Wild Beasts and Angels

Wild Beasts and Angels: A Meditation for Lent
(Based on Genesis 9:8-17 & Mark 1:9-15, common lectionary readings for the first Sunday of Lent, year B.)

Ten nights back, and the moon was still bright, just past its full, round glory, waning gibbous above the faithful remnant of snow. The wood stove had been well-fed, that night, and the warmth had poured up through the grate into our half-attic room. There, in the midst of February, the small room had become stifling. We opened the window half-way and settled in for the night, the bright moonshine spilling in over the sill.

For a while, all was quiet. Wrapped in the cares and business of the day, we gradually eased our whirring minds down into sleep. A truck went grumbling down the dirt road. Again, silence, then—blessed sleep, deep, restoring, healing sleep, peaceful oblivio—WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?

We struggled awake, sat up in bed, and strained to make sense out of the unearthly series of noises, the rising, dipping pitches, the staccato yips and echoing, resonant howls. “Ohhhhh. Coyotes.”

Once or twice a year, in the deep eroded stream beds that carve through the 30-acre woods behind our house, the coyotes gather. It's often more than one pack that converges, and the range of voices is eerie and amazing. Have you ever heard the coyotes when they gather and begin to sing? One wild call rises into the night, answered by another. Other voices join, and they go on for hours, vying for attention, trying out for solos, and then breaking out into a rolling, wild cacophonous chorus that goes on almost too long to bear, full of spell-binding syncopation, intense dissonance and hackle-raising harmonies.

We lay there, in the over-warm house, in the cold blue moonlight, trapped between the security of our blankets and the unleashed wilderness just beyond our half-open window. And that's as good a place to begin as any. No matter where you are, it's a good place to begin the season of angels and wild beasts, the season of Lent.

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness.

Immediately. It's one of Mark's favourite words. He is so eager to get out the Good News, so hungry to share the power of this life-altering experience, this world-transforming story! Never mind the baby in the stable. The gospel leaps right in at the Jordon, with Jesus being baptised by John. And immediately, the heavens are torn apart, and the Spirit descends like a dove, and a voice names him as God's Beloved child! And before we even have time to figure this all out—before JESUS has time to figure this all out—he's driven, lobbed, forcefully flung right out into the wilderness.

What would have happened if the story took a different direction? “Jesus was baptised, and then immediately went back home.” No, that's not how ministry works. “Jesus was baptised, and immediately went into town.” No, town is for commerce, not transformation.

He had just been baptised. He had gone under the surface of the water. He had been submerged in the flood, a ritual drowning of all the old ways, and he had broken the surface and emerged into light and air and possibility again. He was the new Noah, water streaming off of him, there with a dove of promise and God's voice to declare a new covenant. And, like Noah, in a radically altered landscape, he had to figure out life all over again. Yes. Wilderness. There, with the wild beasts, tended by angels.

Because wilderness isn't just a place we go. Wilderness is something inside of us. We each carry, inside our hearts and minds, a bewildering landscape full of barren places and tangled thickets. It is full of strange characters: shadowy schoolyard taunters, lost and lingering loves, and other ghosts that haunt us, the harsh or compassionate faces of our ancestors, the sweet and frightening demons of our dreams.

We wake and walk with this, move through the world with this wilderness inside us. And, in the neat compartments of home and school and office, in the blind repetition of the daily grind, we cannot expect this wildness to make sense. The paved roads and square rooms—the ones that work so well for machines—do not work so well for our suffering, searching souls.

There's a reason seekers have gone into the wilderness—or created quiet times and sanctuary spaces—for century after century. Whether we hike or paddle into actual wilderness or simply set aside time to pray, meditate, and wander our inner wilderness in God's good company, these spiritual adventures feed our souls.

For the good of our souls, we need time and space away. We need stones under our feet. We need rough old trees. We need the purity of deserts, the rough angles of mountaintops. They help us unclutter our vision until we can see the wideness of God's love. They help us empty out all the competing voices until we can name our personal demons...and only those pure, elemental spaces can bring us the needed clarity. And we don't need to be afraid of this adventure. Remember what happened to Jesus when he went out:
...the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.

Yes, he faced temptation—really, more of a series of spiritual tests: hurdles to leap on a marathon journey of the soul. But Satan, the great tester, was not his only company. He was with the wild beasts, and angels waited on him. You see, they go together, those angels and wild beasts. God made the rainbow sign as a promise to all of Creation, every blessed thing that lives and breathes in that wonderful, fragile, ferocious, wild and wonderful community of life.

In the wilderness, Jesus was among his sisters and brothers—some furred, some leafy, some buzzing or burrowing, some smooth or scaled, some fringed, some feathered. There, with his wild kin, he was never isolated, not even in his deepest fear, rage, grief and anxiety. Tended by angels, he was shown the blessing of hidden springs and the beauty of unexpected wildflowers. His soul blossomed with them. And after forty days in such company, Jesus was ready to live into the promise of his baptism. He was ready to face the extraordinary work that God was calling him to do.

So, the adventure begins: immediately, whether we are ready or not. We can hide if we want to. We can pull the blankets over our heads or turn up the volume and stay hunched over our little glowing boxes. We can drive faster so we don't see the wild things moving beyond the pavement's edge. But the season of Lent beckons to our spirits, welcomes us into wider and wondrous possibility.

Listen: the wind is rising. Bulbs are starting to stir under snow and half-frozen mud, down in the dark earth. Listen: the stars are dancing above us, pulsing and shimmering to a celestial rhythm we were meant to notice, learn, and share. There are crows in the branches, throwing their glossy heads back with raucous laughter, joyfully urging us on with all their might. Listen: there are coyotes outside our windows, calling us out with their soaring songs.

Come, all you, baptised and blessed. Let us go, immediately, into this season of pilgrimage, these forty days of wild beasts and angels. Let us launch out, immediately, where our inner wilderness and God's creative wildness can meet!

Quoth the Raven: Galore! Galore!

