December 22, 2010
This is the season when people sing about the star that led certain folks to Bethlehem long ago. Some people get hung up on the literal truth of this event recorded in Matthew’s gospel. Has anyone of you every followed a star and had it stop over a particular place? It begs a bigger question: What does it mean to say that a star is ‘over’ something? Are we thinking of stars as Goodyear blimps? How could a star be ‘over’ Bethlehem without being over half the world at the same time? I’ve read folks who argue that Matthew is drawing on certain Old Testament references to a star (a famous one being in the account of the story of Balaam found in Numbers) Science and biblical scholarship are doing something similar when confronting the star over Bethlehem….trying to explain what has happened. I wasn’t there at the birth of Jesus but I am present in the same world he was born into….sun, moon, planets, and stars….these silent witnesses whose movements can be measured with great precision but whose speech is of an entirely different matter. Maybe Matthew was hearing the music of the spheres when he was writing his gospel….or the music of the Psalmist:
Day to day pours forth speech
And night to night declares knowledge,
There is no speech, nor are there words;
There voice is not heard;
(Psalm 19:2-3)
I wish I could hear better.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
December 14, 2010
The Food Day section of today’s Oregonian featured some recipes that looked pretty mouth-watering to me. Maybe it was because I was hungry.
My son Sam, a junior in college, has shown an interest in cooking and we like to watch the Iron Chef show on the television when he is home. We have decided to do an “Iron Chef” meal at some point over the holiday season. We plan to identify several food items, write their names on a slip of paper, throw them in a paper bag and when it comes time to cook a meal we will draw a slip out and that one item must be included in every course of a five course meal. So far in the bag we have oranges, mustard, clams, walnuts and a few others I can’t remember. The other limitation is time. We must cook this meal in one hour. We have some time to think about this. For example, what if we draw ‘clams’? We must come up with five courses that include clams as an ingredient. Clams in a soup, clam fritters, pasta with a creamy clam sauce, clam dip for veggies and a dessert—using the clam shells as cups and filling them with ice-cream or fresh fruit. That’s five!
We’ll have to go through each of the ‘theme’ ingredients in this way so that when the hour comes we have a game plan. I view this as a kind of playing. Play is viewed in our culture as frivolous, a waste of time, and something we outgrow. Isn’t it ironic that we spend big bucks to watch a sporting event, theatre production, or a concert (essentially paying to watch other adults play!)
Cooking is about creation. It reminds me of the Creation account in Genesis 2. God forms man out of ‘red clay’ (adamah). He works with what is at hand. The ‘ingredient in the bag’ was clay. I don’t read this literally, i.e. man was formed from clay, but I do read it as saying something about God. He plays.
The Food Day section of today’s Oregonian featured some recipes that looked pretty mouth-watering to me. Maybe it was because I was hungry.
My son Sam, a junior in college, has shown an interest in cooking and we like to watch the Iron Chef show on the television when he is home. We have decided to do an “Iron Chef” meal at some point over the holiday season. We plan to identify several food items, write their names on a slip of paper, throw them in a paper bag and when it comes time to cook a meal we will draw a slip out and that one item must be included in every course of a five course meal. So far in the bag we have oranges, mustard, clams, walnuts and a few others I can’t remember. The other limitation is time. We must cook this meal in one hour. We have some time to think about this. For example, what if we draw ‘clams’? We must come up with five courses that include clams as an ingredient. Clams in a soup, clam fritters, pasta with a creamy clam sauce, clam dip for veggies and a dessert—using the clam shells as cups and filling them with ice-cream or fresh fruit. That’s five!
We’ll have to go through each of the ‘theme’ ingredients in this way so that when the hour comes we have a game plan. I view this as a kind of playing. Play is viewed in our culture as frivolous, a waste of time, and something we outgrow. Isn’t it ironic that we spend big bucks to watch a sporting event, theatre production, or a concert (essentially paying to watch other adults play!)
Cooking is about creation. It reminds me of the Creation account in Genesis 2. God forms man out of ‘red clay’ (adamah). He works with what is at hand. The ‘ingredient in the bag’ was clay. I don’t read this literally, i.e. man was formed from clay, but I do read it as saying something about God. He plays.
Monday, December 6, 2010
December 6, 2010
The ancient neglected Gravenstein apple tree was so laden with fruit this past summer that several of the branches snapped off leaving ugly jagged scars. There are several apple trees on this property, some old, some young, and I have done fairly well at keeping them pruned but intentionally left a couple of the old ones ‘go wild’ mostly because I simply did not choose to make the time to keep them pruned but there was also something about their magnificent wildness that was captivating. When my children were young they hung ropes from the mighty moss clothed arms and constructed a primitive platform supported by these same arms. As they grew older and lost interest in that kind of imaginative play I noticed that their platform had been taken over by creatures of the night, raccoons I suspect.
Who hasn’t wanted to live in a tree at some time in their life? To the east, along the banks of Rock Creek some enterprising young folks have built a fantastic tree house that goes up four storeys! I kid you not! You can ascend a flight of stairs and a series of ladders and sit on a leather couch thirty feet above the ground. When I came upon this structure several years ago during my annual Winter Solstice walk, wherein I am on the lookout for the tiny Wren, I was incredulous. The Wookie scenes in “The Return of the Jedi” came immediately to mind. It was truly magical and truly real. I sat at the base of the tree and marveled at all the material and labor that went into this ‘play’ for truly it was nothing more than the expression of grand imagination.
Trees do many things….too many to list but it strikes me that one of their greatest contributions to my life has been their capacity to lift my imagination. And then there comes a day like today when I have just come in from cutting away at that old Gravenstein apple tree with my chain saw. The roar of the engine, the hot steel teeth cutting into the very old wood, and the warm chips flying, take me to a different place.
I understand my place in the garden as that of being a steward and in this case it means confronting wildness and taming it. The broken branches and serrated scars, if left unattended, herald the entry points for disease, rot, and eventual death.
I will say this. It’s a lot more fun to play in a tree than climb a ladder with a chain saw and start cutting away, yet, my imagination remains a part of my stewardship. I imagine the apple wood bucked up and curing in the woodshed over summer and warming the house next winter. I imagine corn, potatoes, or almond trees growing in the ground that has been opened up. I imagine the raccoons that ravaged the garden last summer checking the tree out in their nocturnal prowling and saying to themselves: “Hmmm….didn’t we see something more to our liking down there on the banks of Rock Creek.”
But what really grabs my imagination is the idea of Wookies living down there.
I’ll look for signs when I’m down there again on the 21st of this month.
The ancient neglected Gravenstein apple tree was so laden with fruit this past summer that several of the branches snapped off leaving ugly jagged scars. There are several apple trees on this property, some old, some young, and I have done fairly well at keeping them pruned but intentionally left a couple of the old ones ‘go wild’ mostly because I simply did not choose to make the time to keep them pruned but there was also something about their magnificent wildness that was captivating. When my children were young they hung ropes from the mighty moss clothed arms and constructed a primitive platform supported by these same arms. As they grew older and lost interest in that kind of imaginative play I noticed that their platform had been taken over by creatures of the night, raccoons I suspect.
Who hasn’t wanted to live in a tree at some time in their life? To the east, along the banks of Rock Creek some enterprising young folks have built a fantastic tree house that goes up four storeys! I kid you not! You can ascend a flight of stairs and a series of ladders and sit on a leather couch thirty feet above the ground. When I came upon this structure several years ago during my annual Winter Solstice walk, wherein I am on the lookout for the tiny Wren, I was incredulous. The Wookie scenes in “The Return of the Jedi” came immediately to mind. It was truly magical and truly real. I sat at the base of the tree and marveled at all the material and labor that went into this ‘play’ for truly it was nothing more than the expression of grand imagination.
Trees do many things….too many to list but it strikes me that one of their greatest contributions to my life has been their capacity to lift my imagination. And then there comes a day like today when I have just come in from cutting away at that old Gravenstein apple tree with my chain saw. The roar of the engine, the hot steel teeth cutting into the very old wood, and the warm chips flying, take me to a different place.
I understand my place in the garden as that of being a steward and in this case it means confronting wildness and taming it. The broken branches and serrated scars, if left unattended, herald the entry points for disease, rot, and eventual death.
I will say this. It’s a lot more fun to play in a tree than climb a ladder with a chain saw and start cutting away, yet, my imagination remains a part of my stewardship. I imagine the apple wood bucked up and curing in the woodshed over summer and warming the house next winter. I imagine corn, potatoes, or almond trees growing in the ground that has been opened up. I imagine the raccoons that ravaged the garden last summer checking the tree out in their nocturnal prowling and saying to themselves: “Hmmm….didn’t we see something more to our liking down there on the banks of Rock Creek.”
But what really grabs my imagination is the idea of Wookies living down there.
