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You can now find me on: www.blainesjunction.wordpress.com Contains meditations, poetry, haiku, and recipes.

So Long, Dusty

If you have been to Soggy Bottom in the last few years you have probably met Dusty. Dusty is an eight-year-old American Paint horse that was given to me when he was about four. He had just been gelded and to this day still has something of the nightlife in him. When I got him he was halter broke and none too happy about that. He was a biter, personable, curious, and independent. Some might say he is a spirited horse. I am not a horse trainer and contracted with one who got dusty ground broke. I continued to work with him on those basics and getting him saddle broke. Our challenge this year was reigning and I hired a very gifted young horse trainer, Kate, for that purpose. She did amazing work with Dusty and after three weeks I was able to ride him. Dusty is a very curious and mischievous animal. One day I was putting together a hayrack. I had all of the nuts and bolts in a carpenter’s apron, tied behind my back. Bent over, I was ratcheting a nut. Dusty came up behind me, nibbled at the apron strings and pulled them apart. He was also a master at untying knots, including the horseman’s knot that is supposed to be impossible for a horse to undo. Given enough time he could figure out how to get the chains unlatched from the gate. Dusty was deeply attached to our mare, Red, whom we put down this past winter. One day I saw Red splayed out on the pasture. Her right rear leg was perpendicular to her body. I thought she had broken it or at least displaced her hip. I could not get her up and was on my way to the house to call the vet. Dusty watched all of this. After I had walked away he approached Red. Dusty nudged her. He grabbed her by the withers and pulled upward. He was relentless. As the phone was ringing at the veterinarian’s office I saw Red stagger upward with Dusty’s coaching. Soon she was walking normally. But always Dusty wanted more than anything to run with the wind. One day I was mounting him. My left foot was in the stirrup and I was swinging my right leg around when he spooked. He broke right which meant that centrifugal force was working against me, not to mention my center of balance was off. I landed on the ground really hard. The wind was knocked out of me but my first thought was that I had broken my right jaw. I also had some pain behind my right ear. I immediately began checking my jaw and trying to catch my breath. I realized that the pain I felt was the force of the riding helmet jammed into the right side of my head. I also knew that if I had not been wearing a helmet I would have incurred a serious head injury. Kate got Dusty settled down and I remounted. We rode for about an hour. The rule at our house has always been that when a horse throws you, get back on. The next week I was too sore to ride. My whole body was jarred. But I had Kate come anyway and she rode Dusty. One day she came in after about an hour. Her eyes were wide as saucers with a huge smile on her face. She beamed, “I got Dusty to canter and he has a very smooth gallop. If you ever want to sell him, please put me on the top of the list.” She talked about training Dusty for barrel racing. So I thought about that over the weekend and when Kate came for the Monday ride I asked her to talk with me for a few minutes. I offered Dusty to her as a gift. Both of them had fallen in love and she is the kind of rider that Dusty needs. She has the youth and skill that these old bones do not have. She will ride him and both can fly across the plains of Kansas. I have discovered that sometimes we love someone or something best when we let them go. I am not giving up horseback riding. I just need a kinder – gentler mount. See the young gelding gallop across the pasture With no restraint, unaware of any audience, Running for the sheer joy of it. He prances back, throwing his head to and fro, Bucking and snorting With the wild abandon of freedom. Trotting around the other horses, He nips and kicks, faints and dodges, Full of himself because he can; Until the mare whinnies and threatens To expel him from the herd, Every horse’s greatest fear. He settles down, Puffing then gasping the last draw of liberty, Until tomorrow.

