Borrowed Dust

Water, Water Everywhere

2012-01-10T14:57:00.044-05:00

“Let there be light!”

No human being witnessed this singularity some 13 billion years ago. Nevertheless, Genesis 1 imagines primordial Mystery with the haunting beauty of a poetic astrophysicist.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form, and void;
and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters...

Water. So ordinary – like tap water. Yet so profoundly mysterious – like the untouched depths of the sea, like amniotic fluid, like the permafrost beneath the surface of Mars, like a human tear...

Water. Even those of us who’ve never taken a chemistry class can identify the compound H₂0: 1 molecule, consisting of 2 atoms of hydrogen and 1 atom of oxygen, bonded together.

Water is a shape-shifter. Just this morning, I experienced water as gaseous (in the steam from my shower), as a liquid (dripping through my coffee maker), and as a solid (coating my windshield with frost).

It makes up 60-70% of most adult human bodies. Paradoxically, water can be as rare as it’s ubiquitous. Yes, it covers 70% of the earth’s surface. And yet only a tiny fraction of it – 3/10 of 1% (the water that's accessible in groundwater aquifers, rivers, and freshwater lakes) – can be utilized by humans.

Oddly, as common and plentiful as water is on this planet, clean water has always been a precious resource. Even in the United States, a fairly wet country, cities built in dry places look with covetous eyes, across many miles, to the Great Lakes. As world population balloons and environmental degradation continues, clean water will become ever more central as a justice issue in economic and political life, not to mention a fundamental matter of survival for all life forms.

No one uses water like an American. The average person in the United States – when all uses are added up – consumes anywhere from 80-100 gallons of clean water per day (most of it in the bathroom).

While not always a good steward of water, it seems humankind has always sensed its sacred nature. There’s more to water than meets the eye. Water is elemental to life. Nothing can live long without it. Water refreshes; water cleanses. Ironically, water can also bring chaos and death, so say the stories from ancient Babylon to contemporary New Orleans.

All the water the earth has ever contained is here now. Our planet is a closed system, like a terrarium. So the same water that existed on this planet millions of years ago is still present today. In other words, the water within us and around us is the same water over which the Spirit brooded so long ago...

Water, or its lack, is a huge theme in the Bible. Scripture was written by people who lived in an arid land. Its abundance was seen as a sign of God’s providence. Its scarcity was seen as a sign of God’s judgement. Moses saw the clear, fertile Nile turned to a bloody cesspool; he also saw sweet water gush up from a rock in the wilderness. The Psalmist imaginatively compared our thirst for God to a deer’s longing for the waterbrooks. Jesus turned water to wine. He healed with his own saliva and with local spring water. He stilled an angry sea. He engaged in multi-layered conversation with a woman at a well. He sweated as he prayed in the garden; he thirsted as he died on the cross.

The story of the baptism of Jesus is one of the most precious water stories in the Church. What a strange story it is. John, as usual, is out on the edge – both theologically and geographically. He’s standing in the Jordan River, the eastern border of the nation. And he's preaching repentance as he announces the coming of a new kingdom, and a new king.

Why is John calling Jews to repentance? And why is he baptizing them? Haven't the Jewish people already, both historically and mystically, passed from bondage to freedom through the Red Sea waters by God's mighty hand?

Then Jesus comes along. He steps into the primordial water, that same water over which the wind of God once blew before there was even light. He stands with John, the atoms of hydrogen and oxygen swirling ‘round their legs, soothing their tired feet, soaking their cloaks.

John, for once, hesitates. He senses Who this is. It's an awkward moment. Does Jesus need to repent? Does Jesus need to be washed before entering the Holy Land?

John says no. Jesus says yes. Who knows what all this means? But Jesus seems to be choosing to throw his lot with us – to be with us, in every way, in everything, all the way. "It’s righteous," he says – the way it’s supposed to be.

So John cups a handful of cool river water and pours. Love is heard, and Life gushes forth...

We Christians are baptized in water. That same sacred, primordial compound – we see it poured, we hear it splash the font, we touch its wetness, smell its freshness, even taste its tastelessness. But, like the ancients, we sense that there’s more going on than meets the eye. Somehow, this water makes us clean, cleaner than any new year’s resolution or any hot soak in the tub ever will. This water slakes our thirst, satisfying more profoundly than the most refreshing cocktail or sports drink. This water sustains our lives for the journey – even through danger and chaos and death – leading us into new and deeper life, over and over again – forever.

In this water we hear the song we long to hear, yet still find so difficult to believe: we too are God's beloved.

The Baptism of Jesus (1987)

by Lorenzo Scott

Light in the Darkness

2011-12-09T23:32:00.029-05:00

We’ve had a gentle winter so far. When I awoke this morning, it was a balmy 50°. But eventually the temperatures will drop, the snow will fall, and the darkness will deepen...

