In The Dark: A Celtic New Year Sermon

(I was invited to be a "guest preacher" last Sunday at my home church. It always seems a bit funny to serve the role of a guest when I'm already part of the family there! Since this month marks the start of the "dark half" of the Celtic year, and since one of this Sunday's lectionary readings talks a lot about light and darkness, it seemed natural to dwell on the interplay of shortening days and lengthening nights.)

Sermon for Proper 28A: In The Dark
(based on I Thessalonians 5:1-11, NRSV)

Every morning, as the light reaches in between the dark spines of the trees on the ridge, we watch and wait. First the rays of pale gold stretch across the dark hollow of our farm to touch the trees on Gloucester Ridge. Then, slowly, the angle of the light changes and dips down to gild the empty branches of the ash tree, the oaks, and the maples on our own land. Finally, the light spreads to the cold earth itself, and the hard edges of the frost begin to melt off the pasture grasses. One of us ambles down to survey the situation, then returns to the wood-fired warmth of the house. Every morning, lately, the other one asks the same question: “how many legs?”

We've been waiting for calves to be born. We know what day the bull arrived, but—I hope you don't think I'm being indelicate here—there are certain other details we seem to have missed. It's just as Brother Arnold warned us last year, when we went over to the Sabbathday Lake Shaker Community to discuss their own herd of Highland Cattle and get some ideas. We'd told him our tale of woe, about the challenge of finding and affording a vet who could work around those wild-looking, big-horned beasties of ours, to say nothing of the challenge of timing. Brother Arnold nodded his head knowingly. “You won't see many signs of readiness,” he said, “Highland cows are...well, they're very subtle.”

Subtle, indeed. So, here we are, ten months after the bull moved into the pasture. It takes nine months for a calf to be ready, just like a human baby. Ten months have past and our two round-as-a-barrel cows show no sign of imminant calving. So, we wonder. We worry. We ask ourselves what went wrong, and what could still go wrong now. Sometimes, we dream: a new calf could offer so much to our farm: the expansion of our herd, the proof of their capacity for new life, and the promise of another fine full-grown animal to transform into needed income or good, homegrown meat.

So, each morning, we cast hopeful eyes out towards the pasture, and we count legs, looking for a sweet gangly little body tucked alongside one of the cows. “How many legs? Still twelve?” “Still twelve.” There's nothing we can do to hurry it along, and—although there are signs we can watch for—there's no way we can predict the exact moment of the herd's increase. We're kept in the dark about it. It's subtle. We have to keep wondering. We have to hurry up and wait.

This morning's scripture comes from another bunch of people-in-waiting. Paul is writing to the fledgling church in Thessalonica. That little church was caught up in in the fashion and fervor of the day, waiting for the Rapture, the Day of the Lord. There were signs all around them: earthquakes, floods, plagues, riots in the streets, cities being destroyed, governments shifting and falling, and different religions battling it out, each claiming to have exclusive access to the “Truth.” Sound familiar? And if you weren't sure what to believe, there were street preachers to tell you where you'd go and street vendors to sell you just the right handbasket!

It's hard not to be afraid when everyone around you is talking like that. It's hard not to let all the fear-mongerers and doomers get to you. When the loudest voices cry out, “pain and suffering! Death and destruction!” no matter how much you try to laugh it off, it gets a little harder to sleep at night, a little harder to keep peace in your heart.

Remember how the Rapture was predicted by a radio preacher, who declared Judgement Day for May 21st, 2011? Did you hear about this? Did you find yourself checking your calendar? After the day came and went, he recalculated for October. When November came, did you breathe a sigh of relief, or did you get a little nervous, because now we're almost to December, rapidly honing in on the next big date for the End of the World...?

