Toward Thin Places (Sermon preached 30 August 2020)

Just two weeks ago today, I think it was probably around 5:30 in the afternoon, I pulled up to the entrance to the Bright Angel Lodge, which sits just west of the famous El Tovar Hotel on the south rim of the Grand Canyon. I checked in, then followed the map I was given to the small parking area below a group of cabins. Got out of the car, identified the proper door, pushed my keycard into the slot, and stepped inside.

 

The room was rustic, and charming, and really hot, even with the overhead fan on high. I crossed to the second door on the far side and pushed it open, hoping that would draw in some cooler air. And right there was the Canyon. Just a few steps more, down a path, and I was standing on the trail that runs some 13 miles along the rim; from the South Kaibab Trailhead near Yaki Point west to Hermit's Rest. The view (and that word is just so inadequate) was breathtaking.

This wasn’t my first visit to the Canyon. My parents brought my brothers and me when we were young; there is a photo of the four of us (aged 9, 7, 6 and 4) sitting on the ground at one of the overlooks. I still remember how anxious Mom was about all of us being so close to the edge of that great abyss while Dad took the picture. (read more)

 

From the Rim Trail 

Shade

On a sunny Saturday not long ago, I went hiking with some friends up to San Vicente Mountain. We chose the trail that follows the ridgeline, affording spectacular views in all directions along with really steep dections guaranteed to up all of our heart rates.

Accompanying us was their sweet chocolate Labrador retriever, who raced forward, then back, zigging and zagging her way up the trail. Her owners were carrying water for her, and as the miles ticked by we would periodically stop so that she could lap some and have more poured across her back to cool her down.

By the time we all started back down it was early afternoon; the sun was full strength and she was feeling it. What had been occasional forays into bushes along the way became repeated dives into anything promising darkness and relief from the heat. She would lie there hidden, and panting, until we caught up. And then leap back out to catch up with whoever was in the lead.

Seeking out the shade was so instinctive for her. Gracie does the same thing; when she gets too hot, she drags me over to the nearest patch of dappled grass, flops down and stretches her legs away from her body to luxuriate in the coolness. 

There is nothing like that bit of shade when we need a break. Yet shade is getting a bit of a bad rap these days. At least it is in the Urban Dictionary, which defines “throwing shade” on someone as subtly insulting them.[i] The implication being that out in the sun is where we are admired and affirmed. In the bright light is where it is best to be, where we should want to be, all the time. Anything that gets in the way of it is to our detriment. It reduces us. 

Or maybe not. It occurs to me that the assumption that it is normal to be out in the sunshine all the time, where everyone is watching and where I must be at my best, is actually dangerous. Because it is such a short step from there to thinking that I am doing enough only when I am there. I am okay only when I am there.  So much so that I resist seeking out the shade I need from time to time to protect me from the blazing sun and the searing heat. The shade that invites me to stop. And rest. 

Seen from that perspective, someone who “throws shade” in my direction may, ironically, be doing me a favor. Whether the act is malicious or merely thoughtless, they have done for me what I may not be able to do for myself. For in that moment, I may be delivered from the pressure of striving for more – more affirmation, more kudos, more power, more whatever it is that I have become convinced is necessary for my well-being. The place of thrown shade is where I find respite from the glare of my unrelenting expectations for myself, and the exhausting heat of my imagined grandiosity. It is where I am brought face to face with my limitation and contingency. It is where I realize that true wellness lies not only in shining in the sunlight; it lies also in acceptance of my need for shade. Of knowing the blessed relief, chosen or not, of its sweet darkness, safety and protection. Of finding that even there, especially there, I am met by the One who is ever inviting, ever welcoming me into Presence.

The LORD is your keeper;

    the LORD is your shade at your right hand.

The sun shall not strike you by day,

    nor the moon by night.

The LORD will keep you from all evil;

    he will keep your life.

The LORD will keep

    your going out and your coming in

    from this time on and for evermore. Ps. 121:5-8

 

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[i] https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Throw%20shade

Called into the Chaos (Sermon preached 9 August 2020)

The Sea of Galilee is actually a freshwater lake, located in the Jordan Rift Valley, which runs north-south in the northeastern part of present-day Israel. It’s 13 miles long and 8 miles across, and is fed primarily by the Jordan River, which flows in at its northern end and then out the southern end. Along with some natural springs.

 

The Galilee is the second lowest body of water in the world; the Dead Sea, which is saltwater, being the lowest. And when the winds rush down off the encircling mountains and hit its surface some 700 feet below sea level, the waves can reach 12 feet in height...(read more)

Tolerating the Gap (Sermon preached 19 July 2020)

A Biblical studies professor of mine once said “beware of gaps in the lectionary”. Beware the places where verses get skipped over. Where stuff gets left out.

 

Okay, so you may be wondering, is this going to be one of those quasi-esoteric sermons that focuses on inconsequential details that only Scripture nerds care about? I mean, how much difference can it make, that in today’s Gospel reading from Matthew 13, the North American Consultation on Common Texts, in collaboration with the International English Language Liturgical Consultation, in the final version they released in 1994, after 9 years of trial use, concluded that we need not bother with what sits between Jesus’ parable about the wheat and the weeds and the interpretation that he gives later to his inner circle? (read more)

"Let both of them grow together..."

Breathing

Some three billion years ago, the chemical process to which you and I owe every breath we take first appeared.[i]Photosynthesis began in free-living single cells, fixating carbon from sunlight for food and casting off oxygen. In time, these cells were transformed into chloroplasts inside bigger and more complex cells; in more time (say, two billion years) sufficient oxygen accrued to blanket the earth; and in still more time, that environment made possible the creation and evolution of oxygen breathers.