I seem to be a little “light-sensitive.” At some point each winter I start feeling a little blue. Mental health experts might diagnose my malady as “SAD” (Seasonal Affect Disorder) caused by insufficient exposure to light. As I understand it, there’s only one sure-fire cure for SAD: leave the colder latitudes and check into a sunny seaside bungalow!

Realistically, most of us have had to learn to cope by just waiting it out. What keeps us from falling into utter despair is the knowledge that it will get better – every year, without fail, winter’s darkness has given way to increasing light. In fact, the winter solstice – the shortest day of the year – is less than two weeks away. After that, each day will grow a little longer than the last. And finally, in the blink of an eye... boom! It’ll be spring, and we’ll be basking once again in the sunny, warm light! (And shortly thereafter complaining about the heat and humidity...)

But there’s another kind of darkness... the darkness of suffering. This kind of darkness is always near, whatever the season. It’s part of being human.

Let’s be honest – most of us lead blessed lives. Armored tanks don’t rumble down our streets. We have shoes on our feet and coats on our backs. When hungry, we eat our fill. Tonight we’ll sleep safely in our warm homes. When we get sick, we make an appointment with our doctor and she helps us get well. We usually even have enough resources left over to write a (tax deductible) check to the non-profit of our choice. But life is not so for many, many people...

And yet nothing – not our wealth, our health, our skill, nor our well-ordered lives – nothing can completely shield us from suffering.

The Christian tradition is rumored to have an “explanation” for suffering. If so, I have yet to hear one that satisfies! Certainly no one’s found a cure for it! But the Gospel does help us imagine a hopeful way to live...

In the Church, the Advent wreath is one sign of this hope. Each Sunday in Advent, even as the days grow shorter and darker, we light one more candle. Just one at first. Then another... then three... then four. Each week, the increasing light pushes the darkness back a little more.

What are we doing? Are we simply counting down the shopping days until Christmas?!

No! The “great flaring forth” of the Advent wreath dramatically expresses the good news that the Light is coming into the world. Not just celestial sunlight, but the very Light of God... Jesus – whose birth we’ll celebrate on Christmas Day with every candle we can find ablaze!

There once was a man named John. John pointed to the Light. Standing out there in the darkness, even before a flicker of Light could be seen, John cried: “Look, everyone! God's coming! Get ready!” John was so impressive that many assumed that he was the Light. But he said, “Not so! The One... is coming after me!”

All Christians share the ministry of John the Baptist. Because we've experienced the risen One who has come into our world, we can muster the hope to point to the Light even when it can’t be seen... even when we ourselves are enshrouded in darkness. We can cope and wait it out because we know the Light is near.

Paradoxically, as Jesus reminded us quite clearly, we don't simply point to Jesus as the Light who once came into the world, and will come again some day. We are the light of the world too! Right now! Whenever we embody God's love, by word or deed, God's Light pours anew into the world, and pushes back the darkness. This is one way in which the mystery of the Incarnation is experienced to this very day.

Sometimes my eyes don’t see so well, especially in the dark. So I need help. When I can’t see the Light, especially when I suffer, I need someone to point it out for me. This helps me hang on in hope until I can see it for myself. And perhaps, on my better days, I can see the Light and point it out for you. Together, we allow the Light to shine – this Season of Advent, and always.

Oh, Great Spirit!

2011-12-09T22:50:00.004-05:00

Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind,

Whose breath gives life to all the world…

Make me always ready to come to you

with clean hands and straight eyes,

so when life fades, as the fading sunset,

my spirit may come to you without shame.

(Chief Yellow Lark of the Lakota Sioux, 1887)

On a recent walk through a county park I noticed a sign near the gazebo that I had passed countless times before. This time I paused to read it, and learned that the mound of earth in front of me (which I had assumed to be a nifty bit of landscaping by the park service) had been constructed by Woodland Indians between 500 B.C.E. to 350 C.E.

I was stunned. In other words, sometime between Israel’s return from exile in Babylon and the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem, and the Church’s gathering in Nicaea to grapple with the mystery of the humanity/divinity of Christ – within this very same slice of history – people were falling in love, giving birth, raising families, hunting elk, growing squash, crafting artwork, settling disputes, telling stories, and burying their dead… right here in my own neighborhood!

That day I had been ruminating over my upcoming sermon for All Saints’ Sunday. And so I wondered: “How do these Pre-Columbian Native Americans fit into the story?” We don’t read about the Adena in the Bible; the Hopewell aren’t included on any lists of saints! And still... while Jesus and his followers walked the deserts, oases and villages of Palestine, human beings also created in God’s image walked the forest trails and paddled the rivers in what is today my neck of the woods near the Ohio River!