A good teacher once said, “What you contemplate, you imitate.” Whatever stories you tell yourself, whatever dramas or sitcoms you watch on television, whatever magazines you read, whatever ads flash in front of your eyes—all these things echo around inside you, the images shimmer and reflect, until it all becomes part of the way you understand the world. We can't help it—what we contemplate, we imitate. We tend to copy what we see and repeat what we hear. Now, that's one thing when you're a new Christian sorting through the competing tales of Roman politicians and travelling preachers. But there's a whole extra layer of difficulty in an age of mass-media and instant communication.

What if the stories we hear and and the images we see are mostly lies, carefully crafted by marketing experts? What if every commercial is a lie, a message that, by yourself, you're a weak, ugly nobody, but if you buy whatever they're selling, you could be SOMEbody, even somebody strong and beautiful? Bit by bit, the carefully-crafted lies eat away at us. The marketers sling mud until it covers our souls. We lose perspective. We give up our power. We learn to live in doubt and anxiety and fear. What you contemplate, you imitate. Little by little, we forget how to shine. We become children of the darkness.

Writer Jeffrey Pugh imagines a demon, writing a management guide from his basement office in hell. The devil explains his latest strategy:
“As part of my toolbox I’ve always used distraction to deter them from truly considering the world as our opponent wants it. I like it better when they become fascinated with the things that do not feed their souls. In the old days, of course, we had bread and circuses, but in the age of technology we have even more wonders at our disposal...We don’t want them to cultivate ways of living that bring them together. We want them torn apart, polarized, and at each others throats. Any question about how they should live needs to be buried under the scandal of the day... I want an entire planet entertaining themselves to death. No, seriously, I mean it. If they start to think seriously about the world they build and see the possibility that the world could be different, well, it’s time to Release the Kardashians!!”

Now, get that clever devil out of the spotlight and listen to the Good News:
But you, beloved, are not in darkness, for that day to surprise you like a thief; for you are all children of light and children of the day; we are not of the night or of darkness. So then let us not fall asleep as others do, but let us keep awake...

Children of the light: that is how God made us. There was a beautiful mystic tradition among the Jews and early Christians that God was the first, best and brightest light in the whole universe, and everything God made had God's light trapped inside: flowers, weeds, bushes and trees, rocks, rivers, snakes, salamanders, codfish, sharks, woodchucks, camels, even bugs—all just bursting with God-given light, full of sparks of divine fire.

That's true of people, too—not just the wealthy and powerful, but everybody: the bank president with the elegant shoes and the woman in scuffed sneakers at the laundromat. The construction foreman with the gleaming new truck and the greasy-haired guy who works nights at Gas-n-Go. We are—all of us—children of the light, all created with the potential to shine, to brighten the world with hope and healing, possibility and promise. Most of us maybe don't know it. Some of us start out knowing it, but we forget. We let our minds fall on other things. We dwell on failure and fear. We stop shining. We stop noticing all the other divine sparks around us. Our vision gets hazy. We get drunk. We fall asleep.

...we are not of the night or of darkness. So then let us not fall asleep as others do, but let us keep awake and be sober; for those who sleep sleep at night, and those who are drunk get drunk at night. But since we belong to the day, let us be sober, and put on the breastplate of faith and love, and for a helmet the hope of salvation.

Do you hear that? Wake up! Listen up! WE—We, right here, all of us—are full of divine sparks, stuffed almost to bursting with God's beautiful, radiant, powerful light. Fear and anxiety are not our masters—God is! As soldiers discipline themselves for battle, so should we discipline ourselves for the challenge of making peace. Give the muscles of faith a workout. Build up the stamina of your hope. Get ready to love longer and harder and more deeply than you ever have before. Repent—change your ways—because the Beginning is Near!

For God has destined us not for wrath but for obtaining salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ... so that whether we are awake or asleep we may live with him. Therefore encourage one another and build up each other, as indeed you are doing.

As Paul says, “Build each other up.” In a culture geared to pettiness and appearances, it can be hard to make this change. I suggest an exercise, what they used to call a spiritual discipline: Turn away from the false and intoxicating lights of all the little glowing screens around us. Remember: what you contemplate, you imitate.

