our 18th wedding anniversary.

Monarch or Milkweed?

2009-08-10T10:00:00.000-07:00

A monarch butterfly traveled with me the other day. She flit from plant to plant seeking nourishment. The monarchs will soon be migrating south. I am truly amazed that these beautiful creatures ever arrive anywhere. The monarch seems to have no discernible flight pattern. It swoops, loops, glides, and floats. It does not seem to ride the thermal winds that could carry it long distances. Rather, they are buffeted by the wind; blown off course by passing vehicles; or even worse, splattered against radiator grills and windshields.
I hardly think these clumsy acrobatics speak well for the monarch butterfly. Any flying creature worthy of the title monarch should be in greater control of his or her destiny. A monarch should command the skies with the dignity and grace that royalty demands. Even migration should be accomplished with sovereign aplomb.
Is this not also true of human beings? Doesn't the Bible say that we are "as gods?" And if not, are we not just "a little lower than the angels?" Third rung from the top of the great chain of being is not too shabby. I would certainly like to believe that my life is an example of the crown jewel of creation. As such, I am lord of my future, marking the path I tread with clarity of purpose and potent use of my skills and talents. With majesty I cut a swath through the winds of opposition to achieve the purpose I am destined to command for the good of humanity.
The truth is, of course, that I am not nearly as beautiful as the monarch butterfly, nor am I any more graceful. I also have to be reminded that the monarch is also known as the milkweed butterfly. No royal bloodlines there. No heirs to the throne, just a common variety of plants whose common distinction is a white milky juice. The milkweed is the favorite food of the monarch. What is it that butterflies see in these plants is beyond my comprehension, but maybe that is what accounts for their less than graceful flights to winter homes.
I wonder what it is that accounts for our awkward, stumbling trek through life. My efforts to achieve a simple goal are often thwarted by fatigue, constant interruptions, and lack of resources. I cannot even take a shower without someone needing something. Like the milkweed butterfly I am sometimes blown off course by the gentlest breezes of opposition. And there are times when I am pulverized by even the most transparent wall of antagonism.
Monarch or milkweed, the migration of life goes on. With surprising consistency the monarchs arrive in the tropics where they are fruitful and multiply. Yes, there are casualties along the way, but so it is with every species of life. There are many who are battered and wounded, some who arrive late, and others who never survive the trip. Their dignity as a species is found in their determination to continue the journey - generation after generation. Perhaps their royal sustenance is found in the common fare of milkweed plants.
Today the church celebrates Lawrence, A Martyr in Rome, 2009

Animal Tracks

2009-08-01T12:19:00.001-07:00

After a good rain I pay special attention to the animal tracks that I find on my walk. Typically these include raccoon (like the one I photographed above), deer, and coyote. There are others that I am not sure about. What is certain is that after a windy day or after the next rain these tracks will be washed away. No one will be any wiser to the presence of these animals. The habitat is little disturbed.
That can hardly be said for human beings. Our landfills are packed with garbage that will not decompose for centuries or ever. The tracks we are leaving seem all too permanent and the environment is contracting in the throes of death.
The problem is complex and expensive to solve. We try to conserve as much as can our five acres. We recycle, think about the number of necessary automobile excursions, and rely on our air conditioner as little as possible in the summer. We are planning on new energy efficient windows. When we replace our roof we will use white shingles. I have the idea that a windmill would be a good - green and clean - source of electricity. Those three ideas together will cost us between $25,000 and $30,000. But if we do not do them we will pay in other ways such as higher electricity and propane bills. The ecosystem will be further depleted.
Eventually we will do these things in an effort to reduce our footprints on the earth. I think this is a walk that we all have to take together or there will be no place to walk at all.
On this day the church remembers Joseph of Arimethea, compassionate friend of Jesus, 2009

Dance of the Cottonwoods

2009-07-27T17:03:00.000-07:00

The cottonwood is the state tree of Kansas. It must be a righteous tree, for as the Psalmist declared it is planted along the streams of water. It prospers and its leaves do not wither. (Ps. 1) Certainly cottonwoods love easy access to water and are found along the banks of ditches, streams, rivers, lakes and ponds. Their seed in a wispy white fluff that floats on the air. It sometimes looks like falling snow.
On my walk I pass several cottonwood trees. What I love about them is the way the leaves dance in the breeze. Leaves on other trees just seem to lean. The leaves on the cottonwood shiver and jitter in the wind. With the dance of the cottonwood leaves, sunlight frolics with sparkling reflection.
There are people like that. My ten-year-old daughter, Emily, is just such a person. When she was four-years-old she said to me, "Dad, I love my life." And Emily's life is a love of dance - ballet, tap, modern, Irish, and African. Seldom will you watch Emily dance and not see her smile. I remember the first year she danced in Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker. There were several performances, not to mention countless rehearsals that her mom drove her to. After the last performance her mother said, "Are you glad that is over?" Emily looked at her as if dear old mom had absolutely lost her mind.
When Emily and her best friend, Katie, get together it is a forest of cottonwood trees glittering and flickering as if they were the true source of energy in the cosmos. They sing, dance, ride horses, swim, and watch television in a swirl of motion and endless giggling chatter. It takes my breath away.
Like the cottonwood trees on my country road these two little girls make me smile. I think cottonwood trees and such children as these are fairies that God sends to make me walk a little lighter, grin, and if no one is watching, dance a step or two myself.
The Feast of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, 2009