 

So Genesis has it right.[ii] The plants came first. Later, animal and eventually human life emerged, practitioners of the complementary process of respiration, forming an exquisitely symmetrical cycle. We inhale oxygen, which enables us to metabolize nutrients that fuel our bodies and our minds. And we exhale the carbon that is essential for photosynthesis back into the atmosphere, out of which all green living things make theirs.

 

Each day, when I sit to meditate, I focus on the breath. It’s the way most of us begin; resting the mind on that expanding and releasing, rising and falling. Observing thoughts as they come and go and, over and over again, returning to that ongoing in, then out. As a person of faith, this practice is prayer for me. I draw in the ruah, the Spirit-breath, that gives me life and holds me in existence. And as I return it, I think “here”; I am here, offering myself to this moment, to the Presence in whom I live and move and have my being. I am, simply, here.

 

These days, as I walk the neighborhood and the trail, I have become more mindful of the simple process of breathing, in and out. I’m not sure why that is. But as I pass by manicured lawns and through wild meadows, as the shade of spreading oaks shields me from the sun and the long grasses brush against my legs, I have been waking up to the reality that all of these living things, all these photosynthesizers, are outrageously generous partners in the ongoing dance of life on this earth. These trees, these weeds, these tender blades are keeping me alive. They are providing that without which I would suffocate and die.

 

And I imagine wrapping my arms around the rough trunk of the tall pine that shades my patio, and lying down in the new-mown grass to press my cheek against its green sweetness, and whispering “thank you”.

 

This too is prayer.

Spanish Countryside Morning on Day 3

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[i] I am drawing on Paul R. Fleischman’s elegant descriptions of these processes in his Wonder: When and Why the World Appears Radiant, Small Batch Books, Amherst, MA 2013, pp. 220-225. Any errors in translation are mine.

[ii] Genesis 1:11-12

A Different Kind of Rest (Sermon preached 5 July 2020)

Happy Fourth of July weekend! Usually this is a high point of the summer, with parades, pool parties, sunburn, cold beer and burgers, ice cream with blueberries and strawberries, and to top it all off, fireworks after the sun goes down. July feels like the true heart of the summer season. Thirty-one lazy hazy crazy days of relaxation and fun, knowing we still have August for trips and projects, and eventually getting ready for things to start back up in the fall.

 

But this year, oh, this summer is so different. On this 4^th of July weekend, though the days may be lazy, they follow weeks of anxiety and confusion; though you and I may indeed be trying to relax, the is a lot of scary stuff going on out there; though gatherings with friends and family may still be happening, they are proscribed by social distancing and masks; far cry from the boisterous, backyard barbeques of the good old days. It’s pretty disorienting, isn’t it? (read more)

To be honest...

Asking for help is one of my worst things. I know I am not alone; in fact, I am pretty sure lots of people experience this resistance to what feels like an admission of failure. But if ever I was in any doubt as to whether this is a problem, I am now convinced that not only is being able to ask for help essential for my own well-being; it is the rising tide that floats all boats. It strengthens and heals us all.

 

Why is it so hard to ask for help? Ah, let me count the ways. I’m intelligent and capable. I’ve overcome difficulties and survived losses. I have done the work and developed a solid self. I have raised two kids with whom I have loving and meaningful relationships. And then there is what I do for a living – I’m supposed to be helping other people! Hearing their struggles, offering counsel, providing answers.

 

About six weeks ago, though, I had a “come to Jesus” moment. Yes, I’m hard-headed; it took a pandemic, but now I’m finally paying attention. Now I’m coming out from behind the curtain of my high-functioning, has-it-all-together persona and letting myself be seen.

 

So what went wrong? Well, pretty much everything. At least, that’s how it felt. In the beginning, sheltering in place was actually a relief. I reveled in the freedom of not having to go into the office. Of setting my own schedule and taking long evening walks with Gracie. I loved being in my home (and still do); it is so peaceful, a great place to work. I even returned to playing the beautiful family piano that sits silent in my living room so much of the time.  

 

But as the weeks turned into months, the loss of human contact, the we-are-bodies-in-the-same-space interactions, was grinding me down. I didn’t realize it at first – just kept reminding myself of all that I had to be grateful for (wonderful work, loving friends, safe environment, healthy body) and blamed myself for not being stronger. Until the day when I finally said out loud how much I was struggling to a wise mentor, who told me that it was time to get proactive. To develop some strategies for getting what I needed. To get over myself, and start asking for help.

 

So I did. And the good news is, it worked. I started by figuring out what I needed and imagining how those needs might be met. Then, even though it felt embarrassing, I began asking. It was amazing how kind people were; how willing to be part of my survival plan. What’s more, now that I was open to receiving help, I started noticing unexpected, unsolicited moments of generosity and grace. And recognizing how they were also part of a slow and gentle process of my getting better.

 

As I continue in my recovery from the fear of asking for help, what I have also learned is that when I do take the risk of opening up and being vulnerable to other people I am helping them too. Because, as it turns out, helping others can and does make people healthier and happier. In a recent episode of a podcast called “The Happiness Lab”, researchers discovered that people who are great helpers don’t start out that way. They begin helping in small ways and find joy in it; and over time that positive feedback loop spurs them on to more and greater acts of caring and service to others.

 

So this asking for and giving help to one another becomes the means by which we all are, in ways large and small, visible and invisible, strengthened and blessed. And the more broadly we are able to apply that concept, the wider its impact becomes. Our Jewish sisters and brothers see our participation in this greater project as the holy work of human beings created in the image of God; it is tikkun olam, the repairing or healing of the world.

 

I wish I could say that asking for help is no longer difficult for me. But it’s a process. And so today, and tomorrow too, I (still) need to remember. It is okay; it is more than okay, to ask  for help.