December 21, 2009
The first time I tuned into the Winter Solstice was my first winter in Canada. Living in the Alberta foothills that year, where the longing for a “White Christmas” was a moot point…it was a give.
The deeper yearning was for a return of the light. Two years later, having moved to the Saskatchewan prairie and experiencing the deathly frigid conditions of fourty below zero, the yearning for the light and warmth of Spring was even more acute. Now, living in moderate Oregon clime, the Solstice Event has less of an intense life threatening reality. The woodstove is burning. The gas furnace is a dependable backup. Temperatures are predicted to be above freezing tonight.
Two things come to mind. Perhaps they are related. Christian tradition, a primarily Northern Hemisphere telling of the story of Jesus has linked the birth of Jesus with the event of the Winter Solstice. This is the Summer Solstice for our brothers and sisters in the Southern Hemisphere!! Chile is harvesting tomatoes, eggplants, and peppers to ship to northern hemisphere markets. Mexico is harvesting asparagus shoots and shipping them north.
For me the meeting point of these realities is the realization that I am not the center of the universe. I see a very small slice of cosmic unfolding. The tilting of the earth, the orbit of the moon, the life/light giving reality of the sun brings me to a point of complete humility….It’s not about me. It’s about grace. Something bigger is going on.
I come closer to the writer of Genesis 1.14: And God said, “Let there be lights in the dome of the sky to separate the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years,
This is doxology…praise. The writer is not quoting God. He is responding!!
…I am too!!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
December 17, 2009
another Advent poem
another Advent poem
Black Rook in Rainy Weather
By
Sylvia Plath
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then—
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largess, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you dare to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
By
Sylvia Plath
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then—
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largess, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you dare to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
December 16, 2009
Another Advent poem:
Another Advent poem:
Mosaic of the Nativity
Serbia, Winter 1993
By
Jane Kenyon
On the domed ceiling God
Is thinking:
I made them my joy,
and everything else I created
I made to bless them.
But see what they do!
I know their hearts
And arguments:
“We’re descended from
Cain. Evil is nothing new,
so what does it matter now
if we shell the infirmary,
and the well where the fearful
and rash alike must
come for water?”
God thinks Mary into being.
Suspended at the apogee
of the golden dome,
she curls in a brown pod,
and inside her the mind
of Christ, cloaked in blood,
lodges and begins to grow.
Serbia, Winter 1993
By
Jane Kenyon
On the domed ceiling God
Is thinking:
I made them my joy,
and everything else I created
I made to bless them.
But see what they do!
I know their hearts
And arguments:
“We’re descended from
Cain. Evil is nothing new,
so what does it matter now
if we shell the infirmary,
and the well where the fearful
and rash alike must
come for water?”
God thinks Mary into being.
Suspended at the apogee
of the golden dome,
she curls in a brown pod,
and inside her the mind
of Christ, cloaked in blood,
lodges and begins to grow.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
December 15, 2009
another advent poem....
another advent poem....
Advent Calendar
By
Rowan Williams
He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.
He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.
He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.
He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.
By
Rowan Williams
He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.
He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.
He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.
He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.
Monday, December 14, 2009
December 14, 2009
Let the poets take a crack at opening up some doors and windows in our 'stable' houses as the dark season of Advent deepens:
Let the poets take a crack at opening up some doors and windows in our 'stable' houses as the dark season of Advent deepens:
The Second Coming
by
W. B. Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
December 9, 2009
Oregonian headline: 'We will remember all of them'
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
....Because you are precious in my sight,
and honored,
and I love you...
(God's memory as expressed in Isaiah 43)
Oregonian headline: 'We will remember all of them'
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
....Because you are precious in my sight,
and honored,
and I love you...
(God's memory as expressed in Isaiah 43)
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
December 3, 2009
Oregonian headline: Domestic abuse can be subtly sinister
....But he would not listen to her; and being stronger than she, he forced her and lay with her. Then Amnon was seized with a very great loathing for her; indeed, his loathing was even greater than the lust he had felt for her. Amnon said to her, "Get out!"
