“In the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed” Khalil Gibran

A few Sundays ago, my heart found its morning and was refreshed. 

In the ordination service of a priest, one of the first things that happens is that the Bishop reads the “charge” – that is, a summary of expectations of an ordained minister of God.  As you might expect, there are standards that include proclaiming the Gospel in both word and deed, as well as maintaining a certain standard of living, i.e., “fashioning one’s life in accordance with Gospel precepts.”  Both are difficult to do at times, and especially, on a regular basis. (Most of us can fashion our lives in a good way for a while, but every day – come on!)

     But the next obligation is even more difficult – yet, paradoxically, as easy as breathing: “You are to love and serve the people among whom you work.”  

So far, I’ve been given the role of priest in three different communities.  Even as a seminarian, I was given the authority and privileged place of a minister in the lives of the people.  Very soon after I began in each of these places, I had a similar experience – always in the midst of celebrating the Eucharist.  About three to four months into my tenure, I found myself looking out into the congregation, and being filled with a strong and deep sense of love for the people “among whom I worked.”

     This is always a mysterious and sacred experience – overwhelming in its intensity.  The way I understand it, I believe it is a kind of visitation from the Holy Spirit, which gives me, for just a moment (for that is all I can handle), a sense of the great love that God has for God’s people.  Just for a minute, I am given the mind and especially, the heart of Christ, the good shepherd, who loves these particular sheep so much.  I am grateful for the experience, and find that it enables me, inspires me, re-commits me, every time I remember it.  And often, as I share that sacrament of remembrance with these people who have been entrusted to me, I feel that love again and again.

     I am now in my fifth year at St. Luke’s – the longest I’ve served in any one place.  I feel that love more and more as time goes on.  Sunday was one of those especially tender days for me – getting to teach with a parishioner, who from the start of my time here, has been a good colleague, dear friend, and a  challenging fellow pilgrim on the journey.  We facilitated a class together, peopled with folks that almost to a person, I know well – have worked with, heard their stories and they mine.  These were people who take the notion of a spiritual life seriously – and how rich our time was that morning – how rich their time together was!

Sunday was also “baby day” for me, that is, full of special greetings, special moments received from children – some of whom I’ve known since their birth.  Ben, three years old, in a back pew, spontaneously, un-self-consciously raising his hand in salute as I passed him going down the aisle in procession; Annika, her face so full of life, hope, interest, joy – reaching up to me for the bread –then, impulsively (she felt that holy love, too, I think) – reaching out to give one of those that special, around the-knees- little- kid- kind of hug.  Griffin,  now at the “me do it” stage, climbing the front steps on his own – but getting a little overwhelmed half way up – and instinctively reaching for Mama’s hand – who blushed with pleasure, that her little boy still needed her.   Our eyes met, a shared moment of holy communion as we both realized how far he has come, against so many odds. 

     Not every day in priestly ministry is so rich and so good.  Many, many of them are.  But this work is also disheartening, frustrating, often thankless and usually humbling – and not always in a good way.  Lillian Daniel, a UCC minister who writes a lot about being in ordained ministry, commented on how important length of service is, in understanding and coming to truly love a people and their place.  She describes it as “the experience of hope that comes from the redemption of long term service.” She thanks God, as do I,  that we have had more than those early years of ministry in one place to sustain us  – and the grace to be called to shape, form and live among a group of people long enough to see change and growth and experience; to enjoy  a deeper kind of relationship that comes from shared experience – from times of both success and failure; times of deep joy as well as discomfort and conflict. 

Enough prayers for right now

Bad news tends to come in threes.  Two reports from old friends about cancer received via Face book...it seems I might have to change my mind about that social networking media ...I was glad to get the news, although it is not good.  One tells about her daughter still in her thirties, the other, is about a friend from long ago when we were all involved in working in domestic violence programs in Michigan.  The daughter in question was a beautiful young woman in her teens back when I knew her  - who became a wonderful mother of three boys - the oldest now graduating from high school.  Mom's cervical cancer of some years ago has returned, but now in her lungs.  The other friend is in the middle of radiation treatment for throat cancer - and suspended from talking for the next six weeks or so....which for her seems more cruel than the original problem. The third report came quickly enough on the heels of those other two...another friend, who has a host of physical problems that will impact his ability to work and make a salary if they get too much worse.  Today felt surrounded by fear and loss and pain - their bleeding hearts like in the photo, never far from my consciousness.  The first two seem to be doing well - surrounded by friends and family, healing brought by loving proximity and care, even if the physical threat still remains.  The third is someone who is somewhat alone - also has lots of friends, and family, but far away in the frigid north...and he is always sure there is something dire on the horizon even when times are good.  I worry about his ability to handle whatever is happening ...even when the glass is half full, he worries that there might be a flood imminent.

