A Prayer for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

December 19, 2021

 

God of love, we huddle around these 4 candles not only for their kiss of winter warmth, but because of their flicker of light in the lengthening night.  The darkness is still in its ascendency, and on the evidence we might begin to believe that the night will eventually extinguish the day altogether. 

 

It seems that way in more ways than one.  Surely by now the virus should have burned itself out, but the numbers grow wearyingly higher, the variants smarter.  Surely by now we should have wearied of the public acrimony and found ways to work together again, but still our partisan flags fly higher than our shared one, our ideological rigidities poisoning our cultural coherence.  Surely by now we should have learned that our greed consumes rather than feeds, that our fascination with shiny objects doesn’t move us but merely distracts us, that our relentless drive for bigger/faster/cheaper/more is not sustainable.  But our bottom lines and closet capacities continue to define us. 

 

Still lengthening, these winter nights, “the darkness (as the old hymn observes it) deepens; Lord, with me abide.”

 

And then this steadily building bank of flames reminds us that you have not left us comfortless.  The light of hope still refuses to be extinguished; the flicker of peace yet pierces our warring ways; the flash of joy still interrupts the gloom; and incandescent love still conquers all.  The night may seem to be winning, but though yet getting longer for a little while to come, it does not grow stronger.  It, too, is subject to your light which, quite often just beyond our particular horizon, is building in intensity.  It is our faith in you, after all:  that whether we are aware of it or not, your light has come into the world, and shines in this darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

 

With every candle we light, O God, remind us of your presence.  With every hope expressed, every peace made, with every joy both experienced and occasioned, with every loving act, may we know your light.

 

We pray in the name of the light of the world, who lived his life in you, and in order that we might do the same, taught us to pray. 

(Prayed with the Disciples of Runnells Christian Church)

A Bare, But Fully Adorned Tree

 We love the ornaments. 

Some have been precious gifts from family and friends.  

Some are heirlooms from the past that have miraculously survived the years and the moves.  

Some are whimsical.  

Some are sentimental. 

Some bear names, anchoring them in identity,  or years, rooting them in time.

Some are the work of crafty hands.

Each one ignites a memory of a face, a place, an experience, a taste – the textures of life in the living.

We treasure them all. 

 

But this year we left them in their boxes, in the crates, in the barn.  The tree, itself, is what calls our name in this season of expectation, a rich green and black plaid skirt replacing the riotous red of previous Christmases.  The stark simplicity of the tree; the soulful invitation of it - the deep green bristles of the Vermont white spruce, unadorned save by the nestling lights, bespeaking the opacity of life while also the reassuring fecundity of it.  Life, and the hope woven throughout it.  It stands quietly, but influentially this year – a proclamation instead of a decoration; an evocation of earthier truths and celestial promises, of patient growth and quiescent beauty.  Unadorned, the tree towers over the room with a grounding soulfulness we needed this year.  

 

This year.  These years.

 

Last night’s storm roared through as a tumultuous representation of the world in our time – fast moving, unseasonable warmth, tempestuous winds, broken branches, miscellany in disarray, trucks rolled into ditches, power lost.  

 

Indeed.  The storm that is our natural world, our relationships, our politics, our spirituality, our discomfited psyches, our certainties disarrayed, our confidences dismembered.  Fast, hot, broken and scattered.  Life overturned and drained of any power to generate much of useful consequence.

 

We simply weren’t up for the frivolity of tinsel this year – even the celebratory sparkles of beloved ornaments. 

 

The tree, then – stately and centering, grounding and glimmering with quiet grace and gentle promise.  And, somehow, the miracle that into those simple branches and bulbs all the memories, all the names and faces and stories and milestones, all the blessings of those treasured balls and stars and miscellaneous shapes, the silver and paper and porcelain and wood…

 

…are mystically enfolded and adorned.  

 

They will hang there again in years to come, but this year they are even more fully present in their absence from this, our warmest, simplest and most beautiful tree ever.  

A Prayer for the Second Sunday of Advent

 

God of hope and peace – two precious lights that seem so fragile – we give you thanks for their flickering reminder of your intent among us.  As powerfully as our hearts savor the sanded and varnished memories of what was and who were, you nudge us not to live there; illuminating the path toward what might be, what you will to be, and here and now beckon us to embody it.  

O God of hope and peace, manifested in every baby born among us, draw us more fiercely into your work – the construction of your way on earth as it is in heaven – for their sake along with our own.  By your light may we...

• rebuff the evil, 
• resist the demeaning, 
• refuse the self-serving, 
• reclaim the forsaken, 
• re-member the fragmented, 
• revive the forlorn, 
• rekindle in us the passion for this world and its intrinsic loveliness that you demonstrated when Creation was, itself, an infant.

