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.