T@3

2011-05-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

5/17/2011

This posting is directed to my clientele who are receiving vegetables. Several of you have asked me how I use the veggies. The first thing I do is sit down with a cup of tea and 'google' the particular veggie in question. Tons or recipes on line! Ok, let's go through your box. Lettuce/salads. Bok choi (chinese cabbage): Here's my favorite preparation. Separate stem from leaves. Chop both piles into 1 inch chuncks. In a wok or large frying pan I add a couple TBS's of oil, chopped garlic (I like garlic so I throw in at least 2 TBS) and about half a teaspoon of red pepper flakes. My intent is to infuse the oil with garlic/pepper flavor. If my wok is good and hot this takes about 30 seconds. Then I add the chopped stems and stir for a minute or so and then the chopped greens for another 30 seconds. Splash in soy sauce to taste. Finished! This can be expanded into a larger stir fry using other veggies. I love red pepper, onions, carrots, etc. in this dish. You could also add some cubed pineapple if you like sweet.

The Tah Tsai can be treated in a similar manner but it cooks much more quickly and really condenses. I prefer the Tah Tsai raw. I use it in salads.

The arugula can be used in salads as well but my favorite is to add it to a bowl of cooked pasta. Stir it in when the pasta is finished, drained, and still hot. The heat will wilt it. Add parmesan cheese and serve. It can also be tossed into a soup (again, at the very end...it doesn't need to be cooked. It has a wonderful nutty flavor.

You know what to do with scallions and cilantro. Some folks have an aversion to cilantro. It used to turn me off but I have come to love it.

2011-02-28T16:27:00.000-08:00

February 28, 2011

My oldest daughter, a high school English teacher, is considering furthering her education at McGill University in Montreal, Quebec. I had the opportunity over the weekend to converse with her about what course of study she wants to pursue and she told me that she is interested in how gender identity is influenced by educational curriculum, text books, and classroom management. She told me an interesting story which helped me understand a little better what she is getting in to. She recently gave her students a creative writing assignment that required them to express their feelings, among other things. She said that all of her girl students completed the assignment successfully but only one boy turned in the assignment. When she asked the boys why they had such a problem with the assignment, one brave lad responded that they were concerned about appearing gay. This surprised me in two ways. I had assumed that gay culture would be no big deal to kids in this day and age. Secondly, and more deeply, I was astonished that these boys felt so strongly that a particular kind of writing (expressing feelings) is associated with being gay.

Where does that come from? It has caused me to reflect on gender identity. I didn’t know the gender of my daughter before she was born (none of my children for that matter). I remember my first concern upon her birth was “Is she ok?”…the birth was induced and the labour was long and difficult and I was very anxious that daughter and mother would be healthy and safe at the end of it. My second thought was: boy or girl? I really had no preference but I did want to know.

Many of these students in my daughter’s English class will be mothers and fathers soon and I doubt if the gender question will carry the same meaning it did for me? Will they look at the newborn and think: Well, it appears to be a boy but what does that really mean? Is he gay? Will this initial confusion about gender identity influence how the child is raised.

My point is not to weigh in on the whole homosexual conversation that obsesses a significant part of our culture but to simply recognize that these young folks seem to have a more complicated world to navigate in than I did at their age. If a sophomore boy is unwilling to write about feelings for fear of being type-cast as gay what is he doing with his feelings? That concerns me on some level.

I like tea. Am I gay?!!

I feel for these kids and hope my daughter can make a contribution to helping them with their fears and confusion….through her current work as well as that which may lie ahead of her.

2011-01-26T15:42:00.000-08:00

January 26, 2011

March has been trying to poke its head through this past week. It made it a few times! But not today. That January sun just isn’t high enough to burn through this fog. For a few hours during the March ‘breakout’ I felt the pull of the garden soil on my spirit. Part of the garden takes the form of raised beds. The idea behind the raised bed approach is that the soil warms up quicker, there is better drainage so it dries out more rapidly in spring, and the soil where veggies grow is not compacted by the gardener’s heavy foot.
Soil compaction is a serious problem that has accompanied modern agricultural techniques.
Huge mega-tonned tractors roll over the soil—cultivating, seeding, harrowing, spraying, and harvesting. While the top 5 or 6 inches is fairly loose, the soil underneath becomes very compacted, prohibiting deep root development. The forming of a bed, be it a raised bed or simply an area set aside to not be stepped on, is an advantage I have over the mega-farmer and furthermore it allows me the opportunity of participating in the experience of establising sacred space.
Sacred space is always accompanied by prohibitions. Don’t walk on this bed! “You must not enter the Holy of Holies, lest you die!” (a reference to the ancient temple in Jerusalem) I would not claim that the sacred space of the raised bed in the garden is of the same significance as the Holy of Holies but there is a thin thread of connection which goes far beyond the fact of prohibition. Maybe it is as simple as “Be aware of where you are at. Everyplace is not the same as any other place.” God said to Moses out of the burning bush. “Take your shoes off! This is holy ground. The beds in my garden say, “Keep your feet off! This is special ground.”

The more I think about it, as I finish this cup of tea, the more I wonder if there is much more sacred ground than what I am aware of? The ground where the klldeer lays her eggs. The ground from which the volunteer violet surprisingly erupts….the ground upon which my father suddenly fell and breathed his last….

