Coming Home

Coming back from study leave is always a bit wrenching. From the quiet to the bus station that is our home and my work. There I made choices between reading, writing, walking, napping, or staring and wandering into spaces beyond here and now. Here I choose between priorities established by calendar and issues and needs, few of which are of my choosing. As I said, it’s a bit wrenching.



The past week was a gift, undeniably. And as all gifts it must be treasured, appreciated for its value, if it is to be used well. I learned some things, the most significant of which has to do with limitations, my own. The chief purpose of Sabbath, a time of rest, is not to allow us to refuel our engines that we can keep on grinding through our lives. If that is all they do for us, then they are not holy, consecrated, set aside. They are part of our unrelenting toil. Their purpose is to allow transformation to creep into our existence. Transformation allows what is to become something new, allows it to evolve beyond the limited structures we have claimed as our turf, our lives.



Our choices are obviously less than full of the grace that would take us to peace and healing and hope. Without these we become prisoners existing in cages built of demands and necessities and fears. I considered the bars of my cage. I considered Sabbath rest. I considered some options and I realized however I looked at the situation, there were real limits to the speed I could move. There were real limits to what I could accomplish. There were real limits to the significance of the judgments that I fear. And there were no limits to the grace of God. Funny thing.



I think I learned something. Welcome home

Study Leave V

When I came down this morning, Sister Frances was already there. “Sit down and eat your porridge.” The bowl was already on the table. I hesitated. “While it’s hot.” There is little in this world that can stand against the wind or the sea or Sister Frances. I took my jacket off and thanked her. She’s going to visit a lady in Toms River. An early start is necessary. So, the two of us sat eating as the place slowly came to life around us. Eating in silence can be an oppressive experience. So much hangs in the air, it gets hard to breathe. But it can also be soothing, a quiet meal with another. By the time I was finished, she was up and gone. Others came to take her place, but I had a walk to take.



I made up my mind yesterday to climb down the cliff. It is easier said than done. Boards, timbers, bushes, plywood, rocks, concrete, plastic bottles, gravel and all manner of junk lays up against the clay escarpment. Any step has to be picked carefully. Any step must be an act of faith. There are no guarantees that what looks solid is not about to collapse, even without the weight of a clumsy intruder. So, do it quickly. It collapsed. But it also deposited me on the beach. I moved away from the avalanche that followed me. Didn’t even get my hands dirty. God watches over fools.



The beach is mostly gravel, stones worn smooth, from pea size to a couple inches across. Sand that’s left is under these fields of small stones. They fascinate me. They are so much alike and yet each one is etched and worn individually, cracked along lines of inclusions, broken and then worn again. As I walked on them they crunched.



To the south of the center two houses hang, clinging to the cliff, parts of their supports and guts hanging over. Windows that had revealed breathtaking views were now boarded over. Yellow tape drapes across them like derelict Christmas decorations. They are broken, sad. These aren’t homes, they’re summer houses. But hanging there, they’re sad.



Further toward the jetty and bulkhead, a hole, ten feet deep, ten feet wide, has been carved out by the tides’ brutal intrusion. It’s eerie. It seems a grave for an SUV or a dream. Leaving it behind, I moved away from the rocks and timbers that still defend what’s left. And so, I found a gift. For some reason only known to the uncaring sea, the cliff there is only a high step for a stretch of fifty feet. A large vacant lot stretches at the top of the step toward Ocean Avenue, bordered by hedges, populated by a back yard timber jungle gym. The grass is unmowed, long and hummocked, if that’s a word. Perhaps since there was no structure to assault, the storm was kinder here. It left a kindness for me. I trudged through the grass inland to the road and back to the center.



As I came back I realized I hadn’t considered climbing back up the cliff. As I said, the Lord watches over fools.

Study Leave IV

Joe was in the kitchen this morning, making oatmeal for the sisters, and now for me. He’s here because there are others, retreating. They’ll be eating later. I slipped out the back door into the cold after saying hello to him.



Chain link now spans the east of the property. There’s less of it, property that is, than before the storm. The fence keeps wanderers like me from the new cliff, ten feet down to the beach. Not today. I squeezed around the end and walked along the edge. The soil up top is frozen and firm ground supporting grass and shrubs. The sea took sand and stones and bulkheads, but it also took land, dirt, claiming that which we walk on and plant in, and depend on. The cliff is reddish in the predawn light, jagged and draped with boards, pipes, broken shrubs, stones, floats, plywood, a sign or two, and a cluster of tennis balls. I studied that one for a minute, wondering what club was invaded by a non-member. I doubt Sandy paid dues or dressed appropriately. How dare she come all the way up here where she doesn’t belong? It’s a bit frightening not to be in control of the ground we walk on. I considered clambering down to the sand, but continued on, squeezing around the other end of the fence. We’ll save that adventure for a warmer moment.



