Sowing Different Seeds; Speaking Wiser Words

When our minds are sick with frustration and division;

When fear eats away the foundations of our peace—

Be present, O, Our Father, to heal, to bless

and make whole. 

 

When our hearts are heavy with sorrow and misery;

When only heaviness is our daily portion—

Be present, O, Our Father, to heal to bless

and relieve. 

 

When our friends are difficult because of misunderstanding and loss;

When the beauty of comradeship has wasted like the noon day—

Be present, O, Our Father, to restore, to

bless and renew. 

 

When the thread of our years unwinds near the end of the spool;

When the failing powers of mind and body accent the passing day—

Be Present, O, Our Father, to reassure, to make

steady and confirm. 

 

When our well ordered plans fall apart in our hands;

When hopes give up, having run their course—

Be present, O, Our Father, to replenish, to

create and redeem. 

 

When faith in our fellows wallows in the mud;

When through disappointment, through failure, through flattery, all seems lost—

Be present, O, Our Father, to revise, to renew and

reassure.    (Howard Thurman, Deep is the Hunger) 

 

 

We had such high hopes for 2021. 

 

The months preceding it had been so full of illness and death, so full of acrimonious rancor, so full of violence and fear that we leaned forward, italicized versions of ourselves, in anticipation of a new beginning.  Vaccines were being distributed to blunt the pandemic.  The holidays nudged us into a cautiously genial mood.  We took a deep breath, toasted the downbeat of midnight, and woke to a new year.

 

And then this week happened. 

Political machinations.  

Presidential shame.  

Uncivilized violence.  

Broken windows, desecrated spaces, seditious flags, vandalized public places, recriminating shouts, and still more death.  

 

So much for a clean start.  It was nice while it lasted.  

 

Whatever else the events of this week have taught us, they have demonstrated that the necessary work of civic rehabilitation is still in front of us.  About the only thing we can agree upon is that wherever two people are gathered, a third will be needed to break the tie.  But even that equation is mathematical, and we can’t even agree upon the math.

 

Among the reanimated devotional practices in my New Year’s determinations I have been reading the New Testament book of James.  I lament that I have neglected James through the years, a tacit dim view perhaps influenced by Martin Luther’s famous dismissal of the book, but I am repenting that neglect.  While James may not be the soaring theologian that was Paul, his gritty practicality suddenly sounds more relevant than ever.  

 

In recent days, the potency of words has come more clearly into focus.  James knew that.  “How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire. The tongue is placed among our members as a world of iniquity; it stains the whole body, sets on fire the cycle of nature, and is itself set on fire by hell.”  The tongue is, James continues, “A restless evil, full of deadly poison” (3:6,8)

 

He goes on to reflect on wisdom, and challenges anyone who claims possession of it to demonstrate the evidence “in the gentleness born of wisdom.”  

 

“But,” he notes by way of contrast, “if you have bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not be boastful and false to the truth. Such wisdom does not come down from above, but is earthly, unspiritual, devilish. For where there is envy and selfish ambition, there will also be disorder and wickedness of every kind. But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace” (3:13-18).

 

Like I said, it all sounds pretty current.  Globally, nationally, and politically relevant, but also personally.  My tongue has not been on its best behavior of late.  And peace has not consistently been among the seeds I have planted.  It is certainly true that, collectively, we have work to do.  A lot of it.  So many poisonous elements have been sown in our cultural soil that it will be some time before anything nourishing can sprout from it again.  But if, as the song from my childhood suggests, there is to be “peace on earth,” it will, as James presciently knew, have to “begin with me.”

 

Well, not with me alone.  As Thurman understood, it will take higher resources than that.

When our minds are sick with frustration and division;

When fear eats away the foundations of our peace—

Be present, O, Our Father, to heal, to bless

and make whole. 

 

Amen.

 

 

 

Yes, But Also Holding Fast

“…this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.

Only let us hold fast to what we have attained.” 

---(Philippians 3:13-14, 16 NRSV)

 

New Year’s Day.  It’s not like anything real has changed with the turn of this calendar page, save for something vital in our psyche.  People are still dying amidst a global pandemic.  We shake no hands.  We still wear masks.  Sanitizers are still sprayed or wiped or foamed or squirted with every exhalation.  Politically, we continue to be the rubble in a crystal gallery amidst the aftershocks of an earthquake.  We are still sick, sick and tired, angry and afraid.  
2020, in other words - the great dumpster fire of time - is still with us.  

 

But we believe in new beginnings.  Even if this fresh calendar page carries with it no material difference, something intangible within us is starting afresh.  Whatever gum from the old year is still stuck on our shoe, we are ready to move on.  We are ready to follow the Apostle Paul’s example to the letter.  It is hard to imagine a people more eager to forget what lies behind and strain forward to what lies ahead.  

 

As the Black Eyed Peas sang several years ago, 

"Let's get it started (Ha), let's get it started (In here)"

 

Yes, but…

 

I am embarrassed to admit that hidden in plain sight within that familiar, forward-leaning resolve of Paul to the Philippians is this other, quieter admonition:  "Only hold fast to what we have attained."  Don't simply "let go."  There are, it turns out, some things to which we would be wise to grip. 

It's true.  Amidst the understandable grumblings from 2020; interwoven with all the rubble we are determined to roll off the ledge inside of that flaming dumpster, are precious things to hold onto.  

These, then, are a few of the elements of 2020 I am determined to retain.  

·      I learned things about my own resilience and sufficiency that have been life-giving that will serve me well, regardless of 2021 has in store.  

·      I have learned how superfluous is so much of what I once believed to be essential.    

·      I have learned that real friendships can transcend all manner of obstacles, and that we are creative enough to fashion bridges over the washed out roads between us.

·      As with the myriad capabilities built into our cell phones that we have never figured out how to use, I have learned that the tools we already have in hand represent possibilities we are only beginning to explore and put to use.  

·      I have learned – again – that books are a cheap way to travel.

·      I have learned that petting and throwing a ball to a dog are cheap forms of therapy for which neither insurance nor scheduling is required.

·      I have learned that, while every day is serendipitous and I need to be vigilantly open and available to the surprises, I can “build my days” to bend toward the light.  I improve my life by measuring and scheduling my “screen time” – not because there is anything intrinsically dangerous about the glass, but because what I experience through that glass in news and social media feeds impacts me, dents and twists and shades me.  Only very rarely does it edify me.   

·      I have learned, then, to be intentional about what I feed my mind and soul first thing in the morning and before closing my eyes at night.  If I intend to live long and live well, I will endeavor to feed my heart and soul and mind every bit as nourishingly as I feed my body.

·      And I have learned to be grateful – as conscious of what I have as of what I’ve lost; as mindful of what is growing as what has died; as attuned to what is possible as what has been truncated.  

·      Finally, I have learned that I need to continue paying attention to what I am learning.  Otherwise, like so much morning coffee, it simply passes through.

 

It is only the beginnings of a list.  It will not be nostalgia that prompts me to remember more, but rather stewardship.  Paul, of course, knew all this. "Yes, yes," I now can hear him say: “forget what lies behind and strain forward toward all that lies ahead.”  

 

But whatever else you do, “hold fast to what we have attained.”  

 

Here’s to 2021 – to forgetting (yes), to straining forward (oh my, Yes), and to holding fast to all we’ve learned.

Yes, yes, indeed.