I have always loved the bleeding heart plant.  You don't see many of them down south, but when I cleaned out a very messy front garden bed at a house I bought in Davenport, IA, I discovered a huge bush - over four feet across - which was loaded with blooms.  I didn't give Iowa even one backward glance when I left, but I mourn for the loss of that plant.  The name of the plant is a bit graphic - a bloody heart, but the blooms are lush, delicate, intricate, amazing - each branch loaded with these light, perfectly heart-shaped marvels.  The way they grow has always reminded me of rosary beads - one heart for each special intention, one blossom for each person needing some intercession, some healing light and prayer. The number of blooms on that "found" plant do not even begin to cover the prayer requests of even the people in my parish alone ... not to mention friends and family far away.  But perhaps there are just enough blossoms to enable me to pray for what I can right now, what is needed right now - what is within my ability to intercede for tonight, right now. 

Amen and amen.

I will give you the treasures of darkness ( Isaiah 45:3)

When I lived in Kingsport, TN, I had a beautiful in-ground pool. One of my favorite things to do, late at night, despite my friend, Sarah’s insistent warnings that I should not swim alone, was to turn off all the lights in my house, and all the pool lights,  climb into the pool and float around, in the warm water,  on my back in the dark.   I imagined that I was actually floating in the sky – in the heavens – and looking down at the earth – and that the lights of the stars were the lights of the homes on the earth. I loved this sensation of being weightless in the dark, like an embryo, floating in her mother’s womb.

I loved this experience of disembodied, anonymous, one with the universe,  darkness.

Many people are afraid of the dark, not just the dark of wilderness, for example, but plain old every day (or every night, more correctly), dark...with good reason. Unlike some of God’s other creatures, we’ve lost our instinctive night vision. We are creatures very dependent on light, especially, in our modern world, on light made by our own hands, i.e., artificial light.

In the dark, we become disoriented, vulnerable. We lose the impression of control and clarity that we have when things are brightly illuminated. In our world, especially in Atlanta, thieves, muggers, and rapists, claim the darkness as their own: they require its cover for the element of surprise. The darkness and the fear that it engenders are essential to empower their sinister deeds.

Darkness and dark things suggest something negative, both in our culture and in our spiritual history.

Several years ago, the movie, the Lion King, was criticized as being racist – because it depicted evil only through characters of dark skin or countenance.  Perhaps this was the case.  But we understood, didn’t we – in American culture today for good or for ill, dark can often mean bad, evil, dangerous.

We often use metaphors of darkness to describe times of great trial, or times of intense suffering or confusion.  We languish in the dark, with chronic illness; we stumble in the dark, when we’re in trouble or have lost our way. When things are hopeless, it’s like whistling in the dark – we have no idea where or if the sound will carry.

The Scriptures often use the image of darkness in the same way,  to connote despair, loss, bewilderment, trouble and abandonment.

God’s first act is to dispel chaos and darkness with a word: “let there be light.”  The people who are waiting for the Messiah, are people who have sat in darkness for a very longtime.

We remember the famous story of Nicodemus, who comes to Jesus under cover of darkness –  a midnight caller, in secret.  He leaves, unfortunately, as much in the dark as he came.

And at the third hour, when Jesus dies on the cross, darkness covers the earth –a phenomenon in reality, but also a metaphorical statement that in that darkest hour,

creation has returned to that original state of being a lightless, chaotic void.

Mystics, like John of the Cross, reflect this tendency to see darkness as absence, emptiness, dryness: times of great spiritual trial, loneliness, anxiety or hopelessness

are called “dark nights of the soul.”  We see, says St. Paul, in our current, immature state of spirituality, as if we are looking through a glass, darkly.  When we become spiritually mature, when we are finally united with Christ, only then can we become what we aspire to live as: children of light.

But I want to suggest that the darkness can also be a gift; that darkness can present an opportunity… an opportunity for encounter, for a deepening of knowledge, understanding and love – for ourselves and for God.

Rev. Gene Paradise said once, in a sermon, something that has struck and remained with me: that Jesus, the light of the world, did not come to eliminate the darkness, but to illumine it, to elp us see what needs to be seen in the darkness. 

And what needs to be seen in the darkness is less frightening, I suggest, than good.

We begin our lives, after all, in the dark – in the warm, unlit cavern of our mothers’ wombs.  Many of us, most of us, maybe, I would guess, were actually conceived in the dark. The night, despite its terrors, is also a time for making love.

