On meeting a black snake

Yes, I have been out day hiking on the AT again.  Three times, actually, because I've had the luxury of a full week of vacation.  

I have stood on a rock precipice and peered over the valley to ridges beyond.  I have walked under yellowing trees tossing their flames one by one into the chill wind.  I have sat beside a stream of the clearest water that becomes the glass coffin for leaves of red maple and brown oak.  I have walked softly on scented needles of pine through the gloomy maze of their dark trunks.  In the warmth of a noon sun, I have traced the path through a thicket playground full of noisy sparrows.  Hunched by a campfire, I have watched the moon, part shadowed, part light, rise while my legs, facing the fire, burned with heat and my back, facing the damp grass, shivered.  It has been a full week.

Oh, yes, and I met a black snake on the trail not too far, as I recall, from the thicket with all the small birds---a virtual grocery store for a snake.  I will not, however, let that fact cloud my respect for this creature.  Soon it will be hibernating in a rocky den in mountains that I love, perhaps one of the rock jumbles I had just finished climbing over.  At the moment I saw it, however, the snake was absolutely still.  Whether it was soaking in the sun, or waiting for a chipmunk to run by, or watching for me to leave it alone, I do not know. I circled it, took a few cell phone photos, and estimated its length to be five and a half feet.  It remained motionless all the while.  Without analyzing, without words, its snake thing to do was simply to hold one's head up, be still, watch and wait.

The Psalms are well known for moving from the subject of creation and its Creator to the dilemmas of humanity.  I am going to make the same shift.  In my last post here I began reflecting on what it means to practice humility in our lives.  I'm not good at the humility thing, and in fact that was one of the things I was thinking about on this day of walking.  Then I saw the snake and eventually realized that an important quality of walking humbly is to be able to be still, hold one's head up, watch and wait.

What might that look like practically speaking?  Instead of jumping to my own conclusions, listen to what another is trying to say.  Instead of charging ahead with my own plans to fix problems, waiting in prayerful stillness to see what God might be suggesting.  Instead of first following my own interests, also looking to the interests of others (a paraphrase of the apostle Paul).  Instead of becoming defensive in the rightness of my own view, listen for the truth in what others are saying.

Why, in the face of a towering two legged creature, did the snake know to choose stillness over slithering away under the dry, fallen leaves?  Perhaps a herpetologist could answer that question.  But let me guess that true humility can remain still, wait and watch because it is curious to know and respect the other; it values the other as much as itself.   In some cases humility is the strength that gives itself for the sake of the other.  Isn't that at the heart of the good news of what Jesus did?  And if so, then why as followers of Jesus, aren't we better at listening and waiting? 

A little humility?

I am appalled by the self-righteousness that has permeated our lives. Two examples---no, three.

First, in the nation where I live, two factions of elected officials cannot work together.  They each are standing on supposed principles, refusing to compromise.  Meanwhile dedicated government workers are not getting paid, children are not able to to participate in clinical trials at a nationally run health institute, the economy is beginning to slump, research is being shut down, food is not being inspected, national parks are closed, and programs for those in need are in jeopardy---and that only names a few consequences.

Second, I am appalled that when my faith denomination installed a new presiding bishop last week, the clergy group on facebook, my colleagues, nitpicked and sniped about the worship service---about this procedure or that hymn chosen, what color should have been used, who was represented or under represented---all in self-righteous, deprecating tones.

Alas, finally, I realized this week that I am also rather appalled by me.  I once served on a staff that was creative and accomplished much in the congregation.  We were "successful" and loved our work;  we were supported and admired in return.  With pews full, I (self-righteously, I now realize) assumed that we were doing well because we were competent and had a good combination of gifts.  Well, we were a good ministry team, but herein lies the problem.  Although I would never have said it out loud, there was a barely conscious, but underlying judgment on my part that the colleagues who were struggling in other congregations must be lacking in some way while we were doing something right.  This is my confession.

Now I am the struggling, trying-to-be-faithful pastor in a struggling, trying-to-be-faithful congregation.   I love this group of God's people like I loved the group of years ago.  But I am forced to look at the world and at the Church from the shadow of a more (seemingly) insignificant, questioning, and self-doubting underside. That perspective has caused me painfully to confront my past self-righteousness for what it was.  At the time I could never have seen the inherent follies of  my thinking, but I now consider how very foolish I was to assume that our/my success was a sign of competence and God's favor.