Samhain comes at sundown. The Celtic New Year signaled, for our ancestors, the end of a half-year's intense outdoor labour. Samhain ("sow-when", literally "summer's end") heralded the onset of the year's dark half, a time to come indoors, gather around the fire, share stories and music, and re-weave the deep roots of cultural wealth and wisdom that bond us to this dear old Earth. Samhain--or, if you prefer, "All Souls' Night"--is also a time to honour our ancestors and all other dear ones who've gone before us, a time to acknowledge and even befriend our grief. Older reflections may be found here and here and here.

It is a time to embrace the gapped and tattered nature of life. On a recent foraging walk in the woods with two of our WWOOF volunteers, one of them noticed that, in the woods, almost everything was nibbled at the edges. Every leaf, stone, hump of earth or bit of bark was food or shelter to some living thing. Most of the mushrooms we found had been delicately edge-munched to satisfy some itty-bitty appetite, but creatures seemed content to share. Nothing was left perfectly whole, but neither was anything eaten down to the stem. Just as all foodstuffs of substance were nibbled, so too were gaps quickly mitigated: an ongoing dance of presence-absence-presence. Edges were quickly claimed by lichen, mushrooms, and insects. Other creatures claimed hollows as water or food caches, hiding places or homes.

There is a word for this strange harvest-time ache of awareness, the wisdom that comes from working with bushel baskets and sharp-edged knives. The word is GALORE. It comes from a Gaelic term variously spelled gu leir, gu leoir, or gu leor. It means both "sufficiency" and "abundance." In the Gaelic worldview, we are surrounded by abundance--and we are also expected to honour this abundance by living within the limits of the goodness the natural world provides. There is no need to hoard or overconsume: with goods gathered sufficient to our needs, we have wealth galore. The key is to perceive and celebrate this basic truth: Enough IS abundance. Or, as a related Scottish proverb says, "enough is as good as a feast." Perhaps our greatest "sin," as humans, is our tendency to forget this truth, to hoard and grasp too much, to dwell in the illusion of scarcity so masterfully crafted by the magicians of merchandising. When we take only what we need and give the rest back, the anxieties dissipate and we are freed to unclench, to recreate, to heal and dream.

We have gathered in the gifts of the earth. We have harvested herbs, flowers, and vegetables from our gardens. (The land was gracious and merciful: when all of our squash vines withered, pumpkins and butternut vines sprang forth from last year's pig-grazing range and mostly ripened in time to harvest before the frost!) We have gathered berries and apples and preserved them for the cold months to come. We have respectfully raised and butchered birds for our winter meat. We have taken five well-tended pigs to the butcher so we may feed other families as well. We have foraged for wild mushrooms and harvested them gently, always leaving some for the rest of the woodland creatures to enjoy. Now the larder shelves and freezers are full and the dark is rapidly descending. Music of thankfulness wells up in us. We dwell in remembrance of all the lives that enable our own.

So it goes. We enter the dark half of the year ready to share stories, ready to sing, ready to dance. We carve pumpkins as our ancestors carved turnip-lanterns: a creation of absence and presence, of wholeness made hollow and emptiness illuminated, all to shine the Old Souls home to the Land of Plenty. Welcome to the season of Samhain. May you all be graced with sufficiency and abundance, goodness and grace galore!

P.S. Buidheachas gun sgur-- unceasing thanks to Andrew, Amy, Robert, Antonn, and all of our other WWOOF volunteers who have contributed to our sense of abundance. Without your contributions of time, enthusiasm, curiosity, and energy, we would have much less to celebrate!

The Gael Who Cried WWOOF

Actually, this post has nothing to do with crying. We are dancing joyful jigs, here on the farm, even if we do have only three knees between the two of us.

Back in November, the Piper hurt her knee while shifting a bag of "pig bread" on uneven ground. Ever since then, it's been a challenge for her to manage the daily farm chores. Physical therapy provided a brief respite, but pain and swelling have continued and even the knee specialist confessed some measure of bafflement.

In between my part-time job and a several-month stint as a hospital chaplain, I wasn't much help to the Piper at Wounded Knee. The young couple who stayed with us during the winter helped somewhat, but their hearts were full of their own farm dreams and they moved on as soon as they found a place of their own. (That move occurred right at Beltane-- May 1st, the traditional start of the outdoor work season.)

So, what can a couple of farmers do when they have one bull, two cows, six pigs, eighteen chickens, twenty-four garden beds and three functional knees? It was time for these two Gaels to cry, WWOOF!!!

The WWOOF program counts as part of our Celtic/British agricultural emphasis, as it began in the U.K. about forty years ago. (WWOOF stands, variously, for "Willing Workers On Organic Farms" or "World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms.") Essentially a networking system, it allows member farms to seek assistance while allowing "WWOOFers" to seek hands-on education in sustainable agriculture. Farmers and volunteers arrange the details of each informal internship--everything from a single weekend stay to full-season or full-year engagements. While details vary widely, the program's generally accepted standard is that each half-day of volunteer labour is compensated by a full day's room and board at the host farm.

We signed up with the program in April, as soon as we confirmed our Winter couple's departure date. Inquiries started to reach us a few weeks later. WWOOFers tend to embrace opportunities for travel; our first month's inquiries included folks from Quebec, Tennessee, New York, Taiwan and Seattle. We sent e-mails back and forth, trying to ensure the best match between what we could offer and what others might want to learn. We realized we would be educating ourselves, too--expanding the range of skills needed for task-sharing and delegation. We began to brainstorm. We made lists. We talked with other farmers about the specific challenges of hosting volunteers. We invested in extra blankets and pillows. We developed our own list of questions for potential volunteers and began sending them out as e-mail inquiries appeared...and then we chose our first WWOOFer and the real fun began!