Drought and Grace

You have probably heard of SAD - seasonal affective disorder. It is a form of depression that usually occurs during the late fall through winter. It is thought to be related to the loss of sunlight, and "light therapy" is offered as one form of treatment. Symptoms include anxiety, sadness, hopelessness, irritability, restlessness, fatigue, and a general loss of interest in just about everything. I have come up with a new disorder that I call CAD - climatic affective disorder. Like SAD, CAD is fraught with anxiety, a sense of loss, fatigue, and hopelessness. It is the result of too much sunlight, heat, and wind, common across the central plains. I have noticed CAD in many of the people that I work with at the hospital where I am chaplain, but also amongst my parishioners in Newton and Wichita. I certainly feel it when I get into my car after work and the temperature is 111 degrees. The drought has caused many of us to give up on our gardens where we spent so much time roto-tilling, planting, weeding and watering. While the wheat harvest was generally good, corn and soy are virtually destroyed. Stockmen are selling off cattle because they cannot afford hay and corn to feed their animals. I bought hay last year for my horses at $40.00 per round bale. The cheapest I have seen this year is $80.00. Five years ago a 50# sack of horse fee sold for just over $11.00 and now sells for over $16.00. Last year the cost of household groceries rose about 3% and is expected to rise another 3-4% this year. And just last week I read an article that mentioned the desertification of the American plains that began last summer. Is it any wonder that we all feel just a little blue with the creeping feeling that things are just not right in our world. What are we to do? I have noticed that generally speaking most people respond quickly to an emergency. We get focused on what needs to be done when a child is hit by a car or a parent has a heart attack. We don't always respond very well during a catastrophic illness such as cancer or alzheimer's disease. These illnesses sneak up on us, we often do not recognize their progression, and we are slow to respond over time. The challenge for us is to reach deep down into our reserves to strengthen ourselves for the long haul. We must dive into the wells of our deepest being to bring refreshment to people in our homes, workplace, and community. We do not yet fully appreciate the challenges of climate change. We may only now begin to see the subtle shifts that will reshape our lives forever. We may not have the means to reverse or even stop it. We can only live our lives and engage our relationships with grace. Thomas Merton wrote that we must, "Let go of all that seems to suggest getting somewhere, being someone, having a name and a voice, following a policy and directing people in "my" ways. What matters is love."* We may not be able to redirect climate change. We can direct our love and compassion for one another. I do not know of another response that will see us through. We can choose to be bristling heat and wind or the wellspring of hope to each other. (*Thomas Merton, A Book of Hours, Kathleen Deignan, ed. (Notre Dame: Sorin Books, 2007), p. 271

The Gardens of Life

Stewardship is an essential way of life that will determine the future of our bodies, our families, our communities, and our earth. Sadly stewardship has been cheaply assigned to the role of raising money for the operating budget of a church. Or even worse, stewardship means dominating the earth and each other for our own gain. Authentic stewardship is the role and activity that the Creator gave to all human beings for the nurture and care of all, even the smallest of things. Whether we are raising a tomato plant in a pot or farming a thousand acres of wheat we are stewards. The size of the garden does not matter. We are not good stewards if we think we have to have a larger garden to be a trustee. My life has seen many gardens and I have learned that each is meant to prosper. I still believe in vocation, which does not always mean profession. My primary call is to cultivate the gardens of my life that each may flourish. My gardens are like a series of greenhouses arranged like the spokes of a wheel. They have many similarities. They all need sunlight and water. They need protection from insects and disease. Always the question is how do you do that responsibly? Yet each greenhouse is unique and each poses its own challenges. My family is a garden. I am serving two small congregations and each is unique. My work as a hospital chaplain is a prolific garden of hope, skill, disease, and death. Soggy Bottom, where we live, is a garden of vegetables, fruit trees, chickens, horses, and two absurd goats. The primary challenge of the future, for the sustainability of us all, is learning that stewardship means first of all the flourishing of the gardens we have been given. Coincidently these gardens might provide for our families, but stewardship is first focused on how the garden grows. I have faith that if the gardens prosper in our hands we will prosper as well. Prosperity will mean that we have joy in the growing of things, we are at peace with the role of gardener, and we will be thankful for the life that we are given in the garden, however meager or grand. And yes, every garden requires sunlight and water, hoeing and trimming, fertilizing and weeding. Whether it is the local church, the hospital, my family, or my vegetable garden I must consistently water, shovel manure, thin the rows, and figure out how to manage weeds and insects. My suspicion is that these same issues confronted Adam and Eve in paradise long before they got the boot. It was only in the state of self-consciousness and alienation that they decided this was unfair labor on the other side of Eden. May your zucchinis be long and green, your tomatoes vine ripened, you children strengthened, your work abundant, and your hearts be satisfied.