2011-01-05T14:36:00.000-08:00

January 5, 2011
For all of my adult life I have heard the phrase “Live in the now” and even though it is associated with all the New Age voices that have been telling us how to live for the past several decades I have come to embrace it in my own way. I prefer to say, “Be present where you are” but in my mind the phrases are interchangeable.

Watching dementia slowly spread its wings, like the shadow of a great bird, over the small figure of my mother has recently caused me to pause and take another look at this notion. Dementia strips away memory. The short term loss is most readily noticeable but long-term is also going. Mom wakes up and doesn’t know what day it is. She asks the same basic questions every morning. Who is here? Has Zoe gone to work? What time is it? What am I supposed to do now? In one sense she is very much “in the now”.
She’s not thinking about what happened yesterday or the day before. She doesn’t have a game plan for the day. She is not ‘burdened’ by duties and responsibilities….or guilt and shame. She is literally ‘in the now’….very present where she is. Isn’t this exactly what the New Age gurus want to see in their disciples?

What is missing for mom, of course, is any sense of context. What I am witnessing is that the ‘the now’ without context is disturbing and sometimes terrifying to mom. ‘Being present’ without a context is about as far away from being ‘blissed out’ as one could get!

This brings me to my conclusion. The notion of ‘living in the now/being present where you are’, cut off from any discussion/awareness of context, is pap. I am present with a cup of tea and a laptop. I am ‘in the now’. But the context of this ‘being present’ is boundless! I think the mystics are closer to reality when they talk about all of time being present in one moment….but that discussion will be over a different cup of tea.

Now I am going to be present outside with my chainsaw….each moment an eternity of time! Ha!!

2010-12-22T15:29:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-12-14T15:57:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-12-06T15:23:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-12-02T16:11:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-11-29T15:18:00.000-08:00

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!”

2010-11-24T08:18:00.000-08:00

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’.

2010-11-22T15:22:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-06-16T07:21:00.000-07:00

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....

2010-05-30T22:06:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-14T06:16:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-03-05T07:17:00.000-08:00

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!!

2010-02-18T11:30:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-02-11T14:33:00.000-08:00

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....

2010-02-10T09:19:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-09T15:03:00.000-08:00

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.....

2010-02-05T07:41:00.000-08:00

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....

2010-02-04T07:27:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-02-03T08:12:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-21T08:08:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-20T07:51:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-19T07:44:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-01-15T07:58:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-01-14T07:43:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-13T07:55:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-01-12T07:50:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-11T07:59:00.000-08:00

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….

2010-01-08T08:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-07T09:17:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-06T06:55:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-04T20:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

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!!

2009-12-17T08:22:00.000-08:00

December 17, 2009

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.

2009-12-16T08:33:00.000-08:00

December 16, 2009

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.

2009-12-15T08:02:00.000-08:00

December 15, 2009

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.

2009-12-14T16:40:00.000-08:00

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:

The Second Coming

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?

2009-12-09T09:58:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-12-08T08:16:00.000-08:00

December 8, 2009

Oregonian headline: Emissions a danger to health, EPA finds

Then he called the crowd again and said to them, "Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile." (Mark 7.14-15)

2009-12-03T07:55:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-11-30T07:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-26T07:23:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-25T15:47:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-21T15:15:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-11-20T08:21:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-11-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

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....

2009-11-19T15:00:00.000-08:00

November 19, 2009

Oregonian headline: Frohnmayer pitches idea of corporate Oregon universities

Go the the ant, you lazybones; consider its ways, and be wise. (Proverbs 6.6)

2009-11-18T08:11:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-11-17T16:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-17T15:58:00.000-08:00

November 17, 2009

Oregonian headline: Mammogram guidelines change

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
(Ecclesiastes 3.1)

2009-11-16T08:24:00.000-08:00

November 16, 2009

Oregonian headline: Obama to press China on Iran

Why do the nations conspire, and the peoples plot in vain?
The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together,....
(Psalm 2.1-2a)

2009-11-14T15:39:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-13T11:51:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-12T20:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-11T20:57:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-06T11:23:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-11-05T20:54:00.000-08:00

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!!"

2009-11-05T09:54:00.000-08:00

November 5, 2009

Oregonian headline: Jobless benefits get a boost

The Laban said to Jacob, "Because you are my kinsman, should you therefore serve me for nothing?" Tell me, what shall your wages be?" Now Laban had two daughters.......;
(Genesis 29.15)

2009-11-04T10:34:00.000-08:00

November 4, 2009

Oregonian headline: State curbs renewable energy credits

The heavens are telling the glory of God;
and the firmament proclaims his handiwork.
Day to day pours forth speech,
and night to night declares knowledge.
(Psalm 19.1-2)

2009-11-03T07:20:00.000-08:00

November 3, 2009

Oregonian headline: Neediest wait while vaccine trickles in

He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, "Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all." Mark 9. 35

2009-11-02T05:57:00.000-08:00

November 2, 2009

Oregonian headline: Key Lender Files for Chapter 11

Chapter 11 begins: Now the whole earth had one language and the same words. (Genesis 11.1)

2009-11-01T06:47:00.000-08:00

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."

2009-10-31T08:06:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-10-29T15:54:00.000-07:00

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.