So far, the program has been everything we hoped, and more. Our WWOOFers have pitched in with enthusiasm, demonstrated a wonderful eagerness to work and learn, shown good humour, flexibility, and stick-to-itiveness. We've been fascinated by their wide range of life experiences, their travel stories, and the range of things they've seen and learned on other farms as they WWOOF their way around the world. They're not perfect--they do come to learn, after all, and occasionally a tool gets left in the rain or a veggie plant gets pulled instead of a weed--but overall the experience has been genuinely lovely. Each one comes with their own delightful surprises, too--One WWOOFer turned out to be an absolute wizard in the kitchen and helped us work on a new website for the farm. Another has a great way with a camera and has captured our creatures in some wonderful images and videos. A third came along to the farmers' market with a typewriter and raised money by creating custom poems for market-goers on the spot--an effort I'm doing my best to carry on. Shared evenings around the table are another side benefit--we've found the kind of camaraderie, diverse perspectives and wide-ranging discussions on which we thrive.

WWOOFing may not work for every farmer. We have to relax our expectations and give up some of our perfectionism. We have to remind ourselves sometimes that these folks are still learning; many of them love the idea of farming but are unfamiliar with foundational concepts and basic skills. Others come with tremendous skill AND enthusiasm and we have to reign them in a bit, as we lack the resources to tackle the range of projects they ask to undertake. It's a balancing act, to be sure, but isn't that true of farming and life in general? Might as well meet new folks, share what we know, and make new friends along the way!

So here we are, in all our three-kneed glory, dancing. With each new WWOOFer, we learn a new way to move to the music, a new way to dig the beat (beets?) and enjoy the grooves (furrows!) of this land. The WWOOFers complete our broken circle and help us keep in time as the season calls the tune.

In Like Flynn!

It's the new year, and we're feeling bullish about the farm. You see, today is the twelfth day of Christmas, and a farmer from Northern Maine delivered a very special present to Iona and Maisie, our two Scottish Highland cows. His name--and I am NOT making this up--is Errol Flynn. This two-year-old blonde beauty has already been a hit with the heifers in his hometown, and we're hoping he'll help our cows produce some fine calves of their own. We intend to keep him around for a couple of years as a herdsire, then sell him on to someone else who needs a fine new bull for their cattlefold.

Welcome home, Errol! We hope you like our farm...and we hope Iona and Maisie like YOU. Here's a little glimpse into their getting-acquainted session, filmed about five minutes after he stepped out of the trailer and was led peaceably down into the pasture wearing a halter. (We're thrilled that he's halter-broke, in addition to his other good qualities. His breeder did some excellent work with him and we can tell he's been handled regularly and well.) She slipped the halter off him once he was inside the pasture gate, then we all stepped back to watch. Want to share in the fun?

Here you go:

Just Say Mow.

An atmosphere imperiled by fumes and an ocean poisoned by hemorrhaging oil--what can a self-proclaimed steward of Creation do?

There are options besides the "paralysis of analysis." You could reduce your own petrochemical use and collect spare hair or pantyhose for the cause. You could volunteer with the wildlife rescue teams or support locally-led reclamation programs in affected communities. If you happen to be an ArchDruid, you can guide people towards a more holistic understanding of the situation. Or, if you happen to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, you could bury your head in your mitre and obsess about something completely different.

We don't have hairdressers or pantyhose, and our budget for largesse is pretty much nonexistent, no matter the urgency of the cause. But there's one thing we can do: we can Just Say Mow.

We have a gasoline-powered lawn mower. It works well, though it's noisy to run and our uneven terrain causes the operator some unwelcome excitement with dips, bumps, scraped rocks and ejected debris. If a verdant expanse of precise and coordinated stem length was the central pride and joy of our lives, starting that machine up might be worth it. If we lived in a gated or planned suburban community, perhaps others might compel us to rev up the mower, citing terms of the Community Covenant.

But we don't live in a suburb. We live in Maine, the state where Katherine S. White wrote her great 1962 essay, "For the Recreation & Delight of the Inhabitants," on the bizarre, unnatural notion of "the lawn." Our sloping, rambling dooryard full of violets and clover may not, strictly, BE a lawn, but it is a rapidly-growing expanse that ought to be managed one way or another.

Our first thought was that the cows would take care of it. They do a decent job, though not a neat one, when we set up a temporary electric fence and turn them from their pasture into the yard, but there are some things they won't eat. They DO do a nice job, though, of fertilizing our "lawn," and the free-ranging chickens are good at distributing the fertilizer when they tear it apart in their quest for tasty grubs. When the cows are done, there is a mostly well-cropped expanse dotted with cowpats, lush tufts of unmunched grass, (where the cows peed), and tall, healthy weeds (which, for some reason known only to themselves, the cows occasionally refuse to eat).

So, what to do with the tufts--or with a whole yard--that must be mowed when the cows are engaged in their standard rotational grazing pastures? Time to requisition some equipment from our Luddite arsenal: get out the whetstone, the peening jig, and the scythe!

A scythe--how quaint. It triggers images of old-country peasants sweating in their masters' fields--poor unschooled bumpkins. Surely this tool could not be used today by those seeking improvement and innovation and a better way forward...or could it?

The fact is, a well-made scythe is a marvelous tool: beautifully crafted, exquisitely well-balanced, easy to heft, use, and maintain for decades. It requires no "inputs" other than the moderate strength and comfortable movement of the average human. How many gas-powered devices can make that set of claims?

The best thing about working with a scythe is the way it draws a person into active presence, opening rather than limiting one's ability to engage with nature. There is no engine's roar, whine, and sputter. There are no petrochemical fumes to urge one's movement away. There is just the feel of the smooth wood in your hands, the satisfying "snick" of the blade through damp grass, and the dance-like gentle movement of step-swing, step-swing. It is a simple and pleasant pursuit, particularly when accompanied by a friend with rake in hand, ready to gather and pile up the fresh cuttings for composting back into good, rich soil.