Could it be that our traditional way of thinking about saints has been a bit parochial? The stories of the Christian tradition are sacred, and the stories of Jesus are the most sacred of all. They give our lives joy, meaning, and hope. But our stories aren’t the only sacred stories...

These thoughts steeped in my heart and mind as my father-in-law neared death. Lex had been a pilgrim soul – always searching, never fully at rest in body, mind, or spirit. Raised Lutheran in rural Indiana, he eventually found a home in a Unitarian Universalist congregation. His faith seemed most deeply rooted in Native American spirituality. Indeed, he spoke often and passionately of the Great Spirit, the divine breath that infuses all of creation.

As Lex weakened, each of his daughters held a hand as we invoked the Great Spirit in prayer. His labored breathing seemed to relax in response to the soothing balm of touch and voice. Moments later, his blue eyes opened wide, as if surprised and amazed. He gazed steadily to the left, then to the right. Then his eyes closed, his body quieted and soon became still. Falling into the embrace of the Great Spirit who had created and sustained him, Lex was finally at rest. His astonished gaze was his final witness in this world, leaving each of us who remained with a blessing.

There is an extraordinary moment recorded in the Book of Acts. Paul and Barnabas are in Lystra (modern-day Turkey) to preach the Gospel to people who didn’t know Judaism from Jesus. To these people Paul makes one of the most remarkable declarations in all of Holy Scripture: “God has never been without witnesses!” He then acknowledges respectfully that the people of Lystra knew God long before he and Barnabas showed up – in the rains that fell, in the bounty of the harvest, in the joy in their hearts. Chief Yellow Lark of the Lakota Sioux and Lex of Wells County, Indiana experienced God in a similar way.

Could it be that a saint is a witness to the providential generosity of God? Or, to quote our baptismal liturgy, one who’s experienced “the gift of joy and wonder in all God’s works?” If so, then our concept of the “communion of saints” explodes into something far bigger and more gracious than we have heretofore imagined! And isn’t this the good news that Jesus tried to show us, in both word and deed?

In a way, these may seem like strange thoughts for an Episcopal priest preparing – during this holy and solemn Season of Advent – for the yearly celebration of Jesus’ birth on Christmas Day. After all, the Christian doctrine of the Incarnation has been called "the scandal of particularity!" And yet... what is the Incarnation but that most sacred story we tell of the time the Creator chose to become human so that the divine spark planted within all might be kindled? I’ve heard this story for over a half-century, and it still surprises and amazes me.

9/11 Tribute

2011-09-13T20:27:00.031-04:00

The world recently observed the 10th anniversary of “9/11” – that infamous day when the United States was suddenly and viciously attacked. Thousands of people lost their lives at the World Trade Center in New York City, at the Pentagon in N. Virginia, and in Somerset County, PA, near Shanksville. Many more have died, and continue to die, in the wars that followed.

On 9/11/11 we paused to look back and remember the horror and the heroism. We held before God all who died on 9/11/01, and those who live yet suffer still – the injured, the traumatized, and the grieving around the world. And we peered into the hazy future, wondering with trepidation about what might lie ahead.

All this is quite natural. But we must not invest too much energy in either the past or the future. For the most pressing question on the 10th anniversary of 9/11 is this: What kind of people do we choose to be... NOW?

I often resist this kind of question! I’m easily mired in my past – reminiscing about (and even idealizing) the good, while obsessing about (and being haunted by) the bad. Likewise, I’m easily absorbed in speculation about possible futures – hoping or worrying about what might or might not unfold. What I've discovered is this: while learning from the past and planning for the future is a good thing, when I’m captured by the past or the future (or both), I get terribly stuck.

I’m not alone. Consider the United States Congress. Our economy is reeling. There’s a lot of energy – for looking back and casting blame on who’s responsible for bringing us to this place. There’s a lot of energy – for looking ahead and plotting the next re-election campaign. But there’s very little energy for the hard work of collaboration and getting something useful done NOW. Snagged by the past and seduced by the future, Congress is terribly stuck. Nothing is accomplished. And all suffer.

Are we surprised? Look at ourselves. How many of us are harboring a hurt or a resentment or a shame – right now? It may be something that happened this past week, or 10 years ago. It happened. And it cannot be changed or erased. But we’re still stuck in the pain. And how many of us are anxious – right now – about what may happen next week, or 10 years from now? It hasn’t happened yet. It may never happen. Yet the fear paralyzes and demoralizes us.

In the midst of all this, Jesus calls us.

But Jesus does not call us in our past: “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back,” he said, “Is fit for service in the kingdom of God.”
Nor does Jesus call us in our future: “Do not worry about tomorrow,” he said, “For tomorrow will worry about itself.”

Jesus always calls us in the present moment. Because NOW is the only place we live, and will ever live.

If we think about it, it’s so obvious. If we want to have a relationship with God, it can only be experienced in this moment. If we want to forgive, or feel forgiven, we can only give/receive that grace now. If we want to love a friend, a neighbor, a stranger, or even an enemy, we can only do so in the present.