So let us hold each other as though we were soft and new.  

So let us feed each other as though we were crying and nuzzling for the milk of life.  

So let us shelter each other as though we were fragile and in need of the strong grace of another.  

Because though we are loathe to admit it out loud and to each other, we are all those things.

 

In every baby born among us, help us to see ourselves, our neighbor, and you.  And in the light of such holy recognition, teach again to pray...

 

Prayed with the disciples at Runnells Christian Church, December 5, 2021

The Long and Bumpy Road

 Over the long Thanksgiving weekend I watched the new 3-part documentary on The Beatles which is focused on the intensive days of creativity, desperation, interpersonal and artistic conflict, and playful chemistry that evolved into a couple of albums along with the iconic and unannounced “concert” the band performed in January of 1969 on the rooftop of Apple Studios in Savile Row.  I leave it for others to critique the documentary – a sort of “fly on the wall” view of those intensely tedious and only occasionally productive days. As I later commented to my brother about the 8-hour program, “that’s a lot of sausage to watch getting made.”  Sausage, that is, that became some of the most memorable songs of multiple generations.  

 

The fascination that has lingered with me, however, is less the almost guilty piquancy of watching the realness of these lives or the alchemy of how songs are teased out of thin air and more the varying reactions to that surprise performance from the roof.  Cameras captured the facial expressions and body language of those on the streets and sidewalks below.  Microphones recorded their comments, ranging from the fawning to the furious.  Offices emptied.  Cars stopped.  Passersby paused and congregated, first in curiosity and confusion that soon melted into fixation as clarity spread like a contagion.  “That’s the Beatles!”  

And, of course, the police were called.  Because alongside those whose only complaint was that the performance didn't go on longer were those who were appalled at the fact that it had happened at all.  “Disruption,” don’t you know.  “Disturbing the peace.”  Stifling disapproval, then, side by side with swooning adulation coupled with gratitude for happening to be in that very place at that very moment.

 

Side by side.  “One man’s meat is another man’s poison,” as the familiar saying observes – a colloquial translation of Lucretius’ expression from the 1^st century BCE, “quod ali cibus est aliis fuat acre venenum".  What is food for one man may be bitter poison to others.

 

Even, apparently, when it comes to The Beatles.  No wonder we disagree about cornbread versus white bread stuffing, roasted turkey versus smoked.  No wonder we argue about masks versus personal freedom, infrastructure maintenance versus lower taxes, diversity training versus clarity about particular identity, Hummers versus Teslas, creation as pyramid versus creation as egalitarian community, climate versus progress, “more” versus “better”, stability versus wanderlust, “fit for heaven” versus “no earthly good”, “Merry Christmas” versus “Happy Holidays.”  

 

What is food for one may be poison to another.

 

So it was that, while watching and listening to The Beatles thrump out the familiar rhythms and lyrics to “Get Back” from atop that Savile Row roof, I found myself reconsidering.  Perhaps it is that we less need to “get back” to some Elysian Fields of quietude and communal harmony that never, in fact, really existed, and instead simply “get on with” the patient, cacophonous and persisting work of crafting ways to live in a diverse world where some stop what they are doing to listen to the music, while others call the police; annoyed by the interruption.

 

Our dissonance will not be “fixed”.  It will not be beaten into submission, bent by persuasion or ignored by distraction.  It will, at best and if we have any grace, be navigated.  Our dissonance is the start and finish of our collective selves.  We will not ever tune it into harmony.  We will, if we are to survive – I’m sorry, I can’t help myself – let it be.

 

 

 

A New/Old Thanksgiving

We do love our origin stories - our cultural "creation myths"; Columbus "discovering" America, freedom-fighting "heroes" dying at the Alamo, the defense of "states rights" that birthed the Confederacy - never mind that common tellings and classroom teachings of all these "histories" are, at best, "Disney-fied" caricatures and at worst egregious contortions of much more complicated truths. 

That tension is perhaps nowhere more in evidence than at Thanksgiving. At the very least, perhaps we can acknowledge that there are decidedly different interpretations of that bucolic banquet of brotherly love shared by big-buckled Pilgrims and generously benevolent native peoples that elementary schools love to reenact this time of year. 

Interpretations and, of course, implications. Routinely overlooked is the fact that those hungry Pilgrims repaid the kindness of their saviors with a determined campaign of genocide. In that hotter light, reenactments of the scene ring a little hollow. 