In this season of darkness, seek illumination from a different source. Light a candle. Sit with that small flame and pray. Reflect on the light. Make space for God's light to stir and shine within you. Wipe away the mud and clear away the debris until you find the deep smoldering goodness of your own soul. Breathe with it. Feed it. Let the wind of the Holy Spirit stir it, like a sudden gust across the coals of a campfire, until sparks catch fire and dance up into flame. Wake up each morning ready to search the landscape for signs of new life, ready to celebrate the wonders that may be born on this day of New Beginnings. We are Children of the Light. We are brothers and sisters of the Light of the World. Let it shine! Let it shine! Let it shine!!!


(All images copyright Mainecelt 2011 except for Calvin, borrowed from here, and handbasket, borrowed from here.)

Rockin' the Big House: a Tribute to Bruce Malcolm Cole

I preached my first funeral last Saturday. It was a rather unusual service.

How unusual?

Well... let's just say I am now part of a rather small club: the association of clergywomen who have stood in the pulpit of a large Catholic Church and led a Celtic New Year-themed service on Halloween.

It was Bruce's idea--Bruce, dear grace-filled trickster, who knew he was dying and was determined to go out in style. You see, Bruce was the kind of guy who loved to move behind the scenes. By profession, he was a facilities manager, the man with all the keys who understood all the mystical mechanics and secret spaces. As his wife wrote about the church, "He always referred to it as "the big house", but with affection, like a nickname for a cherished friend." Indeed, Bruce poured himself into the meticulous care of the schools and churches he tended, taking pride in details nobody else might ever notice. Yet he also had a theatrical streak, and he loved to be the center of attention. The best times for Bruce usually involved the chance to feast, the chance to tell stories in diverse company, and the chance to play with fire. (The picture give you a hint of his sense of humour. It comes from a charity fundraising calendar called "Under the Kilt.")

When Bruce received his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, he understood that it was serious. He understood that such a diagnosis came with a lifespan of mere months, sometimes mere weeks. He spoke of "beginning to live in two worlds"--one in which he maintained a powerfully positive outlook with a fierce focus on future living, and one in which he pragmatically began to put his affairs in order to prepare for a fast-approaching end. Soon after his diagnosis, he approached one of the priests of the large Catholic church where he worked. He knew full well the merit of his work, knew how to play his hand as their only non-Catholic employee...and really, when a man says he's dying and wants to have his service in your church because the place means a lot to him, how could anyone say no?

The venue secured, he proceeded on to the next step of his subversive plan. At a Scottish Heritage society meeting, he pulled me aside. Would I, as chaplain to the society, officiate at his service and see to it that his heritage would be honoured? Again, how could anyone say no? In my mind, I pictured a quiet, intimate gathering in a rustic chapel somewhere...peaceful shadows and flickering candlelight...a simple, unadorned place without too much fuss where a youngish clergywoman could manage, decently, her first attempt at a funeral. Silly me. I don't know what I was thinking.

As the weeks and months unfolded around us, Bruce battled his cancer with all the courage and dedication you'd expect of a serious caber-tossing athlete. He stormed through chemotherapy and other treatment protocols in a blaze of glory, gritting his teeth and grinning at the slightest hint that he might be winning. He sought out an energy healer and seized the opportunity to improve the well-being of his spirit as well as his body. Yes, there were days when the strain showed, waves of nausea and sudden urgent trips to the doctor...but those of us at the sidelines found ourselves frequently bewildered by Bruce's newfound vigor. He was so determined to embrace life, to live fully in every moment, that some days he actually seemed MORE healthy, not less.

Bruce flexed his growing spiritual muscles and exercised them frequently. For years he had been mentoring others, but now every meeting was another chance to impart wisdom, and he tried not to waste a single chance. When we complained of our frustration with The Disappearing Plumber, he told us to "stop being angry and let it go." When we got wound up about things, he would say things like, "you may think it matters, but it doesn't. It really doesn't matter as much as you think it matters." Then he would counsel us to turn our attention elsewhere--to love, to shared comfort and laughter--and get on with the business of real living.

