A particularly long walk

Chester and I went walking on Saturday's still morning.  The earth seemed to be holding its breath awaiting the coming storm:  a dead gray sky, the creek with a black sheen, the monotonous damp penetrating one's bones.  Thus, the dry leaves were made all the more brilliant in their contrast--bronzes, russets, crimsons, yellows---as they collapsed onto fading grass or scratched their way along the paved road.  They had my full attention for awhile, knowing their time was limited;  the hurricane on its way would see to that.

It was a particularly long walk.  It took time for me to begin to notice the stray, rather unremarkable life tucked here and there. One flimsy strand of goldenrod drooping among brown stalks.  One periwinkle blossom five months tardy.  A thin queen anne's lace over-extended like an umbrella.  A few brown-eyed susans in a field.  One dandelion.  A pink clover flower, and a small white one too.  Honeysuckles blooming on a branch hugging the ground.  A small campion on the roadside.  A little fleabane and pale aster among stiffened siblings.  Soon it became the morning's game to discover what still lives and could still invite a bee or two to eat.

Little did I know how much I would need that walk.  The next day, Sunday, was a glorious red festival of worship.  The early service celebrated  "Reformation Sunday" with two baptisms: one a teenager whose two friends in her confirmation class stood as her sponsors.  I had worked hard to make the message about God's grace as simple, clear and full of gospel as possible.  The seminarian played the trumpet with the choir anthem.  It was good.

But suddenly I knew it would be a particularly long morning when I walked into the second service and less than a dozen people were there.  A few more arrived at the last minute so that the four worship leaders processing, along with the organist, made up a quarter of the congregation.  I sang a thin sounding "A Mighty Fortress is our God" with discouragement penetrating my bones, hope collapsing and energy fading.

I would like to say otherwise, but the heartache of scarcity never left me during that worship. Nevertheless, I had to preach through it and ultimately know that the message coming out of my mouth about grace---that one's trust itself is an unearned gift of God's grace---was a message directed to me.  I kept aching, even while little one-year-old Ava, standing in the pew, became a spontaneous illustration for the message.  Aching while I shared the peace with two guests who somehow keep returning to this sparse (but usually not this sparse) service.  Aching even as little Maura, receiving a blessing at communion, announced to me that she knows Jesus loves her.   As you can see, there was plenty of life tucked here and there which simply took some extra concentration to notice.  My questions and doubts and self-judgment, however, remained noisy.  Fortunately God's promise shouted louder:  wherever two or three are gathered in Jesus name, he is there.  And so I had to walk through the second service by grace noticing where faith still lives and Jesus invites the few to feast on his meal.

Of course, I am aware that, in the larger picture of North America, Christendom is waning.  That my colleagues and their congregations are going through similar struggles.  That the Church, nevertheless, will "reform" once again.  That "God's word shall forever abide."  That although, in the informality and secularism of our culture, liturgical "mainline" congregations are feeling it particularly hard, "decline" is not the final or truest word.  But that is for others, probably those much younger than myself, to write about and lead the way.

This is what I know to write:  what is important is not success as defined by statistics, but a faithfulness and openness to God's call both in the dying and the living.  And so I continue to love and serve this small group of God's people where, on most days, I notice life and believe God still calls me to be.

But I am going to need to keep taking lots of long walks.

One ruffed grouse follower

On our vacation this bird started following us.  We were bushwhacking from the campground down a ridge to where we knew there was a creek.  We were hoping for some good photos.  On the way, my husband suddenly stopped: “Look at this bird!”  And there walking in the leaves was a game bird, which we later identified as a ruffed grouse. It paced back and forth, pranced on a fallen branch, made soft throat noises and seemed to be enjoying (an anthropomorphic conclusion if there ever was one) the fact that it had my husband's undivided attention. 
 