Working hard, doing one's best and constantly learning are always important while at the same time they can lead into a trap.  Trust in what the world considers measurable success leaves no room for me to trust in how God is working. Trust in the rightness of my own capability and knowledge leaves no room for the humility one needs to listen carefully to others.  Trust in efficiency leaves no room for the patient, faithful, slow work of God. Trust in what is admired and applauded leaves no room for serving and taking up the cross.

How have we become so confused?  On this continent, at least, humility is hard to come by while self-righteousness is overly abundant.  Yet if I now name the latter in others, it is only because it has been and certainly is still a part of me and my own struggle.  Those of us who say we follow Christ are following one who walked a different, very foreign path to the assumptions we automatically live by.  The apostle Paul writes:

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.  Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.  Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness.  And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death---even death on a cross....(Philippians 2:3-8)

The truth these verses convey is so jarring to what is considered normal in our culture that it sounds like chalk scraping on a chalkboard.  (Even as I date myself with the chalk simile,  my shoulders tense with the memory.)  To protect ourselves from its implications, I think we Christians have wrapped this humility sounding truth up tightly in a theological box for discussion only so we don't have to deal with what it looks like in practice.

So how do I let humility out of the box?  Where will I find it?  How do I help others find it?  Who do I know in my life that models it well?  I am going out searching---which is a little tricky, because humility doesn't want to be found.

If I make any discoveries that can be publicly posted, I'll let you know.

In between the first step up and the home-made soup

Yesterday was a hiking day on the section of the A.T. that climbs "southbound" out of Duncannon over Cove Mountain, descending to Miller's Gap Rd.  It was a very slow 8.5 miles.

One of the reasons I both enjoy and need to hike is that it is an activity that is wholly absorbing.  I must be attentive to where I am putting my feet, where I am placing my hiking poles, and the location of the next white blaze marking the trail.  This concentration was especially true for yesterday's hike because a good portion of the trail was covered with rocks.  All the rocks make it harder to discern trail from mountain, hence the need for the white blazes.

If I was not vigilant, I found myself veering off the path on the rockiest stretches, or catching a pole in a crevice, or placing my foot on a wobbly stone threatening my balance. With all my focus on the simple task of walking, for a while the worries of the week behind and the week ahead fade away.

But there are other things to notice too: the last of the goldenrod, yellowing fern, a dead caterpillar attacked by ants, white-rimmed fungus, red Virginia creeper, a glossy brown centipede climbing through dead leaves.  I hear the occasional sound of farm equipment in the valley, a hawk cry, cedar waxwings in a thicket where trees have blown down, a woodpecker drilling over the ridge, squirrel chatter.  Mostly I notice the absence of noise and the fullness of trees.

In between the silences I sometimes hum a song, often a hymn, in rhythm with whatever pace I am trying to keep. I was struck yesterday by how the words of "Come, my Way" sounded so different out in these remote woods rather than in  its usual setting within a worship setting under a roof and behind walls.

Come, my Way

As I am picking my way among the rocks and white blazes, occasionally wandering from the path.

my Truth, my Life:
such a way as gives us breath;

     As I breathe in the air smelling of damp earth and pine needles.

such a truth as ends all strife;

     As the strife and pressures of the week's responsibilities are laid down and left behind.

such a life as conquers death.

Out on the mountain I am more aware of creatures preparing for the winter and the fragility of life, the need for food, water and shelter to stave off death.

Come my light, my feast, my strength:
Such a light as shows a feast

I literally cannot walk out here without the daylight and am mindful I must be off the mountain before dusk.  And the feast?  Well, how about this view off of Hawk Rock, the silver Susquehanna winding through the mountains; the farm in browning fields, the scattered calls of black-capped chickadees.

Such a feast as mends in length;

This feast of walking out here does its mending and restoring, making me ready to go back to work---tomorrow, that is.

Such a strength as makes its guest.

I do need strength to hike like this and know that each year I am able to do it is a gift.  Already my body is aching.  But I am also aware, particularly on the trail, that I am a guest in God's creation.  It is not mine, but it is here to be delightfully enjoyed.

Come my joy, my love, my heart:
Such a joy as none can move;

As my feet slip here and there and I must keep moving, I think about the constant presence of joy that runs deeper than the roots of this mountain, the Joy that doesn't move.