Crop Dusting

For three weeks in April, crop dusters worked the wheat fields from 7:00 A.M. until nearly 8:00 P.M. They were spraying for wheat rust, a fungus that can destroy 20% of the crop, more or less. They fly by computer with all of the GPS and navigational tools than I cannot comprehend. In the old days people would be on the ground to serve as markers. After the crop duster made a pass the marker would run to the next section of the field to mark the spot for the next fly over. Often the marker would get a good dousing of whatever herbicide or fungicide was laid down. I have met some of these people, several of whom are quite aged, and I am amazed they are still with us. This spring has been so moderate that harvesting wheat could begin in late May. A farmer told me the other day that he had never harvested wheat so early. The wheat is just beginning to turn a golden color and the big worry is that the crop could be destroyed by a late killing frost, hail, or violent winds that would lay it down. There is great hope for this crop. Last year’s harvest was cut dramatically by dry conditions. But this year they are saying that harvest could yield as much as a hundred bushels of wheat per acre. I think the norm is somewhere between 60 and 80. Weather remains a deep concern. While we have had a few good rainfalls from time to time this spring it has not been consistent enough to give anyone a sense of ease. Since March 1 (through May 7, 2012) we have had 4.8 inches of rain at our house. Last year weather forecasters indicated that we were entering a 10 dry pattern. A friend of mine went down to Texas last week to haul hay and discovered it was already drying out faster than they could harvest it out of the field. A large round bale of hay cost me $40.00 last summer and I was really lucky. Some people were paying $120.00 per bale and had to haul it themselves. Feedlots in western Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas were packed with so many cows going to market you could not see the end of them. The entire horizon was a wall of cattle. Another problem with weather is insect control. With a mild winter many insects have already emerged in wild numbers. It is May and June bugs are swarming, not to mention moths and the inevitable return of grasshoppers. What has any of this got to do with you? Immediately consumers will a difference in the cost of food. Because of worldwide wheat shortages last year many countries experienced riots because there was not enough wheat to bake bread, still the common staple throughout most of the world. The long term is difficult for me to imagine. By 2050 the world’s population is expected to reach 9.2 billion. I have read that food production will need to increase by 80%. I am not inclined to see how we will manage that given all of the variables that I have mentioned above. We have not managed arable land in most places throughout the world and irrigation for what we need to grow is unimaginable. The hard truth is that we are already experiencing water shortages in many parts of the U.S., with water tables dropping every year. The temptation will be to try and pack more crops onto shrinking land and rely evermore on chemicals for fertilizers and pest and disease control. The idea of sustainable farming has not yet captured the attention of national policy makers. In the meantime I do not know of any of America’s family farms that do not rely on outside income to sustain their families. They are now the very tiny minority of America’s “agribusiness.” They are working hard against incomprehensible odds.

Installation Invocation: Dr. Gary Miller

The Installation of the Chancellor
Dr. Gary Leon Miller
The University of North Carolina at Wilmington
April 20, 2012
Prayer of Invocation
Rev. Dr. Gary Blaine
I have fished the Gulf of Mexico,
watched squalls dance across her face,
raked clams, scallops and blue crab
off her sandy bottom.
I have swam and sailed her warm waters,
pushed along by the winds of God.
I have played in the surf of the
Atlantic and Pacific oceans,
accompanied by dolphins and sea lions,
watched with caution schools of
stingrays, sharks, and Portuguese man of war,
kissed always by the spirit of God.
I have snorkeled in the Caribbean,
hovered over colonies of sea urchins,
speared grouper and grabbed spiny lobsters,
stared down the undulating teeth of
silver barracuda and lemon sharks,
cooled ever by the breath of the Sacred One.
I have rolled a #5 line with a blue dun dry fly
into the Nantahala River gorge,
paddled the Manatee and Chattahoochee rivers,
crossed the mountain streams of the Appalachians,
sauntered the banks of Thoreau’s beloved Concord River,
nudged by the zephyr of Deity.
Blow now Holy Wind,
rise up from Cape Fear and the Outer Banks,
ruffle the waves of Masonboro Island,
splash across the campus of the
University of North Carolina, Wilmington,
stir the tidal pools of imagination
Brood upon the waters of thought and possibility,
sough the estuaries of research and experiment,
roil whitecaps across the bayous of the mind,
brew a nor’easter when our faculties are too content,
push the currents of intellectual freedom past the barrier reefs of
political ideology and religious temerity.
Holy Breath of Creativity,
bless this man, Gary Leon Miller
with the courage to sail the perilous seas of thought.
Keep his hand steady at the helm, his sails trim;
ballast in his soul for draft and stability.
Grace him with the good sense to find safe harbor
in deep humor and profound friendships.
Blow Spirit of Life.
Lift us up on the wings of Seahawks.
Dare us to soar into Thy future
in the great Ocean of Being.
Amen.