Unlike gas-powered mowers, scythes work best when the grass is wet: at daybreak and before, after, and even during a shower of rain. And so I rise in the morning, when the air is still full of birdsong and the dew is scattered like a hundred thousand jewels along the grass. I pull on my boots and my favorite work gloves, smiling at the now-faint "women's work" logo emblazoned on their backs. I take the scythe from its hook on the wall of the shed and the whetstone with its belt-clip holster. I add just enough water to the metal holster to keep the stone wet. I take a moment to admire the whetstone, another low-tech marvel. It is formed to fit two things precisely: the enfolding grasp of the human hand and the slope and curve of the scythe's long blade.

Once the stone is well-doused, I take it up and give a few ringing strokes along the blade. It's fun to make the blade sing, both of us tuning and warming up for a grand performance, preparing to step out onto the stage. When the blade is sharp, it is time to go. I survey the tall, grassy expanse around me. I swing the blade down and wrap my hands around the honey-coloured wood of the handles. I take my place at the edge, move into position, and begin the dance that is scything: step, reach-and-swing. Step, reach-and-swing. Step, reach and swing.

I hardly notice the reach. It is not an awkward extension but rather a subtle adjustment of eye and hand that has become, with practice, nearly automatic. (I'm still new at this, but I'm getting there.) If my arms begin to tire, I remind myself to use the rest of my body more, to let the scythe balance and skim along as I plant my foot and pivot my waist. The grass and clover fall in soft arcs before me. Looking back, I can see the cleared swath that is proud evidence of a working blade--all of this accomplished with barely a sound.

Around me, the birds have not faltered in their singing. The chirp of crickets goes on. I can hear our rooster proclaiming his place in the scheme of things, and the neighbor's sheep in their distant pasture offering a response. If a yellow admiral flutters by on bright wings, no hazardous, loud-motored machine keeps me from noticing and admiring it. Even the blade of my scythe tells me things about the world: the juiciness of grass stems, the playful sprawl of clover...and if a honeybee should land on a clover blossom near my blade, it is no trouble at all to turn and mow elsewhere until it has gathered its fill.

Even with all these things to admire, the work gets done. There is a slight variance in the newly-mowed expanse--after all, I'm still learning and perfecting my techniques--but, while this yard may not make the cover of "Cosmopolitan Home," it makes us happy and proud. I feel good about my work, at home in my body, in love with this land. I need extract no oil nor pay any corporation to tend this beautiful green place.

Huzzah for the scythe!

Barnyard Haiku II

This week at church, I presided over the first session of our "Soul Spa." (I loved the name so much I had to steal it. Thanks, Songbird!) It's a four-week program designed to encourage storytelling, fellowship, and creative exploration on spiritual themes among the women of the church. Each week has a hands-on no-skills-needed creative project, and our first one was a "ten-minute haiku" exercise in which we played with different names for God.

By the end of the session, we were all indulging in a fair amount of Holy Foolishness, and if anyone said anything that happened to be five or seven syllables long, someone would shout, "That works! That could be haiku!" The event exceeded my imaginings!

So, Dear Readers, I invite you to indulge in some further explorations. I've done a few of my own... can you comment with your own haiku related to God, Barnyards, Gardening, or any combination thereof? Profundities and Irreverence are both entirely welcome!

Here are mine:










The bees have come home.
Hurry, open, you flowers!
We make a welcome feast.




















Open the new field.
Watch the cows leap, turn, and munch.
Such well-fed dancers!

















Piglets at wood's edge
Snoozing under broadleaf trees:
No sunburned ears here.

















Sweet, tender seedlings
Garden bed's green, lacy edge--
Get away, damn chickens!

Sticker Shock

I was frightened the first time I saw it. The words were plastered to the bumper of a science professor's car, and although their purpose eluded me, I couldn't help feeling a deep sense of foreboding when I read the statement:
"The Universe is Expanding and Everything is On Schedule."



"On whose schedule?" I wondered. On whose agenda, with what printing press? And if everything was expanding, did that mean the very stuff of life itself was being pulled gradually apart? I wasn't sure of its meaning, but that odd little bumper sticker disturbed me enough that I started averting my gaze when I walked through that parking lot on the way to class. Perhaps it was right--it probably was--but I didn't know how it should impact my life and it made me feel anxious. I resolved to avoid it. And yet, every time I walked through that lot and averted my gaze, that sticker's text would swim back into my mind's eye. The very discomfort of it had imprinted it, indelibly, on my awareness.

Last Friday we went to see environmental writer and educator, Bill McKibben. His lecture was part of a series entitled, "Sustainability: Transitions to Resilience." But what McKibben really came to talk about was his current work, a worldwide consciousness-raising initiative called "350.org." 350 parts per million: the level of carbon in the atmosphere above which "life on the earth, as we know it, becomes unsustainable." He spoke with great excitement of displays created on every continent, images sent in from desert villages, metropolitan high-rises, rain forests and glaciers, all proclaiming "350 ppm." Then, almost as an aside, he mentioned that the level of carbon NOW in the atmosphere is actually around...oh, 390 ppm. Oh. Dear.

I found myself right back in that university parking lot, staring at the back of that science professor's car. Two little numbers--two little factoids backed up with reams of evidence--had sent me plummeting into anxiety and fear, despair and depression. Where's the sustainability, the "transition to resilience" in THAT?

Science and religion both have their sacred litanies, their liminal lists of power and persuasion. The litany of environmental degradation inspires its own special terror and awe:

More plastic in the oceans now than plankton...
More heat and moisture in the air than we've ever known...
More cancer-causing poisons in water and soil...
The coral reefs dying...
The topsoil being stripped away...
The Arctic Ocean ice-free in our lifetime...
Less than 5% of the old-growth forests left...
1% of species going extinct every year...

How long, O Earth? How long?
We believe, O Earth.
Help our unbelief.

Despair and depression serve neither the Earth nor the God of Creation. Of this I am convinced. But how shall we respond, in the face of such overwhelming and condemning facts? How shall we pry ourselves off the dead center of ignorance and denial? How shall we transform the self-medicating culture of wasteful, careless consumption that is leading us toward our collective death?