Such a love as none can part;

Under these trees, I find myself praying for the people given me to love and am grateful for love received---the Love which is life itself.

Such a heart as joys in love.

And that is what inevitably happens to me on a hike---it gives me back a heart that joys in love. Gratitude.  Time to go back to a loving home, to work, but most immediately to my husband's home-made chicken soup.

Hymn text:  George Herbert, 1593-1632; music;  Ralph Vaughn Williams, 1872-1958

Craziness!

This story that Jesus tells here is craziness, just craziness!

There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought against him that this man was squandering his property.  So he summoned him and said to him, "What is this I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer."

Then the manager said to himself, "What will I do now that the master is taking the position away from me?  I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg.  I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes."

So, summoning his master's debtors one by one, he asked the first, "How much do you owe my master?"  

He answered, "A hundred jugs of olive oil."

He said to him, "Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty."

Then he asked another, "And how much do you owe?"

He replied, "A hundred containers of wheat."

He said to him, "Take your bill and make it eighty."

And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.  And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest (worldly) wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.  (Luke 16: 1-9)

Craziness!  Shenanigans!  Dishonest manager caught and served notice.  Before he's axed, he gets in good with customers by means of his boss's money.  The owner, while terminating the manager's position, commends him for being shrewd.  Is this story supposed to be a life lesson for Jesus' disciples?  Or tongue in cheek maybe---as in "It wouldn't hurt you disciples to be a little more street-wise"?  Or is it a case of a playful Jesus chuckling over the puzzled faces of disciples as in, "Come on, guys, lighten up. We're on our last trip to Jerusalem, after all."

One of my colleagues noted that parables are designed to provoke conversation.  And in his follow-up remarks, Luke, the one who wrote down Jesus telling this story, seemed to think Jesus was trying to provoke conversation about how disciples were to use money.  As opposed to being dishonest with money (verse 10).  As opposed to how the Pharisees loved money (verse 14).  As opposed to how we can't serve God and wealth at the same time (verse 13).

But I didn't get anywhere in puzzling this story through by assuming that the disciples were being contrasted to act differently than the dishonest manager.  So I asked a different question of the story: How are the disciples and the dishonest manager suppose to be similar?  Let's rephrase it and get personal: How am I similar to the dishonest manager?

Bingo! The story suddenly opens up.  Let me count the ways.  Seriously.

1. Both the manager and myself each serve a master who, for all intents and purposes here, owns everything. The manager served, used, lent and collected his rich master's property, not his own.  I am not the owner of what I "own" either.  It's all God's.  Everything.  My calling is to be a steward of everything--even "dishonest,"worldly money.

2. Both the manager and myself squander what's given us to manage. Polluting the environment.  Wasting time.  Purchasing what I don't need. ("I "give" some to God, but the rest is mine to do with as I want.)

3. Just like the manager, my earthly job of being a manager/disciple for Christ will end---when I die, of course.  If asked to give an account of what God entrusted to me, will I have invested in the kingdom of heaven/eternal home priorities (as in "treasure in heaven," Luke 12:32-24)?

4. For all the wrong reasons, the dishonest manager at the last hour participated in the gospel of Luke's great reversal of being generous to the poor, lightening the burden of debt, and sharing.  I may not to be generous out of expediency because of impending job loss, but how am I generous and creatively resourceful with the money/wealth I manage because I am a follower of Christ?

5.  Similarly the dishonest manager, when in a bind, made establishing new relationships a priority.  As a follower of Jesus, does the generosity and resourceful sharing of gifts (including sharing the good news of Christ) establish  new relationships, inviting them into the community of Christ?  Do people come to faith and become brothers and sisters because of  my willingness to be involved in their lives?

Hmmmm.  Jesus' story is not craziness.  It's ingenious!  It has quite cleverly hooked me and is slowly reeling me in.

This may be a spoiler

I have just finished reading a well-crafted collection of six short stories that I wish I had read 25 years ago.  The Wild Birds by Wendell Berry honors our human connection with the land, with our neighbors, and with the passage of time.  One of my favorite stories is entitled "It Wasn't Me."  Here's a summary before we get to the quote that I've read and reread.