I’ll look for signs when I’m down there again on the 21st of this month.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
December 2, 2010
The name on his lapel tag read: Forest Violette. This young salesman at Fry’s Electonics had a hairstyle true to his first name. Miniature cedars of Lebanon rose from his scalp in spiked perfusion. As I think about it, the little triangular patch of neatly trimmed beard sprouting underneath his lower lip fits his last name….a patch of violets.
I was at Fry’s this morning to buy some ink cartridges for my printer. I mentally prepared myself before going in. My strategy was to walk directly to the first human being I could identify as a Fry’s employee and ask him/her to show me where the cartridges were. I even had an empty one with me to compare for verification. I steeled myself and entered. I never am quite fully prepared for the bombardment of screens and sound and in the past I would have started muttering inwardly, “I hate this place. I can’t take this sensory overload. How can people work in this environment? Who would want to? (actually, I know someone who would like to…my son!!)” This stream of negativity would make me want to withdraw and just be alone. In my solitary withdrawal I would go about trying to find what I needed. Up and down the aisles I would trudge, my eyes slowly beginning to itch and water with the strain of searching, my heart beginning to sink, my mind telling me that they will be out of what I need and I’ve put myself through this for nothing. I’ll have to come back!
But with my new strategy I could avoid all of that negativity and concentrate on connecting with a human being and rely totally on him/her for what I was after. I walked in with a smile, greeted the young man at the Gate of Entry. The wire mesh screening to my right always makes me feel like I’m entering a prison but not today. I said, “How’s it going, Shawn!” (name tag on lapel) I need to buy an ink cartridge. Can you take me to where I need to go?” He had to remain at his post (What a job. It must be an entry level position) but he did point me in the direction I needed to go and gave me an aisle number.
No way was I going to start looking for aisle numbers! That’s the first step towards succumbing to the seduction of standing and looking at all the screens. I headed out in the direction he pointed me and ran into Hakeem. “Hey, Hakeem (name tag on lapel) What up?” Showing him the empty ink cartridge I had in hand I asked him to take me to where I could find full ones. He was in the ‘telephone’ section and took me to the edge of his domain and pointed me towards a desk way down at the end of an aisle. “You need to go there.” he told me politely.
That’s where I met Forest Violette. “Hi Forest, do you have these in stock?” His fingers darted over the keyboard and a message came up on screen that they were indeed in stock and I took them to the checkout section…more cages! The checkout line was short and after Shauna made a little pink slash on my receipt I was out into the fresh air. I felt good! Then, to cap it off, it occurred to me that the reason I wanted the ink in the first place was so that I could run off a copy of the essay I am working on that has to do with the Tree as a helpful metaphor for how one can read the Bible.
…..and who do I meet? Forest!! I broke into a big smile.
The name on his lapel tag read: Forest Violette. This young salesman at Fry’s Electonics had a hairstyle true to his first name. Miniature cedars of Lebanon rose from his scalp in spiked perfusion. As I think about it, the little triangular patch of neatly trimmed beard sprouting underneath his lower lip fits his last name….a patch of violets.
I was at Fry’s this morning to buy some ink cartridges for my printer. I mentally prepared myself before going in. My strategy was to walk directly to the first human being I could identify as a Fry’s employee and ask him/her to show me where the cartridges were. I even had an empty one with me to compare for verification. I steeled myself and entered. I never am quite fully prepared for the bombardment of screens and sound and in the past I would have started muttering inwardly, “I hate this place. I can’t take this sensory overload. How can people work in this environment? Who would want to? (actually, I know someone who would like to…my son!!)” This stream of negativity would make me want to withdraw and just be alone. In my solitary withdrawal I would go about trying to find what I needed. Up and down the aisles I would trudge, my eyes slowly beginning to itch and water with the strain of searching, my heart beginning to sink, my mind telling me that they will be out of what I need and I’ve put myself through this for nothing. I’ll have to come back!
But with my new strategy I could avoid all of that negativity and concentrate on connecting with a human being and rely totally on him/her for what I was after. I walked in with a smile, greeted the young man at the Gate of Entry. The wire mesh screening to my right always makes me feel like I’m entering a prison but not today. I said, “How’s it going, Shawn!” (name tag on lapel) I need to buy an ink cartridge. Can you take me to where I need to go?” He had to remain at his post (What a job. It must be an entry level position) but he did point me in the direction I needed to go and gave me an aisle number.
No way was I going to start looking for aisle numbers! That’s the first step towards succumbing to the seduction of standing and looking at all the screens. I headed out in the direction he pointed me and ran into Hakeem. “Hey, Hakeem (name tag on lapel) What up?” Showing him the empty ink cartridge I had in hand I asked him to take me to where I could find full ones. He was in the ‘telephone’ section and took me to the edge of his domain and pointed me towards a desk way down at the end of an aisle. “You need to go there.” he told me politely.
That’s where I met Forest Violette. “Hi Forest, do you have these in stock?” His fingers darted over the keyboard and a message came up on screen that they were indeed in stock and I took them to the checkout section…more cages! The checkout line was short and after Shauna made a little pink slash on my receipt I was out into the fresh air. I felt good! Then, to cap it off, it occurred to me that the reason I wanted the ink in the first place was so that I could run off a copy of the essay I am working on that has to do with the Tree as a helpful metaphor for how one can read the Bible.
…..and who do I meet? Forest!! I broke into a big smile.
Monday, November 29, 2010
November 29, 2010
I remember as a very young child visiting my grandparents in Idaho. Every morning Grandma would fix breakfast while Grandpa sat in his big swivel armchair just outside the kitchen entry reading his daily devotions. ( I liked it when Grandpa would be out of the house and I would slip into his throne and delight in spinning around.) When the breakfast call went out I would have to pass Grandpa who would reach out and grab me with an arm or snare me with his bamboo cane and, once settled, ask me if I was up for all day.
Grandpa: “Are you up for all day?”
Jon: “Yes.”
Grandpa, chuckling: “ Unless you fall down!”
It was his attempt at humour. This same exact exchange would take place day after day after day.
Grandpa’s daughter, my 89 year old mother, and I have a similar experience these 50 some years later only it occurs in the evening hour before mom retires.
Mom: “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
Jon: “I’m not sure, mom, we need to make it through this night first.”
Mom, pressing for more information to soothe her anxious mind: “Don’t you know what’s going to happen?”
Jon: “Well, I guess we can be fairly certain the sun is going to come up.”
Mom chuckles, not without a slight degree of frustration, and begins her journey into the night.
This same exact exchange takes place day after day after day.
I have come to savour this exchange. It has taken on the life of a ritual and, as is often the case with rituals, if one chooses to enter into them with reverence and expectation something begins to happen. I’m not sure what is going on with mom but I am aware of some of what is happening with me. I think of the certainty of the sun rising and setting. The certainty of the moon’s measured orbit around the earth and the stars in their courses. The certainty of my mother’s death….and my own. Within the parameters of cosmic certainty and the certainty of my mortality I live out the days granted. They are filled with much uncertainty, which, when I stop for a cup of tea and reflect on the day, usually fills me with gratitude….”unless”, like Grandpa warned, I fall down!”
I remember as a very young child visiting my grandparents in Idaho. Every morning Grandma would fix breakfast while Grandpa sat in his big swivel armchair just outside the kitchen entry reading his daily devotions. ( I liked it when Grandpa would be out of the house and I would slip into his throne and delight in spinning around.) When the breakfast call went out I would have to pass Grandpa who would reach out and grab me with an arm or snare me with his bamboo cane and, once settled, ask me if I was up for all day.
Grandpa: “Are you up for all day?”
Jon: “Yes.”
Grandpa, chuckling: “ Unless you fall down!”
It was his attempt at humour. This same exact exchange would take place day after day after day.
Grandpa’s daughter, my 89 year old mother, and I have a similar experience these 50 some years later only it occurs in the evening hour before mom retires.
Mom: “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
Jon: “I’m not sure, mom, we need to make it through this night first.”
Mom, pressing for more information to soothe her anxious mind: “Don’t you know what’s going to happen?”
Jon: “Well, I guess we can be fairly certain the sun is going to come up.”
Mom chuckles, not without a slight degree of frustration, and begins her journey into the night.
This same exact exchange takes place day after day after day.
I have come to savour this exchange. It has taken on the life of a ritual and, as is often the case with rituals, if one chooses to enter into them with reverence and expectation something begins to happen. I’m not sure what is going on with mom but I am aware of some of what is happening with me. I think of the certainty of the sun rising and setting. The certainty of the moon’s measured orbit around the earth and the stars in their courses. The certainty of my mother’s death….and my own. Within the parameters of cosmic certainty and the certainty of my mortality I live out the days granted. They are filled with much uncertainty, which, when I stop for a cup of tea and reflect on the day, usually fills me with gratitude….”unless”, like Grandpa warned, I fall down!”