(2 Samuel 13.14-15)
Oregonian headline: Domestic abuse can be subtly sinister
....But he would not listen to her; and being stronger than she, he forced her and lay with her. Then Amnon was seized with a very great loathing for her; indeed, his loathing was even greater than the lust he had felt for her. Amnon said to her, "Get out!"
(2 Samuel 13.14-15)
Monday, November 30, 2009
November 30, 2009
Oregonian headline: Water's fine, but tempers are boiling
Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool....One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there...he said to him,"Do you want to be made well?" The sick man answered him, "Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up.... Jesus said to him, "Stand up, take your mat and walk." At once the man was made well....
For this reason (it was the sabbath) the Jews were seeking all the more to kill him....
John 5.1-19
Oregonian headline: Water's fine, but tempers are boiling
Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool....One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there...he said to him,"Do you want to be made well?" The sick man answered him, "Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up.... Jesus said to him, "Stand up, take your mat and walk." At once the man was made well....
For this reason (it was the sabbath) the Jews were seeking all the more to kill him....
John 5.1-19
Thursday, November 26, 2009
November 26, 2009
I watched a beautiful sunrise this morning from the Pequod crowsnest.
The old John Lennon song "Imagine" came to mind and for a moment I thought how it might be if everyone actually lived this day with a sense of gratitude and thanksgiving.
"You may say I'm a dreamer....but I'm not the only one."
Then I walked to the end of the lane and got the paper. I needed a wheelbarrow to bring it back to the house! The Market God is priming us for the big shopping day tomorrow.
I am so very grateful for the Lord of the Sunrise....Lord of All.
I watched a beautiful sunrise this morning from the Pequod crowsnest.
The old John Lennon song "Imagine" came to mind and for a moment I thought how it might be if everyone actually lived this day with a sense of gratitude and thanksgiving.
"You may say I'm a dreamer....but I'm not the only one."
Then I walked to the end of the lane and got the paper. I needed a wheelbarrow to bring it back to the house! The Market God is priming us for the big shopping day tomorrow.
I am so very grateful for the Lord of the Sunrise....Lord of All.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
November 25, 2009
In 1995 I cut down a prune tree. I think it was a volunteer. The fruit was small and not to my taste. The next year some suckers came up and for some reason lost to me I let one of them grow. Fourteen years later I cut that ‘sucker’ down. It had grown to 25 feet in height and was taking over. It’s trunk was 16 inches in diameter.
I think of the poetry of Isaiah:
“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,
and a branch shall grow out of his roots. (11.1)
I wonder what kind of tree he had in mind? Or perhaps it was a ‘nurse log’, those fallen decaying trees out of which another tree roots and grows. There are some magnificent examples of these ‘nurse logs, in our coastal forests.
Life is so tenacious, abundant, and ever adaptive. I know I have not finished with that prune tree. “A shoot shall come out from its stump….” I plan to keep the shoots cut off but unless that tree is rooted out it will eventually ‘win out’ and grow to 25 feet again! It is a strange kind of relationship. I subject the ‘other’ to severe pruning and it responds silently and slowly to the life impulse to be fruitful and multiply. There is no anger or sorrow in the relationship, at least that I am aware of. I am grateful for the prune tree’s vigor and its persistent reminder that “to every thing there is a season”…including a season for me. A somber thought that leaves me grateful for each day.
In 1995 I cut down a prune tree. I think it was a volunteer. The fruit was small and not to my taste. The next year some suckers came up and for some reason lost to me I let one of them grow. Fourteen years later I cut that ‘sucker’ down. It had grown to 25 feet in height and was taking over. It’s trunk was 16 inches in diameter.
I think of the poetry of Isaiah:
“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,
and a branch shall grow out of his roots. (11.1)
I wonder what kind of tree he had in mind? Or perhaps it was a ‘nurse log’, those fallen decaying trees out of which another tree roots and grows. There are some magnificent examples of these ‘nurse logs, in our coastal forests.