Over shared meals, Bruce gradually ate less and less, but we feasted together on laughter. He could build up a story, then suddenly flip it around, leaving its legs treading the air and leaving us nearly helpless with laughter. He had known plenty of rage and anger in his own life--he often reminded us that we would not have liked him when he was younger--but he clearly was intent on a different path now. Bruce, mighty-muscled and built like a tank, entertained himself now by mentoring amateur athletes for the Maine Highland Games, building runs and feeders for the wee wild beasties in his back yard, crafting traditional Scottish knives and elegant walking sticks as gifts for his friends, and weaving his own words and music together with the help of a good guitar. He counted his riches in the affection of his beloved wife, his two rescued "special needs" dogs, and the diverse range of folks he counted among his true friends.

Diversity-- that was another thing that mattered to Bruce. He welcomed both myself and my partner into his circle of friends and lauded the way we cared for each other. And when his ecclesiastical employer chose to vocally advocate the overturn of Maine's recently-passed same-sex marriage law, I suspect Bruce decided to have a little good-natured fun at their expense. So it was that he secured a huge, ornate Catholic church for his funeral venue, then asked me to lead the service and asked my partner to play the pipes.

And so we did-- three days before election day. His wife and I planned the service together and settled on the Celtic New Year as a day with particular meaning for Bruce, who deeply loved his Celtic heritage. We used the funeral service in the UCC hymnal as a guide, but included a prayer from this book along with a poem that echoed Bruce's earthy, earthly spirituality. So: Catholic church, check. Woman in pulpit, check. Pagan Celtic readings, check. Prayer for lightning not to strike me down in the middle of the homily: check.

Now, I've officiated at weddings, at christenings, at house-blessings and tree-blessings and other rituals, but I'd never done a funeral. When the full impact of the situation hit me, I confess that I got a little, well, freaked out. I don't put much stock in conspiracy theories, but after stepping into that sanctuary and seeing all the contribution envelopes for the "Stand for Marriage" campaign at all the entryways, I did feel a bit like I'd been sent into hostile territory and would soon be found out and "removed." I had to remind myself that we were there to celebrate Bruce, and that hate and petty sectarian bickering had no place in his celebration. We called the administrative head of the parish and asked him to start the service with some words of welcome. We called another priest and asked him to say the prayer of invocation. They both agreed. Now it was up to me to walk the line, to call up every ounce of worship-planning skill and diplomacy in the service of honouring my friend.

Perhaps Bruce's spirit was still "facilities manager" that day. Somehow it all came together. Somehow, it all worked, and it was beautiful. Somehow, I sat between two priests in the front of that opulent sanctuary, in front of hundreds of people, and I never triggered their "heretic and abomination" alarms. There was a massed bagpipe band in full regalia in front of the church. There was a Celtic harper inside, weaving a gentle, comforting web. There was the most heartbreakingly beautiful a capella rendition of Danny Boy--a song I usually deride--I'd ever heard. Bruce's niece played a Bach sarabande on cello. All of the readers offered scripture and poetry and prayers in clear, strong voices. Hundreds of voices joined together in "Be Thou My Vision" and "Amazing Grace." Amazing it was--and, yes, full of grace. At the end, the sound of the bagpipes swirled up and echoed from the high stone arches. Together we wept, and together we smiled, bound together in grief and love for a truly remarkable--and gleefully subversive--man.

News Flash-- Bye, Bye Birdie

We interrupt our regularly scheduled blog post to bring you this important update: as of this morning, all surplus roosters have been...um, dispatched. The year-old broilers-turned-stewbirds, denizens of the Very Bad Year, pre-dawn hellish harmonizers, feathered idols of concupiscence and caprice...them birds had to go.