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
November 24, 2010
We experienced a severe cold spell in December of last year that killed or damaged plants that had been living on this property for many years. A small oak tree that my brother had germinated, nursed along for a year, and then transplanted into my garden was felled by that arctic blast. This was a particularly disappointing loss as he had picked up the acorn during his travels in Portugal/Spain and had brought it back to Oregon. Tragic also was the loss of an olive grove I had planted several years ago. That fall was the first time there were olives to harvest…only a couple of handfuls but enough, nevertheless to preserve. The berry vines were damaged. This latest outbreak of frigid temperatures raises a concern in me for what will be taken or damaged this time around. It is happening earlier this year than last and the trees, shrubs, vines, and grasses are even less dormant than last year. The life has not fully left the veins. There is one difference, which is why I am writing about this now, and that is we are not experiencing the strong penetrating east wind that accompanied last year’s cold. I recall several days of clear sunny skies…and a strong east wind that cut like a knife. Wind chill it is called. The thermometer can read 18 degrees but with a wind the actual experience of cold could be that of a temperature of 5 degrees.
It reminds me of how a number is such a one-dimensional reading of reality. My mother is 89 years old. What does that really say about her? I will be 59 in a few days. What does that tell you about me? Our culture is fascinated and driven by numbers. The Dow-Jones industrial average, unemployment figures, the score of a Trail Blazer game, the dollar figure of our paychecks, insurance premiums, the calendar number of this day; numbers are everywhere and their influence continual, subtle, and powerful in shaping our experience of life. I would prefer to pay more attention to the ‘wind’.
We experienced a severe cold spell in December of last year that killed or damaged plants that had been living on this property for many years. A small oak tree that my brother had germinated, nursed along for a year, and then transplanted into my garden was felled by that arctic blast. This was a particularly disappointing loss as he had picked up the acorn during his travels in Portugal/Spain and had brought it back to Oregon. Tragic also was the loss of an olive grove I had planted several years ago. That fall was the first time there were olives to harvest…only a couple of handfuls but enough, nevertheless to preserve. The berry vines were damaged. This latest outbreak of frigid temperatures raises a concern in me for what will be taken or damaged this time around. It is happening earlier this year than last and the trees, shrubs, vines, and grasses are even less dormant than last year. The life has not fully left the veins. There is one difference, which is why I am writing about this now, and that is we are not experiencing the strong penetrating east wind that accompanied last year’s cold. I recall several days of clear sunny skies…and a strong east wind that cut like a knife. Wind chill it is called. The thermometer can read 18 degrees but with a wind the actual experience of cold could be that of a temperature of 5 degrees.
It reminds me of how a number is such a one-dimensional reading of reality. My mother is 89 years old. What does that really say about her? I will be 59 in a few days. What does that tell you about me? Our culture is fascinated and driven by numbers. The Dow-Jones industrial average, unemployment figures, the score of a Trail Blazer game, the dollar figure of our paychecks, insurance premiums, the calendar number of this day; numbers are everywhere and their influence continual, subtle, and powerful in shaping our experience of life. I would prefer to pay more attention to the ‘wind’.
Monday, November 22, 2010
November 22, 2010
It has been a long time since I have written like this, pausing mid-day with a cup of tea and listening; trying to put into some kind of word form what comes to me. I’m not sure why I stopped. I suppose it really does not matter. All I know is that over the past few weeks I have experienced a quiet persistent urge to reconnect with this discipline. I wonder how many other quiet persistent urges live within me…subtle stirrings I am unaware of?
We live and move in this world with such certainty. We like our rhythms and routines. Our cars start most of the time, we travel to and fro without accident, we see our friends and kinfolk, people age and die, babies are born, and on and on and on. But there are the inevitable times when this calm surface is broken like something akin to the cold arctic air mass that is descending upon us this late November day. Slowly it appears on the horizon. Unpredictable. We begin to pay attention. Yes, in this day and age it becomes an instantly huge media event, but even if we could set that aside we can feel the first fingers of the cold just by walking outside for a few minutes.
I am reminded of Esau. He is going about being Esau day after day when suddenly there appears on his horizon a few people bearing gifts and messages of goodwill.
A few people soon turns into a multitude including herds of sheep, cattle, horses, and oxen. There must have been a great accompanying cloud of dust. Esau gathers 400 warriors around him and waits for the unpredictable that is coming his way. He receives the homage intended for him, knowing that at some point soon he will confront his brother who has tricked and betrayed him. Years earlier he wanted to kill his brother. His heart changes over time. When Isaac finally arrives, trembling in his own right and limping after the previous night’s wrestling match, Esau throws his arms around him and welcomes him back.
I go about my day to day and suddenly there is the hint of something happening on the horizon, like Isaac limping forward, I cannot escape its inevitability. I can embrace or kill. Today I choose to embrace the muse of the T@3... she has been walking towards me for quite a while now. I wonder if she is limping?
It has been a long time since I have written like this, pausing mid-day with a cup of tea and listening; trying to put into some kind of word form what comes to me. I’m not sure why I stopped. I suppose it really does not matter. All I know is that over the past few weeks I have experienced a quiet persistent urge to reconnect with this discipline. I wonder how many other quiet persistent urges live within me…subtle stirrings I am unaware of?
We live and move in this world with such certainty. We like our rhythms and routines. Our cars start most of the time, we travel to and fro without accident, we see our friends and kinfolk, people age and die, babies are born, and on and on and on. But there are the inevitable times when this calm surface is broken like something akin to the cold arctic air mass that is descending upon us this late November day. Slowly it appears on the horizon. Unpredictable. We begin to pay attention. Yes, in this day and age it becomes an instantly huge media event, but even if we could set that aside we can feel the first fingers of the cold just by walking outside for a few minutes.
I am reminded of Esau. He is going about being Esau day after day when suddenly there appears on his horizon a few people bearing gifts and messages of goodwill.
A few people soon turns into a multitude including herds of sheep, cattle, horses, and oxen. There must have been a great accompanying cloud of dust. Esau gathers 400 warriors around him and waits for the unpredictable that is coming his way. He receives the homage intended for him, knowing that at some point soon he will confront his brother who has tricked and betrayed him. Years earlier he wanted to kill his brother. His heart changes over time. When Isaac finally arrives, trembling in his own right and limping after the previous night’s wrestling match, Esau throws his arms around him and welcomes him back.
I go about my day to day and suddenly there is the hint of something happening on the horizon, like Isaac limping forward, I cannot escape its inevitability. I can embrace or kill. Today I choose to embrace the muse of the T@3... she has been walking towards me for quite a while now. I wonder if she is limping?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
June 16, 2010
I was outside last night around 10:30 watching the cusped moon set. My attention was drawn to three "stars" moving through the heavens, two moving at right angles to each other and the third forming the third leg of the triangle. My thoughts turned to how patient the ancient skywatchers must have been in order to notice and record the movements of the heavenly bodies.
I was watching three satellites, so easy to discern, their movements so rapid.
We like things to happen quickly. I want the garden to hurry up and grow. This weather is not conducive to the fulfillment of my desire. I want more sun! We elect a new president and we expect instant change. We read the Bible and want some inspiration or guidance NOW. The reality is that the developments in the natural world, culture, ....and the reading experience, are more often akin to the movement of the moon, sun, and stars than to that of our man-made 'stars' that we have launched into the heavens (so that we can communicate more quickly). Patience, a slow steady consistent habit of paying attention, seems to be a value that is being overrun by our insistence on instant change.
Each day is a long unfolding gift. The ancient skywatchers got that. I want to be more like them....
I was outside last night around 10:30 watching the cusped moon set. My attention was drawn to three "stars" moving through the heavens, two moving at right angles to each other and the third forming the third leg of the triangle. My thoughts turned to how patient the ancient skywatchers must have been in order to notice and record the movements of the heavenly bodies.
I was watching three satellites, so easy to discern, their movements so rapid.
We like things to happen quickly. I want the garden to hurry up and grow. This weather is not conducive to the fulfillment of my desire. I want more sun! We elect a new president and we expect instant change. We read the Bible and want some inspiration or guidance NOW. The reality is that the developments in the natural world, culture, ....and the reading experience, are more often akin to the movement of the moon, sun, and stars than to that of our man-made 'stars' that we have launched into the heavens (so that we can communicate more quickly). Patience, a slow steady consistent habit of paying attention, seems to be a value that is being overrun by our insistence on instant change.
Each day is a long unfolding gift. The ancient skywatchers got that. I want to be more like them....
Sunday, May 30, 2010
May 30, 2009
The trees have to be loving this rain. So do the cool weather garden vegetable...onions, peas, lettuce and the brassica family.
I think it must have been 1961, the year of the Cuban missile crisis. Was it '62? I'm not sure.