Life is so tenacious, abundant, and ever adaptive. I know I have not finished with that prune tree. “A shoot shall come out from its stump….” I plan to keep the shoots cut off but unless that tree is rooted out it will eventually ‘win out’ and grow to 25 feet again! It is a strange kind of relationship. I subject the ‘other’ to severe pruning and it responds silently and slowly to the life impulse to be fruitful and multiply. There is no anger or sorrow in the relationship, at least that I am aware of. I am grateful for the prune tree’s vigor and its persistent reminder that “to every thing there is a season”…including a season for me. A somber thought that leaves me grateful for each day.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
November 21, 2009
"This sure gets at an issue that is still rather confusing to me; that is "violence"!These questions would provide a basis for a discussion that would sure be helpful to me. "What is violence?" "Is there a legitimate or necessary use of violence?" What, if any, is the relationship between heaven and earth at a point that one would call 'violent'?"--M.Day (comment on yesterday's blog)
It seems to me that violence in all its many forms (spiritual, emotional, spiritual) flows out of our estrangement from God and our incapacity to see the 'other' as an image bearer of God and our failure to see Creation as a gift rather than a commodity to be used. Rather than focussing on the specific action (the policeman's response, Absalom's butchery, or Jesus making a whip and chasing folks out of the Temple) and trying to decide if it is 'violence' or not, I wonder if we would be better served by asking the question: Why won't Jesus defend himself with the sword? I think that would be a good starting point for a discussion. I believe the exploration of that question could open up some great vistas on the questions raised in the comment!
Hmmm....this gets me going. I could see a four session class centered around this question and where it leads. I'm tossing it into the "Class ideas" hopper!
"This sure gets at an issue that is still rather confusing to me; that is "violence"!These questions would provide a basis for a discussion that would sure be helpful to me. "What is violence?" "Is there a legitimate or necessary use of violence?" What, if any, is the relationship between heaven and earth at a point that one would call 'violent'?"--M.Day (comment on yesterday's blog)
It seems to me that violence in all its many forms (spiritual, emotional, spiritual) flows out of our estrangement from God and our incapacity to see the 'other' as an image bearer of God and our failure to see Creation as a gift rather than a commodity to be used. Rather than focussing on the specific action (the policeman's response, Absalom's butchery, or Jesus making a whip and chasing folks out of the Temple) and trying to decide if it is 'violence' or not, I wonder if we would be better served by asking the question: Why won't Jesus defend himself with the sword? I think that would be a good starting point for a discussion. I believe the exploration of that question could open up some great vistas on the questions raised in the comment!
Hmmm....this gets me going. I could see a four session class centered around this question and where it leads. I'm tossing it into the "Class ideas" hopper!
Friday, November 20, 2009
November 20, 2009
Oregonian headline: Cop on leave for use of force
While they were on the way, the report came to David that Absalom had killed all the king's sons, and not one of them was left. The king rose, tore his garments, and lay on the ground; and all his servants who were standing by tore their garments. (2 Samuel 13.30-31)
Oregonian headline: Cop on leave for use of force
While they were on the way, the report came to David that Absalom had killed all the king's sons, and not one of them was left. The king rose, tore his garments, and lay on the ground; and all his servants who were standing by tore their garments. (2 Samuel 13.30-31)
Thursday, November 19, 2009
November 19, 2009
I have been swimming for about a year now. Last January I took a few lessons to learn how to do the forward crawl. It comes down to how to breathe while swimming. The trick is to exhale with the head under water. A slow rhythm of breathing and bodily movement developes over time. It lowers blood pressure!
This morning as I started swimming my laps the lanes were all empty. I got into my rhythm. It is automatic now and it gives my mind a chance to swim around. I thought about various things as I moved back and forth in my lane: what to cook for supper, Psalm 60, what happened yesterday. It is a stream of conciousness kind of experience. Sometimes it feels like prayer. About midway through I became aware of someone swimming in an adjacent lane. It was my swimming instructor from last January. She was cruising back and forth about twice my speed. I noticed that I became concious of how I was swimming. I became aware of my strokes and kicks and how I was probably not doing them correctly or not putting enough energy into it. I began to "try and swim better!" I did a few laps under that spell and soon realized I wasn't having fun. Being so self-concious turned swimming into work...and I lost connection with my 'prayer'.