For the sake of more squeamish readers, there will be no pictures of the process. Suffice to say that the knife was sharp. They were dispatched most humanely with reasonable skill and speed. We thanked them and vowed that nothing would be wasted...and nothing was. What didn't end up in the freezer or the stockpot went to fertilize the garden. As the Wise Ones say, "everything is food for something else."

These birds have been a bane for so long that the final bird's death felt like more than just another unpleasant-but-needful barnyard task. It felt elemental, primal, like an offering of sorts, or some ritual banishment of bad spirits. Perhaps offering IS the correct word. We offered its soul back to the Cosmos and its blood and feathers back to the earth. We transformed its body into more nourishing forms. With these acts came a lightness, a curious sense that we have released ourselves from the taloned hold of last year's suffering.

Did our Celtic and British ancestors feel these things, when the wheel of the year turned to harvest and their hands fell to the hard work of culling and butchering? Did they offer prayers of release? Did they sense the tenuous, terrifying beauty of nature's balance? Did they speak aloud their thanks, breathe deeply, set their jaws, and bloody their hands, killing and taking only what they had to, using everything they possibly could? And were there special words or tales or tunes to honour all of this?

I found the tune of an old wassail song welling up in me as we worked. There are many wassails-- songs of seasonal blessing and honour, from ancient roots meaning "be whole." (There is one called "the Apple Tree Wassail" that I sing to my fruit trees when I plant or prune them. I am of the belief that no creature, rooted or footed or winged, can be too often blessed.) I reshaped the words to our purpose and sang them--not cavalierly, but with genuine joy, recognizing that every harvest is a time of death, but reapers need not be eternally grim. There is a time to reap. There is a time to sow and a time to gather in. It is good to move with The Great Wheel's Turning.

Goodbye, roosters. Farewell, four-thirty A.M. alarmers. Tomorrow is the sabbath. We shall celebrate by sleeping in.

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

What the Gussuck Said

I went to college in Alaska, where the Alaskan Native students sometimes referred to us pale-skinned incomers as "Gussucks." The word was sometimes a playful jest, sometimes a stronger epithet. I understood it to mean, to them, what "Yankee" means to a Southerner and what "Sassanach" means to a Gael. Even when used among friends, with winks and grins, the word has a cutting edge. It was not, shall we say, a compliment.

This morning I participated in a sunrise ceremony to cap a week of indigenous observances known as "Wabanaki Days." The clergyman who usually shares in the service was unable to attend, so I was invited midweek to step in. I was asked to offer a Gaelic invocation and a brief homily that would acknowledge the connection between Euro-American immigrant heritage and our state's indigenous peoples.

This was not an easy situation--Native elders would be participating with drumming and prayers from their traditions, and I was not only the new kid on the block, ceremonially speaking, but a gussuck as well. The invocation wasn't worrying--I had a volume of the great Hebridean ethnographic work, Alexander Carmichael's Carmina Gadelica, and it was full of prayers honoring the elements, creatures, and Creation. I drew on prayers to the sun and the new moon, as well as a blessing that speaks of "power of raven, power of eagle...power of storm, power of land, power of sea..." These ancient prayers allow the Gaelic tradition to speak for itself, while affirming other indigenous earth-centered traditions.

The homily was harder. I knew the sight of a clergyperson in an alb could trigger anger, distrust, and generations of resentment. I debated whether to wear my alb at all, but I wanted to wrestle with the challenge-- the challenge to myself, to conduct myself with utmost humility and respect, and the challenge to them, that my witness might move them to reconsider their long-held assumptions about the general toxicity of anything associated with the Church. My offering of words would be a part of that witness...but hey, no pressure, right?

When we arrived, the stone ridgeback of the point was shrouded in heavy fog. Only barely could we make out the shapes of others emerging from their vehicles in the pearly half-light of dawn. I saw one of the elders cast a disapproving glance my way as I pulled on my alb over my regular clothes. A couple minutes later, she came up to me and asked what church I came from. I said, truthfully, that I'd worked with many different groups and gatherings, but I was a part of the U.C.C. (United Church of Christ.) She leaned close and looked me squarely in the eye. "Is that one of them conservative churches, or liberal?"