Who gives us the courage to get unstuck and live in the present? The living God who is with us now.

Consider Abraham and Sarah. God promised them that they would bring a child into the world, and that their descendants would become more numerous than the stars in the sky. Moreover, this wouldn’t be just a private gift for two. Through Abraham and Sarah, God would bless the whole world!

We admire Abraham and Sarah to this day because they didn’t remain stuck grieving their childless past, or dreading the prospect of a childless future. They said "yes" to God in the present, as improbable as it must have seemed at the time. And the blessing flowed.

Jews, Christians, and Muslims are all descendants of Abraham and Sarah, and heirs of this same blessing – right NOW.

Blessing takes countless shapes. Consider this photograph that recently appeared on the front page of our local newspaper. They say a picture speaks a thousand words. What does this picture say?

On the left is Basel, a Muslim born in Kuwait of Palestinian parents. He now lives near Cincinnati. On the right is Niya, age 3, who is a member of a family in need of shelter. These two met in a local church as participants in the Interfaith Hospitality Network. So, this picture speaks of a Muslim man playing a game with a homeless child in a Christian church.

This is wonderful. But through the eyes of faith, one can see much more. One sees God’s people:

collaborating to ensure that all are welcomed and all are fed.
laboring together to provide a safe and dignified place for people to shower, to play, to sleep.
freely giving and receiving, enjoying one another's company.
setting aside differences – age, race, religion, community – to make a difference.

In short, this photograph is a snapshot of God’s blessing upon Abraham and Sarah as it continues to pour into this world today!

All people of good will want to honor the memory of 9/11. We do so by saying no to violence, hatred, indifference, revenge, selfishness, despair, and all the powers of darkness. We do so by saying yes to compassion, cooperation, forgiveness, joy, love, hope, and all the powers of light.

This is never easy to do in a world that is so often chaotic and perilous. But our chances are greatly improved if we're not stuck in grief or dread!

Make a 9/11 tribute.
Pass on a blessing today.

+ + + + +

Now the silence

Now the peace

Now the empty hands uplifted

Now the kneeling

Now the plea

Now the Father's arms in welcome

Now the hearing

Now the power

Now the vessel brimmed for pouring

Now the Body

Now the Blood

Now the joyful celebration

Now the wedding

Now the songs

Now the heart forgiven leaping

Now the Spirit's visitation

Now the Son's epiphany

Now the Father's blessing

Now

Hymn 333 (The Hymnal 1982)

Words: Jaroslav J. Vajda

Music: Now, Carl Flentge Schalk

"Who do you say that I am?"

2011-08-22T19:26:00.047-04:00

According to The Wall Street Journal, Public Policy Polling is one of the most reliable polling organizations. When PPP takes a snapshot of the American electorate, they usually obtain an accurate reading of the political temperature of our country.

Recently, PPP polled Americans to find out what they thought of God's performance. Specifically, the question posed was this: "If God exists, do you approve or disapprove of its performance?" The result? 8% disapprove. 40% are not sure. And 52% approve.

My immediate reaction was twofold. First: our President and Congress would be delighted to receive those polling numbers. A 52% approval rating? Woohoo!

Second: a 52% approval rating? For God??!!

Photo of God?
(illustrating the recent CNN story
"Poll: 52 percent approve of God's job performance")

Once, when Jesus was hanging out with his friends, he asked what sounds a lot like a calculated political question: “Who do people say that I am?”

Politicians ask that question all the time. That’s why they pay big money to gather focus groups. Each one wants to know: “What’s the buzz out there? What’s the perception about me?" Then, "What, if anything, do I need to do or say differently in order to really turn people on?"

“Well,” Jesus’ friends responded, “Some say you’re John the Baptist, or Elijah, or Jeremiah, or one of the prophets.” The polling results are all over the board. But the the scuttlebutt is crystal clear: People sense that Jesus is special – so special that some wonder that he might even be a dead hero from the glory days brought back to life!

Then Jesus asked his friends a follow-up question, one that sounds decidedly unpolitical: “OK, but who do YOU say that I am?”

What a gaffe! If you’re serious about PR, you tell people who you are, or (perhaps more often) who you want them to believe you are! Bottom line: if you want the fame and the money and the votes to pour in, you've got to “massage” your message and “buff” your image.

But Jesus didn't tell his friends who he is. He asked, "Who do YOU say that I am?"

No one outside his immediate family knew Jesus better than the disciples. For quite a while they had been with him hour by hour, day after day – from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning until the moment he closed them at night. They heard what he said; they saw what he did. They observed Jesus in his most intimate, unguarded moments. And they stood nearby when he was in the public spotlight. They witnessed how Jesus interacted with rabbis, prostitutes, soldiers, shopkeepers, adulterers, teachers, foreigners, and lepers. In short, they had a very good handle on who Jesus of Nazareth really was.