Not a word was exchanged. No communication. Someone simply got into the lane next to me and started doing what I was doing yet I was impacted. Is there a metaphor in here somewhere? We go along through are 'scripted' days. We like our routines. We want to 'lose' ourselves in what is happening and suddenly we become aware of a life in the next lane. That awareness introduces a new dimension....the neighbor. The neighbor disturbs our tranquility even without any direct relating. Perhaps the neighbor is into his/her world just as I am in mine. There is no need to 'interfere'. This is not a Good Samaratin kind of story. this is simply the acknowledgment that on a very basic primary level the neighbor is part of our world. It is not a choice. It is a given. We do have a choice in how we respond to the new situation. I chose to tell myself, "Gosh, Jon, get back to enjoyment!"...and I did. I was hoping I would get a chance to talk to my neighbor once we were finished but when I came out of the water she was gone.
Maybe next time.
It's nice that we can share the pool. It's nice that we have our lanes to swim in. It is nice to breathe, reflect, and imagine. It's nice that sometimes we do not need to connect.
I had a physical examination this morning. Blood pressure was great! I hoped it would be. That's why I went swimming!.....I think....
I have been swimming for about a year now. Last January I took a few lessons to learn how to do the forward crawl. It comes down to how to breathe while swimming. The trick is to exhale with the head under water. A slow rhythm of breathing and bodily movement developes over time. It lowers blood pressure!
This morning as I started swimming my laps the lanes were all empty. I got into my rhythm. It is automatic now and it gives my mind a chance to swim around. I thought about various things as I moved back and forth in my lane: what to cook for supper, Psalm 60, what happened yesterday. It is a stream of conciousness kind of experience. Sometimes it feels like prayer. About midway through I became aware of someone swimming in an adjacent lane. It was my swimming instructor from last January. She was cruising back and forth about twice my speed. I noticed that I became concious of how I was swimming. I became aware of my strokes and kicks and how I was probably not doing them correctly or not putting enough energy into it. I began to "try and swim better!" I did a few laps under that spell and soon realized I wasn't having fun. Being so self-concious turned swimming into work...and I lost connection with my 'prayer'.
Not a word was exchanged. No communication. Someone simply got into the lane next to me and started doing what I was doing yet I was impacted. Is there a metaphor in here somewhere? We go along through are 'scripted' days. We like our routines. We want to 'lose' ourselves in what is happening and suddenly we become aware of a life in the next lane. That awareness introduces a new dimension....the neighbor. The neighbor disturbs our tranquility even without any direct relating. Perhaps the neighbor is into his/her world just as I am in mine. There is no need to 'interfere'. This is not a Good Samaratin kind of story. this is simply the acknowledgment that on a very basic primary level the neighbor is part of our world. It is not a choice. It is a given. We do have a choice in how we respond to the new situation. I chose to tell myself, "Gosh, Jon, get back to enjoyment!"...and I did. I was hoping I would get a chance to talk to my neighbor once we were finished but when I came out of the water she was gone.
Maybe next time.
It's nice that we can share the pool. It's nice that we have our lanes to swim in. It is nice to breathe, reflect, and imagine. It's nice that sometimes we do not need to connect.
I had a physical examination this morning. Blood pressure was great! I hoped it would be. That's why I went swimming!.....I think....
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
November 18, 2009
(33 days until the Winter Solstice)
Oregonian headline: Your insurance bill soar as state nods
"Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?"
(Matthew 6.26-7)
(33 days until the Winter Solstice)
Oregonian headline: Your insurance bill soar as state nods
"Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?"