Our first moments of life are terribly disturbing – as we leave that dark, lovely, quiet and protected place, faced with that first blast of stark, cold, hospital room light.  If the doctor didn’t slap us, my guess is that we would cry out anyway in distress, in our newborn language:  “back to the warm, dark place, please!”  Now, in deference to the benefits of darkness, many birthing rooms are only half lit at the moment of arrival so that the newborn can gradually acclimate to the light of his or her new world.

Darkness can provide opportunity. 

The darkness brought blessed relief to the Israelites, wandering day by day in the crushing heat and light  of their desert wilderness.  It was around campfires in the dark coolness of the evening shade that they could find the breath and energy to tell and re-tell he great stories of God’s loving and steadfast kindness, the story of their and our salvation history.

Nicodemus had only enough courage to make his way to Jesus with the protection of nightfall – the darkness enabled him to find a place of encounter he could bear, with the living God.

The Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, describes that opportunity like this:

You, darkness of whom I am born—

I love you more than the flame

that limits the world

and excludes all the rest.

But the dark embraces everything:

shapes and shadows, creatures and me,

people, nations –  just as they are.

It lets me imagine

a great presence stirring beside me.

I believe in the night.
                            Rilke’s Book of Hours, I,II, p. 63  tr. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

The darkness creates a space for something in its forgiving absence of the cold, hard light of day. After all, the darkness is the time when we can lay down and rest, “to sleep and perchance, to dream” as Shakespeare says.  Dreams, conveying God’s unspoken language, are spoken in the darkness of deepest sleep, and are pathways that open to God …when sleep enables us to set aside the defensive protectiveness of ego and the defensiveness of consciousness.

The darkness, without the intrusion of artificial light, forces us to slow our activity, and be quiet.  Is there a quieter time in this city or in our lives than when we have a power outage?

Perhaps the darkness enables us to see things that otherwise we might miss.  A paradox: darkness clarifies what can get obscured by the light of day.

When I was in Africa in 2008, I was coming home one night, after a lovely dinner with the dean of the theological school and his family. David, their oldest, age 13, accompanied me to my guest quarters on another part of the campus.  As we walked, we looked up at the sky – and saw a million stars.   I mentioned to David that in Atlanta, where I lived, sometimes you couldn’t see the stars, because of the intense and magnified lights of the city.  David was silent with the characteristics courtesy of Africans, especially, African children.  But I could tell what he was thinking: “why would anyone live in a place where you could not see the stars?”

Without the darkness, we would be unable to see either the moon or the stars.

Barbara Brown Taylor tells a story in her book the Altar of the World (p.53ff).

She and her husband, Ed, decided to take a walk in the dark one evening around a lake on a path well known to them.  They turned off their flashlights and attempted to find their way in the dark, relying only on their past knowledge, and each other.

Ed and Barbara discovered something important in the dark: the significance of paying close attention, of listening, of relying on each other; relying on their innate ability to align themselves in space, to each other and to the earth.  Using only their memory, intuition, insight, and their connectedness and love for each other, they found their way intuitively in the darkness.  They re-discovered what we all have, our close connection to the earth and our own created nature. In the dark, we can rediscover our fundamental goodness and creatureliness – our connection with everything created.

Perhaps that’s why the Spirit drove Jesus immediately into the actual and spiritual darkness of the desert wilderness after his baptism at the hands of John.  To remind him of who he was, of his dependence on his Creator, of his intimate oneness with all of created life – and of God’s great love for all that God created – despite the fact that God’s creation is fallen and broken, like things that go bump in the night.

Through the mouth of the prophet, Isaiah, the Lord says:

I will give you the treasures of darkness, and riches hidden in secret places, so that you may know that it is I, the Lord, the God of Israel, who calls you by your name.

There are treasures in the darkness and riches hidden in secret places when the lights go out.  The darkness can be a place to look for, to find and to encounter the living God and hear, that even in dark places, God calls us by name.

Go into the dark!

To know the dark with a light is to know the light.

To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,

and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,

and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

Wendell Berry, The Selected Poems, p. 68.

...and a little child shall lead them (Isaiah 11:6)

I am officially on record (in as many places as I can think of) as hating those thin, pre-fabricated

wafers called “hosts” that churches use for Holy Communion.  Those Styrofoam-like discs do not look like bread; they don’t smell like bread, they don’t taste like bread – because they are not bread.  It has often been said, that it's easier to believe that the bread and the wine contain the real presence of Jesus than to believe that those hosts are bread. 

I will admit that when I see that the volunteer bread bakers have not done their magic on a specific Sunday morning, my spirits droop and I dread taking and serving communion. 