No surprisingly, it was Peter who blurted out: “You are the Messiah, the Christ.” Who knows what Peter really knew, or what he really meant? In that culture people had wildly differing ideas about who the Christ would be and what the Messiah should do. But one thing is for sure – Peter knew Jesus well. And he saw God in Jesus. Peter saw God in Jesus like no one else he had ever known, or anyone else he could even imagine.

Then Jesus said another unpolitical thing. If he had really wanted to capitalize on "Peter's confession," he would’ve said, “All right. Get out there and tell the world. I’m the Messiah! Sell me! And don't forget to take up a collection!”

Instead, Jesus said, “Don’t tell a soul” (the famous "messianic secret"). Why? Perhaps this was his way of saying that he wasn’t going to play the cheap PR game of trying to shape reality merely by manipulating perceptions. No, Jesus was going to try to change the world by being real. And he was going to be real by walking in God’s way.

"Who do YOU say that I am?" That’s the question Jesus has asked his friends in every generation.

A lot of people say that they’re Jesus’ friend. But if you ask them who Jesus is, more often than not you'll hear a well-worn laundry list of bullet points about theology, doctrine, liturgy, and whatnot that makes your eyes glaze over.

These ideas aren't unimportant. But, then and now, Jesus isn’t looking for supporters to regurgitate “talking points.” Jesus is looking for people to follow his walking points – to put one foot in front of the other and strike out on God's way by embodying love, compassion, justice, mercy, truth, and joy.

Jesus modeled what a fully human life looks like, a template to guide us as we struggle to grow into our humanity. To follow Jesus is to become – in St. Paul's famous image – the Body of Christ: Jesus' hands and heart reaching out to embrace this broken, hurting world.

Who do YOU say Jesus is, right now? Don't consult your crib sheet. Just look at your life. You'll see your unvarnished answer there.

What you see might be encouraging. Or it might not be very pretty. Thankfully, every single day we have a new opportunity to (as James Brown used to sing): "Get on the good foot!"

The 10th Anniversary of 9/11

2011-08-12T14:53:00.025-04:00

On that brilliant morning in early autumn, I was working at my desk at Forward Movement Publications in Cincinnati, Ohio. Suddenly, my colleague George stuck his head in the door: "A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center!" In that moment I imagined a tiny Piper Cub, flown by an inexperienced sightseer, accidentally veering into one of the twin towers. But within minutes my co-workers and I were glued to a small TV, watching an unfolding scene so horrible that my mind was reluctant to process what my eyes were seeing.

Soon we and scores of others in the downtown area gravitated toward Christ Church Cathedral. We needed sanctuary; we needed to pray; we needed to be together. As we walked in a daze along Sycamore Street, I noticed an odd sight – the steel doors of the parking garage across the street had been shut tight and sealed in the middle of a work day. Nobody felt safe.

The dark consequences of that tragedy have continued to ripple out and shape us all. But I was affected most personally when my son, who was only 15 on 9/11/01, was deployed to Iraq to lead a platoon providing "force security" for convoys traveling outside the wire. The evening he returned from his deployment was bittersweet. We were overjoyed that he had made it home. But there would be no celebration, for that very night he packed his dress blues and drove to Geneva, Ohio for the military funeral of Michael, his friend and comrade – killed by an IED detonated by insurgents in Muqdadiyah, Iraq on July 21, 2010 – who, like thousands of others, did not make it home.

The tenth anniversary of 9/11 will arouse vivid memories of horror and heroism, and rekindle deeply-felt passions within and beyond the United States. A multitude of voices will give expression to every conceivable thought and feeling: from grief, humility, and forgiveness to jingoism, hatred, and revenge. And, if you're anything like me, you'll suffer from the crossfire inside your own head and heart. What will it mean for Gospel proclaimers to add our voices to this cacophony? What will it mean for Jesus followers to not only remember, but to respond?

Our planet is polarized and dangerous. Yet Jesus commands us to wade into the world and labor to break the brutal cycle of injustice, revenge, violence, and fear. This is hard work. It isn't easy to foster healthy dialogue, reconciliation, and collaboration anywhere, from the Church to Capitol Hill to our own circle of family and friends! But it's necessary work.

On September 11, 2011 we will not be "first responders" but "ongoing responders." This effort, as poet William Stafford once wrote, "will take us millions of intricate moves." We have such a long way to go. The path will twist and turn. We will stumble and fall. The light of hope will flicker like a guttering candle. But we must keep the faith, and keep moving...

Autumn Morning

2011-07-12T08:55:00.004-04:00

Autumn dawn, rooftop
dewdrops dangle, chill silence ~
a motorbike barks.

