On a day off

What do pastors do on a day off?  Laundry?  Often.  Errands?  Frequently. Lawn mowing? Sometimes.  Checking in with family?  Of course.  Hikes?  Not enough.

So Friday I headed up to a portion of the AT west, or "south" in the trail's larger scheme, of the Susquehanna River .  I climbed up a mountain and walked along a ridge, turned around and came down again---about 12 miles in all. My daypack was about 16 pounds which included a camera.  But when I took it out at the beginning to take the first shot above, the battery was dead.  So these pics are only from my android.

I began to see the need for me to use hiking poles.  My balance isn't what it use to be over the rocky, unstable trail.  I took 5 bottles of water and should have drunk them all since I am pretty sure I was dehydrated over the last stretch of trail.  I was dripping sweat by the time I got back to the car, and I had a whopping headache that evening.  BUT even though feet, legs and back were aching the last several miles, I was not hurting at all the next day.  No blisters either (older broken in shoes).  Next time, more water and hiking poles.

On this section of the trail, a lot of my time was spent looking down to watch where I was stepping.  The ascent (and therefore descent) had a lot of loose rock.  Along the ridge there were rock screes that crept into the trail, so the challenge was to look for solid flat places to put my feet.  The advantage was that the concentration demanded I leave the details of the work week and an undone sermon behind to pay attention to the present moment.  The disadvantage was that a few times I finally looked up to discover that I had veered off the trail!  

In looking down to pick my way around stones, I noticed many of the smaller creatures that share this space.  I avoided stepping on plenty of granddaddy long legs.   There were a couple of kinds of millipedes or centipedes (I don't know which).  One kind was hanging out together in a rock puddle.

A little brown toad about an inch in size hopped off the trail and was so camouflaged I would never have seen him except for the movement.  Too camouflaged, in fact, for me to try to get a photo.  I passed a young hemlock that hadn't been taken by the blight.  A spider wasp with a purplish black body and golden antennae flew, or more like floated, by slowly as if it were royalty in a parade.

After crossing my path, a green walking stick climbed a tree.

A patch of butterfly weed was covered in dew in the farmer's field, and fungi was prolific on the mountain.



Think of all I might have missed if the trail had been easy.  Keeping my eyes on the ground and noticing the details can be delightful....as long as you look up every once in a while to check where you are going.  Life in the congregation is like that too.

And sometimes its good just sit down and take in the long view.  That's what this pastor did on her day off.

Pipeline headed to the Susquehanna. 

Flabby

It doesn't take long for hiking muscles to get flabby.

I've walked the dogs most mornings, but have had only two longer hikes all season...and those were only lengths of six and eight miles.  That is definitely not something to brag about if one is a committed walker.  In fact, it smacks strongly of lack of commitment.

So tonight I'm packing, and tomorrow I'm heading for a day hike on the Appalachian Trail north of the Cumberland Valley.  Into the day back will go food, lots of water, first aid stuff, sun screen, insect repellant, journal, pen, binoculars (can't let my observation skills get shabby too), camera, cell phone, rain jacket (just in case) and a few other odds and ends.   I hope to get an early start and get back late in the afternoon.

Soon those flabby muscles will be blissfully aching.

Regrets

A few weeks ago the local public radio station dropped its music programing and went to 24-hour news and talk shows.  The shift did not make the headlines.  In fact, even I, who listen to the station regularly, was only mildly affected those first days.  I tried to take the change in stride and sadly acknowledge that not many people listen to classical music on the radio anymore.  On my morning and evening commute, I was still able to hear the familiar news commentators; that seemed a good thing.  I also had my compact discs in the car to listen to whenever needed.  But gradually, the personal impact of what had happened became even more evident.

For example, on a late morning in that first week, driving to the nursing home to visit someone who was likely dying, I reached for the button to turn the station on.   Only talk blared out at a time when I had usually expected something like Mozart.  What I really needed in the few moments before visiting my friend was beauty, art, music—something to accompany hope at a time when words are not much needed anymore.  But only opinionated chatter stuffed the airwaves.  Suffocating with words, I quickly reached forward and shut the noise off.

Another evening after a long and busy discussion, I drove home in the dusky light and longed for the space to clear my mind.   Automatically, I turned on the radio again, knowing that through the weaving melodies or percussive rhythms, I could slip away from the busy conversations that echoed in my head and begin instead to melt back into that relaxed prayerful place within---what a recent mentor has named as one’s “spiritual heart.”   But I had forgotten the big radio change; I was confronted instead with the starkness of the station’s new call-in program.  Once again I turned the radio off, opened the windows and this time listened to katydids in the passing trees.