Goodbye, Red

Late this morning our vet came to Soggy Bottom to put down our mare, Red. I bought Red from my friend Ralph Bestvater. She was an American Quarter horse, about 26 years old. This is a photograph I took of her ear during winter several years ago.
Red was one of the most patient horses I have ever known. She took her shots without complaint as well as her oral medications. Red loved to trot, as if that was the only speed she knew. The only discipline problem I ever had with her was what I called the “Texas two-step.” When Red was tired of riding she would never buck or rear back. She just kind of did a little dance with her hind legs to let you know the session should be ending soon. I would continue to ride to let her know she didn’t get to make those decisions.
For the past year we have been fighting a persistent uterine infection. She lost a considerable amount of weight. I inoculated her with antibiotics and a medication that made her uterine wall dry up about four weeks ago. Red still dropped the weight until her hip bones were protruding. She did not seem to feel any exterior pain and continued to eat.
This morning after feeding I put on her red halter and took her into the back yard. Green grass and clover were hers to enjoy for the last two hours of her life. Dr. Baehler arrived about 11:45. He looked her over and said it was time to let her go. I led Red to the end of the driveway. Dr. Baehler injected her with a medication that is used to put down a variety of animal like the family dog. Red did not flinch, but maintained her usual patient deportment. The medication took effect fairly quickly. Red sat down and then rolled over to her right side. After a few moments Dr. Baehler listened for a heart beat and found none. A rendering service will come by this afternoon and pick up her body.
I had said goodbye to Red during the morning feeding. When the vet was gone I went into the house and got a hymnal. I went back outside and stood beside her. I sang all seven stanzas of St. Francis of Assisi’s, “All Creature of Our God and King.” When I was finished I patted Red on her head, thanked her again for the years of joy she had give me, and said goodbye.

Early Spring

We have had an unusually warm winter. Temperatures this week in Kansas will reach 80 degrees. The plants, trees, weeds, and birds at our place have no doubt about the season. The pear trees are crowned in white. Forsythias are highlighted in yellow. My peach trees are leafing out and I worry about a late killing frost. Small reconnaissance parties of red robins hop around the yard conducting a census of earthworms, grubs, and insects for the folks back in Florida. The red wing black birds queue up on the fence post nattering about their winter carnival as the white crowned sparrows plan their voyage north. The cardinals have taken their posts, haling one another in the early morning across wheat fields and woodlots. Plovers, also called killdeer, skitter across the pasture piping their high-pitched calls. They always seem rather nervous to me, sounding alarums at the most non-threatening pilgrim. I only await the scissor-tailed flycatcher.
All last weekend fleets of motorcycles whizzed up and down the interstate highways.
This past week we cleaned out our hen house and set up a small stall for new chicks. We put down fresh bedding material, bought chick starter feed and a new water feeder. The heating lamp was tested and found to be in good working order. Six chicks came home with us on Saturday: silver laced Wyandottes, brown leghorns, and California whites. This morning two were dead and the other four were gone. From the scat on the floor I think it was a skunk. We ordered new ones this afternoon. They are sent by U.S. mail to our farm and feed store. They should be in on April 6th.
Christopher and I set out new fence posts for the vegetable garden and strawberry patch. I hope to get the fencing up tomorrow, in time to plant lettuce, spinach, and peas before the next spring showers that will hopefully come the later part of the week. Christopher had also built a rain harvesting system out of 55 gallon barrels. With the last brief rain we collected 275 gallons of water. We will attach soaker hoses to them when we need to water the gardens.
Life re-emerges in bud, chick, and work. Seasons do not so much change as they merge and meld into today and tomorrow. Seasons do not change like overcoats. They blend with the power of youth and death. As far as we human beings know this is the eternal process. For me it is a sacred process. I never cease to be filled with wonder at the scent of pine bedding and wet earth, the body odor of man sweat and horses, the aroma of freshly baked bread and musk.