Such an acknowledgement, however, need not dampen our collective, albeit annualized, enthusiasm for giving thanks. The truth is that the quaint tale of that happy cross-cultural meal is something of a newcomer to the celebration. Which is to say that the idea for a national day of thanksgiving wasn't originally centered around colonists and Indians. Whatever happened around Plymouth Rock in 1620, its association with the national holiday we celebrate this week wasn't cemented until John F. Kennedy's Thanksgiving Proclamation of 1963, and then only by illustrative allusion. George Washington, in the first official "suggestion" in 1789 that a day be set aside for giving thanks calls attention only to the existential reality of our collective indebtedness to that which is beyond ourselves and our resources - specifically, that it is the "duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits, and humbly to implore his protection and favor..."

Duty. Obedience. Gratitude. Humble supplication. The recognition that we are indebted to something outside of ourselves.  Whether or not we are the religious type, at the very least we could take a moment to acknowledge that we have had thirsts that others have quenched, hungers that others have fed, ignorances that the wisdom of others informed.  We neither conceived nor birthed nor reared ourselves.  Someone else discerned gravity, split the atom, invented toothpaste.  Few of us grow our own food, build our own houses, make our own clothes or generate the fuel to power our homes or vehicles.  We receive.  Instead of one more day celebrating and occasioning over-indulgence, an annual holiday set aside to cast aside the persistent but laughable fantasy of self-sufficiency - to concede that there are no "self-made" people - could be nourishing, indeed.  President Washington's Proclamation wouldn't be a bad precedent to remember as we gather on Thursday with our families or at least our thoughts. But there is more.

For years the idea of giving thanks as a part of our national ethos was kicked around regionally and voluntarily, until things began to fall apart. 

Literally. 

Civil War pitted us against each other - South against North, states against states, neighbors against neighbors, parents against children. Siblings against each other. Cats, no doubt, against dogs. It was a mess. And in the midst of it all, Abraham Lincoln, the elected little boy with his finger in the cohering dam, took the advice of a 74-year-old magazine editor who wrote to the President urging him to have the "day of our annual Thanksgiving made a National and fixed Union Festival." His subsequent 1863 declaration was the first national establishment of Thanksgiving Day, and was devoted to reconciling a country actively dismembering itself in Civil War.

Readers and students will note the absence of any mention of Pilgrims or Indians or turkeys, green bean casseroles or marshmallowed sweet potatoes. What is powerfully present is the confessional acknowledgement of division, and the grateful amazement that somehow, and despite ourselves, we are surviving. 

In these present days of our own civil war - of deep division among neighbors and families and partisans - that sounds like the kind of Thanksgiving observance we would do well to recover. Gratitude that, despite our concerted effort, despite the corrosive effervescence of our collective acrimony and inability to agree on quite literally anything, somehow and inexplicably - save by the determined and sustaining interventions of an over-benevolent Power - we haven't yet annihilated ourselves or each other or the world we live in.  Yet.  Despite the worst of our inclinations, obsessions, addictions, denials, prejudices, extravagances and apathies.  

Life wills to live.  The earth wills to flourish.  Individuals will to relate - yes, debate, but also congregate; yes, wound in the process, but also forgive and heal and hope.  Together.  Despite ourselves.  Sometimes - oftentimes - around a table, carving an entree instead of each other.

Thank God.

I know, that sort of observance is harder for kindergartners to reenact, but I'm thinking they are up to the challenge. I'm only hoping the rest of us are up to it as well.

Happy, Healing Thanksgiving.

Life as Occasionally, Selectively Precious

 I didn’t follow the trial.  In truth, I hadn’t even heard the story of Kyle Rittenhouse and the gun he carried and the trigger he pulled until the story was closed in a courtroom with two simple words:  “Not guilty.”  I only know, therefore, the barest facts:  two lives were ended with impunity.

 

It’s hardly an anomaly.  Which is to clarify that this isn’t about young Mr. Rittenhouse, or about rehashing the deftness of the attorneys or the discernment of the jury.  It’s about us.  It’s about me.  It’s about how life has come to be both the most precious thing of all, and the cheapest.  Life, the most volatile fulcrum of political debate; life, the empty plastic bottle tossed out the window and blown along the gutter.  

No, that’s a poor metaphor.  Plastic bottles are at least recycled.  Discarded lives are routinely and ironically mummified like the pharaohs of old and entombed beneath an etched marker as a gesture of honor and respect.  And so comes to be in the conduct of our culture this bizarre sacrality of embryo and corpse, sandwiching worthlessness in-between.  Holiness in promise and memory, but about the actual neighbors moving in our midst?  Not so much.

 

It’s hard to comprehend how we collectively descended into this irrationality; how this aspirationally idealistic people – nominally neutral but functionally, fiercely religious – could become so inured to the embodiment of life while philosophically fawning over the concept of it.  It’s the old absurdity, writ large:  “I love humanity.  It’s people I can’t stand.”  