"Progressive...er...liberal." (I tend to stumble when using the L-word, as I find it an unhelpful and troublesome term, but I knew she was waiting to hear one or the other of the words she'd offered me.)

She leaned even closer, her eyes squinting slightly, pinioning me with her glare. "So, which kinds of folks does your church exclude?"

An unintended smile of pure relief spread across my face. Of course she had every right to be suspicious, to be angry. But what a wonderful question, and how deeply satisfying to say, with absolute honesty, "why, we belong to this church because it doesn't exclude anybody! We welcome everyone!"

It wasn't the answer she was expecting. She actually looked a little disappointed, a little unsettled by my response. But by then people were joining the circle, gathering to take part in the ceremony. We both turned our attention to the work at hand: the acknowledgement of arrivals, the hailing of honored guests, and the clearing and blessing of this sea-carved, salt-washed, mist-wreathed sacred space.

There were words of welcome. A match was set to a small bundle of sacred leaves cradled in a seashell, and the smoke wafted among us, ritually purifying all that it touched. The drummer lifted his drum and sang, in its rhythm, words our bodies could all feel even if some of our minds could not comprehend. Two elders shook rattles in time to the drum. They spoke more words, some in their native languages and some in translation, for the benefit of us gussucks. At their invitation--a nod in my direction with the statement, "Now, I guess we're gonna hear some Christian-churchy-Lord-in-heaven prayers..." I offered the Gaelic invocation I'd prepared, along with an English translation. Two tongues, two languages, slowly revealed the meaning of the prayer, and with each stanza their eyes widened. "Oh King of the elements, be ours a goodly purpose toward each creature in Creation..."

Perhaps they felt a little of the shock of recognition I felt, when first I discovered those words more than a decade ago. My Pacific Northwest upbringing had exposed me to the stories and teachings of many Native peoples, and the words of Black Elk and Chief Seattle were regarded with the same respect accorded to the Christian Gospels. I grew up hungry to embrace teachings that honored the Earth, yet I was fiercely aware of the innate wrongness of "playing Indian." Only when a visiting bard--David Whyte--gave a lecture series on "The Celtic Imagination," did I discover the mythic characters of Salmon, Raven, and Deer in a context I could wholly embrace without borrowing the cultural trappings of others.

Other words, silence, and music followed. The Piper offered her own musical gift, and as she struck in to an eerie tune on the pipes, the elders reached out and signaled for all of us to take hands and make a circle around her. The thrum of the drones, like the beat of the drum, moved in our blood and our bones as well as the mist-laden morning air. It seemed like a suitable and satisfying end. I tucked my now-damp folded notes behind my back, hoping I was off the homiletical hook. No such luck. The same elder who had confronted me at the beginning fixed me, once again, in her sights. She nodded to me. What was I doing there? I was no elder, no great storyteller. Surely I didn't belong... But she was, after all, in charge, and she was telling me to speak. I took out my notes, apologized for relying on them, and began:

We are border people. Like a basket's woven design or Celtic knotwork carved into stone, our life shows most clearly at the edges. What beauty we have lies where pieces are split and broken, where the ragged ends are tucked and woven in.

We are journeying people. Along these edges we move, back and forth, backward and forward, and we carry this history on our back. It weighs us down, like a creel full of seaweed. It pulls and presses, like a basket heavy with stones.

My ancestors were Scottish and Scots-Irish immigrants to Maine. They came on ships from the lands of their people, the coastlines and hillsides that knew them best, held their stories, held their bones. They came as unwilling passengers on packet ships. They arrived awkward and ignorant and scared, like many of their fellow immigrants, having been burned out of their homes and pushed off their land by poverty, circumstance, or government agents.