(Matthew 6.26-7)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I had the privilege of leading a vesper service last Sunday with a group of elderly folks who were spending their last days on this earth in an assisted living facility. One dear lady approached me after the service ended, reached out for my hand and looked into my eyes and said, "You know, we have all come here to die and it's really hard at times." I replied, "How are you doing with it?" She said, "I think I'm doing ok." I went a little further: "What have you learned?" She said, "You can't get too close to people."
This is how she copes. The pain of repeated loss is too much to bear. I have thought about her approach over the past couple of days. It is so risky to feel. But doesn't something die within us when we close the door on the pain of separation? I am in no way wanting to question her approach. I don't know what she has gone through and I respect her. I believe there are situations in life when 'not feeling' functions as a survival mechanism. Maybe if I have the good fortune of reaching her age I will take a similar position....but, oh, I hope not. Not today.
This is how she copes. The pain of repeated loss is too much to bear. I have thought about her approach over the past couple of days. It is so risky to feel. But doesn't something die within us when we close the door on the pain of separation? I am in no way wanting to question her approach. I don't know what she has gone through and I respect her. I believe there are situations in life when 'not feeling' functions as a survival mechanism. Maybe if I have the good fortune of reaching her age I will take a similar position....but, oh, I hope not. Not today.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
November 14, 2009
Several years ago when a feverish imagination was running uncontrolled in the heart of my brother and I, we decided to purchase a large U.S Army surplus tent. It was somewhere in the neighborhood of 20x40 feet and weighed at least 300 pounds. We purchased this tent for the purpose of setting up a campsite at the base of Mt. Ironside (the site of our yearly Fall retreat). We envisioned accommodating a large group of men for a time of hunting and hearty fellowship. We drug that tent over there about this time 10 years ago. We got into the site late at night and there was a foot of snow on the ground. We dug and scraped, hefted and hoisted, stretched and propped, anchored….and collapsed! I remember that night vividly. We were wet, clammy with sweat and exhausted. It was bitterly cold. We had a 45 gallon oil drum that we had converted into a barrel heater and set it up in the middle of the tent. The wood was wet and it took forever to get some heat coming out of that stove. We did end up having a hearty time for a few days and then took the whole thing down again, packed it into the truck and came back and stored it in the Pequod (the name of the barn of which I am the proud captain). It has been in stowage ever since! Our imagination took a different course and the tent has collected dust and bird droppings ever since…..until today.
I drug it out of the ‘ships’ hold and cut it up. I took the pieces of canvas and spread them over a plot of ground that is currently carpeted with thick grass. I want to till this ground next spring and I do not want to have to pound through that hard turf. If things go as I plan, I will peal the canvas back sometime in March or April and all the growth underneath will be dead and decaying. I am using canvas to smother, much like the garden books and magazines talk about using black plastic.
As I was cutting up the tent I thought of Paul, the tent maker. Taking something apart deepens the appreciation for what was involved in putting it together. I realized what hard work it must have been for Paul to make tents. I don’t think it was something that he could have applied himself to for a few days and then beat it down the road to Phillipi or Thessalonika. I wonder if it wasn’t seasonal work or perhaps a two or three year period of his life. Then my eye fastened on the “USArmy” label on the tent and I wondered if this particular tent had ever been shelter for troops in combat. I kept cutting away….turning swords into plowshares.
Finished at 3.... just in time for tea.
Several years ago when a feverish imagination was running uncontrolled in the heart of my brother and I, we decided to purchase a large U.S Army surplus tent. It was somewhere in the neighborhood of 20x40 feet and weighed at least 300 pounds. We purchased this tent for the purpose of setting up a campsite at the base of Mt. Ironside (the site of our yearly Fall retreat). We envisioned accommodating a large group of men for a time of hunting and hearty fellowship. We drug that tent over there about this time 10 years ago. We got into the site late at night and there was a foot of snow on the ground. We dug and scraped, hefted and hoisted, stretched and propped, anchored….and collapsed! I remember that night vividly. We were wet, clammy with sweat and exhausted. It was bitterly cold. We had a 45 gallon oil drum that we had converted into a barrel heater and set it up in the middle of the tent. The wood was wet and it took forever to get some heat coming out of that stove. We did end up having a hearty time for a few days and then took the whole thing down again, packed it into the truck and came back and stored it in the Pequod (the name of the barn of which I am the proud captain). It has been in stowage ever since! Our imagination took a different course and the tent has collected dust and bird droppings ever since…..until today.