Looking through the Bent-backed Tulips

2011-06-22T11:39:00.014-04:00

In the early spring of my life

I wrote a poem about

flowers

(each word neatly inked, firmly pressed

onto wide-lined blueish-greenish paper).

A tiny wooden desk.

Miss Niley’s sunny classroom.

Top of the stairs. Third grade. North School.
Spring Street.

Greenville, Ohio – 1965.

That same year we learned how to compose a letter,

and practiced by writing “a famous person.”

Some wrote to the Governor

(the bucolic road from Columbus to Kent

not yet treacherous).

Others wrote to the President

(the heavy heart still a small, dark cloud –
the size of a child’s fist –

on the distant horizon).

I wrote to John Winston Lennon.

I remember when I met the Beatles.

The needle thumped on revolving vinyl
and caught the groove.

The Voice of the Theater exploded,

a primal scream that pierced my soul.

Glued to the tube I beheld John in black & white –

outrageous hair, legs spread insolently,

strumming bar chords on his exotic Rickenbacker 325 –

so cool he even came with subtitles:
“Sorry girls – he’s married!”

And that music...

Revolution or revelation?

My letter to the famous John Winston Lennon

gushed about a band where nothing is real.

PJ was Paul, Mike was Ringo, Randy was John,
and I...was George. (I wanted to be John.)

Crude plywood guitars, stringless, knobless,

ice cream tub drums wrapped in shiny foil,

paper plate cymbals on Tinker Toy stands –

we spun 45s and flailed away
as if these songs were our own...

They were.

The years tumbled blindly by.

You let slip that you were more popular than Christ,

and they crucified you
(because it was true?).

Maharishi Om, Yoko Ono, hair peace, bag productions,

Merry Christmas, war is over
(if you want it).

Then one December morning, as I soaked in the tub,

elegiac news from the Dakota.

Shattered glasses. Shattered world.
Oh, boy.

Give peace a chance...

and look what you get.

Decades come, go.

We still twist and shout.

Real guitars; real drums; real loud.

Your songs, John.

And tonight, as the vernal equinox

summons yet another spring

(in the early autumn of my life),

a circle of poets...

imagine.

You never wrote back. No reply.

Not a word in your own write.

Even so, John Ono Lennon,

across the universe, I feel fine.

Nothing to get hung about.

Yet one question still haunts me.

Did you give us the truth,

or were you just playing with our minds,

when you let slip that the walrus was

Paul?

CFB (2002/2011)

Ed Sullivan Show

Photo by Bob Gruen, 1974

Going... Going... Gone

2011-06-10T10:36:00.000-04:00

In the darkness
the TV glows.
The graduate
and his father
slouch in chairs.

The son rises.
“I’m really going to miss you,” I venture.
“It’s time to grow up,” he says
over his shoulder
as he ambles
toward his computer,
his world.

A moment passes.
It sinks in.
He meant
me.

CFB (2007/2011)

Greenville Creek

2011-06-10T10:04:00.009-04:00

Slow and dark the water moves,
silently,
between verdant banks.

Beneath the canopy of willow, sycamore, and ash
we padded along overgrown paths,
youthful exuberance hushed,
senses alert for every danger –
stinging nettles,
the dreaded water moccasin,
hoods, cigarettes dangling from sneering lips.

From my backyard,
it seemed we could hurl stones into the
brown-green water.
But I was never fully at home
down by the “crick” –
that strange, wild, tangled place.

Once it had been home
to the Miami, the Shawnee,
the Delaware, the Wyandot.
They shared the world with
the white-tailed deer, the fox and the beaver,
the great blue heron and the king fisher.

Then their chiefs left
reluctant marks on
Mad Anthony’s deed,
and settlers poured in to
clear the land and till the
deep, black soil.

After yet another war, President Monroe
presumed to grant
water rights to one of his warriors.

Soon a grist mill arose,
thick black walnut boards
enclosing a labyrinth of machines.
Children dug the millrace,
pocketing 50 cents a day.
Precious stones from France,
expertly sharpened,
ground the corn and oats and rye and wheat into
gold dust.

The industrious citizens came to forget
those troubling nights when
Tecumseh stood defiantly,
illuminated by firelight
at the confluence of the Greenville and the Mud,
to protest the treaty
he never signed.

The Shooting Star vanished.
The mill grinds on.

Slow and dark the water moves,
silently,
between verdant banks.

CFB (2005/2011)

Tecumseh Point

Bear's Mill

Cherry Blossoms

2011-05-10T11:25:00.035-04:00

Come, see real
flowers
of this painful world
– Matsuo Bashō

In Japan, April is the season of hanami – the ancient tradition of “cherry blossom viewing.” This past spring, however, the parks of Tokyo were encircled by official signs that urged visitors not to indulge in the customary pleasures of eating, drinking, laughing, playing, and reading poetry under the blossoming trees. Rather, they encouraged citizens to find other, more solemn, ways to welcome spring in order to mourn properly for the 25,000+ people who had been killed or were still missing as a result of the devastating tsunami.