Anyway, I can remember with intense vividness my father listening to the radio during the day and tuning into Walter Cronkite and the CBS Evening News on the televison at 6pm. for the latest updates. I was 9 or 10 at the time and into a world of play and imagination. I could tell something was bothering dad but I figured he could take care of it. It wasn't until a Sunday afternoon when he led the family out of the house and onto a trail that led to the base of a magnificent gigantic oak tree and there, on the grass in the mottled shade, shared his concern about a potential nuclear war, that the seriousness of the moment began to wedge into my childhood conciousness. I can't remember what he said but I do remember that oak tree. It is still there. I can see it when I drive to my house....way out in the middle of a field. Every time I see it I think of my dad, and that moment in history.
That oak tree is an incredible testimony to endurance. I don't know how old it must be. I would say at least 100 years. I don't know why it wasn't removed so that tractors wouldn't have to drive around it as they worked the field. It hasn't moved an inch since that day in '61 and all the years before. Was it planted there as a seedling or did an acorn simply fall in that particular place, sprout, take root, and grow?
The bible tells us that Abraham sat under the oaks of Mamre. That deserves our attention.
Why would the writer include that detail (the oaks of Mamre)? Why wouldn't he leave that detail out and just get on with what was going on with Abraham? After all, isn't the 'story' more concerned with Abraham than an oak tree?
I'm not so sure.
My dad has been dead for 42 years. That oak tree is still there.
The trees have to be loving this rain. So do the cool weather garden vegetable...onions, peas, lettuce and the brassica family.
I think it must have been 1961, the year of the Cuban missile crisis. Was it '62? I'm not sure.
Anyway, I can remember with intense vividness my father listening to the radio during the day and tuning into Walter Cronkite and the CBS Evening News on the televison at 6pm. for the latest updates. I was 9 or 10 at the time and into a world of play and imagination. I could tell something was bothering dad but I figured he could take care of it. It wasn't until a Sunday afternoon when he led the family out of the house and onto a trail that led to the base of a magnificent gigantic oak tree and there, on the grass in the mottled shade, shared his concern about a potential nuclear war, that the seriousness of the moment began to wedge into my childhood conciousness. I can't remember what he said but I do remember that oak tree. It is still there. I can see it when I drive to my house....way out in the middle of a field. Every time I see it I think of my dad, and that moment in history.
That oak tree is an incredible testimony to endurance. I don't know how old it must be. I would say at least 100 years. I don't know why it wasn't removed so that tractors wouldn't have to drive around it as they worked the field. It hasn't moved an inch since that day in '61 and all the years before. Was it planted there as a seedling or did an acorn simply fall in that particular place, sprout, take root, and grow?
The bible tells us that Abraham sat under the oaks of Mamre. That deserves our attention.
Why would the writer include that detail (the oaks of Mamre)? Why wouldn't he leave that detail out and just get on with what was going on with Abraham? After all, isn't the 'story' more concerned with Abraham than an oak tree?
I'm not so sure.
My dad has been dead for 42 years. That oak tree is still there.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
April 20, 2010
A poem entitled "Yellow" by Mary Oliver
There is the heaven we enter
through institutional grace
and there are the yellow finches bathing and singing
in the lowly puddle.
This is a modern day poem that draws its power through the use of parallelism (a primary thought--lines 1 and 2, deepened by 3 and 4. This technique was used by the biblical poets.
It is so simple and yet so evocative.
I am so grateful for poets...ancient and contemporay and all those in between.
A poem entitled "Yellow" by Mary Oliver
There is the heaven we enter
through institutional grace
and there are the yellow finches bathing and singing
in the lowly puddle.
This is a modern day poem that draws its power through the use of parallelism (a primary thought--lines 1 and 2, deepened by 3 and 4. This technique was used by the biblical poets.
It is so simple and yet so evocative.
I am so grateful for poets...ancient and contemporay and all those in between.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
April 14, 2010
A brief predawn tiptoeing about outside reminds me of the opening words of Psalm 66: "Make a joyful noise to God...." The birds, large and small, sparrow and goose, are certainly complying with the Psalmist's admonition. The pansys, jonquils, and apple blossoms are joining in with their own unique and 'silent' voices. It makes me wonder if every part and aspect of Creation isn't given a particular song to sing...a particular joyful noise to utter. I have a song to sing but am so often overwhelmed by the circumstances of life that it remains muted...buried underneath the necessities of the present day or the weight of reflection.
Can joy be created? Mustered at will? "Make a joyful noise, Jon! It's a beautiful day!"
It doesn't seem to work quite so simply. I envy the trees and the birds at times. Their joyful noise seems so effortless...so natural and unencumbered.
It is a good day to be in the garden. With all of Creation singing the glory of the Creator, how can I keep from singing?
A brief predawn tiptoeing about outside reminds me of the opening words of Psalm 66: "Make a joyful noise to God...." The birds, large and small, sparrow and goose, are certainly complying with the Psalmist's admonition. The pansys, jonquils, and apple blossoms are joining in with their own unique and 'silent' voices. It makes me wonder if every part and aspect of Creation isn't given a particular song to sing...a particular joyful noise to utter. I have a song to sing but am so often overwhelmed by the circumstances of life that it remains muted...buried underneath the necessities of the present day or the weight of reflection.
Can joy be created? Mustered at will? "Make a joyful noise, Jon! It's a beautiful day!"
It doesn't seem to work quite so simply. I envy the trees and the birds at times. Their joyful noise seems so effortless...so natural and unencumbered.
It is a good day to be in the garden. With all of Creation singing the glory of the Creator, how can I keep from singing?
Friday, March 5, 2010
March 5, 2010
There are some fairly substantial man-made bodies of water on my neighbor's property to the northeast of where I live. The past few years several flocks of geese have adopted them as their winter home. Rarely does a day go buy that in which I don't see and hear the wonderful arrays of these majestic honkers flying overhead. This morning's sighting was particularly splendid as the rising sun was gracing their flight. Some hummingbirds have been around all winter as well.
I observed this delicate creature sipping breakfast from the early blooming honeysuckle at the end of the sidewalk and then moving to the flowering cherry tree to lite on a twig to preen. These creatures of the air fill me with wonder. Geese can live as long as 50 years. I don't know what the lifespan of a hummingbird is. I wonder where the hummingbird has been staying at night?
Today I plan to go to the county courthouse in Oregon City to get some 'identity' documents officially replicated. In this place where justice is meted out and records are kept I anticipate feeling some degree of discomfort. Birds will be there, I assume....on plaques and seals throughout the building. Most likely the eagle. It has become the graven image that symbolizes the majesty and power of this country in which I dwell. Perhaps I will approach this 'temple' with the spirit of the goose and the hummingbird...riding the wind of the spirit and avoiding the eagle's threatening glare.
I hope I don't get locked up!!
There are some fairly substantial man-made bodies of water on my neighbor's property to the northeast of where I live. The past few years several flocks of geese have adopted them as their winter home. Rarely does a day go buy that in which I don't see and hear the wonderful arrays of these majestic honkers flying overhead. This morning's sighting was particularly splendid as the rising sun was gracing their flight. Some hummingbirds have been around all winter as well.
I observed this delicate creature sipping breakfast from the early blooming honeysuckle at the end of the sidewalk and then moving to the flowering cherry tree to lite on a twig to preen. These creatures of the air fill me with wonder. Geese can live as long as 50 years. I don't know what the lifespan of a hummingbird is. I wonder where the hummingbird has been staying at night?
Today I plan to go to the county courthouse in Oregon City to get some 'identity' documents officially replicated. In this place where justice is meted out and records are kept I anticipate feeling some degree of discomfort. Birds will be there, I assume....on plaques and seals throughout the building. Most likely the eagle. It has become the graven image that symbolizes the majesty and power of this country in which I dwell. Perhaps I will approach this 'temple' with the spirit of the goose and the hummingbird...riding the wind of the spirit and avoiding the eagle's threatening glare.
I hope I don't get locked up!!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
February 25, 2010
In this post 9/11 world we live in, documented identity has become a central piece in the fight against terrorism. At the same time, the increasingly complex web of electronic information sharing, be it personal or business, has raised the issue of identity theft to new heights. Documented identity is supposed to prove you are who you say you are via birth certificate, marriage certificate, etc. Documented identity was recently ratcheted up a notch with the requirement of a passport to enter Canada. While you must now have a physical document in your hand to enter Canada (assuring border authorities you are who you say you are), at the same time our identity is seeping out, bit by bit, into an expanding pool of electronic based information. I order seeds. The seed house asks for my credit card no. I give it to them. A piece has seeped into the pool. I choose the paperless route to pay the gas bill. My address is required, a phone number, banking account codes...more bits leaked into the pool. Apparently, there are hackers who, like fishermen, are skilled at pulling out a bit from this pool and this is called identity theft. Unlike documented identity, this notion of identity is really just about numbers.