Elton and Mary Penn became tenant farmers on Old Jack Beechum's farm in Kentucky when he moved into town because he was lonely and not able to do the farmwork anymore.  The Penns not only cared well for the farm but were frequent visitors for Old Jack whose only daughter lived far away.  When Old Jack died, his good friend Wheeler, a lawyer as well as a farmer, handled the estate.  Old Jack left the Penns a sum of money and his daughter the farm, but Wheeler knew that Old Jack's hope was that his wealthy daughter would sell the farm to the Penns for a modest amount.  Old Jack's wish was never stipulated in the will, only written on a scrap of paper and forgotten in a coat pocket before he died.  In spite of  her father's wish, the daughter and her husband sold the farm at auction to get as much as possible.

With Wheeler's encouragement, Elton participated in the auction although he thought he could never outbid those who had their eye on this good piece of well-maintained property.  As the bidding went higher and Elton was ready to call it quits, Wheeler kept urging him on, convinced of what the land was worth, of Elton's skills and love of the property, and of his friend Old Jack's desire that the farm should belong to the Penns.  And so Elton ended up purchasing the farm at a price more than he thought he could afford.

Now Elton is sitting in Wheeler's office, anxious, worried that the mortgage is more than he can handle if circumstances get the least bit hard. Wheeler, who has studied the figures and believes the Penns are safe enough,  has informed him that he personally has already contributed a small  amount to the price of the farm as a gift in honor of his friend Jack and that he, like Jack, has seen how the land has thrived under Elton and Mary's care.

But Elton's pride is getting in the way, and although he is appreciative of  the money inherited from the estate and for Wheeler's counsel and help, he says he doesn't deserve the farm if he is not able to make it on his own without having a soul to thank.  Wheeler responds:

Well, putting aside what Mary Penn might have to say about that, and putting aside what it means in the first place just to be human, I don't think your old friend has left you in shape to live thankless....You're indebted to a dead man.  So am I.  So was he.  Back of you is Jack Beechum.  Back of him was Ben Feltner.  Back of him was, I think, his own daddy.  And back of him somebody else, and on back that way, who knows how far?  And I'm back of you because Jack Beechum is, and because he's back of me, along with some others. It's no use for you to want to make it on your own, because you can't. ...[When] you quit living in the price and start living in the place, you're in a different line of succession.....The way you got in it, I guess, is by being chosen.

That's the quote I have pondered.  Of course, as a pastor, I am use to saying that all we have is a gift of God.  That is a "theological" statement,  easily said on the surface, easily agreed with on the surface and hard to flesh out in the depths of living. Wendell Berry's story does just that in a different way.

What if everything that I had been given, that I did not earn in my life were taken away?  My piano and lessons.  My dulcimer.  The help with the mortgage one month.  Or let's go deeper.  My marriage.  My children. My education.  My friends.  My call to pastor a congregation.  I've earned none of these things.  They were all given by choice.  (Well, I guess my children didn't choose me; but they are gifts nevertheless, and there were many who helped in the birth, adoption and raising of them.)  And those who gave to me were given to by others.  None of us makes it on our own.  None of us. We earn very little of who we are and are indebted to a long stream of folks and dear ones who have shared of themselves.  We are chosen by person after person throughout our lives.

And this, my friend, is for me one of the best pictures of God, God's family and grace that I know:  The way we've gotten into this baptismal gift is by being chosen.  We don't earn it, but we can be deeply grateful for all of it and start living into it, passing it on.  

I don't think I've spoiled the story too much.  Read it and the rest of the book!







  

Keep it simple

Wednesday night I watched my granddaughter praying.

I had dropped off some cookies at my son and daughter-in-law's new apartment, something I could never do when, until two weeks ago, they lived 500 miles away. When I arrived that evening, they were  putting my 17-month-old granddaughter to bed.  Good timing on my part, I would say.  Soon the little one was hugging me tight as we rocked in the chair in her room, keeping the beat as I sang through a long list of songs, lullabies and a hymn or two.   She was very still for a very long time.

Sure that she was asleep, I laid her down in her crib.  Immediately her eyes popped open wide with a betrayed look, and for a minute she did not move, just looked around with her concentrating frown at what was still a strange new room.

Suddenly the arms reached out.  When that had no effect on me, since I was trying to be the responsible adult saying it was time to sleep, she then demonstratively sat up.  And when that did not accomplish what she needed from her grammom, she started to whimper with displeasure.  Now this toddler has no concept of God yet, but she has already learned the first lesson of prayer: trust the one to whom we pray.  She, more than I, trusted that the one who loved her would not leave her alone in a strange dark place.

