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.

What I didn't notice

This past week I drove the three hundred miles to visit my parents.  They still live in the house I grew up in, so going back home always brings back memories of a half century ago.  When I enter the town, I have long since ceased to sigh about the old structures and roads that have disappeared or to be surprised by the new that has replaced them.  But what does continually amaze me is finally to realize that I grew up living on the very crest of a mountain but never noticed it.

For many years I trudged from my bus stop up the rather ordinary slope to our home near a rather unremarkable hilltop.   Only one house separated ours from the last cross street in the neighborhood, in the town really.   Along the eastern side of this boundary street, "Sunrise Drive," were a few homes backed by woods that sloped downhill to who knew where.  I never thought much about it, although I had heard my dad say that our town was situated on the edge of a plateau.   And I knew my brother followed deer trails and hunted black walnuts back there. Still.

One summer afternoon I was doing something in the basement when a storm roared through.  A clap of thunder exploded at the very instant the sky lit up.  Not more than an hour later a neighbor's house next to the eastern woods had burnt to the ground.  At the time I considered it such a freakish occurrence---that out of all the surrounding space, the odds were so remote that that particular house should be struck by lightning.

Unless, of course, the house was situated on the crest of a mountain.

About fifteen years ago, maybe more given how the years run together, a developer got hold of the forested land and cleared a road that descends partway down the slope   Estate homes now nestle in the trees, practically hidden.  The road seems a beautiful parkway and deer still treat the area as their personal breeding grounds.  It is a pleasure to walk the dogs there in the morning and a workout to climb from there back up to my older, more modest neighborhood. 

But now I can stand on Sunrise Drive, catching my breath, and look at what the trees had always hidden.  Far beyond the new winding street below me, on to the valley even farther below, and then to the mountains beyond that,  I now can see that in this one direction, at least, I am on the highest ridge for miles.  From this perspective, I indeed grew up on the crest of a mountain top, or at least what is one half of a mountain, but I had simply never paid attention for all the trees.

Once again, life is like that, isn't it?  Beauty where we hadn't noticed before.

Maybe that partly explains why I am currently a Lutheran Christian.  I used to think repetitive liturgy must lose its meaning, that Lutheran worship wasn't sincere, etc. etc.  I totally missed the Lutheran deep appreciation of Mystery, the tenacious trust in God's grace, or that most of the liturgy is really memorized scripture which returns to hearts and minds at the most needed of times---all very beautiful things.

That's just one example that comes to mind.  But it certainly is also true about people---that there is often a beautiful aspect to any person that I simply may not have noticed before.

Have you been surprised to find beauty that you didn't know was there?

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?