Reducing personal identity to a document or number(s) is essentially a de-humanizing act. It is an example of the triumph of sight over word. "I can't trust who you SAY you are but I can trust what I SEE that tells me who you are." Another way of saying it is : seeing is believing. Biblically, to SEE God is to die. Images of God are strictly forbidden. We approach God and are approached by God through word(s). I don't know where all this leads on this mild late February afternoon except to say that the triumph of image (sight) over word in our culture must have repercussions beyond having to show a document to get into Canada...
In this post 9/11 world we live in, documented identity has become a central piece in the fight against terrorism. At the same time, the increasingly complex web of electronic information sharing, be it personal or business, has raised the issue of identity theft to new heights. Documented identity is supposed to prove you are who you say you are via birth certificate, marriage certificate, etc. Documented identity was recently ratcheted up a notch with the requirement of a passport to enter Canada. While you must now have a physical document in your hand to enter Canada (assuring border authorities you are who you say you are), at the same time our identity is seeping out, bit by bit, into an expanding pool of electronic based information. I order seeds. The seed house asks for my credit card no. I give it to them. A piece has seeped into the pool. I choose the paperless route to pay the gas bill. My address is required, a phone number, banking account codes...more bits leaked into the pool. Apparently, there are hackers who, like fishermen, are skilled at pulling out a bit from this pool and this is called identity theft. Unlike documented identity, this notion of identity is really just about numbers.
Reducing personal identity to a document or number(s) is essentially a de-humanizing act. It is an example of the triumph of sight over word. "I can't trust who you SAY you are but I can trust what I SEE that tells me who you are." Another way of saying it is : seeing is believing. Biblically, to SEE God is to die. Images of God are strictly forbidden. We approach God and are approached by God through word(s). I don't know where all this leads on this mild late February afternoon except to say that the triumph of image (sight) over word in our culture must have repercussions beyond having to show a document to get into Canada...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
February 11, 2010
Natural revelation and special revelation are two terms that in a theological context refer to God and in particular how he is revealed. I don't know very much about these terms. I have just come in to have a cup of tea after pruning the Braeburn apple tree I planted several years ago. If I said that God revealed himself to me while pruning the apple tree would that be natural or special revelation? What constitutes a revelation? Does it have to be a dramatic event that is recorded? (Moses and the burning bush; Paul's conversion experience, etc.) Or can it be a very small thing? (the miracle of swelling apple buds, two blue jays scolding and frolicking in the wet grass under the pear tree, etc.) Does revelation require an observer? "Day to day pours forth speech (dahbar, God's creative word)..." the psalmist asserts. I assume this is natural revelation but isn't it also very specific and what makes it less special than what happens with Moses or Paul? I guess what I'm getting at is the fact I am not very familiar or comfortable with these terms that show up in some of the reading I do. I would like to understand a little better why these terms are important. What is at stake in making the distinction between natural and special revelation? For that matter, why am I even thinking about it?!!
Aha! that last question is the one I will follow. My intuition tells me it has something to do with my exploration of what is meant by the phrase, The fear of the Lord.
Well, there is some corn stubble out there in the garden that needs to be cleaned off and a pear tree to be pruned and my cup of tea is empty. I guess I'll get back to revelations....
Natural revelation and special revelation are two terms that in a theological context refer to God and in particular how he is revealed. I don't know very much about these terms. I have just come in to have a cup of tea after pruning the Braeburn apple tree I planted several years ago. If I said that God revealed himself to me while pruning the apple tree would that be natural or special revelation? What constitutes a revelation? Does it have to be a dramatic event that is recorded? (Moses and the burning bush; Paul's conversion experience, etc.) Or can it be a very small thing? (the miracle of swelling apple buds, two blue jays scolding and frolicking in the wet grass under the pear tree, etc.) Does revelation require an observer? "Day to day pours forth speech (dahbar, God's creative word)..." the psalmist asserts. I assume this is natural revelation but isn't it also very specific and what makes it less special than what happens with Moses or Paul? I guess what I'm getting at is the fact I am not very familiar or comfortable with these terms that show up in some of the reading I do. I would like to understand a little better why these terms are important. What is at stake in making the distinction between natural and special revelation? For that matter, why am I even thinking about it?!!
Aha! that last question is the one I will follow. My intuition tells me it has something to do with my exploration of what is meant by the phrase, The fear of the Lord.
Well, there is some corn stubble out there in the garden that needs to be cleaned off and a pear tree to be pruned and my cup of tea is empty. I guess I'll get back to revelations....
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
February 10, 2010
Rain is forecast to roll in this afternoon, the heavenly waters bathing the awakening roots of spring.....and filling once again the potholes in my lane! They have become hazardous. Driving the lane feels like skiing a slalom course.
This morning I took on the persona of a chain gang member, shouldering shovel, pick, and rake, I began the the laborious task of 'road repairs'. It seems my lane has fallen outside the umbrella of stimulus dollars. No money in this work. Just pick and shovel and old chain gang tunes recalled from memory. It is work that will never end. The rains will come. New 'soft spots' will develop.
There are other things I do in life that are dull, repetitive, and sap my strength. It's been that way ever since I first entered the berry fields as a 6 year old. There is nothing romantic or uplifting about this toil. It is simply what I find myself doing at times. My inner boss comes on to the stage and says, "Come on, Jon, it's pick and shovel time. Get going!" There isn't even anyone to watch me perform!
I am not lamenting or complaining...just acknowledging and being aware of this part of the reality of my life.
Rain is forecast to roll in this afternoon, the heavenly waters bathing the awakening roots of spring.....and filling once again the potholes in my lane! They have become hazardous. Driving the lane feels like skiing a slalom course.
This morning I took on the persona of a chain gang member, shouldering shovel, pick, and rake, I began the the laborious task of 'road repairs'. It seems my lane has fallen outside the umbrella of stimulus dollars. No money in this work. Just pick and shovel and old chain gang tunes recalled from memory. It is work that will never end. The rains will come. New 'soft spots' will develop.
There are other things I do in life that are dull, repetitive, and sap my strength. It's been that way ever since I first entered the berry fields as a 6 year old. There is nothing romantic or uplifting about this toil. It is simply what I find myself doing at times. My inner boss comes on to the stage and says, "Come on, Jon, it's pick and shovel time. Get going!" There isn't even anyone to watch me perform!
I am not lamenting or complaining...just acknowledging and being aware of this part of the reality of my life.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
February 9, 2010
The sun has finally burned away the fog cloud blanket. I didn't know if it would do so today. I am loving this El Nino weather pattern. It has allowed me to jump start the commencement of the 2010 garden season by about three weeks.
And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. (Genesis 2: 8-9; KJV)
The center of the garden is fraught with danger. It is at the center where the 'fateful' encounter between Eve and the Serpent plays out.
And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush; and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed. And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush in not burnt. And when the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I. (Exodus 3:2-4; KJV)
The flaming center of the bush is the source of God's voice....the center of holy ground. It is a place of consuming white hot heat. Moses dares not get too close to the center.
Having driven a steak in the center of the garden I steward, I now eye that place with greater reverence. I walk by it carefully. While it's true that the center stake is purely artificial, it invites me to reflect on the question: What is at the center? Is it sacred? Dangerous? It helps me understand the minds of the ancients a little better. They wanted to raise a pole at the center and dance around it. They wanted to erect their shrines and temples at the center. They felt the Holy was found at the center and considered it a place of danger...the dwelling place of the god(s).
These musings are helping me formulate and shape the direction of my next public presentation: The fear of the Lord.....
The sun has finally burned away the fog cloud blanket. I didn't know if it would do so today. I am loving this El Nino weather pattern. It has allowed me to jump start the commencement of the 2010 garden season by about three weeks.
And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. (Genesis 2: 8-9; KJV)
The center of the garden is fraught with danger. It is at the center where the 'fateful' encounter between Eve and the Serpent plays out.
And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush; and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed. And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush in not burnt. And when the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I. (Exodus 3:2-4; KJV)
The flaming center of the bush is the source of God's voice....the center of holy ground. It is a place of consuming white hot heat. Moses dares not get too close to the center.
Having driven a steak in the center of the garden I steward, I now eye that place with greater reverence. I walk by it carefully. While it's true that the center stake is purely artificial, it invites me to reflect on the question: What is at the center? Is it sacred? Dangerous? It helps me understand the minds of the ancients a little better. They wanted to raise a pole at the center and dance around it. They wanted to erect their shrines and temples at the center. They felt the Holy was found at the center and considered it a place of danger...the dwelling place of the god(s).
These musings are helping me formulate and shape the direction of my next public presentation: The fear of the Lord.....
Friday, February 5, 2010
February 5, 2010
Ezekiel's vision of the Temple begins with chapter 40. It is quite an experience to read 40 and following. Why this obsession with architecture, layout, and specific details? It creates a confusing picture in my mind...gates here, chambers there, posts of a certain height, doors, courts, etc. What's going on?