An unquiet mind is a fertile, creative space. So is a troubled heart. Perhaps this is where we begin: in that wild teetering on the edge of the void, where the view can, by turns, terrify and inspire. Perhaps it begins with a willingness to engage, fully, with claims both profound and irreverent, to reach out our aching arms and enter the dance with partners we never thought we'd claim.

I'm still not sure about that bumper sticker. I'm still not sure about its creator's intent. I'm no more certain how to live in an expanding universe than I am sure of how to live in a world that appears to be dying. But bumper-sticker statements offer little in the way of wisdom, and science and technology have failed us--and our planet--repeatedly.

I'm not saying I deny the harsh evidence. I know the great evil and great destruction of which we are capable. But here is what I believe: that our deepest identity is that of creatures, and as creatures we are connected to the entirety of the Cosmos, the Community of Life. I believe we are called, as human creatures, to meet our present challenges with all the soaring, joy-bringing creativity we can summon from the core of our beings. If the universe is expanding, we dare not shrink away into depression and silence.

We had best open our hearts, open our ears, expand our lungs and learn how to tune our voices to Creation's own harmonies. We had best reach out our hands to heal the weary earth. We had best learn how to unplug from all the pretty little energy-sucking techno-pacifiers and reconnect ourselves to the Creating, Redeeming, Sustaining powers of the Universe itself.


And that won't fit on a bumper sticker.


(image source: galaxy)

Journey to the Center of the Mirth (Part Two)

It has been a largely unbloggable week here as we deal with the "joys" of farm refinancing. To remind myself of life's more celebratory aspects, I'm taking some time to chronicle our recent trip to the Pacific Northwest.


FRIDAY, AUGUST 28th
Another awake-at-five morning, after which we struggled (successfully) to fall back asleep. Two hours later, we were awakened by the sound of a door shutting, a dog barking, and a car engine starting...ohmygosh! Mom & Dad had left for the ferry without telling us! We knew they had to leave early, as Mom had taken on the triple tasks of flower-grower, flower-courier, and flower arranger for my big brother's wedding. The need to keep the flowers cool and minimally stressed required an early-morning travel schedule from the island down to Portland, Oregon.
A call to my Dad's cell-phone eased my worries. Unlike them, we had no crucial time-table for our own arrival, so we eased a little more gently into the day.

Suitcases, kilt, bagpipes, alb, and little brother (a comic-book fan henceforth known as "Z-Man") tucked safely into the car, we headed down the road towards the 8:50 boat and made it with time to spare. The Piper had never driven on to a ferry before. As feared, they directed her to the outermost lane where she had to navigate my parents' minivan between metal colummns into what looked like the automobile version of a cattle squeeze chute. She did a fine job.

We drove down I-5, joining the commuters and speeding holiday hordes on this massive western corridor. By noon, we were eager for food and a break from the Interstate's pace, so we pulled off and headed towards Kelso.

Kelso is one of several Scottish town names in Washington State. The list also includes Fife, Elgin, and Aberdeen. Euro-American settlers displaced the Cowlitz tribe--for which the county is now named--to create a booming milltown where thousands of stately evergreen trees were "processed" and shipped away daily. Although we did see a couple of logging trucks trundling down the road, overly-zealous logging practices have combined with the overall economic downturn to depress this extraction-based economy. The place looked it.

We drove through the flat, grey industrial landscape in search of a decent eatery, but all we saw were railroad yards and drab lots full of dusty, banged-up equipment. Following signs to "city center," we reached one of the most depressing main streets I've ever seen--almost colorless and ghostly, full of empty storefronts and letterless marquees. There was a Tudor-style YMCA that must have been grand in its day, but the rest of the buildings were flat-roofed and eerily featureless. We pulled into the only establishment that showed any life: a stuccoed cement drive-through advertising "Comida Mexicana" via sprawling letters painted on the windows. Three people sat at a booth inside--the largest gathering we'd seen anywhere in town.

The Piper and I split a chicken chimichanga. Z-Man got a seafood taco plate. I enjoyed the kitchen staff's banter as we waited. My Spanish is rusty, but I caught just enough to know the cooks were good-naturedly teasing each other. A young man came in after us and ordered in rapid Spanish. The cooks hurriedly packed his order to go, and he was out the door again in three minutes. I'm guessing the place caters to Spanish-speaking workers, both settlers and migrants, on whom the local economy now depends. Our food came just a few minutes later: nothing special, but good, fresh, filling and reasonably-priced. Twenty minutes later, we were back on the road.

Z-man made use of his superhuman navigational skills and got us safely off the freeway, through city construction zones, past roundabouts and into my Big Brother's driveway. Preparations were underway for the rehearsal dinner--a potluck in their backyard. The Bride-to-Be came out of the house just as we pulled up, welcomed us all with hugs, then fired up a string trimmer and attacked the front yard. (For purposes of this blog, we'll refer to her henceforth as "Dr. Honey" because, well, she IS a doctor, as sweet as she is smart. Her ten-year-old daughter will be known as Elf, because I think she is one!)

Big Brother (a martial artist henceforth known as Monkey King) excitedly showed us through the house and yard, detailing his adventures as a new homeowner: the pulling up of damaged floors, the planting of gardens, the replacement of exploding appliances, etc. Talk about a carpenter's holiday-- hardly fifteen minutes had passed before The Piper and my uncle bounced on the spongy wooden deck, discussed the impending influx of heavy guest traffic, and declared the deck in need of immediate repair. Half an hour later, The Piper was ripping up boards, I was hauling two-by-fours, and my uncle was operating a circular saw. Why, the place felt just like home!