A story: The British government spent years conducting military campaigns against the Scots and the Irish before they made their raids on the so-called New World. Francis Drake, Walter Raleigh, and others used Ireland as a proving ground, a convenient neighborhood of savages to be cleaned up and cleared out. After four years on the blood-soaked frontier, one English correspondent sent this description back:
“Out of every corner of the woods and glens they came creeping forth on their hands, for their legs would not bear them. They looked anatomies of death; they spake like ghosts crying out of their graves... in short space there were none almost left and a most populous and plentiful country suddenly left void of man or beast.” The “void” meant vacant lands for English resettlement. This was the Irish frontier in 1596.

Meanwhile, the SSPCK--the Society in Scotland for Propagating of Christian Knowledge--was intent on stamping out “the barbarian tongue” of Gaelic, the first step towards civilizing the “Wild Scots” of the Highlands. They also busied themselves with New World heathens. In 1735, they began a search for a missionary to preach to Native Americans in the Colonial territory of Georgia. They settled on one Reverend Iain MacLeoid. A Gaelic-speaker, they believed, would be able to converse with the natives quite easily--one barbarian to another.

Less than a generation later, my ancestors came. Like other immigrants, they came for many reasons. Some were good reasons. Some were less than good. Whatever their reasons, they did not arrive entirely without skills--they may have known how to weave and spin, how to carve stone or tend livestock, how to write or keep accounts, but they did not know all that was needed to survive in this unfamiliar land.

Some were so used to fighting, they never learned how to unclench their fists. Kicked out of their own land, they signed up as soldiers to shove other people off their ancestral lands. They remembered how to fight, but they lost touch with the ancient codes of honour that once governed their battles. We cannot be proud of what they did, but we can try to understand the reasons behind their ignorance and fear. We remember them as we remember the dark length of our shadows in the clear light of the rising sun. We cannot shake their darkness away from us. It will follow us always.

Some of our ancestors did not forget the old ways. They remembered that, at the shining heart of their culture, there were sacred rules of hospitality. They understood what it meant to offer food to hungry wanderers, to offer shelter to a stranger. They were humbled to receive the compassion and care of this land's Native Peoples. Without this kind and patient guidance, they would never have survived the biting cold and the bitter winds. With it, they endured beyond the edges of starvation. And because some of them kept the old ways alive, they understood that such actions bind people together and create community, as surely as two colours interwoven become a beautiful design.

We are still travelers, still border people, living at the thresholds of land and sea, standing between cultures, standing at the threshold of survival itself. We still reach, blindly, in our dreams, for that sweet promise of a land called home. We still struggle to find our place in Creation's intricate design, a place in the great pattern of justice and peace where we genuinely belong.

What we must acknowledge is this: we have not made our own way in this world. We arrived here and survived here through the care of countless others, people who helped us over the threshold, cared for our bodies and souls, and ensured our survival in a thousand different ways. We live as a result of their risks, their gifts, their love.

This, then, is how we honor your ancestors and ours: we come back to this place of rough edges, and with the Creator's gracious Spirit and the Travelers’ tales to guide us, we remember. We strive not to repeat the mistakes of our oppressors, who called everyone savages and brutes and other less-than human names. Instead, we humbly recognize that we share this land and this fully human story. We humbly acknowledge that we must listen more deeply as stories and old ways are shared. We are called to move together in this open space, to weave together, from our rough edges, a design of healing and promise, a design of wisdom and beauty.

--copyright Mainecelt July 2009

Source notes: this homily made use of material from the following history texts: Ronald Takaki, A Different Mirror: A History of Multicultural America, (Boston, Little, Brown & Co., 1993)

Michael Newton, We’re Indians Sure Enough: The Legacy of the Scottish Highlanders in the United States, (Saorsa Media, Auburn, NH, 2001)

Photo of Alaska Native mask found here.
Basket image from Diane Kopec collection at the Abbe Museum.

Friday Five: Celebratory Ritual Edition

HAPPY MAY DAY!!!