Minimally, and perhaps most significantly, it is an ordering of sacred space, not unlike the discoveries of late 19th and 20th century cultural anthropologists who studied 'primitive' cultures. One of my favorites, the recently deceased Claude Levi-Strauss, studied the layout of a village and related it to the structure of the language spoken. He asserted that language and the ordering of space shared a common structure.
My interest is in finding the center...the center of the village, the center of the temple, the center of language. My hypothesis is that the center is the place of the most sacred. This is part of my preparation for the next 'lecture' I am working on. I am exploring the phrase: The fear of the Lord. My thoughts and reflections are beginning to organize themselves but it still feels like Ezekiel 40.
What I'm going to do today is find the center of the property I steward and drive a steak...raise and Ebenezer!! I wonder if I will learn anything from that experience?
I think I will....
Ezekiel's vision of the Temple begins with chapter 40. It is quite an experience to read 40 and following. Why this obsession with architecture, layout, and specific details? It creates a confusing picture in my mind...gates here, chambers there, posts of a certain height, doors, courts, etc. What's going on?
Minimally, and perhaps most significantly, it is an ordering of sacred space, not unlike the discoveries of late 19th and 20th century cultural anthropologists who studied 'primitive' cultures. One of my favorites, the recently deceased Claude Levi-Strauss, studied the layout of a village and related it to the structure of the language spoken. He asserted that language and the ordering of space shared a common structure.
My interest is in finding the center...the center of the village, the center of the temple, the center of language. My hypothesis is that the center is the place of the most sacred. This is part of my preparation for the next 'lecture' I am working on. I am exploring the phrase: The fear of the Lord. My thoughts and reflections are beginning to organize themselves but it still feels like Ezekiel 40.
What I'm going to do today is find the center of the property I steward and drive a steak...raise and Ebenezer!! I wonder if I will learn anything from that experience?
I think I will....
Thursday, February 4, 2010
February 4, 2010
I did a lot of hitch hiking in my early 20's. While I was living at Harvard, vacation times (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter) were difficult for me. I didn't have money to fly home and all my friends were gone so I had to come up with cheap alternatives. I hitched down to D.C over one spring break to be a spectator at one of the huge anti-war demonstrations that were occuring. (early '70's).
I had an older brother living in Ontario, Canada at that time and one Thanksgiving break I decided to visit him. I had enough money to fly from Boston to Toronto. He lived in Exeter, a couple hundred miles to the west. I got into Toronto about midnight and took a bus downtown.
It was raining and cold. I got a map and figured out what road I needed to get on and stuck out my thumb. It must have been 2am when someone finally picked me up. In the course of the ride I found out that he had recently been released from a federal prison in upstate New York. We talked the whole way and he was kind enough to go out of his way to drop me off at my exact destination point.
When I look back on that experience I am so amazed that I felt no fear. Here I was, alone, late at night, riding in a car with a complete stranger--an ex con-- and all I felt was this wonderful sense of adventure. I guess it was my naivite.
What a fearful world we live in today...It causes me to stop and wonder what is going on? Am I still naive?
I did a lot of hitch hiking in my early 20's. While I was living at Harvard, vacation times (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter) were difficult for me. I didn't have money to fly home and all my friends were gone so I had to come up with cheap alternatives. I hitched down to D.C over one spring break to be a spectator at one of the huge anti-war demonstrations that were occuring. (early '70's).
I had an older brother living in Ontario, Canada at that time and one Thanksgiving break I decided to visit him. I had enough money to fly from Boston to Toronto. He lived in Exeter, a couple hundred miles to the west. I got into Toronto about midnight and took a bus downtown.
It was raining and cold. I got a map and figured out what road I needed to get on and stuck out my thumb. It must have been 2am when someone finally picked me up. In the course of the ride I found out that he had recently been released from a federal prison in upstate New York. We talked the whole way and he was kind enough to go out of his way to drop me off at my exact destination point.
When I look back on that experience I am so amazed that I felt no fear. Here I was, alone, late at night, riding in a car with a complete stranger--an ex con-- and all I felt was this wonderful sense of adventure. I guess it was my naivite.
What a fearful world we live in today...It causes me to stop and wonder what is going on? Am I still naive?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
February 3, 2010
Computer issues have taken me away from the blogging routine I was getting into. Things are getting more back to normal, although some data recovery work from 'crashed' hardrive has yet to be completed.
My mother is recovering from a nasty case of eczema which was compounded by her tendency to scratch herself every time she was experiencing some anxiety. The first hour of the day is most difficult for her. She is much disoriented. Doesn't know what day it is and wants to know all that is going to happen. She will shuffle down to my study and scratch as I write out the events of the day on a whiteboard. The cortisone cream and the prednisone treatment the doctor prescribed seem to be working. The inflammation is clearing up. The anxiety remains. I do not know if there is a direct causal link between anxiety and eczema but it would make sense, with scrathcing being the 'transmitter'.
We scratch where it itches. Sometimes we scratch just to scratch, perhaps to create an itch so we have something to scratch! It feels good to scratch. I have an itch to sow some pea seeds today...to scratch the soil, the skin of Mother Earth.
Computer issues have taken me away from the blogging routine I was getting into. Things are getting more back to normal, although some data recovery work from 'crashed' hardrive has yet to be completed.
My mother is recovering from a nasty case of eczema which was compounded by her tendency to scratch herself every time she was experiencing some anxiety. The first hour of the day is most difficult for her. She is much disoriented. Doesn't know what day it is and wants to know all that is going to happen. She will shuffle down to my study and scratch as I write out the events of the day on a whiteboard. The cortisone cream and the prednisone treatment the doctor prescribed seem to be working. The inflammation is clearing up. The anxiety remains. I do not know if there is a direct causal link between anxiety and eczema but it would make sense, with scrathcing being the 'transmitter'.
We scratch where it itches. Sometimes we scratch just to scratch, perhaps to create an itch so we have something to scratch! It feels good to scratch. I have an itch to sow some pea seeds today...to scratch the soil, the skin of Mother Earth.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
January 21, 2010
Fourty-seven years ago I received a book in the mail from my Aunt Kate. She was living on a farm in Ohio at the time. It was a ‘fat’ hardcover book. I believe it was the first book that was truly my own--the start of my personal library. There were many books in our house, especially in dad’s study. I loved spending time there. It was my first encounter with Bonhoeffer, Trueblood, and J.B. Phillips. I liked to read the parts that dad had underlined and the comments he scratched in the margins. Dad must have noticed me ‘reading’ The Cost of Discipleship and directed me to another shelf (I would have been 9 or 10 at the time). True stories of man-eating leopards and tigers set in India, Kon Tiki, Dry Guillotine, and The Count of Monte Cristo are what come to mind. While more accessible to my young mind, they were still a over my head. Now, on that special day I received my very own book from Aunt Kate.
Last night I received a phone call from her eldest son asking me to speak at her funeral and granting me license to work with the message in a manner that freed me from the constrictions I expressed in yesterday’s blog. I felt great relief. I went to the shelf in my library and pulled out that book Kate had given me so long ago….the first book that I remember reading from cover to cover that truly gripped me. I’m going to read it again. Nobody’s Boy by Hector Henri Malot. Inside the front cover in her own neat handwriting she wrote: To Jon---“somebody’s boy” –Auntie Kate’s. 1963. It’s that apostrophe s at the end of her name that I never noticed until last night. It brought tears to my eyes. Such a small expression of love that continues to have life even now that she is gone.
Fourty-seven years ago I received a book in the mail from my Aunt Kate. She was living on a farm in Ohio at the time. It was a ‘fat’ hardcover book. I believe it was the first book that was truly my own--the start of my personal library. There were many books in our house, especially in dad’s study. I loved spending time there. It was my first encounter with Bonhoeffer, Trueblood, and J.B. Phillips. I liked to read the parts that dad had underlined and the comments he scratched in the margins. Dad must have noticed me ‘reading’ The Cost of Discipleship and directed me to another shelf (I would have been 9 or 10 at the time). True stories of man-eating leopards and tigers set in India, Kon Tiki, Dry Guillotine, and The Count of Monte Cristo are what come to mind. While more accessible to my young mind, they were still a over my head. Now, on that special day I received my very own book from Aunt Kate.
Last night I received a phone call from her eldest son asking me to speak at her funeral and granting me license to work with the message in a manner that freed me from the constrictions I expressed in yesterday’s blog. I felt great relief. I went to the shelf in my library and pulled out that book Kate had given me so long ago….the first book that I remember reading from cover to cover that truly gripped me. I’m going to read it again. Nobody’s Boy by Hector Henri Malot. Inside the front cover in her own neat handwriting she wrote: To Jon---“somebody’s boy” –Auntie Kate’s. 1963. It’s that apostrophe s at the end of her name that I never noticed until last night. It brought tears to my eyes. Such a small expression of love that continues to have life even now that she is gone.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
January 20, 2010
On April 28, 2002 my aunt Kate gave my brother Chris written instructions for her funeral, part of which read: Jon: Preach 15-20 minute succinct sermon on salvation, heaven and hell choice and “Thank God for Salvation” John 3:16. Kate died yesterday afternoon.
