Silence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.