Sally, over at RevGalBlogPals writes, "It is the first of May, or as I have been concentrating on dialogue with folk interested in the new spirituality movement this last week, it is Beltane, a time to celebrate the beginning of summer... I believe that we live in a ritually impoverished culture, where we have few reasons for real celebration, and marking the passages of life;

So

1. Are ritual markings of birth, marriage, and death important to you?
Children engage in creative play to learn how to be human. I believe rituals, at their best, are a kind of sacred play that reminds us of--and calls us back into--our fullest and most inspired humanity.
Rituals can bless or curse, invigorate or drain a person and/or a commmunity, so they must be thoughtfully crafted and conducted. There are so many funeral stories in which poorly-chosen words or poorly-done rituals contributed to, rather than eased, the pain of the mourners...there are also countless stories of the pain caused when a meaningful ritual is withheld or denied. I stand in solidarity with my GLBTQ brothers and sisters, here-- may we all experience rituals that bless our loving parnerships and allow us to name that love in a circle of caring support and communal accountability.

2. Share a favourite liturgy/ practice.
Only one? Impossible! I have too large a liturgical appetite. Here are two: First, I pray each night by cupping my hands, filling them with cool water, and drinking five draughts from my hands. The first four draughts are for the four directions. As I drink, I think of one direction and its traditional associated gifts. As I fill my hands the fifth time, I say to myself, "and one for the Center of All Things..." and I drink deeply in honour of God's Spirit. I love this simple ritual: so brief, yet so sensual and centering.
Second, (appropriately, on this Bealltuinn/May Day), I sing to my fruit trees when I plant them. There's an old British folk song called "The Apple Tree Wassail." I sing it three times as I plant the tree and water it deeply, to bless the plant in its new home, "to grow well and to bear well and so merry let us be..."

3. If you could invent ( or have invented) a ritual what is it for?
In response to the relative lack of coming-of-age rituals in American culture, I made up a ritual for myself as a young teenager. Each full moon, after everyone else had gone to bed, I would stand on our back porch and look up at the moon. Standing there, I would reaffirm myself as a child of God, offer myself in service to others, and ask God to help renew and refill me, the way the moon returns to fullness. I always wished there was someone else, some counsel of wise elders, to conduct such a ritual. Without them, I made my own. Perhaps someday I'll be able to offer such a ritual to others.

4. What do you think of making connections with neo-pagan / ancient festivals? Have you done this and how?
The words of Chief Seattle, Black Elk, and other Native American wisdom-keepers surrounded me during my childhood in the Pacific Northwest. I considered their teachings on equal par with the Christian & Hebrew scriptures, but I felt a deep unease, as I had been taught it was not right to "play Indian" or borrow thoughtlessly from other traditions. When I began to study my Celtic heritage, I found my old mythic friends, Raven, Deer, Tree, Sea, and Salmon, recast in a guise I could happily own. I also found, in the language and poetry of my heritage, an exquisite sensitivity to, and respect for, the sacredness of Creation.
I have dear friends who have chosen the path of neopaganism. I respect that path, yet, while it offers much in the way of inspiration and sensory engagement, I find it does not feed my need for moral discourse and ethical education. The Celtic Christian tradition offers a better balance of all these things, at least for me. The Celtic expression(s) of Christianity, along with Celtic poetry and folklore, have become the bones and muscles of my faith.

5. Celebrating is important, what and where would your ideal celebration be?
My favourite image of the Kingdom of God is that of a ceilidh: a participatory creative gathering where everyone is welcomed and included and all our creative gifts are celebrated. (Ceilidhs [pronounced KAY-lees] were the standard evening entertainment of Celtic communities prior to the advent of electricity and mass media. They still happen in some places.) Modern ceilidhs tend to be carefully packaged and orchestrated, but the best kind of ceilidh can still be found--or created--now and then in a parish hall, around a campfire, or in a crowded kitchen, with old folks telling grand stories, children romping about, musicians playing with enthralling rhythms and harmonies, and singers singing their hearts out as all join together in the blessed creative--and re-creative--feast.