After about ten minutes and dozens of photographs, we decided to move on.  Low and behold, this bird started following us.  It followed us down the ridge.  It followed us through the creek's bottom-land weeds, although whenever possible it tried to walk off the soggy ground on fallen logs.  The grouse seemed in its glory when it was lightly hopping along side of us while we, on the other hand, laboriously scrambled on all fours up the slope, hefting our bodies upwards by grabbing onto roots and trunks.  Often the bird was so camouflaged in the brown dead leaves that we couldn’t see it.  But if we got still, we would soon hear its strange soft whine nearby, almost like a whimpering dog.

After traveling for over an hour, the three of  us made it back to the edge of the campground.  Rick waited with the bird while I ran to the camper to get some peanuts, some bread, some cereal.  We figured it was likely that a summer seasonal camper had half-raised it.  We put the food on the ground and it went after the peanuts and some of the bread, but after an experimental toss, left the bran flakes alone.  Slowly we walked back to the trailer, half hoping that it might keep following us the short way through the almost empty campground, but it would go no farther.  Later that afternoon sitting outside reading, I kept listening for it in the leaves near our trailer, but it  never reappeared.

So in Mark 10:17-31, the scripture for Sunday, a man came running up to ask Jesus, "What must I do to inherit eternal life?"  He obviously was longing for something more.  For Jewish people at the time, eternal life was not necessarily a place to go when you die.  Eternal life was a code word for the time when God would make all things right, when evil and violence would be banished, when justice would prevail.  That’s what the man yearned for and wanted to be a part of.  Jesus, being such a good rabbi, would surely know something about this.

What did  Jesus do?  He first reminded the man of the commandments, and the man protested that he had been there, done that.  And Jesus loved the man (an unusual statement in Mark's gospel), which leaves us, the readers, with no doubt that Jesus must have wanted the best for him.  Then Jesus suggested something drastic, something that went to the heart of having a relationship with God (and others).  Jesus told the man to sell everything he had, give it to the poor and follow him.

What?  You got to be kidding?

Here’s what I think: Jesus knew that what the man was longing for (whether the man knew it or not),  was not more commandments to keep, but a relationship with God.  So Jesus out of love invited this man into a trusting relationship with himself.  It couldn't happen, though, without the man letting go of the stuff that was holding him back.  It's hard to trust anyone, including the Messiah, if as your back-up you are still hanging onto whatever gives you the most security.  In the end, the man couldn't do it.  He simply couldn't follow any further.  Like the ruffed grouse. 

Like me.  I'll be honest.  I (perhaps each one of us) has stuff that makes it hard to let go and trust Christ, to trust his love for me, trust his ultimate goodness in a tough time.  How many times do I come just so far and can’t go further?  Within  reach of a feast, but turn away?

"Well, then, if this wealthy man can't do it, then who can be a part of this eternal life," asked Peter?

Good question.  Who can?

Not me.  I am a ruffed grouse when it comes to following Jesus.  I stand camouflaged on the sidelines.  I can think of plenty of things of which I can’t let go:  my plans, my expectations, my grudges and, yes, my material wants (not needs). 

Fortunately, the story isn't over.  At the very moment the man was sadly walking away, too afraid to let go, too anxious to let himself trust and follow, Jesus was meanwhile turning to walk the other direction to Jerusalem.  To the cross.  Loving that man so much.  Loving you so much.  Loving me so much.  Loving the world so much that he actually let go of his life in order to set us free to participate in God's new resurrected eternal-abundant-forgiven-sharing-with-the-poor life.  yes, the life that we will proclaim at a baptism this Sunday.

How is this possible?  Not by anything we humans have done, that’s for sure.  After all, when asked Jesus himself said to Peter, "With humans it’s impossible."

So, again, how does this yours-truly-ruffed-grouse follower make it out of the camouflaged sidelines?

"With God all things are possible," concluded Jesus who then headed on down the road with the cross and his own trust of an empty tomb ahead of him. 

Did you hear that?  With God all things are possible, Jesus said.  Even learning to let go, trusting Jesus in a deeper way, and walking down the road with him.