Sure, I don’t have to have classical music to remind me of God’s presence.  But the music’s richness is often a warm, hard-to-refuse invitation for me into prayer of a wordless sort.  And yes, it is true that I do have a stack of carefully chosen compact discs that I could slide into the player and allow to accompany me along the way home.   Although I will now miss no longer having exposure to new releases I might be interested in ordering.  After pondering all this awhile, I have figured out what I will miss most of all.

I will miss simply being surprised by beauty.  There is certainly something about opening one’s ears to the music that is given at any one moment, whether something new or something familiar, but music that I didn’t select, music that I myself didn’t shove into the cd player,  but is instead offered to me as a gift by another—perhaps challenging, but often a wide and surprising invitation.  To hear someone else’s chosen beauty is like being on a  pilgrimage and accepting the gifts that are offered by strangers as if from God's very self.  It is true, I can attest, that often the Spirit would leap into those musical spaces chosen by another and make them holy for me.  Am I exaggerating?  On many a drive home, someone had chosen music that would bring joy or tears or rest or confession or whatever it was I needed to bring closure to a difficult day and set my face to gaze at God’s goodness.

So while I will miss the abandoned programming, God and I will find other ways of communicating. Which leads me to one more regret:  I regret how our culture trades art, beauty and goodness (admittedly, my definition of those three categories) for more off-the-cuff talk.  I do not know if this is unique to our particular age, if it has always been this way, or if it is simply a sign that I am growing older.

Bridges

At confirmation camp there is a long, involved activity where the youth are divided up into groups in a large room.  Each group is given newspapers, tape and paper towel rolls; with those items they have to build walls that conceal them from the other groups in the room.  After wall building is accomplished, then each group must construct bridges between the various groups to roll marbles from their group to all the others.  Imagine a room full of kids huddled behind newspaper trying to build bridges.

A good way to know if something is wrong for many people is when we don’t hear from them or see them around.  There’s something about serious illness, or job trouble, or divorce, or problems with children, or---well you name it---that causes many people to isolate themselves, to build walls around themselves...even from faith communities.  Why is that?


Perhaps because of feeling unwell, embarrassed, discouraged or hurt.  When we feel vulnerable,the walls we build around ourselves at least give us the illusion of protecting us from the outside world.  And in some cases, the world itself is party to building walls around people in trouble so we don’t have to deal with it.

In the gospel of Mark 5:24-34, there is a huge wall surrounding a woman with a hemorrhage for twelve years who comes to Jesus by stealth (at first) for healing.  Likely menstrual bleeding, that meant, first, she was probably unable to have children; in her society that made her a third class citizen.  (Women were already second class.)  Second, because of her bleeding, she was labeled ritually “unclean,” similar to a dead body or a leper, which meant that if she touched anyone, they too would be ritually unclean and have to go through a process to become "clean" again.  Third, her illness had been going on for twelve years, so long that her isolation had become permanent; her illness would have defined who she was.  Fourth, she had spent all she had for a cure; she was now poor, and we are aware of the stigma and walls that surround those in poverty.  Finally, no bleeding woman was allowed into worship in the temple; therefore permanent bleeding meant she was permanently shunned from her faith community.  She was a spiritual outcast on top of everything else she was going through.  Talk about walls!!!

So are there any bridges built in this account?


Well, the woman reaches out, even if secretly, to touch Jesus' cloak, trusting that the touch could bring healing.  That was one silent bridge built.  And Jesus, so in tune that he immediately senses when someone is trusting him, is himself a  bridge to healing.  Yet he doesn't stop with the under-the-radar physical healing.  Instead he makes a bridge to heal her isolation, not just her body.  He brings the healing out in the open so she can be restored to her community. Not only does she need to hear his affirmation, so does her community.  And to give her credit, when Jesus asks who touched him, the woman comes forward.  She admits her healing and faith.  All these things end her isolation and tear down walls.

If we follow Jesus’ way, we are called to build bridges, not divide with walls.  Why?  Because God in Christ has built a bridge to us.  We are never isolated because through baptism we are in relationship with the Lord Jesus himself.  We have been valued, loved, saved, healed, forgiven and made whole.  Jesus Christ is a bridge builder.  


Is there a bridge I can help Christ build this week?

What we can't see

Camera seeing is not the same as human seeing.   On vacation, Rick and I went out along the C&O Canal in Maryland with camera in hand.  Rick spotted a night heron perched on a fallen branch sticking out of the green, algae-covered water.  The night heron at a distance was a rather unremarkable bird as herons go, identified by its stubby shape.   Later, we downloaded the pictures, and I saw what the camera had seen, but my eye hadn’t.  The heron’s detail was fascinating.  The colors,  indistinguishable at a distance in the sun, were blues, mauves and lavenders.  White stripes on its breast were delicately squiggled with shorter dabs of white under its beak.  The head of the bird had a crest of feathers which was sometimes flattened, but sometimes fluffed up like a blue mohawk.  The camera could see what we couldn’t—an amazing bird.