What’s a grammom to do?

What's God to do for that matter?

Lord, teach us to pray, said Jesus' disciples one day.  They had heard that John the Baptist's followers had received a workshop on prayer from their teacher and now Jesus' disciples wanted to hear Jesus' version. They certainly knew Jesus went off to pray a lot.  How did he pray?

So Jesus told his followers something quite unique: to pray to Abba.  Papa.  Not Creator-of-the-Universe.  Not Ruler of-all-nations.  But to Abba---our good and dear parent.  Father.  The heart of Jesus' prayer is an intimate, trusting, close relationship---like a child in the arms of a loving parent.  In prayer we are children, and in prayer our Abba is not going to leave us alone in a strange dark place.  Prayer is trusting talk (sometimes wordless) with our Abba.

The second thing I notice about Jesus' teaching on prayer is that he kept it simple. (Luke 11:1-4) Hear the simplicity of Jesus' petitions: Give us bread today.  Forgive us as we forgive.  Save us in hard times.  He said it simply.  There is nothing hard or involved about his prayer.  It is as simple, really, as one of us wordlessly reaching up one's arms to the trusted One.

Why do we pastors seem to make prayer much more complicated and fancy?  Ecclesiastically verbose, if you will.  And why do those of us sitting in the pews or chairs think our prayers are not good enough to pray out loud?

Lord, teach us to pray, queried the disciples.

Are my prayers more complex than necessary?  Probably.  While at times I have been told my praying is comforting and people are grateful, maybe it is more about the fact I am praying than what I say in those prayers.  Have in the end my prayers also been intimidating?  Do people in the congregation prefer me to pray rather than risk their own words in comparison?  If for my part I have unwittingly led the congregation to think that prayer, particularly community prayer, takes special training, I have not been a good teacher.

Last Wednesday, standing beside a crib, I was not asking:  Lord,teach me to pray.  But suddenly he was inviting:  Elaine, how would you like me to teach you something about prayer since you are intending to preach on Sunday.  This has been his crib-side teaching: That simply raising my arms to Abba is quite enough.  That the Lord receives my simple wordless plea with his arms open wide as well.

A missed connection

Somehow I missed an important connection.  I've known that "For Whom the Bell Tolls" was a 1940 novel written by Hemingway and that "No Man Is an Island" was a song of the 60's and 70's (with rather sappy lyrics, by the way).  But how did I miss that these two titles, now common phrases, were originally written by a 16th-17th century English poet and priest?  Not only that, but these familiar phrases are part of a collection of meditations or brief sermons?  Here are those two phrases originating in John Donne's Meditation XVII.

No man is an island, entire of itself.  Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.  If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were.  Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.  And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls: it tolls for thee.    —John Donne (1572-1631)

You can read the one page meditation here.  And you can read the article that made the connection for me here.

In a time of human history when there was plenty of war, terrible disease and religious divisions, John Donne speaks of the deep way humankind is connected to one another.  He also speaks in the paragraphs before and after the one quoted above of how we are all connected in the universal Church.  We are all a part of the Church (the body of Christ) and if one dies, a piece of me dies too.  Hence the bell tolls.

How timely is this?  Or is it simply timeless?  Stalled debates in our governments.  Wars around the world.  World economies reacting to each others' news.  Some people starving while others are overfed.  The tense balance between human consumption and the planet's health.  Instant connection to people around the world via the web.

On a smaller scale, in my little playing field, Lutheran congregations are learning that they need each other to do mission together.  And some Christians are realizing that no one can be an effective messenger of the good news of Christ all on their own.  Didn't Jesus send the followers out by twos (Luke 10)?  We truly need one another, whether that happens in a formal or informal way, to grow in faith...a concept that runs counter to the "I'm-spiritual-so-I'll-just-do-my-own-thing" idea.

Donne addressed all this centuries ago.  Except Donne puts it so much more poetically:  that if a clod of dirt were washed into the sea, Europe would be the lesser.  That when I hear a church bell tolling a death, a piece of me dies too.  That no man is an island; we just think and act like we are sometimes.  When are times when you have sensed that profound connection with the whole that Donne is writing about?