Just Don’t Call Them Biblical Values
Gary Blaine

Republican candidate Rick Santorum has criticized President Obama’s faith this week and stated that it is, “Not a theology based on the Bible.” Mr. Santorum seems to have a vision of America that is a theocracy based on Jewish and Christian principles. Mr. Santorum’s comments invite a host of questions that theocrats inevitably raise. Why a Jewish and Christian theocracy as if these two traditions were synonymous and meant the same thing. Which Judaism of the Hebrew Bible would he endorse, that of the pre-Davidic monarchy, or the Judaism of the various kingdoms of Israel and Judah, an exilic Judaism or post exilic Judaism? Or does he mean the theology of the Jewish peasant, Jesus, prior to the crucifixion and resurrection or the post resurrection community through the Council of Nicea? After Constantine everything “Christian” changes through the Dark Ages to post-Christian America.
I wonder if Mr. Santorum really imagines a United States government based on the Bible. As I read the Bible the nation would spend little time debating questions about gender orientation and put a tremendous amount of work and money into caring for the poor. There are only about six, possibly nine, Biblical references to homosexuality. But there are hundreds of references about the poor, God’s concern for the poor, God’s commands about caring for the poor, the consequences of not providing for the poor, and the blessings on those who provide for the poor.
I am not sure Mr. Santorum would win the endorsement of the Chamber of Commerce, banks, and corporations because a distinct value of the Bible prohibits usury. In the strict sense, usury in the Bible is any interest on loans, not just exploitive loans. And how about the year of the Jubilee? That Biblical value would require that all land borrowed, stolen, purchased, or seized for unpaid debts would return to its original owners. The Jubilee Year, every fifty years, would mean that all debts are forgiven.
Mr. Santorum wants to finish the wall that separates the United States from Mexico to stop illegal immigration. Never mind that it won’t really work given the massive border that surrounds the U.S. More importantly it is not a Biblical concept. Torah speaks repeatedly about caring for and even protecting foreigners and aliens. In fact, the Deuteronomist instructs us to “Love you therefore the stranger: for you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.”
Finally, do most Americans really want Biblical values when it comes to issues of national defense? Does Mr. Santorum really want to beat our drones into plowshares and our nuclear missiles in pruning hooks? I’ll bet nobody at the Pentagon, the Defense Department, or proud investors in the military industrial complex would vote for that. Biblical values require us to seek peace and reconciliation and not commit acts of violence against even our worst enemies. Mr. Santorum might do well to re-read the Sermon on the Mount.
Without a doubt people will argue with me about same-sex marriage, the abuse of entitlement programs, capitalism and a free-trade economy, the necessity of secure borders, and a strong military presence in the world. Their values will reflect their worldview and political ideology. Just don’t call them Biblical values.

Whitney's Death

The death of Whitney Houston has taken over the media. One morning news program devoted its entire two hours to her life, music, and demise.
Without a doubt Whitney Houston was a magnificent entertainer. Her voice spanned three octaves, delivered with soulful power. Not for a moment would I diminish her talent. Her career inspired many artists and her music touched the hearts of thousands of people.
Sadly, Whitney Houston is one more name in the list of artists and entertainers whose lifestyle destroyed them. The list is a long one and includes people like Kurt Cobain, Elvis Presley, Chris Farley, River Phoenix, Michael Jackson, and Marilyn Monroe.
Already people are asking who is to blame for Ms. Houston’s death. Investigators are searching her medical records to determine what medications her doctors prescribed for her. Yet a former body guard reported the other day that her behavior was so self-destructive that he had to check on her every seven minutes to make certain that she was safe. She admitted that her own worst enemy was herself.
I do not judge Whitney Houston. But the only truth is that she is to blame for her death. Hers alone was the responsibility to seek the treatment she needed and make the choices that guaranteed her health. She chose to do otherwise and paid for it with her life. She also brought incredible grief to her daughter and others who loved her.
Over the years I have become convinced that the values of a consumer democracy actually erode the very character that establishes democracy in the first place. We have moved away from the agrarian principles of hard work, the reality of struggling with nature to feed human beings, and understanding that such a struggle does not make everyone a “WINNER!” We have lost our sense of personal responsibility and the reality that life is often fragile no matter how hard we have worked. I think of crops that have grown through the early spring and destroyed by a late killing frost, or blown over by high winds and hail just before harvest.
The glamour of Hollywood does not instill such character in people. We have known this for a very long time. The vanity, excess money, and pseudo-adulation of the entertainment business gives people the mistaken idea that life can be bought, charmed, and seduced by the right combination of talent and public relations.
None of it is real.
The death of Whitney Houston is a sad thing. But the loss is greater than the voice of such lyrics as “I will always love you.” The greater sorrow is a nation that lacquers over its own self-destructive behaviors and rushes out to buy the greatest hits of the dearly departed.

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.

Easter 2011

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

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

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.