God, sort of like the camera, sees what humans can’t see.  God once told the prophet Samuel that humans look on outward appearances, but God looks on the heart. Humans want something that looks important, while God’s work is often hidden because God notices people on the inside.  At the time of this discussion, God was revealing who would be the next king of Israel---a kid, the youngest of eight, out watching sheep in the fields, who loved to sing and was a whiz with a slingshot, yet overlooked by his family.  But not overlook by God; instead filled with God's Spirit.  Name?  David.

You and I were anointed by the God's Spirit at baptism.  We may be convinced that we are rather ordinary and unremarkable.  What does God see in us that others don't see?  In fact, what does God see in us, that we ourselves don't see yet?  And to what does God call us (and our congregations) that we wouldn't dare to dream on our own?  Most likely it is something quite simple, something we like to do like organizing a gardening, music, running a business, teaching, visiting, sewing quilts, cooking, fixing things or being a dedicated grandparent.  That simple activity, along with a heart that loves God and others, is used and multiplied by God for something significant.  God sees into the heart of things and takes something simple about who we are or what we do and makes it bear fruit in the lives of others.   Often we are unaware that anything of importance happening, but, of course, that’s because God sees what we can’t.  If, however, we do happen to catch a glimpse of what God is doing through us, our response will likely be: Amazing! Thanks be to God!

Back to Real Time

For the last number of months I have posted about my thoughts and small adventures on the sabbatical pilgrimage of 2008.   The discipline of reworking my journal has given me a good refresher course in what God had been teaching me back then.  Four years later the walk from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh along rivers and through mountains while learning the gospel of John by heart, offers guidance as I focus on the future walk, especially the walk of the congregation and the branch of the Church that I serve in these changing, uncertain times.  Uncertain from my perspective, not God's. I hope you have enjoyed the walk too.  But now it is time to come back to real time as I follow Jesus into the future while continuing to learn from the past.

I have been thinking about Sunday's text, 1 Samuel 16, the alternate Hebrew scripture reading for the day.  The prophet Samuel is sent by God, who is definitely fed up with the antics of King Saul, to anoint a second and more faithful king for Israel.  Yes, from the human perspective, God and consequently Samuel are committing treason, and it is rather dangerous.  Samuel is directed by God to go to Jesse in Bethlehem; one of Jesse's sons is the one God will choose as a new king.  Seven sons are paraded before Samuel and each time Samuel, although impressed, is assured by God that this or that son is not the one.  God tells Samuel that humans look on outward appearances, but God looks on the heart.

When all the young men have finished meeting Samuel, he is puzzled and asks Jesse whether there are any more sons.  Jesse tells him that the youngest, just a lad, is out in the fields with the sheep.  Samuel demands to see him and, sure enough,  the old prophet has confirmation by God that his boy, David, is to be the next king.  if he had not listened to God, Samuel would not have chosen David as king.  David's own father, Jesse, would not have thought of David as having royal potential.  And yet....

And yet God has other plans, so Samuel takes his oil and pours it over David's head, announcing him as God's chosen leader for the people of Israel.  The text then says God's Spirit came upon David.  God saw something in David that no one else saw.

You and I were anointed by the Holy Spirit at baptism.  What does God see in us that others don't see?  What does God see in us, that we don't see yet? To what does God call us to that we wouldn't dare to dream on our own?  Most likely it is not to be a queen/king or prime minister or president of a nation.  Most likely it is something quite simple like being a dedicated grandparent, or sharing hammered dulcimer music or sewing quilts for Lutheran World relief.

But when God gets God's hands on something quite simple, God can make it into something profound, even if, as is usually the case, we are unaware of it being anything more than the usual. The point is not so much what you or I have been anointed to do, but what God is mysteriously doing in, under and through the simplicity of our given lives.  God may be blessing others through us in ways we can't even see.

Humans see the outward appearance of things.  God looks on the heart of things and there may be a world of difference between the two.  And sometimes, with God's help, we catch of glimpse of what God's up to and what God is seeing in us.

Chapter 25-The finish or the beginning?

This journal entry is from Friday, July 4, 2009 as I reach the end point of my walk from Washington D.C. to Pittsburgh.
  