 

We love the idea of life; just not the flesh and blood of it, never mind the reverencing of the actuality of it in our various religious traditions; never mind the literal incarnation of the Divine according to Christian testament and creeds.  God, we are taught, enfleshed, living and moving among us.  

 

But God had better watch out.  Almost everything turns out to be more important than those who are living and moving among us – our guns, our property, our “freedoms”, our “way of life.”  A virus might kill us all, but we are apparently willing to expend our last breath defending our right to contract it – and spread it.  A man falls asleep in his car in the fast food drive-through lane?  Shoot him and tow him out of the way so that the rest of us can get our pink slime burger.  The election not go your way?  Mob the Capitol and attempt to hang the one you believe responsible.

 

Because lives are cheap – except when they haven’t yet been born, and after they have had the decency to die and get out of our way.  

 

Unfortunately, the odds are increasing that “we” will one of these days be viewed as the cheap impediment in someone else’s way.  Perhaps that will be the moment I remember how precious life actually is.

 

And having been “wonderfully, fearfully made”, worth the nuisance of honoring and protecting – even when you make me uncomfortable, or I am in your way.

Grateful in this Season of Gratitude

 And so a new day begins.  I know this not because I am awake – that happens, in tandem with episodic sleep all through the day as well as the night in this season of my life – but because as I stepped outside to release the chickens the guard light on the face of the barn switched off.  Surely that constitutes some kind of official proclamation.  

 

New days, especially these days, prick at me the invitation to greater intentionality.  What will I do with these daylight hours?  Toward what meaningful purpose will my calories be burned and my oxygen inhaled?  There are plenty of incentives in the gathering chill in both the weather and the culture to simply go back to sleep, or to settle resignedly into Rhett Butler’s famously apathetic retort to Scarlett O’Hara.  The problem is that increasingly I do – give a damn, that is.  More than a damn, in fact, about what happens to the soil and the air and the water and the trees; about the diminished and trivializing values beneath our food supply and energy supply and moral paralysis and entrenchment in ignorance and disdain for the common good.  As a civilization we seem determined to regress into primitivism – collectively casting ourselves in the leading role of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Curious Case of Benjamin Button.  Having been born as something of a wise and old soul, we seem to be aging in reverse, becoming more and more puerile with every passing day.  And election.

 

So, there is a troubling much about which to give a damn.  

 

But somehow, stepping off the porch step in the crispness of the morning, beckoned by the muffled rooster crow inside the coop anxious to be free, the light I experience is more than the alternation of sun and moon.  Maybe it is my age, newly cradled as I am in Medicare.  Maybe I’m finally growing wiser.  Or maybe it is simply the month of November and its evocation of Thanksgiving.  Who can say?  All I know is that I am increasingly mindful of gratitude for so many surrounding, animating and nourishing gifts - place and possibility and people I love, sustenance in countless forms, and grace-filled hope; increasingly staggered by the cornucopia spilling out around me.  And how I am more and more conscious of the need for Thanksgiving to be something of a lifestyle rather than a day.  

 

And so this new day begins, and inhaling a deep and frost-bracing breath, I step into the brightness of its hours, grateful for the calories I get to burn, and the good and useful work on which I pray they will be expended.

 

A Big Number for a Happy Day

 It’s a disconcerting feeling to turn 65.  I’m not complaining.  After all, it’s great to be alive. It’s just that, in a weird irrational way, I never thought I would be this old.  I suppose I imagined that I would reach some mythically perfect age – say, 55 – and just hold there.  The “reaching” part worked out quite well.  It’s the “hold” part that the universe bungled.  I kept aging.  Year after year until reaching this Medicared benchmark.  So far.  Which is to say that I have no immediate interest in stopping the process.  Who knows, for example, what 70 might hold – or 100?

 

And really, 65 turns out to be quite lovely.  I’m healthy – never mind the extra pounds I could do without.  I’m blissfully happy.  I can still get out of a chair without assistance. I am blessed with a cradling circle of loving and encouraging family and friends.  I’m immersed in pursuits that nourish and enlarge.   I feel more generative than perhaps at any other season of my life – growing things, writing new thoughts, creating new possibilities, dreaming about new destinations and innovations and ideas and experiences.  Which should not be surprising.  These days greet me with more opportunity than responsibility; more invitation than demand.  There is an evocative space in these days that was almost certainly present all along, but within those earlier frames of employment and breadwinning and resumé-building and parenting, failing and recovering and, let’s face it, growing up myself, wasn’t always privileged with attention.

 

And so I will embrace the strangeness of this birthday, and nestle into the loving embrace of those in my circle.  It really is good to be here – feeling not merely my own pulse but that of the life around me; looking and listening and brooding and breathing; noticing and imagining and exploring and touching and discerning the greening yet emergent in these autumn days.