Inevitably, there was a counter-movement by those who believed that appreciating the spring flowers was not only an obligatory, even sacred, ritual, but an exceedingly appropriate way to respond to the tragedy. One Japanese word that speaks to this point of view is hakanasa: the sensitivity to the poignant fact that cherry blossoms – like life and beauty – are transitory, and that nature produces tsunamis, tornadoes, floods, and diseases as well as budding leaves, luminous blossoms, gorgeous sunrises, and newborn babies. A school teacher interviewed under the fragrant petals explained why she was in the park celebrating spring even in the midst of grief: “Beauty and pain exist together and can’t be separated. When you look at the cherry blossoms, there’s hakanasa in their beauty.” Many of the great Japanese haiku poets, such as Bashō, wrote about this co-mingling of beauty and sadness, and of the human yearning to not only endure it, but to perhaps even rise above it.

This spring, in our community, several Christian congregations sponsored a Lenten program on the Psalms presented by the Rev. Dr. Walter Brueggemann. Although he did not use the word hakanasa, Dr. Brueggemann reminded us that the experience of this co-mingling resonates throughout the Psalter. “In the Psalms,” he noted, “We ask that God do for me, for us, what God always does with chaos: God’s spirit hovers over the chaos, and blows life into it!”

The Bible is full of hakanasa stories. Consider the death of Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha. By the time his friend Jesus arrived in Bethany, Lazarus had been rotting in the tomb for four days. Martha greeted Jesus with sobs: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” Then she added, “But even now...” In the midst of the most excruciating pain and loss, Martha sensed the possibility of a blossoming beyond her wildest hopes.

In the Church, Holy Week is our supreme moment of hakanasa. In the time of cherry blossoms, Christians meditate on the co-mingling of beauty and sadness in Jesus’ story, and ours. We begin on Palm Sunday, welcoming Jesus into our fair cities with songs, parades, and the waving of palms; but the reading of the Passion Gospel dramatically brings us face-to-face with the gathering, malevolent darkness. In the weekdays that follow, we hear stories – like Mary’s gentle anointing of Jesus’ feet with aromatic ointment, and Judas’ biting condemnation – that hold beauty and ugliness together in almost unbearable tension. On Maundy Thursday we remember the night when Jesus broke the bread and shared the cup with his friends, and knelt to wash their feet; then we recall his betrayal, arrest, and abandonment as the shadows deepen. On Good Friday, we witness and lament the humiliation, torture, and execution of Jesus, while naming other manifestations of suffering, evil, and death that haunt our world to this very day. Finally, after Holy Saturday – the “day after” of gray, washed-out nothingness – we come together one more time, on Easter Day, drawn by a flicker of hope... not that chaos and death will magically disappear, but that its power over us will somehow be swallowed up by life...

The Book of Common Prayer gives voice to our yearning: “Grant us, Lord, even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure.” God is in the midst of us as we bring our lives – just as they are, in all their wonder and all their pain – and offer them alongside the lives of our brothers and sisters. “Come,” Jesus beckons. “See real flowers of this painful world. Follow me, and you will experience for yourself the mystery of hakanasa: the way of the cross is the way of life.”

A world of grief and pain
Flowers bloom
Even then
– Kobayashi Issa

A Time to Keep Silence

2011-02-02T07:38:00.026-05:00

For everything there is a season,

and a time for every matter under heaven:

...a time to keep silence, and a time to speak...

(Eccleasiastes 3)

This week I discovered timely blogging advice in an unexpected place: "The Problem with Memoirs" ~ an article by Neil Genzlinger in last Sunday’s New York Times Book Review. His critique offers cautionary wisdom not only for memoirists, but also for bloggers, poets, preachers, and anyone who posts on Facebook! His testy elegy begins:

A moment of silence, please, for the lost art of shutting up.

Mr. Genzlinger continues...

There was a time when you had to earn the right to draft a memoir, by accomplishing something noteworthy or having an extremely unusual experience or being such a brilliant writer that you could turn relatively ordinary occurrences into a snapshot of a broader historical moment. Anyone who didn’t fit one of those categories was obliged to keep quiet. Unremarkable lives went unremarked upon, the way God intended.

But then came our current age of oversharing, and all heck broke loose...

... Memoirs have been disgorged by virtually everyone who has ever had cancer, been anorexic, battled depression, lost weight. By anyone who has ever taught an underprivileged child, adopted an underprivileged child or been an underprivileged child. By anyone who was raised in the ’60s, ’70s or ’80s, not to mention the ’50s, ’40s or ’30s. Owned a dog. Run a marathon. Found religion. Held a job...