I drug it out of the ‘ships’ hold and cut it up. I took the pieces of canvas and spread them over a plot of ground that is currently carpeted with thick grass. I want to till this ground next spring and I do not want to have to pound through that hard turf. If things go as I plan, I will peal the canvas back sometime in March or April and all the growth underneath will be dead and decaying. I am using canvas to smother, much like the garden books and magazines talk about using black plastic.
As I was cutting up the tent I thought of Paul, the tent maker. Taking something apart deepens the appreciation for what was involved in putting it together. I realized what hard work it must have been for Paul to make tents. I don’t think it was something that he could have applied himself to for a few days and then beat it down the road to Phillipi or Thessalonika. I wonder if it wasn’t seasonal work or perhaps a two or three year period of his life. Then my eye fastened on the “USArmy” label on the tent and I wondered if this particular tent had ever been shelter for troops in combat. I kept cutting away….turning swords into plowshares.
Finished at 3.... just in time for tea.
Friday, November 13, 2009
November 13, 2oo9
Oregonian headline: Auditor: Zoo projects ran wild
Aha! The animal kingdom makes the front page....couched in economic terms, of course!
God blessed them (humankind), and God said to them, "Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it;" (Genesis 1.28a)
....and humankind has misunderstood 'subdue it' ever since.
Oregonian headline: Auditor: Zoo projects ran wild
Aha! The animal kingdom makes the front page....couched in economic terms, of course!
God blessed them (humankind), and God said to them, "Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it;" (Genesis 1.28a)
....and humankind has misunderstood 'subdue it' ever since.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
November 12, 2009
Oregonian headline: Gunshots, blood and panic in Tualitin
Gosh, the litany of violence will not stop!
Some of the darkest stories of "Gunshots, blood and panic" can be found in the Book of Judges:
Check out Judges 21 for example. It would appear that nothing has changed.....except that Jesus enters the story! Thanks be to God.
Oregonian headline: Gunshots, blood and panic in Tualitin
Gosh, the litany of violence will not stop!
Some of the darkest stories of "Gunshots, blood and panic" can be found in the Book of Judges:
Check out Judges 21 for example. It would appear that nothing has changed.....except that Jesus enters the story! Thanks be to God.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
November 11, 2009
Oregonian headline: Estranged wife killed in shooting
Am I just calloused? The Oregonian chooses to headline today's paper with this. This kind of story/headline seems so old. Nothing about it makes me want to read the article. I feel almost like a voyeur. I assume it is ultimately a story about domestic violence. It is a tragedy. But is there anything new?
The biblical passage that comes to my mind is John 8.2-11...The Woman Caught in Adultery.
The connecting point is intimate relationship and violence. The situation in John does not directly mirror the Oregonian headline but the point that Jesus makes certainly undermines the justification of a violent response. This headline strikes me as a violent intrusion into a tragically personal matter.
ps. this response to headlines is beginning to tax me. I'm thinking of moving in a different direction.
Oregonian headline: Estranged wife killed in shooting
Am I just calloused? The Oregonian chooses to headline today's paper with this. This kind of story/headline seems so old. Nothing about it makes me want to read the article. I feel almost like a voyeur. I assume it is ultimately a story about domestic violence. It is a tragedy. But is there anything new?
The biblical passage that comes to my mind is John 8.2-11...The Woman Caught in Adultery.
The connecting point is intimate relationship and violence. The situation in John does not directly mirror the Oregonian headline but the point that Jesus makes certainly undermines the justification of a violent response. This headline strikes me as a violent intrusion into a tragically personal matter.
ps. this response to headlines is beginning to tax me. I'm thinking of moving in a different direction.