 

Welcome, then, 65.  I look forward to getting to know you.

In the Shock of the Unexpected, and the Grief of the Unwanted

I didn’t wake up this morning anticipating the final goodbye to a beloved pet.  Yesterday was like any other, as were the days before.  There was nothing to signal concern.  Sure, he was getting older, but 10-years old is hardly geriatric.  This morning he was obviously sick, we took him to the Vet, and following a couple of hours of diagnostics, we found ourselves holding him with his terminal diagnosis, petting his head while he looked tenderly first at one of us, then the other, speaking his name while the Vet emptied first one syringe and then a second.  A peaceful moment later, he was gone.

 

I hesitated to write about this for any eyes beyond our own.  After all, who needs one more sad pet story amidst so much anguish and trauma and global grief and pain?  But perhaps poignant contact with the death of a beloved dog is the very thing we need – flaking particles that we have become of a collective heart so calcified and atrophied as to scarcely beat at all.  We have become brittle and brutal to one another; acrimonious, poisonous and simply mean.  Maybe a heartbreaking gaze into the soulful eyes of a diminishing dog can be at least one solvent drop on our coronary concrete.

 

Tir was, from the beginning, Lori’s dog – a too-soon replacement, in my opinion, for our treasured “first” dog that had only recently passed away.   Grieving, we salved the loss with a puppy who looked identical to his forerunner.  He was barely weaned.  As his later quirks bore witness, he could have benefited from more instructional time with his mother.  But home with us he came, and promptly set about the work of transforming our home into his.    

 

He could be demanding, and he could be militantly petulant, as I found out one Christmas Eve when I tried to take away the full diaper he had snatched from our grandson’s changing table.  The puncture wounds from his bite eventually healed, but I never tried that again.  At the same time, he was routinely protective and loving.  He slept outside the door of any overnight guest.  He guarded our grandson like he was the Crown Prince.  When one of us was sick, Tir couldn’t be dynamited from our side.  We were his responsibility, and he took his job seriously.

 

Not quite one year old when we moved to the farmstead, he quickly established himself as the watcher and the “dog bell.”  His favorite perch was the back of the sofa from which vantage point he could survey the front yard through the large living room window, warning us with voluble animation of passing deer, squirrels, visitors and delivery trucks.  

 

And he would cuddle.  He would rarely initiate such affection, but he never complained or resisted when one of us needed a hug.  He would willingly submit when we drew him near, and settle himself into a pliant puddle of flesh in our laps.

 

And all of a sudden it is a quieter, soberer place without him.  Yes, we have other dogs.  Yes, and absolutely they are precious and dear and every other minute make us laugh or sigh with pleasure at their company.  It’s not that we are suddenly alone.  It is simply that Tir is no longer among our company.  He was who he was, and the others are who they are.  Tir, moreso than any of our other companions, taught us the absurdity of the ruse that, “if you have seen one you have seen them all.”  Tir let us know in myriad ways that you hadn’t seen Tir until you had seen Tir; insisted that we comprehend that each one is unique, a particular personality, a discreet bundle of endearments and aggravations that, in snowflaked singularity, does not and will not exist again - only one of his life lessons we could afford to generalize in among our wider interactions.

 

Already we miss him, and the way he filled the space he carved in our lives and hearts – bite marks, tear drops, cuddles and his insistent stare-downs when it was time for us to do whatever it was that he wanted.  And forever we are grateful – to each other for wanting him and agreeing to have him; and to him for, well, being him.  

 

I suppose we will have to learn how to keep watch our own driveway from now on.  

In Gratitude for the 25th Sequel

It is August 31 – a day that always makes me smile.  Through a few grateful tears.  

 

It was on this date, now 25 years ago, that I timidly, anxiously, knocked on Lori Alexander’s door to pick her up for a date.  Later, we would refer to it as our “first date,” but on that particular evening it was merely a date.  There were to be no sequels.  It was a “one-off” obligatory outing to which both of us had agreed in order to get Phyllis, our erstwhile matchmaker, off our respective backs.  We had met at a wedding almost a year before, but life and complications had prevented any trailing interaction.  Until that subsequent August when I finally got up the courage – or suspended my resistance – and called.  