But I gained some insight recently – through the testimony of a small child… a five year old in our parish, who is an amazing creature, with more insight than I have, in this case.  As she and her mother were making their way up the aisle to the communion rail several weeks ago, she said, “I wonder if God will be crunchy or soft today?”  Her mom was perplexed and asked her what she meant. “You’ll see” this tiny mystic cryptically replied. 

They knelt together at the rail and the priest gave the little girl one of those flat, crackly orbs.  “See” she said, whispering to her mom, “crunchy!”

What this darling child understands better than me is gratitude and taking delight in the real presence of her Lord – whatever form that Lord might appear in on a given Sunday.  She understands why that little wafer is called a “host” – because in whatever form Jesus comes to us, He is always extending the utmost hospitality… both the bread and the host accomplish what God intends   - they are just little reminders that Jesus will go to whatever lengths necessary to be with us and to be present to us…including suffering the disappointing outward sign of a tasteless, flat morsel to represent His gift of self-less love and sacrifice for us. 

Thanks be to God and thanks be to little girls. 

"You shall be called my delight"

 You are to be a crown of splendor in the hand of Yahweh.
A princely diadem in the hand of God;
no longer are you to be named “forsaken,” nor your land “abandoned,”
but you shall be called “my delight.”

                                                       Isaiah 62:3-4

Trying to turn left onto 10^th Street, in late afternoon traffic, I noticed them through the glass of my windshield: two good looking, twenty-somethings who were clearly in love and most likely sharing habitation.  They carried a huge cloth tote-bag between them filled with groceries – she, holding the handle in her left hand, he, in his right.  Their other hands sported a collection of other house hold items: dry-cleaning, an incredibly large plastic container of spring water, several hand- and book bags. 

They had stopped on the corner waiting for the light to go their way.  He, handsome, trim, bearded, looking confident and alert. She, cute, strong, with an easy way about her that made you think she would be a lot of fun.   He grinned and stretched, working out the cramp in his hand from the heavy bag.  She, tossed her hair and fiddled with it, looking at him coquettishly – there is just no other way to describe it – coquettishly, with slightly slanted eyes.

They were talking only to each other – completely absorbed. Animated features and gestures – lots of smiles, deep laughs, not so much a soulful looking into each other’s eyes, but, instead, an excited and joyous reaching out to each other – light touches on arms, hands – a quick hug around the shoulders, a light brush of hand on cheek.  There was a kind of give and take – two bodies in sync, two hearts giving and receiving , a spontaneous and lovely pas de deux on the mean streets of ATL.

Perhaps it’s just the gossamer beauty of this particular spring, maybe the fragile lightness of the pink and white blossoms that surround us on all sides that enabled me to see the amazing wonder of the two of them – I could not stop watching this silent tableau of young love in bloom.  They were delighted with each other – they took great delight  in each other- took it with gusto, with both hands, with souls and bodies, as it were, with deep and gushing joy! They were delightful to behold!  

They were, indeed,  beautiful in their friendship – reminding me of a wonderful snippet from a poem by Khalil Gibran – “and in the sweetness of friendship, let there be laughter and the sharing of pleasures,  for in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”

Have you ever felt this way?  Ah, if you have not, I feel dreadful sorry for ye, as my Irish ancestors would say.  There is nothing like that feeling, of being in sync, two pendula swinging as one, balance, counterbalance, completely in harmony, abounding with joy!

Aelred of Rievaulx, a 12^th century English monk, would have recognized them immediately. Among other scholarly works, he wrote a brief treatise called “spiritual friendship” in which he made the case that true friendship between people is a mirror of the friendship that God desires with every one of us. Aelred, quite the romantic, would have easily drawn the connection with the delight these two lovers enjoyed, to the delight that God has for us – the delight that God takes in each and every one us, something, indeed, that is delightful – to behold in ourselves and in all those others, whom God has created in God’s delightful image!

Trying to turn left on 10^th Street – a very unlovely activity – I was treated to a little glimpse of love delighted  - and a reminder that we are no longer called forsaken, or the land which is abandoned, by “God’s delight.”

Sunday Sightings

It’s early – around 7 AM. Daylight Savings Time has begun, so the light is wrong for this time of day, but folks are, as usual, already up and about in Midtown.  I pull up to the traffic light at the intersection of Pine and Courtland.  One left turn will take me to the back entrance of my church and the start of a usual Sunday of feverish activity between now and early afternoon. 

At the top of the incline in the next block of Pine Street, I see a school bus, bilious green, sitting with its door open and motor running.  There is just one word recorded in the scrolling sign on the front, showing the destination for today: JESUS.   Lots of guys in rough clothing, toting small bags, are climbing in.  All of them on their way to JESUS.   