The repair was finished--just barely--by dinnertime. The rehearsal dinner was so relaxed, I began to wonder if a rehearsal was included in the evening's plans. Friends and relatives were scattered around the pretty little back yard, some casual and some elegantly dressed, all chatting amiably and enjoying the delicious array of food. Fortunately, a stalwart FOB (friend of the bride) marshaled everyone into their places and got us all rehearsed with remarkable efficiency--no easy task, with a wedding party that included a wild band of little Amazons as flowergirls! Afterwards, we held a hurried conference and typed up the ceremony on my laptop, then repaired to our various designated sleeping places for an attempt at rest before The Big Day.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 29th
Up at five. Back to bed. Up at six. Back to bed. There we were in a big city hotel, thanks to my parents, in a lovely quiet room with a comfortable bed. Could we relax and enjoy it? No, apparently we are now hard-wired for morning chores and the sound of roosters. At 6:45 we heaved a sigh and headed down to try out the hotel's "continental-plus" breakfast. Senator Kennedy's funeral was being shown on a large (but thankfully silent) screen. We kept our voices hushed and respectful, eyes flickering up to the screen and back to our own kith and kin, busily discussing the wedding-prep schedule. The screen's sea of black umbrellas and somber coats cast a strange tension over our own anticipatory joy. In my mind, my professional interest in the close-captioned funeral homily warred with my professional need to finalize wedding homily wording and find a place to print it out before the ceremony.

Cut to the chase: fifteen minutes 'til designated start time, and my mother's flowers are everywhere: in vases on the reception room tables, in urns flanking the wedding arbor, pinned onto dresses and jackets, and tucked in my hair. I've just helped one sister place the last flowers on the cake she made herself. It's beautiful, and so is she. Z-man is showing off his own handsome outfit, complete with a very stylish new tie. I scurry to the back room and pull on my alb. My other sister has arrived with her personal aide and a young man who introduces himself as her boyfriend. She taps out the words to me on her letterboard: "Hi, Sister. I miss you." She gives me a furtive hug, then ducks her head and moves away. She needs to find a few seats at the back, where she can slip away if anything overwhelms the delicate balance of her neurological system. I was her caregiver for several years, so I don't pressure her to stay and chat. I understand how hard it is for her to brave this situation, even on an occasion of joy.

The Bride is late. The word passes through the crowd that a flowergirl--a friend of her daughter--jumped from a treehouse and put her foot through a metal chair while the bride was attempting to get herself be-gowned. Finally they arrive. I can't tell which flowergirl was injured. They all look sweet in their pretty dresses, and not one of them has a telltale limp, though one girl's smile looks a bit grim. The guests take their seats again, The Piper strikes up a tune on the bagpipes, the wedding party lines up, and the procession begins.

First the welcome and greetings and introductory remarks, then a special blessing from FOB. Next, the sharing of handwritten vows, the exchange of rings...then the time comes time for that homily I printed out (whew!) in the hotel lobby. (Readers, please note that blognames in the homily are in brackets. I didn't really address my brother as "Monkey King" in front of all those guests!) Here we go:

"...The first time [Monkey King] brought [Dr. Honey] to meet me, it was high summer on our farm in Maine. The cows were dozing under the apple tree in the middle of the pasture. The pigs were meandering sleepily into the shade at the edge of the woods. The chickens were taking afternoon tea in the garden—-or at least helping themselves to the cherry tomatoes and an occasional bug.

My partner and I were about to embark on a year-long home renovation. We were living in an worn-out 1830s farmhouse, soon to start work on rehabbing a 20-year old post-and-beam woodshop to make ourselves a warmer, healthier home. But when [Dr. Honey and Elf and Monkey King] came to visit, it was a freshly-emptied, not-yet-reinvented space. It was no longer a shop. It was not yet a home. It was just a 30' x 30' plot of potential and possibilities.

I'll never forget our first meeting. [Monkey King] showed up, radiating happiness, with this strong, lovely woman and blythe, impish child at his side. There were the requisite introductions and awkward embraces, then a rambling tour of our fledgling farm. The sun began to sink lower in the sky and Maine's infamous mosquitoes and black flies found us, so we retreated inside and began to discuss things in earnest. [Dr. Honey] leaned over to me with a confidential air. “Do you mind if I ask you something personal?” My mind began to race. Would this be a comment on my female partner? Something about past relationships or children? A question about our odd vocational blend of farming, social services, bagpipe lessons, and Christian ministry? I nodded nervously, not wanting to seem impolite. She leaned a little closer with a quizzical expression and spoke in a half-whisper: “I've been wondering: does EVERYONE in your family take photographs of your food?”

Okay, so maybe this family IS a bit different. Some families just share the same facial features, the same genes, but we've come together from different parts of the world. There are other things things that bind us. We love a good meal. We love a good story. We don't always say what we mean, but we celebrate well-placed words. Mostly, it is our laughter that binds us, and a shared conviction that family is as family does—that we find brothers and sisters wherever there is justice, hospitality, and celebration.

There are many ways to create a household, to make a home, to make a family. We are proud of our diversity and the sometimes odd, often entertaining, connections we've made amongst ourselves. I didn't actually take pictures of my food, until [Dr. Honey] brought it to my attention, but now I find myself reaching for the camera at the table now and then. It makes me smile. It makes me feel close to my sister, with her passion for good design, and my brother, with his passion for food adventures. And it makes me feel close to my newest family members: [Dr. Honey], my first ever sister-in-law, and [Elf], my first ever niece.

Over these past two years, we've followed each other's stories. We've woven together our struggles, twisted together through our frustrations and our fears. We have traded tales of renovation, news of new nests. We have gone swimming in the same oceans. We have taken turns drowning sorrows and leaning on the arms of others, reckoning with grief and death.

Slowly, sometimes subtly, we have laid the groundwork, the sturdy foundation, for a bountiful and beautiful abode. And we have learned, working together, about each others' rhythms and styles of engagement.