 

Calling, of course, wasn’t a simple matter.  After numerous attempts and getting no answer, I finally and reluctantly left a message.  “You probably don’t remember me, but…”  She had been screening her calls, but courteously called me back.  We talked.  We chuckled at Phyllis’ persistence.  In the course of it all, Lori gently but firmly made it clear when accepting my clumsy invitation that, what with starting a new job and trying to finish a PhD (and, I was to learn sometime later, a general weariness with romantic entanglements), that she wasn’t “interested in a relationship.”  Myself recently divorced, I breathed a sigh of relief.  The last thing I needed was a relationship.  And the last thing I could afford.  I was utterly broke – able to pay the rent on a humble apartment only through the supportive and charitable largesse of my parents.  Weeks shy of 40, and I was dependent on handouts from my parents.  It was, indeed, a bleak and precarious time that made no allowance, psychologically or financially, for dating.  And yet here I was driving a beautiful and evocative young woman to a restaurant that I must have searched between the sofa cushions for coins to pay for.  

 

Let’s just say that it had been a long time since I had been on a date.  I was awkward; equal parts tongue-tied and blathering.  I remember, in response to some probing, “get-acquainted” question, mentioning how much I love words, and how they can paint images.  To her credit, she didn’t immediately ask to be taken home.  In fact, the evening extended.  The server cleared our plates and refilled our water glasses.  Again and again.  Over two hours later we departed the restaurant and I dropped her back off at her apartment.  

 

There are no accompanying pictures.  As I say, it was to have been a one-time, forgettable event – the kind that neither warrants nor provokes photography.  Which is fine with me, because I recall the mental image just now with a smile and more clarity than any picture could contain – the two of us at that table-for-two in that dimly lit restaurant; her in her navy shorts and me in my khaki pants, talking and smiling; first hesitantly and awkwardly and then with increasing ease and vigor and enjoyment.  I called my brother the following day and confessed, “I’ve had a way better time than I really wanted to have at this point in my life.”

 

Indeed.  A “way better time” that continues to this day.  

 

We will return to that dimly lit restaurant tonight, as we have on this night each of the ensuing  years; reliving and celebrating now for the 25^th time that single, one-off date that in the alchemy of love became, for us, a “first date.”  

 

We will no doubt have words to speak; words that will paint images of both memory and imagination.  Memory, because we have made them aplenty.  Imagination, because, of course, this will hardly be the last.

 

Electrifying our Addiction to Short-Sightedness

Of course, I am disappointed.

 

We are firmly in the camp with those who believe in the value and wisdom of encouraging alternative energy sources.  Migrating to more environmentally friendly and sustainable sources won’t happen overnight, but shouldn’t we be intentional about nudging forward that movement?  Yes, our entire way of being right now is organized around fossil fuels – our infrastructure, a large segment of our employment, a major pie wedge of our economy – but we have learned some things about fossil fuels.  For one thing, we are using them up.  They are a finite resource.  True, exhausting the reserves might theoretically take decades, or even centuries, but not knowing when it will happen does not obviate the fact that it surely will happen. Surely prudence demands forethought.

 

That, plus the thorny fact of their environmental destructiveness.  We know this, even if the knowledge is inconvenient.  The dots have been connected.  Burning fossil fuels is environmentally degrading.  That would be the environment on which we depend; that keeps us alive.  It isn’t in our interest to poison or degrade it.  It makes sense to look for healthier alternatives.

 

All that, plus the stimulating intrigue of horizon-seeking ingenuity.  We should always be incentivizing creativity.  We needn’t penalize possibility by privileging present tools.  There can only be better options than the ones we currently employ.  The “big two” available to us now are wind and solar energy.  Those two aren’t likely to exhaust the possibilities.  Decades from now, wind turbines and solar panels will likely seem like the horse and buggy of energy.  It will be fascinating to see what advances beyond them.

 

But for now, they are the alternative tools at our disposal.

So I was disappointed when the local City Council last week put a leash on the installation of solar panels in our community.  Unanimously, according to the news report, which is more disappointing still.  No one among them spoke up for our children.  Their only concern was for how they “look.”  Among the other restrictions, ground-mounted systems were banned entirely.  As the proud owner of a ground-mounted system, I felt the slap.  

 

The consideration focused on property values and those perennially mythical factors that hypothetically impact them negatively, and aesthetics.  Concern was expressed about the “look and feel” of neighborhoods, should such arrays be permitted.  “There is not one person who is dying to live next to a ground-mounted solar (system),” one Councilmember was quoted as saying.

 

I appreciate the complexities of municipal governance.  I am not standing in line to be elected.  I don’t want their job.  The needs and desires of the many quite often conflict with the wants of the few, and juggling the competing interests is as perilous as it is acrobatic.  And I understand the concept of rhetorical hyperbole.  We say extreme things to make a point.  That’s the nature of public discourse and debate.  But I wish the Councilmember had, in this case, been more restrained.  I’ll accept that the “dying” he refers to in his assertion is intended as a synonym for “desire,” but the rest of the claim is logically specious on the face of it.  He didn’t ask me, and I, alone, would have scuttled his claim.  Nor did he presumably survey any of those citizens who wanted to install ground-mounted systems but are now prohibited from proceeding.  I think it’s safe to say that 100% of them would be happy to live next door to such an installation.  