No doubt they’ll get a hot breakfast, some heated preachifying, maybe a warm blessing and a cold sandwich for later. I don’t blame them a bit for going along –even if it’s only for the ride.  Folks will be coming to my church for the same thing in just a little while – only there’ll be no sandwich forthcoming for them.

I have this thought: “could it be that simple?” Just get on the bus and go to JESUS? No letters of transfer, no instruction classes no wondering if I will fit in, be dressed right, be getting myself in too deep – getting myself  into something that I can’t get out of later?   Just get on the bus.

 “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” 
Matthew 11:28-30

Love bears all things

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things… And now, faith, hope and love abide, these three, and the greatest of these is love. I Corinthians 13:7, 12

Yesterday, I visited one of our members and her husband at their home.  He’s been diagnosed with a terminal disease and is experiencing a steady increase in dementia as his body systems shut down. Hospice care is in place and it’s only a matter of time.   

It’s been about three weeks since I saw him last and she confirms my first impression. The nurse has been here already today –not to provide any therapy or treatment, there’s nothing now, that will provide any improvement.  He comes to check on her husband and let her know the status of things – and things, she tells me, are heading south fast.

These two have always made a fun and active couple, even lately, in their early 70’s. He’s a retired church musician, who has a wonderful sense of humor, a strong bass voice and an insightful mind.  Now, he spends most of his day in a wheelchair, offering random comments unconnected to the reality that the rest of us are experiencing.  He’s unable to care for himself in the slightest way.

We sat together for a while in their pretty living room.  She and I exchanged some heartfelt words, sotto voce, so as not to disturb his ramblings. Her husband is slowly drifting away, literally, falling into sleep in his chair without a moment’s notice.  But truly, he is moving farther and farther away into an idiosyncratic place way beyond the horizon we might share with him.

But it’s still him, all right.  A vestige, a faithful remnant of this gracious, witty and charming man is still quite visible.  Hidden in the jumble of each confused utterance were several of his characteristic turns of phrase.  Parsing the words, you could get an inkling of his tendency for humorous observation and an echo of his typical funny and incisive repartee.

“I am fascinated by what comes out of his mouth” his wife confessed – softly, once again, so as not to let him hear.  She knows he’s dying, and prefers, she says, to “deal with it intellectually.” She has decided to observe it all, quietly, almost exegetically, drawing from each day’s experience deeper understanding, some deeper realization about herself, about him, about life, love and faith.

He is still very sweet, as he always was – although sometimes anxiety and disorientation move him into a child-like petulance.  He can still show love and receive love, though.  But precious moments of connection are giving way to more difficult encounters.  It’s as if they are together on a see-saw that is tipping perilously close to dumping them onto the dirt.

But her equanimity, her abiding patience and love remain intact – no, strong, stalwart, incredibly so, in the face of more and more serious challenges each day.  He falls moving the six inches from his bed to the wheelchair, and she can’t lift him.  Like most neighborhoods these days, no one, especially someone with a strong back, is at home to help her.  His terror glues his hands to the bedside table, the wheels of the chair, like an iron vise.  He cannot participate in his own recovery. 

She must bathe, feed, toilet and clothe him – this once strong, handsome man who was, truly, her knight in shining armor.  She clings to sweet memories of wonderful trips, stimulating conversations and sassy debates, fantastic parties, just sitting on the porch with a drink in the late afternoon watching the sun go down.  These days will not ever return for them.

Yet not one trace of bitterness or self-pity is in evidence.  Only wonder and gratitude that she is privileged – her word, privileged – to be as much an intimate part of his dying as she has been of his living.

“You are in the midst of a rarified, a sanctified time” I stammer – trying to convey that I understand—that I get what she’s telling me.  I want her to know that I can truly see that this is a holy time and place.  She nods, knowing in her full being, what I have only gotten a tiny glimpse of.

Later, I know quite fully that in their presence, I’ve been on holy ground. The words of the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, rise unbidden, as I reflect on the visit.

In that home, were certainly, amazing faith and undaunted hope – pressed down, overflowing, expressed, unselfconsciously, in an abundant display.

But the greatest thing of all in that place was love… that “greater love” that Jesus talked about – the irrational kind, that empowers you to lay down give your life for a friend’s – and have it all make sense… that greater love, that enables you to lay it down, not with a false martyr’s hubris,  but with true gracefulness  ­- that gift of unearned, unmerited steadfast love, no strings attached.

Although we can only ever, in this life, see, “as through a glass darkly” – yesterday, I came face to face with the love of Christ, embodied, outpoured, in a pretty living room on an overcast spring day.  Thanks be to God!