[Monkey King] and [Dr. Honey], like [The Piper] and I, have spent part of the last several months immersed in the work of home renovation. There is, perhaps, no better metaphor for engagement than this! The work of renovation demands engagement. It demands hands-on, total-body engagement—the kind that sometimes leaves you aching with bruised shins and ragged nails, the kind that marks you with paint splatters and with scars. It demands that you work, sometimes, in a noxious atmosphere, your breathing laboured, your eyes watering from the fumes. A loving partnership makes similar demands. [Monkey King] and [Dr. Honey], you have weathered so much together, engaged so fully with each other, that I feel confident your home—and your love—will endure. Wallboard may crumble. Appliances may stop working. Deck planking may need to be replaced. But your true home, your deepest sense of peace and shelter and security, will endure, because you have made your home in each other's arms.

We all have looked on, lent a hand, and shared this engagement with you. Your marriage will be blessed not only by your own home-making, but also by this ready and willing crew of consultants, groundskeepers and carpenters. Look around you, now, and know that, whenever the work seems too much, whenever the burden seems too hard to bear, we are all here, ready to share our tools, to lend a hand, to help with future repairs, improvements, and renovations.

In lives filled with movement, may this loving circle of friends and relations be the solid structure of support on which your home depends. May you feather your nest with the laughter and love of many—peers, elders, and children. May your walls resound with stories of adventure and songs of peace. May the wise old earth cradle your abode, and may it be known as a place of joy and grace.

[Monkey King] and [Dr. Honey]... welcome home.


The rest of the wedding went well, although the Beloveds snuck in two quick kisses before I officially told them they could! Nobody seemed to disapprove, though. We all knew how wonderfully, deeply in love they were, and we all blessed them together. The reception included dancing for the grown-ups with the added fun of hula-hoops, courtesy of Elf and her friends! As for me, I had barely changed out of my alb, grabbed some food and plunked myself down at a table when everyone around started teasing me, saying, "Where's your camera?" and "Aren't you going to take pictures of your food?" With a begrudging grin, I went back to the dressing room and rummaged around, came back with my camera, and dutifully documented the feast. Only then was I "allowed" to eat!

Finally the time came for the Cutting of the Cake. The blurry sweetness of the day all came into sharp focus as Bride and Groom lifted the knife and lowered it into my sister's beautiful creation, careful not to disturb the flowers. They fed each other bites of cake, and it was lovely, and everyone clapped and cheered...but the best was yet to come. They beckoned to the Elf, standing nearby in the shadows. She walked up to them, wistfully glancing at the cake, eyeing their finery, clearly pondering how and where she fit in. Then, as her eyes widened in joyful surprise, they both leaned down and, together, fed her a bite of their cake. None of us could contain ourselves. The room erupted in shouts and laughter as people wiped their eyes, cheered, and cheered, and cheered.


Tomorrow: stay tuned for Part Three, featuring more ferryboats, the Arts & Crafts Press and flowers bigger than your head.

Photo credits:
MV Rhododendron: http://www.ferryjobs.net/ferrynewscurrent.html
Old lumber mill: http://www.columbiariverimages.com/Regions/Places/mount_coffin.html

Shall We Dance? A sermon for the 6th Sunday after Pentecost

“...When those who bore the ark of the Lord had gone six paces, he sacrificed an ox and a fatling. David danced before the Lord with all his might; David was girded with a linen ephod. So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet.
As the ark of the Lord came into the city of David, Michal daughter of Saul looked out of the window, and saw King David leaping and dancing before the Lord; and she despised him in her heart.
They brought in the ark of the Lord, and set it in its place, inside the tent that David had pitched for it; and David offered burnt offerings and offerings of well-being before the Lord.
--2 Samuel 6:13-17 (NRSV)

What is up with David, dancing like that? Has the leader of the Israelites cracked up completely? Maybe it was too much of a strain, going from shepherd boy to soldier to court musician to ruler and priest. Look at the guy, would you? He has an army to lead, a rag-tag nation to manage, and he's out there building a tent for the ark, inviting thousands and thousands of people, calling up noisy musicians, and leaping around half-naked like some holy idiot, like some freakish pop star with only one glove...

I have to confess, when I first read this story, I fell right in next to David's wife, Michal. She's the one up in the ivory tower, far from the madding crowd, watching the party and feeling utterly appalled. Michal was raised to be proper. She was raised to do what people expect. She respected her elders and followed their commands, even when it didn't match her wishes. Even when it made her life really hard. Even when it kept her from making her own choices at all. So when she thought about her parents, her teachers, and her proper role, and then looked out at her beautiful, unpredictable husband, whirling and leaping half-naked in the midst of the crowd... I can understand her distress. I can feel some of her frustration. I can see why she let her own decorum slip as her bitterness rose. This woman, this pretty little pawn of kings and princes—her reputation and her husband were the only things she could claim as her own. And there he was, whirling wildly in ecstatic prayer, sharing too much of himself with all those common servant girls, playing the fool in the name of God?!?

Growing up, I was never much of a dancer, and, outwardly at least, I was never really wild. Knock-kneed and pigeon-toed, I was afraid of mistakes, afraid of being out of step. I was intensely aware of what others might be thinking of me. I was so focused on their imagined “shoulds” and “oughts” that I couldn't feeli the stirrings of my fledgling spirit, flapping blindly towards God. I was unsure of the rhythm in my heart, mostly deaf to the music surging in my soul...
I was the one at the window, all prim and proper, saying, “Come inside. Stop all your wildness. What will people think?”

But God's Wild Spirit kept dancing around me. First it was the music on the radio: three days of live broadcasts from a folk festival, that touched my fearful heart, opening me to the creative joy that transcends cultures. Then there was a folkdance class that welcomed beginners. They taught me how to join hands and move with the shared energy of others. Later came community theatre shows that taught me to care about lives far different from my own.
As I wrestled with my vocation, I watched space shuttles zoom above and bumblebees bumble along, blissfully ignorant that their flight defied the laws of physics. I heard of Nelson Mandela's liberation. I stood at the edge and heard the roar of the ocean unchained. I discovered little weeds cracking the pavement and the Berlin Wall coming down.