The place where I stopped the previous walking day was in McKeesport in a hot, gravel lot next to the rail yard and steel mills.  Between that location and where we begin today, there is a long stretch where bikers must travel on busy roads with cars and trucks because the old trail has been taken over along the river’s edge by active industry and trains.  The hope of rail trail enthusiasts is that someday the trail will be finished all the way into the city.  But once again we decide the detour is too precarious for pedestrians and dogs.  It takes some investigation this morning to find a parking place in the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center where there is access to the reappearing trail that will lead into the city.  It is no longer marked as the Great Allegheny Passage trail.  One would never know that this city pavement is part of a path leading east over beautiful country, through fields of wildflowers, across mountains, through tunnels, along rivers and right into the nation’s capitol.  Instead it masquerades as an ordinary asphalt walkway along the Monongahela River, good for lunch break exercising, a daily stroll with the dog or an afternoon of rollerblading.

Since my niece Lauren came back from Cleveland with us yesterday, she is joining me for the walk today.  Under a mercifully cloudy and cooler sky, we pray the walking prayer and work on learning John's gospel for a little bit, but soon abandon the endeavor. She is too full of stories about her summer internship working in a women’s shelter.

We only walk an hour before we get to the restaurant district where Rick finds us and coaxes us to join him for lunch.  I can’t say I mind eating something other than a peanut butter sandwich and apple.  But how strange it feels to leave the trail midday and have a choice of a dozen places to eat and be waited on.  Not only that, it is strange that Chester isn’t sharing lunch with me and thumping his tail for a carrot.  We have left him on his own in the truck with his hard-boiled egg.  After lunch Lauren and I fetch Chester again and head across the historic Hot Metal Bridge.  Years ago it used to carry carts of molten steel from one side of the river to another.  Now it has recently been restored for pedestrians and bikes.  On the other side of the Monongahela we find the pathway near the riverbank and head towards downtown. 

After Lauren has told of the shelter's many dramas, we decide it would feel good to sit down again.  We notice a plaza one block off to our right with tables and chairs on marble pavement.  The buildings that surround this space are shiny steel structures with slick black windows and a  castle-like architecture.  It is a bit surreal, some medieval/ space-age combo,  but we are grateful for a seat.  The seat doesn’t last long.  Immediately a security guard appears out of nowhere and shoos us off.  No dogs allowed, he says.   I promptly tell him that this is no ordinary dog; Chester has walked all the way from Washington D.C.  He is totally uninterested, looks at me as if I’m crazy, and repeats again that no dogs are allowed.  Such is the life of a pilgrim; we get up and keep moving.

Crowds of people are in Point State Park when we arrive. This is the 4th of July, after all.  Very noisy speed boats are showing off on a race course on the Allegheny River side.  Loud speakers and amplifiers are blaring music.  At the point where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers converge to form the Ohio,  there is a huge fountain.  This, of all places, is where my prayerful pilgrimage ends.  In some way it seems fitting that, after miles of walking through remote forests and wilderness, after having my contemplative fill of nature, quiet and prayer, after wading through chapters of the Gospel of John, now I am suddenly immersed in the loudest noises of humanity.  The word made flesh again.  The point of the sabbatical walk in the end has been to send me back renewed into the heart of the world.  Well, here’s the world, and here in the middle of the world is water gushing up from the central fountain.  My second and third favorite sayings of Jesus in the gospel come to mind:       

        The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.  (John 4.14)

        Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.  As the scripture says, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’  (John 7.37-38)

The fountain spurts spray toward the clouds, and the two mighty rivers on either side are pushing into the larger Ohio River that flows before me to the west and the Mississippi.  Masses of people around me are yelling, eating, chasing children, holding hands, dropping things.  I pick up a baby’s sweater and try to find its owner.   When I was starting out in Washington, I remember how I wanted to shout to everyone that I was going  to walk to Pittsburgh.  Now that I’m here, I have no desire to announce my arrival.  I am content to sit quietly on this block of cement and let it sink in. 

It is, after all,  not the walking 335 miles that is the feat; it is what God has done in between.  And what exactly has God in between?  I know on this long walk I have experienced tiny moments of God’s grace upon grace that when added together are like the gushing fountain I am sitting beside. I do know I have changed.  How?  I can’t put that  into words yet either.   I have a few more chapters of John to learn by heart and a few more weeks before heading back to a pastor’s routine.  Maybe I’ll have things figured out by then.

Lauren, Chester and I sit on the edge of the fountain and wait for Rick to find us.  We have to yell at each other to be heard.  God once again has a great sense of humor.  Months ago when I looked at a map and picked this as a place to end up (since the trail simply disappears in the city), I knew nothing about the park, and I certainly didn’t plan that we would finish here on the crowded 4th of July.  But what better way for God to say: Elaine, the walk is over.  It is time to take what you have come to know back to the people.  It’s time to take the peace and words I have been planting within you back to the restless, thirsty mobs.  The finish here is just the beginning.