Blinded by the Light

2009-07-20T14:54:00.001-07:00

When I strike out on my morning walk our country lane takes me eastward. The sun is coming up and I have difficulty seeing what is ahead of me. I am blinded by the light, so to speak. Even with the brim of my hat lowered over my eyes I cannot discern the horizon. As soon as I reach Eagle Road I turn around and head toward the house. The sun is now at my back. It is as if I am entering a new world. Everything is clear and the horizon is markedly distinct.
Light is a word that we use a lot in our culture. We would rather think that we are children of the "Enlightenment" than fellows of the "Dark Ages." Christians believe that they are children of the Light and that they are guided by the Light of Truth. Jesus teaches us that we do not light our lamps and then hide them under a bushel basket.
It matters where the light is in our lives. If we imagine that we can run madly in to the light we will be blinded. We might even be burned, regardless of whether the light is the sun or God.
I think we have to come out of the light, with the light behind us or on our shoulders, so to speak. When we come out of the light it clarifies what is before us. With the light behind us we know where we have traveled, what we have seen, and what we have learned. Sometimes that is the best light of all.
Celebrate today the light of Sojourner Truth, Civil Rights prophet at activist, 2009

The Evidence of Things Not Seen

2009-07-13T07:57:00.000-07:00

Rain fell last night, rinsing clean the canvas of nature. On my walk this morning I found a fresh hawk feather. Deer prints crossed the road in two different places. Animal scat, I think from a coyote, provided work for dung beetles. The bob-bob-white call of the quail was carried on the breeze. I did not see the hawk, the deer, the coyote, or the quail. All I saw was the evidence of their being and I am convinced they were present during the early morning hours.
Love is like that. All that I know of love is the evidence that it tracks across my heart. I have never seen love, though I have seen the faces of lovers and loved ones. I can offer the evidence but not the thing itself.
God is like that. All that I know of God is the evidence that God tracks across my soul. And like love, I have never seen God, though I have seen God in the faces of lovers and loved ones. I held both God and love in my arms as my grandfather took his last breath. The evidence of God is gathered in the acts of compassion and justice that I have seen in the work of Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, and many more. Rain and hawk feathers are what I know of God. The defenders of human dignity are what I know of God.
In the letter to the Hebrews (11:1) the author wrote, "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." So every morning I start an undimmed trek across the face of life. I carry a hiking stick, binoculars, magnifying glass, and a pocketful of bags marked "evidence."
The Feast of Silas, traveling companion of Paul, 2009

2009-07-06T11:33:00.000-07:00

The wheat fields have been harvested. Ground feeders are gleaning the remnants. Thus I saw a male Ring-necked Pheasant foraging in the north field. A few hundred feet further down the road a flock of young Pheasants rose up from the prairie in flight, the hen squawking warning to them and threat to me. Yet further down the road a mother Quail took flight westward. Seconds later her covey of young took flight eastward. She was clearly trying to lead me away from her young. On my way back to the house two Plovers circled overhead, howling at my dangerous presence to their young. Plovers build their nests on the ground. If you approach the nest the adults will flop around on the ground making all kinds of noise as if they are injured. They are hoping that the menacing intruder will attack them and neglect the nest of young. It reminds me of a time when I was hiking the Appalachian Trail. A Grouse hen with a brood of young was actually scurrying ahead of me on the trail. The mother, apparently thinking that I was too close, turned around and raised her wings in attack formation. She let loose a horrible yet and charged me.
It is amazing what animals will do to protect their young and save them from danger. I remember a young woman who lived close to my church in Florida. She was very poor. It was the dead of winter and very cold. She had an electric heater and her neighbors allowed her to run an extension cord from their house to her's to power the heater. She placed the heater next to her baby's crib. During the night a blanket fell from the crib onto the heater. The mother smelled the smoke, heard the cry of her child, and rushed into the baby's room. The entire crib was engulfed in flame. The mother reached in with both arms and snatched up the burning pyre that was her child. Sadly, the baby died. The mother was severely burned from her fingertips to her shoulders.
The Psalmist pleads, "hide me in the shadow of your wings." (Psalm 17: 8b) The way of Pheasants, Quail, Plover, Grouse, and Mothers had taught the poet something of the nature of love and care for the future. We may hope for such protection from God. May we hope for such safekeeping from one another? My, what a different world that might be.

The Feast of Thomas More, 2009

2009-06-29T11:34:00.000-07:00

This is the time of year when young things are introduced to the world. Recently dropped calves and foals are testing their wobbly legs. Mimi saw a fawn on the side of the road, seemingly too weak to walk. By the time she stopped the car and walked back to where she had seen the fawn, it had disappeared into the wheat field. While the winter wheat is being harvested, soy and milo are rising up out of the earth. In case you don't know, milo is a kind of sorghum grain that is used for feed.

The other morning on my walk I saw several young Garter snakes sunning themselves in the road. The problem with that practice is that some are easy prey for birds and some bear the distinct imprint of Michelin. James Hillman reminds us that from the moment we are conceived we are old enough to die.

In my garden the spinach has gone to seed already. We have eaten this year's strawberries. We have had to replant the squash, cucumber, and melons due to hail and some kind of unpleasant insect. The hens are laying more eggs than we can eat, sell, or give away.

This is the world that I live in. It is fertile, yet decaying, young and decrepit, hopeful and dying. My faith is like that. The issues that I deal with in my personal life and in my ministry are like that. That is also my spiritual journey. It is no one else's. More importantly such a journey is one of life, growth, and change. It is neither sterile nor stagnant.

I enjoy walking in the morning or in the evening. The songbirds are alive on both journeys. These include the Meadowlark, Mocking bird, Dickcissel, Cardinals, Goldfinch, Tufted Titmouse, a variety of sparrows and many more. Occasionally a Pheasant hen cackles in the field across the street from my house. Each has its own song to sing. Each one of us has a unique soul with its own song. Spirituality is an individual thing. You just have to know your own tune. Practice it from time to time and listen to those other birds singing. As you mature you will learn the harmony, even though there are all kinds of birds and songs.

The Feast of Columba, Patron of Scotland 2009

Gary Blaine