In other words, The Ark of God kept rolling in front of my nose, moving me, dazzling me, urging me up and out. I tried to stay indoors, but people kept up such a noise outside, harping on themes of freedom. I tried to keep my nose in a book, but people kept handing me shovels. I tried to stay on the sidelines, but God took my hand and led me into the dance! I put my right foot in...took my right foot out...did the Hokey-Pokey and shook myself about... Lo and behold: turning around— turning around my thinking and my fear, turning to the work of justice and peace-making...really WAS what it was all about!

The years have unfolded. I've learned right foot, left foot, right hand, left hand...I've gotten to the point where I'm even ready to put my whole self in, knock-knees, pigeon toes, and all! I still need to shake myself about a lot--that's part of the reason I have a farm. All that hard work, all that playing in the dirt, shakes off the inertia and keeps me moving. It keeps me feeling whole and connected enough to reach out to the rest of the world.

Recently, our farm had two visitors -- two young women from different parts of the country who wrote, independently, to ask for a week or two on the farm. It seems they'd been having their own crises of confidence, like Michal's bad day at the big Israelite Jamboree. They were both struggling in that very hard space between the demands and expectations of others, their own surging feelings, and the aching hunger of their spirits for a more meaningful way of life.

Jokingly at first, we christened our time together, “The School for Wild Girls.” We made it our business to talk about everything under the sun as we played in the dirt and learned to use power tools. Together, we raged about the inequities of the world and the embarrassments of daily life. We teased each other. We encouraged each other. We drank Moxie. We sang hymns and old folk songs. They went out to the pasture, amidst our long-horned, shaggy beasts, armed only with curry combs. They literally took the bull by the horns.

On Midsummer's Night, we had a bonfire with our Wild Girls. We invited over some musicians—no tambourines or cymbals, but we did have a harp, bagpipes and fiddles—enough for some joyful noise. As the flames crept, then leapt and swept over the tree-prunings, old pallets and busted chairs, we thought about fire: the fire hidden in our Spirits, the embers seldom exposed to God's wild, igniting wind. We thought of all the fears that held us back from our own callings. We wrote them on slips of paper and threw them into the flames.

The piper struck up the pipes. One of our musician friends impulsively grabbed my hand, told everyone else to join in, and led us, dancing and laughing, around the fire. We stumbled, we wobbled...our steps weren't always in time, but the music lifted us out of all our griefs and anxieties. We grinned like the fools that we were. We shouted with unfettered joy, there in the circle, there in the wildness and warmth. We danced in defiance of all our fears. We danced in defense of all we loved. We danced in devotion and prayer. And we danced with all our might!

When they stepped away, at the end of their visits, they had to return to their own people and places. But they went with new confidence and strength—yes, with Moxie. They had taken the bull by the horns. Like the Ephesians, they had gotten a glimpse into the promise of a Renewed Creation. They had been not just welcomed, but adopted, into a new family. They had left Michal's shadows, stepped across the threshold, and joined The Wild Girls.

Now our church is having its own Michal Moment. Here, in this time-worn structure, built by our forebears and maintained by our own hands, we gather, framed by shadows. We've heard the reports of wise advisors, and everything is shifting. We know our status is tenuous, and our efforts to hold our place have exhausted us to the point that we can hardly think beyond bake sales and beans. How can we manage? How shall we survive?

Listen again to the Good News in Paul's letter to the Ephesians:
"[God] has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, just as [we were chosen] before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before [God] in love. [We were destined] for adoption as [God's] children through Jesus Christ, according to the good pleasure of [God's] will, to the praise of the glorious grace that [God] freely bestowed on us in the Beloved... In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance...so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory...This is the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption as God's own people..." --Ephesians 1:3-14, excerpts (NRSV)

This letter speaks of Adoption...Praise...Hope...Redemption...Glory! This is what we're called to be about! We are called to open our arms, to roll up our sleeves, to wave our banners of welcome and do the hokey-pokey!!! We are called to focus NOT on our woes, but on our wondrous mission: to be the hands and feet of God, dancing the Good News into the world! Too tired? Lean on the Holy Spirit. Let it move you. Not a good dancer? Leave your fears behind. God has enough grace for all of us.

It is hard --it is hard-- not to stare like Michal, clench your teeth or your fists, roll your eyes at a dance or a parade. And it's hard to figure out if there's a place for us out there in that great celebration.
It can seem daunting to step outside of what we're used to—exhausting, even.
But it also takes energy to hold yourself back. Have you ever noticed this?
It costs a certain amount of effort to get your dander up and dig in your heels.
Anxiety, fear, resistance...they're not fuel-efficient. They can nickle and dime you, wear you down, push you to the limit, consume all you have to give, and deplete your spirit, without ever moving you ahead.

On Independence Day, many of us stood on the church lawn and watched the parade. But we didn't lurk in the shadows. We were right out front, up close to the action, waving back to the folks in the parade. You see? We already understand how to do this! Instead of a dark, sleeping sanctuary, a church on its deathbed, onlookers saw a witness, a dedicated crowd serving up a feast!

Our challenge, now, is to carry that shining ark of God's promise out from the shadows, to keep it visible, in broad daylight. We may just be shepherds, or soldiers, princesses or servants, maybe all of the above. We may have come to this place out of duty or obligation or just the need for a share of the food, the rumour of some kind of feast. But here we are and...did you hear that music? Do you feel like joining in? We will have to fill out our dance cards together, think about who we can invite, where we might look for potential partners. We will likely need to learn some new dances with some unfamiliar steps. We will need to think about the wheels on that cart, and plan for where we want the ark to go.

It may feel like a wilderness, a desert, but hold on: God is here with us! We were there, in God's creative wildness, at the dawn of time, as adopted and beloved children. God's Spirit even now moves among us. Somewhere in between Michal and David we stand, on the threshold of the future. We can wring our hands, or we can open them. We can stay in the shadows, or we can step out, get the wheels turning, put up a tent, praise the Lord, and dance with all our might!