Kate was my father’s sister, youngest in a family of seven, and the last of the siblings to pass away. I don’t know if funeral plans have changed since April 28, 2002, if she revised, updated, or simply forgot about it, but there is a chance I will be asked to preach that “15-20 minute succinct sermon”. I think I know the kinds of things that Kate would want me to say. I could look in her father’s sermon notes, from which the phrase “Thank God for Salvation” comes, and dig out material to use.
It’s a strange thing to have someone ask you to preach at their funeral and then instruct you on what to talk about. Am I to be “Kate’s voice”….what she might want to say from the other side?
Well, perhaps I won’t be asked to speak. Plans might have changed.
I will miss Kate.
On April 28, 2002 my aunt Kate gave my brother Chris written instructions for her funeral, part of which read: Jon: Preach 15-20 minute succinct sermon on salvation, heaven and hell choice and “Thank God for Salvation” John 3:16. Kate died yesterday afternoon.
Kate was my father’s sister, youngest in a family of seven, and the last of the siblings to pass away. I don’t know if funeral plans have changed since April 28, 2002, if she revised, updated, or simply forgot about it, but there is a chance I will be asked to preach that “15-20 minute succinct sermon”. I think I know the kinds of things that Kate would want me to say. I could look in her father’s sermon notes, from which the phrase “Thank God for Salvation” comes, and dig out material to use.
It’s a strange thing to have someone ask you to preach at their funeral and then instruct you on what to talk about. Am I to be “Kate’s voice”….what she might want to say from the other side?
Well, perhaps I won’t be asked to speak. Plans might have changed.
I will miss Kate.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
January 19, 2010
I remember much playing in my childhood. Fantastic worlds I imagined and lived in. Alfafa fields, the ancient apple orchard, and the old barn were stages for civil war battles, western cowboy action, detective fantasies, and outdoor monopoly. As I grew older my play became less fantastic but continued. Long exploratory walks along the banks of Rock Creek, baseball, and basketball were the arenas in which my imagination now had its way. Immigrating to Canada had a playful imaginative dimension. I was a part of the great hippie back to the land movement. When children came on the scene I played with them. While market gardening was much hard work it always had a playful element about it. I was farming! No longer tinker toy machinery plowing, sowing, and reaping the living room fields but nevertheless the pleasure of tilling, planting, and harvesting in ‘real’ soil was very imaginative and gratifying. Making money was fun. It wasn’t monopoly money anymore but the feel of cash in the hand touched the same center of playful pleasure.
My playfulness went underground when I became a pastor, but did not disappear. Without my sense of play I would not have lasted as long as I did as a pastor (12 years).
I know there are books written about the importance of play. I haven’t read them. I just know that God delights in play. It is the ground out of which creation springs.
I remember much playing in my childhood. Fantastic worlds I imagined and lived in. Alfafa fields, the ancient apple orchard, and the old barn were stages for civil war battles, western cowboy action, detective fantasies, and outdoor monopoly. As I grew older my play became less fantastic but continued. Long exploratory walks along the banks of Rock Creek, baseball, and basketball were the arenas in which my imagination now had its way. Immigrating to Canada had a playful imaginative dimension. I was a part of the great hippie back to the land movement. When children came on the scene I played with them. While market gardening was much hard work it always had a playful element about it. I was farming! No longer tinker toy machinery plowing, sowing, and reaping the living room fields but nevertheless the pleasure of tilling, planting, and harvesting in ‘real’ soil was very imaginative and gratifying. Making money was fun. It wasn’t monopoly money anymore but the feel of cash in the hand touched the same center of playful pleasure.
My playfulness went underground when I became a pastor, but did not disappear. Without my sense of play I would not have lasted as long as I did as a pastor (12 years).
I know there are books written about the importance of play. I haven’t read them. I just know that God delights in play. It is the ground out of which creation springs.
Friday, January 15, 2010
January 15, 2010
I have an older brother who lives in Saskatchewan. The Vietnam War was instrumental in planting him on Canadian soil. He is a gardener. With his son’s help he has been operating a successful market garden for many years. The garden is on the edge of town, Rosthern, within city limits. He was recently honored as Rosthern’s citizen of the year. You see, Eric is the town gardener. He sweeps sidewalks. Shovels snow in winter, rakes leaves in fall, plants, waters, and weeds during the growing season. He does all of this early in the morning…before most folks are up. He is shy and does not want to be noticed. Apparently enough people became aware of who was keeping the town groomed and florated (ha! I think I invented a word!) that they decided to bring him fully into the public eye with this recognition award.
According to John’s Gospel, Mary, turning away from the empty tomb, sees Jesus and mistakes him for the gardener. I’ve often wondered what it was about him that planted this instantaneous conclusion into Mary’s mind? Was he grooming the garden? Had he a few flowers in his hand…olive blossoms?
I have an older brother who lives in Saskatchewan. The Vietnam War was instrumental in planting him on Canadian soil. He is a gardener. With his son’s help he has been operating a successful market garden for many years. The garden is on the edge of town, Rosthern, within city limits. He was recently honored as Rosthern’s citizen of the year. You see, Eric is the town gardener. He sweeps sidewalks. Shovels snow in winter, rakes leaves in fall, plants, waters, and weeds during the growing season. He does all of this early in the morning…before most folks are up. He is shy and does not want to be noticed. Apparently enough people became aware of who was keeping the town groomed and florated (ha! I think I invented a word!) that they decided to bring him fully into the public eye with this recognition award.
According to John’s Gospel, Mary, turning away from the empty tomb, sees Jesus and mistakes him for the gardener. I’ve often wondered what it was about him that planted this instantaneous conclusion into Mary’s mind? Was he grooming the garden? Had he a few flowers in his hand…olive blossoms?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
January 14, 2010
Many years ago, perhaps 20, I attended a pastor’s conference on the campus of Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg, Virginia. I found out over lunch that I was not the only representative from west of the Mississippi. His name was Paul and he was the pastor of a small church in Corvallis, Oregon. We hit it off and stayed in touch once we got back to Oregon. I remember Paul this morning as I read the news of the devastation in Haiti. At the time I first met him, he had a daughter who was living in Haiti doing volunteer work. I remember him relating how dangerous it was and how he was concerned for her safety but also how proud he was of her servant’s heart.
I cannot imagine this still morning what it must be like on that island that once held the title “Flower of the Caribbean” but I’m sure there are many volunteers like Paul’s daughter who are now caught up in the aftermath of the earthquake and probably some who were injured or killed. Their lives are of no greater value than the impoverished Haitian but they do provide for me a thin thread of connection to the events unfolding.
Memory….woven into the present.
Many years ago, perhaps 20, I attended a pastor’s conference on the campus of Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg, Virginia. I found out over lunch that I was not the only representative from west of the Mississippi. His name was Paul and he was the pastor of a small church in Corvallis, Oregon. We hit it off and stayed in touch once we got back to Oregon. I remember Paul this morning as I read the news of the devastation in Haiti. At the time I first met him, he had a daughter who was living in Haiti doing volunteer work. I remember him relating how dangerous it was and how he was concerned for her safety but also how proud he was of her servant’s heart.
I cannot imagine this still morning what it must be like on that island that once held the title “Flower of the Caribbean” but I’m sure there are many volunteers like Paul’s daughter who are now caught up in the aftermath of the earthquake and probably some who were injured or killed. Their lives are of no greater value than the impoverished Haitian but they do provide for me a thin thread of connection to the events unfolding.
Memory….woven into the present.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
January 13, 2021
The Oregonian headline reminds me of the Tsunami that hit Indonesia a few years ago. Haiti, the poorest country in the western hemisphere, is largely ignored by folks until there is a tragedy. The details of death and destruction will carve out a sizeable width in the media band wave over the subsequent days until the public interest wanes or the next big thing comes along.
I am struck with how easy it is to turn our eyes away from poverty, a much deeper and more sinister tragedy than an earthquake, and yet so easily gaze upon the horrific destruction of an earthquake.
There will be stories of courage and heroism. Aid will pour in. The streets and buildings will be cleaned up. The dead buried. And the poverty remain….Lazarus begging for a crumb from the rich man’s table.
The Oregonian headline reminds me of the Tsunami that hit Indonesia a few years ago. Haiti, the poorest country in the western hemisphere, is largely ignored by folks until there is a tragedy. The details of death and destruction will carve out a sizeable width in the media band wave over the subsequent days until the public interest wanes or the next big thing comes along.
I am struck with how easy it is to turn our eyes away from poverty, a much deeper and more sinister tragedy than an earthquake, and yet so easily gaze upon the horrific destruction of an earthquake.