Mr. Genzlinger then reviews four recently-published memoirs. Three, he claims, should never have been written. But the fourth – An Exclusive Love by Johanna Adorjan (translated by Anthea Bell) – passes muster, succeeding in large part because the author makes sure that she herself is the least important character in the book. Without the self-indulgent I dominating center stage, the other subjects are respected and their stories illuminated. This in turn opens up space for the reader to make creative connections and experience her own epiphanies. (It seems to me that Jesus modeled this technique beautifully as a teacher, and as a teller of stories and parables.)

Mr. Genzlinger concludes:

... That’s what makes a good memoir – it’s not a regurgitation of ordinariness or ordeal, not a dart thrown desperately at a trendy topic, but a shared discovery.

Maybe that’s a good rule of thumb: If you didn’t feel you were discovering something as you wrote your memoir, don’t publish it. Instead hit the delete key, and then go congratulate yourself for having lived a perfectly good, undistinguished life. There’s no shame in that.

Cranky, but sage advice!

Jesus & Copernicus

2011-01-28T14:13:00.066-05:00

After years of neglect, I'm reviving my blog. How appropriate it is to begin where I left off in May, 2005 ~ pondering theology, astronomy, and... dust!

NASA's Hubble Space Telescope, peering into deep space, recently captured the image of a previously undetected galaxy (now registered as UDFj-39546284). The light from this compact swirl of hot blue stars traveled 13.2 billion years to reach Hubble's Wide Field Camera 3. This means that this ancient galaxy was born only 480 million years after the Big Bang. How wondrous it is that human eyes are just now seeing star birth that happened so close to "the beginning!" And how exciting it is that the James Webb Space Telescope (to be launched, hopefully, this decade) will enable scientists to see even farther across the universe, and to delve ever deeper into time.

When humankind contemplates such vast expanses of time and space, it's natural to wonder about our place in the cosmos.

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars you have set in their courses,
what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them? (Psalm 8:3-4)

The Incarnation assures us that we matter to God. We're beloved. But that's not to say that it's all about us! Indeed, our lives go terribly awry when we forget the shared insight of Jesus and Copernicus: we are not the center of the universe!

The discovery of UDFj-39546284 adds fresh perspective. It reminds me that I'm (literally) a speck of stardust, and to dust I shall return. But this is good news because it encourages me to relinquish my hubristic tendency to demand, grasp, and fret. And it invites me to step out of my little corner of the cosmos and into God's amazing, glorious, and ever-new creation. What a blessing it is to be both a witness and a participant.

Nicolaus Copernicus

(1473-1543)

Crossing

2005-05-05T11:04:00.016-04:00

A Poem for the Occasion of the Consecration of the

Chapel of the Holy Cross

The Episcopal Church of the Redeemer

in Cincinnati, Ohio

The Eve of Pentecost + May 14, 2005

I cannot imagine
where you are not
or
when you were not.

Primeval firestorm,
galactic infant:
traverses 13 billion light-years,
epiphanic red shift
dances through Virgo
announcing
starbirth.
"Let there be light!"

Elegant double-helix,
Jacob’s spiral ladder:
hides, convoluted and coiled,
betwixt deo and imago,
bearing inscrutable runes of
dreamers rising from the
dust.
"Very good!"

Ineffable presence
suffuses both places,
all places,
broods over interstices of
shimmering
space-time –

You called?
We are here – waiting...
Enclosed by luminous wood and stone and glass and copper
we reach through the fluttering shadows to
touch your face.

Will
you
once more
cross
over?

CFB

I am enthralled by science and theology, and have always considered them complementary (rather than contradictory) ways of perceiving, understanding, and enjoying creation.

The second stanza refers to Abell 1835 IR1916, an ancient galaxy (spotted with a near-infrared telescope in 2004) that is one of the most remote known in terms of distance/time. It's mind-boggling to me that human beings are just now witnessing the birth of a stars formed during the very infancy of the universe some 13 billion years ago.

The third stanza refers to DNA. I was fascinated to learn that the DNA of humankind is almost identical. Only a tiny fraction of one person’s genetic code is different from the next person’s. We rightly treasure our uniqueness; but we are truly more alike than different! I wish we could examine the DNA of Jesus – the one who bridged heaven and earth (John 1:51), and who (in the remarkable declaration by St. Athanasius in the third century) "was made man so that we might be made God."

In this poem I express my hope that the new Chapel of the Holy Cross will be, to borrow a concept from the ancient Celts, a "thin place" where people will experience the loving presence of God in a particularly intense way. The whole poem expresses wonder in the mystery of the Incarnation (the good news that the transcendent God, the Alpha and the Omega, chose to "cross" the infinite gap between Creator and creature in order to come near to us) and the sacramental nature of God’s universe (there’s more going on here than meets the eye!).