 

And this notion of property values and aesthetics.  Ephemerality and subjectivity made into talismans.  As the ancient Romans would say, “De gustibus non est disputandum” – there is no disputing taste.  I, for one, don’t wish to live next door to a purple house, but I’m not sure that gives me cause to prevent my neighbor from choosing that color.  Never mind the current fad giving rise to a proliferation of wall murals, I wouldn’t want to live next to one of those, either.  It’s not the “look and feel” I prefer.  But I’ll not stop you from adding one if such a spectacle voices your particular aesthetic.  

 

Paint colors and murals, after all, will neither help nor hinder us.  But solar panels might well be one of the ways that help us survive, wherever we put them.  And not every rooftop is workably situated.  I value aesthetics as much as the next person – quite likely more than the next person.  And aren’t we always making exceptions to our aesthetic sensibilities when outweighed by functional benefit?  As the teenaged Ursula observed to her friend Kim in the Broadway play,
“Bye, Bye Birdie”, “Some things are more important than very important.”  Like how our descendants seven generations from now will look back upon our choices. I pray for the time when we don’t succumb to our preternatural tendency toward short-sightedness.

 

Maybe someone could figure out how to paint a mural on ground-mounted panels.  I suppose I could get use to that.

 

In the meantime, I’ll give thanks for sunny days, and the clean, renewable energy they occasion.  I’ll do what I can to enlarge public awareness – and a broader sense of collective and far-reaching stewardship and responsibility. 

 

And beg our neighbors’ indulgence that all this marvelous benefit apparently comes at their aesthetic expense.  

 

Perhaps the Elevation Enabled us to Hear More Clearly

The church I last served had an actual “upper room.”  It was a simple, open space on the topmost floor of the building just beneath the chime tower and the cross, where youth of a different era had once roller skated.  With a simple linoleum floor, portal windows and a sloped, painted wood ceiling it exuded the feel of an attic, far away from the sidewalks and trafficked streets five floors below.  It was the perfect location for Maundy Thursday services through years.  

 

In the Christian calendar, “Maundy Thursday” is the Thursday of Holy Week – the last week of Jesus’ life. Thursday, the evening of the “last supper,” after which Jesus was arrested by his friend’s betrayal, the effluence of which was Good Friday and its crucifixion.  “Maundy,” from the Latin for “mandate” or, more commonly, “commandment.”  

 

Neither Matthew nor John among the New Testament writers ascribes elevation to the setting for Jesus’ last evening with his disciples, simply referencing a borrowed “room” in which they gathered.  But Christian imagination through the years has been sparked by the notation in both Mark and Luke of “a large room upstairs.”  Since we, in our situation, had the architectural assets to take those writers literally, we eschewed the sanctuary on those annual occasions in favor of that humble space at the top of our building.

 

As the appointed hour approached, the smallish crowd would travel up the elevator, find our seats among the folding chairs arranged in a square, facing inward around a simply set table set with a filled chalice and a stark loaf of bread, flanked elsewhere in the open clearing by a couple of stools and basins of water.  The format of those experiences varied, but always the tone – established as much by the room as by the liturgy – was intimate, almost hushed.   There would be simple songs – unaccompanied, or supported by a guitar or accordion; there would be spoken words, responses and prayers.  Eventually the bread would be broken and the cup would be shared.  And then bare feet, stripped of their shoes and socks and all pretensions of sophistication, would be entrusted into hands that would tenderly bathe and dry them in awkward quietness, until the silence was broken with the familiar words of Jesus:

“I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you…I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

I loved those services, and I’ll confess, miss them.  I loved that room and the Spirit it could invite.  Sure, more glorious music could easily be found, and more poetic liturgies could be shared.  But there was, for me, something profoundly inspiring about those simple and austere gatherings on the 5^th floor.  

 

Something both provocative and evocative.  

Something grounding; centering.

Something awe-filling.

Something…holy.

 

There was something about the unadorned, artless, stripped-down elementariness of the moments that enabled us – enabled me – to plainly hear and receive afresh the routinely choked-out but elemental definition of discipleship; that to which the motions and the words, the loaf and cup, the basin and towel all point:  love.  “Love one another.”  This, according to Jesus, is how people will know who you are – not by your creeds or your piety or your confessions or your sacraments; not by your buildings or your pronouncements; not by your liturgies, your blandishments of scripture, nor your songs. 

 

By your love.  By the way that you love like Jesus loved.  

 

Bare feet, received by unoffended hands, and tended as if they were one’s own.