Friday, November 6, 2009
November 6, 2009
Oregonian headline: Fort Hood shooting worst ever at U.S. base
Now the king's sons, seventy person, were with the leaders of the city, who were charged with their upbringing. When the letter reached them, they took the king's sons and killed them, seventy persons; they put their heads in baskets and sent them to him at Jezreel.
(2 Kings 10. 6b-7)
Oregonian headline: Fort Hood shooting worst ever at U.S. base
Now the king's sons, seventy person, were with the leaders of the city, who were charged with their upbringing. When the letter reached them, they took the king's sons and killed them, seventy persons; they put their heads in baskets and sent them to him at Jezreel.
(2 Kings 10. 6b-7)
Thursday, November 5, 2009
November 5, 2009
Vespers:
He answered, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."
(Luke 19.40)
My brother Eric and sister-in-law Joan are down from Saskatchewan visiting mom and old friends. They went to Powell's today and I had fun asking them about where they went first...and why...and what did they find. Eric said that he wandered into the Geology section and was lusting after some expensive books that pictured and narrated the 'story of rocks'. Essentially he was delighting in the realization that every rock/stone has a story to tell about Creation. With today's technology a rock can be 'examined' and the viewer can be fairly confident about the 'story' it tells: part of a volcanic event, a sedimentary layer event, etc.... It is an ancient story that preceeds by thousands of years the biblical narrative.
People want instant gratification. Instant answers. Instant reciprocity: I do this. You do that.
The rocks tell a different story. They 'shout out' that our 'now' is a tiny piece of a narrative that is beyond our comprehension of time. We are captives to our timeline: birth, life, death....we are mortals. We end. Creation is a process. It does not end. It is a Promise!
The rocks/stones 'shout out': "Look! See!"....and we say, "You stones are dead! You have no life in you."
So Jesus makes his entry into Jerusalem. He has a deep premonition that he will not leave Jerusalem alive. His disciples "began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen,..." (Luke 19.37) The Pharisees (that's us!) don't get it. What are they shouting about? Life is hard...filled with pain, shame, guilt, and remorse. And Jesus kicks back and says: "Listen to the rocks!!"
Vespers:
He answered, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."
(Luke 19.40)
My brother Eric and sister-in-law Joan are down from Saskatchewan visiting mom and old friends. They went to Powell's today and I had fun asking them about where they went first...and why...and what did they find. Eric said that he wandered into the Geology section and was lusting after some expensive books that pictured and narrated the 'story of rocks'. Essentially he was delighting in the realization that every rock/stone has a story to tell about Creation. With today's technology a rock can be 'examined' and the viewer can be fairly confident about the 'story' it tells: part of a volcanic event, a sedimentary layer event, etc.... It is an ancient story that preceeds by thousands of years the biblical narrative.
People want instant gratification. Instant answers. Instant reciprocity: I do this. You do that.
The rocks tell a different story. They 'shout out' that our 'now' is a tiny piece of a narrative that is beyond our comprehension of time. We are captives to our timeline: birth, life, death....we are mortals. We end. Creation is a process. It does not end. It is a Promise!
The rocks/stones 'shout out': "Look! See!"....and we say, "You stones are dead! You have no life in you."
So Jesus makes his entry into Jerusalem. He has a deep premonition that he will not leave Jerusalem alive. His disciples "began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen,..." (Luke 19.37) The Pharisees (that's us!) don't get it. What are they shouting about? Life is hard...filled with pain, shame, guilt, and remorse. And Jesus kicks back and says: "Listen to the rocks!!"
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
November 1, 2009
Oregonian headline: Did an Oregon vet BRING THE WAR HOME?
2 Samuel 11. 14-15: In the morning David wrote a letter to Joab, and sent it by the hand of Uriah. In the letter he wrote, "Set Uriah in the forefront of the hardest fighting, and then draw back from him, so that he may be struck down and die."
Oregonian headline: Did an Oregon vet BRING THE WAR HOME?