There will be stories of courage and heroism. Aid will pour in. The streets and buildings will be cleaned up. The dead buried. And the poverty remain….Lazarus begging for a crumb from the rich man’s table.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
January 12, 2010
Mild air has come in from off of the Pacific Ocean, warming the beginning of this day.
Yesterday the swollen buds on magnolia tree showed their first seam of white. A winter honeysuckle bush is starting to bloom. Narcissus are thrusting their green swords upward. Iris foliage has come alive.
Other parts of the world are in winter’s frigid grip and we may yet experience another spell or two of artic air but not today. Today is a day to relax a little and breathe. That is a way of expressing gratitude.
Mild air has come in from off of the Pacific Ocean, warming the beginning of this day.
Yesterday the swollen buds on magnolia tree showed their first seam of white. A winter honeysuckle bush is starting to bloom. Narcissus are thrusting their green swords upward. Iris foliage has come alive.
Other parts of the world are in winter’s frigid grip and we may yet experience another spell or two of artic air but not today. Today is a day to relax a little and breathe. That is a way of expressing gratitude.
Monday, January 11, 2010
January 11, 2010
My 88 year old mother, who is slowly losing her mental faculties, is having trouble with the year 2010. She is having trouble writing the actual number. A few days ago she came to me in frustrated confusion, checkbook in hand, and asked if I could help her write out a couple of checks. I looked at several discarded attempts and could clearly see that she was struggling to write in the date. “Just think twenty ten, mom.” I said, trying to help her.
I remember when windshield wiper fluid began to come onto the market. Before the advent of the automatic ‘spurt’ on to the windshield, one would actually have to stop and get out of the car and manually wipe down the windshield with this wonder product. It was amazing how it would take the glare off of the windshield, especially helpful in rainy wet night driving conditions. I recall the product name….20/10. I don’t know what those numbers refer to.
It seems that memory formation consists of a continual grafting and memory loss a continual pruning.
2010 the year…20/10 the wiper fluid now grafted together in my memory. What day is it? What year?...an orientation in time pruned from my mother’s memory.
For everything there is a season….
My 88 year old mother, who is slowly losing her mental faculties, is having trouble with the year 2010. She is having trouble writing the actual number. A few days ago she came to me in frustrated confusion, checkbook in hand, and asked if I could help her write out a couple of checks. I looked at several discarded attempts and could clearly see that she was struggling to write in the date. “Just think twenty ten, mom.” I said, trying to help her.
I remember when windshield wiper fluid began to come onto the market. Before the advent of the automatic ‘spurt’ on to the windshield, one would actually have to stop and get out of the car and manually wipe down the windshield with this wonder product. It was amazing how it would take the glare off of the windshield, especially helpful in rainy wet night driving conditions. I recall the product name….20/10. I don’t know what those numbers refer to.
It seems that memory formation consists of a continual grafting and memory loss a continual pruning.
2010 the year…20/10 the wiper fluid now grafted together in my memory. What day is it? What year?...an orientation in time pruned from my mother’s memory.
For everything there is a season….
Friday, January 8, 2010
January 8, 2009 Epiphany
I have a friend who lives on the edge economically. Not too long ago he found himself tipping over that precipice from the weight of unexpected expenses. He told me that he lined all his bills out on the table, turned his pant pockets inside out, and prayed to God.
The next day he received a check in the mail for $800 from Sociable Insecurity (as he is fond of calling it). This was almost exactly the amount he needed to cover his debts.
We grow up with these kinds of stories. They are wonderful….and dangerous. Their wonder lies in the affirmation of faith. “See, there really is a God! He really does care. Look what he did!” Their danger lies in making God small, reduced by the limits of our imagination. What if my friend had not received the money? What if the next day in the mail he received another bill? Would that mean that God doesn’t care? It is dangerous to predicate faith on this kind of ‘testing’.
This morning I am struck with how both wonder and danger are attributes of God that the Old Testament writers did not shy away from. To see God is to be destroyed! The presence of God is a like a consuming fire. His presence is also characterized by love. I am in awe.
I have a friend who lives on the edge economically. Not too long ago he found himself tipping over that precipice from the weight of unexpected expenses. He told me that he lined all his bills out on the table, turned his pant pockets inside out, and prayed to God.
The next day he received a check in the mail for $800 from Sociable Insecurity (as he is fond of calling it). This was almost exactly the amount he needed to cover his debts.
We grow up with these kinds of stories. They are wonderful….and dangerous. Their wonder lies in the affirmation of faith. “See, there really is a God! He really does care. Look what he did!” Their danger lies in making God small, reduced by the limits of our imagination. What if my friend had not received the money? What if the next day in the mail he received another bill? Would that mean that God doesn’t care? It is dangerous to predicate faith on this kind of ‘testing’.
This morning I am struck with how both wonder and danger are attributes of God that the Old Testament writers did not shy away from. To see God is to be destroyed! The presence of God is a like a consuming fire. His presence is also characterized by love. I am in awe.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
January 7, 2010
My mother’s maiden name is Wenger. Military records, I am told by my brother, the family archivist, show a certain Wenger enlisted in the Army of the Confederate States of America led by General Robert E. Lee. I believe he served in the Division led by Stonewall Jackson, the General who would not march on Sundays, but set that day aside to read his bible. The rest of the week he would go to war.
The Wengers are a huge family. The story is also told of a Wenger who hid in the crawlspace under the house when the Army of the Potomac came marching up the Shenandoah Valley on the way to Gettysburg.
I think of these two men this morning. Depending upon one’s perspective, one would be considered a coward and the other a servant. Or, perhaps one would be considered a mis-guided fool and the other a courageous resistor. War is a terrible thing. Human life should not be treated so inhumanely and yet it continues….
This morning, in the still gray peace of this beginning day, I feel the presence of both of my very distant Virginia ‘cousins’. How much the world has changed since their day…and how much it has remained the same.
My mother’s maiden name is Wenger. Military records, I am told by my brother, the family archivist, show a certain Wenger enlisted in the Army of the Confederate States of America led by General Robert E. Lee. I believe he served in the Division led by Stonewall Jackson, the General who would not march on Sundays, but set that day aside to read his bible. The rest of the week he would go to war.
The Wengers are a huge family. The story is also told of a Wenger who hid in the crawlspace under the house when the Army of the Potomac came marching up the Shenandoah Valley on the way to Gettysburg.
I think of these two men this morning. Depending upon one’s perspective, one would be considered a coward and the other a servant. Or, perhaps one would be considered a mis-guided fool and the other a courageous resistor. War is a terrible thing. Human life should not be treated so inhumanely and yet it continues….
This morning, in the still gray peace of this beginning day, I feel the presence of both of my very distant Virginia ‘cousins’. How much the world has changed since their day…and how much it has remained the same.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
January 6, 2010
I’ve been spending time planting garden the past few days. It is a sowing ‘in the mind’ and on paper…very pure in a certain sense. No weeding, watering, moles, or cats complicating the endeavor. Just some graphing paper, seed catalogues and a cup of tea. The seed catalogue is the authoritative text. It is different than reading the bible in many ways. Description, days to maturity, optimal growing conditions…it’s all laid out with numbers and certainties. But on one level it is very similar. It engages the imagination.
I will spend time with both ‘texts’ today…and be grateful.
I’ve been spending time planting garden the past few days. It is a sowing ‘in the mind’ and on paper…very pure in a certain sense. No weeding, watering, moles, or cats complicating the endeavor. Just some graphing paper, seed catalogues and a cup of tea. The seed catalogue is the authoritative text. It is different than reading the bible in many ways. Description, days to maturity, optimal growing conditions…it’s all laid out with numbers and certainties. But on one level it is very similar. It engages the imagination.
I will spend time with both ‘texts’ today…and be grateful.
Monday, January 4, 2010
I haven't posted anything for a while. It has given me room to think about what actually goes on with a blog. To 'post' something requires the assumption that there are folks out there in the 'electronic world' who would actually read it. But deeper than that is the assumption that I have something to say that would merit someone else taking the time to read it. It's like waking up in the morning and saying, "Hey, listen to what I have to say!" To take the time to reflect and post something presumes the acknowledgment that there are people interested. That is a sobering realisation for me.
But, damn it! I do have something to say! So, I'm going to say it through this blog. Not out of hubris or neediness but simply out of a sense that God has gifted me with certain talents, one of which is blogging! I am abandoning the response to the Oregonian headline and simply commiting to what in former times was a "Morning Prayer". I will wake up and post to the world......but especially to the 4 followers that I see I have.
But, damn it! I do have something to say! So, I'm going to say it through this blog. Not out of hubris or neediness but simply out of a sense that God has gifted me with certain talents, one of which is blogging! I am abandoning the response to the Oregonian headline and simply commiting to what in former times was a "Morning Prayer". I will wake up and post to the world......but especially to the 4 followers that I see I have.
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