 

Because in every way that ought to matter, they are.

 

The service would end, and that upper room would empty.  But something had changed among us.  There never was much chatter in the elevators on the trip back down to ground level.  We were “cleaner”, I suppose, in more ways than one; “clearer”, at least, about who we were and what lay ahead of us, and chitchat didn’t seem to fit.  We had, as it were, work to do.  

 

The work of discipleship.

 

The work of stripping down and leaning over.

 

The work of this “new commandment.”

 

The plain, ordinary, unglamorous, foot-washing sort of work, in a word, of love.

 

Falling in Love With Lent

 “Always fall in love with what you're asked to accept. Take what is given and make it over your way. My aim in life has always been to hold my own with whatever's going. Not against; with.”

         —Robert Frost

 

No one needs to point out one more time that it hasn’t been an easy year, or enumerate the experiences and ones we’ve lost in the course of it.  I’ve heard many spiritually devout mutter, upon washing the ashes off their foreheads, that they didn’t feel like giving anything up for Lent this time around – such a discipline being redundant amidst enduring quarantine precautions. We’ve been “giving things up” for the last 12 months.

 

It’s true, of course.  Lent took hold a year ago and never let go.  We may have taken a few determined moments to hum a hallelujah when the calendar announced that it was Easter, but it was a forced refrain.  It didn’t feel like any stone had been rolled away, and so we settled back into our Wednesday ashes.  Here we are now, twelve months later, still in the throes of Lent.  Sure, one after another silly politician tells us that the sun is shining and the water’s warm and we should jump right in.  But as a friend of mine recently observed, once you’ve grabbed a live wire, it’s hard to approach, let alone put your hand again on, an electric fence regardless of who might be assuring us that it is turned off. 

 

The season of Lent continues…

 

…which is a richer, more generative observation than it sounds.  Though Lent has largely been reduced, in our understanding, to an onerous and obligatory season of sacrifice, its real purpose is examination, clarification, and realignment with the core of who we are and are called to be.  Jesus was driven into the wilderness – the biblical story that informs the season of Lent – not to subject himself to deprivation “because it would be good for him,” but to distill and clarify the values by which he would live out his life.  The prophet Jeremiah would say that Jesus was setting a personal plumb line. 

 

If Jesus went about that reflective work of his own volition, we have had the wilderness imposed upon us.  One day we were laughing and playing and going about our routines.  The next day the doors were closed and we were working from home.  One day we were healthy and slaying the dragons.  The next, we were constantly taking our temperature, wearing masks and lamenting the loss of those whose death we couldn’t gather to solemnize.  But along the way we have done more than grieve and take precautions and feel afraid.  Like Jesus in the wilderness, we have sorted through our circumstances and selves and separated into piles the “essentials” to keep and the “unnecessary accretions” to set aside.  We’ve baked more bread, made more meals, planted more gardens, and talked with one another about important things.  

 

Not entirely, of course.  Overlaying all this has been a poisonous political season that made a global pandemic seem like a bedtime story.  In the conduct of it we have learned that it will take more than a deadly and paralyzing calamity to break up the sedimented thinking and behaviors that have hardened portions of our hearts and lives and the spaces between us.  

 

Still, in breathtaking ways the Lenten pandemic has sifted us, stripped us, stilled us, worked on us, clarified us; pushed us, of necessity, to reevaluate, reimagine, and innovate.  Not everyone, to be sure.  Some have never ceased to kick and scream and whine.  Countless shops and bars and eateries have closed, the victims of financial starvation.  

 

But there are others who channeled the resilient spirit of Robert Frost – who may not have “fallen in love with” what we’ve been asked to accept, but have accepted it, nonetheless, and worked with it rather than against it.  I think of the restaurants that have found new ways to set virtual tables; businesses that created new pathways to serve their customers; musicians and theatre groups who have created new “stages” on which to perform; churches who have done more than point a jerky camera at a talking head and have created altogether new and beautiful experiences of worship that are more than makeshift, and which evocatively, aesthetically connect with the spiritually hungry far beyond their immediate neighborhood or town.  These, the resilient among us, have leaned into working “with” instead of “against.”  And my guess is – my prayer is – that much of who we have become and much we have trained ourselves to see will endure.

 

We’ve learned some things, in other words, about ourselves and each other, pried away from the present to attend to the possible.

 

Precisely what the season of Lent is supposed to accomplish in and among us.  And if it has taken a year to accomplish it instead of the requisite six weeks, well, the garden was worth planting and the bread was worth baking; the meals were worth preparing and the conversations were worth having.  And who knows what else about all we've been forced to accept we will discover we've come to love.  Surely that warrants a modest pre-Easter "Hallelujah".