2 Samuel 11. 14-15: In the morning David wrote a letter to Joab, and sent it by the hand of Uriah. In the letter he wrote, "Set Uriah in the forefront of the hardest fighting, and then draw back from him, so that he may be struck down and die."
Saturday, October 31, 2009
October 31, 2009
Oregonian Headline: $1.8 Billion, 9653 jobs
Qoheleth: There is an evil that I have seen under the sun, and it lies heavy upon humankind: those to whom God gives wealth, possessions, and honor, so that they lack nothing of all that they desire, yet God does not enable them to enjoy these thing, but a stranger enjoys them. This is vanity; it is a grievous ill. A man may beget a hundred children, and live many years; but however many are the days of his years, if he does not enjoy life's good things, or has no burial, I say that a stillborn child is better off than he. (Ecclesiastes 6. 1-3)
Oregonian Headline: $1.8 Billion, 9653 jobs
Qoheleth: There is an evil that I have seen under the sun, and it lies heavy upon humankind: those to whom God gives wealth, possessions, and honor, so that they lack nothing of all that they desire, yet God does not enable them to enjoy these thing, but a stranger enjoys them. This is vanity; it is a grievous ill. A man may beget a hundred children, and live many years; but however many are the days of his years, if he does not enjoy life's good things, or has no burial, I say that a stillborn child is better off than he. (Ecclesiastes 6. 1-3)
Thursday, October 29, 2009
10/29/2009
My oldest daughter teaches English at a high school in the environs of Seattle. A couple years ago I asked her to give me her list of the 10 best American novels and I set out to read them. This morning I woke at 5am to finish the 10th and final book on that list: Moby Dick by Herman Melville. I remember being assigned this book to read during my junior year of high school. What an absurd assignment! Someone once said that you weren’t ready to read the book of The Revelation of St. John until you were at least 70 years old. I would suggest that one needs to be at least 40 years or older to appreciate what Melville is doing in Moby Dick.
On this wet grey October day my thoughts stay with Leviathan. An entire chapter (41) in the Book of Job is devoted to this grandest of creatures and reading that chapter after reading Moby Dick makes me wonder if Melville’s bible was open to this very chapter as he wrote.
The Great White Whale points to its Creator. Job finally got it but Captain Ahab never does. While I now fancy the barn where I retreat to for deep solitude as a great ship like the Pequod and while gazing astern to the East feel somewhat like a “captain”…at least of a broken down decaying barn!...the crows gamboling in the wet sky and the ‘v’ of geese flying overhead and the tiny spider spinning its web within touching distance of my perch remind me that small things matter. They also point! Job is in a knock- down drag-out argument with God. Captain Ahab has a monomaniacal obsession in taking vengeance on the Great White Whale..... and I am grateful my life is small.
My oldest daughter teaches English at a high school in the environs of Seattle. A couple years ago I asked her to give me her list of the 10 best American novels and I set out to read them. This morning I woke at 5am to finish the 10th and final book on that list: Moby Dick by Herman Melville. I remember being assigned this book to read during my junior year of high school. What an absurd assignment! Someone once said that you weren’t ready to read the book of The Revelation of St. John until you were at least 70 years old. I would suggest that one needs to be at least 40 years or older to appreciate what Melville is doing in Moby Dick.
On this wet grey October day my thoughts stay with Leviathan. An entire chapter (41) in the Book of Job is devoted to this grandest of creatures and reading that chapter after reading Moby Dick makes me wonder if Melville’s bible was open to this very chapter as he wrote.
The Great White Whale points to its Creator. Job finally got it but Captain Ahab never does. While I now fancy the barn where I retreat to for deep solitude as a great ship like the Pequod and while gazing astern to the East feel somewhat like a “captain”…at least of a broken down decaying barn!...the crows gamboling in the wet sky and the ‘v’ of geese flying overhead and the tiny spider spinning its web within touching distance of my perch remind me that small things matter. They also point! Job is in a knock- down drag-out argument with God. Captain Ahab has a monomaniacal obsession in taking vengeance on the Great White Whale..... and I am grateful my life is small.
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