Cupped between birms is a labyrinth, different colored paving stones laid down, inviting a journey toward…? Perhaps that’s the point of the maze, to provide an opportunity to discover the value of wandering. There is no prize at the center. There are no awards or affirmations. There is only following the path, discovering dead ends and switchbacks until it is solved. This one was laid out to be a journey of prayer. Its tangle leads toward letting go of any agenda other than openness and acceptance. I stood at its beginning. I’d done that yesterday as well, and made the same choice, not to answer its invitation.



I live in a labyrinth, curling in upon myself, choosing paths toward… Just now I would rather wander without paths. Standing there in the rosy light, I was glad to choose other. Soon enough I would be back, considering the twists and turns of each day’s living. Just now, I’ll thank the maker for this moment when I can turn away from those demands and walk back to the kitchen for company, some hot oatmeal, and perhaps a scone.

Study leave III

Walking out onto the deck, roofed by the third floor wasn’t an adventure. But with my cigar in hand, glowing in the darkness, I journeyed around to the sea side. It was darker there. The waves shuffled in, no growl or thud. It was more like a deck of cards, working into each other. So still that the lights from airplanes on the holding pattern from Kennedy flashed over the water, intermittent moments like shooting stars. But the show wasn’t in the water. It was up there, up where stars polluted the skies. Once in a while I look up at night and converse with Orion, dependable in his belt, carrying his club. His knees shine, like mine when I’ve pushed too hard in exercise. And the Pleiades, clustering close, a tiny dipper, there above the hunter. There’s a star between. Perhaps it’s a planet. It shines, constant and bright, but it’s always there. Planets wander you know. It made me wonder if it had a name, planet or star. Anyway, the personalities were all there, but they were accompanied by a host, strewn out across the blackness, above the darkness of the sea.



When I walk Sam, after the parking lot lights have winked out, those friends are there with that bright one between. But here, over the shuffling darkness there were more, more, more of them. Each time I looked there were more. It was a wonder. It was a sadness. How many times had I looked up and not seen, because of street lights, or house lights, or because I didn’t look up at all, occupied by the small necessities of down here. Perhaps there are more of them there than I thought. Perhaps I missed them, blazing out there, distances beyond thinking, shining down on my world and I missed them.



I smoked my cigar and considered all that unseen and unnoticed, listening to the sea shuffle in to the shore. God, life is amazing.

Study Leave II

I woke last night, in dark unrelieved by stray lights from street or passing cars. The sea’s low rumble, constant and then rhythmic lay under me. I roamed, poking in the dark, peaking out a curtained window and saw the moon rise. Less than half, it still cast a silver road down across the dark moving deep. I remembered my childhood, standing on the dunes with my sisters, wondering if I was careful enough could I travel it? And where would it take me? I felt my way back to bed and let the sea’s rhythm lead me out the silver road.



I woke hours later. It was less dark. Day was coming, rushing around the planet’s shoulder, but now only a glow. I bundled against the wind’s bite. ‘Cover your ears.’ It was always the cry when I went out into winter. And so with covered ears, I went out into the dim invitation of day.



The wreckage of the coast spoke silently of the storm’s fury. Bulwarks and jetties broken and moved, chunks of land bitten and chewed, some swallowed. I noticed stones standing out, obviously from some other beach or garden or foundation or road. But now they were here, cast like runes. I tried to read their message, but all it spoke of was my smallness. Perhaps that is enough.



A sea gull lay, cast down next to a bent bush, its wings still graceful in death. They are such miracles. No wonder De Vinci studied them. Beyond it was a pond, bordered in stones worn to smoothness, each a testament to the power of wind and water, transforming even stones. The ice was clear, undisturbed by wind. To be that clear perhaps it is necessary to be sheltered, perhaps.



Further, a tree, old, leaning, pushed by forces more powerful than its deep roots. It was still planted firmly, heaving the ground on one side, but holding on. One of its massive branches, formerly lifted toward the gull’s sky was now a pillar, helping the roots to hold the load of wind and weather. What had been a living prayer, reaching up and out had become a support. I stood there, my hand on the trunk considering the prayer life of a tree. And mingled mine with it. Adoration, receiving gratefully, reaching, surviving, holding on, carrying life’s loads with dignity, appreciating.



The sun came then, red into a clear sky.



It was time to find the kitchen. Sister Francis would be making oatmeal and perhaps scones. You don’t need to butter them, there’s more than enough already there.

Study Leave

Each year I come to this convent by the sea, a few miles from my home, to be alone with my books, the sea, and God. I don’t mean to sound grandiose, or puffed up as the King James would put it. In a real sense, that’s why I’m here. Four days with nothing on my agenda except what I put there. If truth be told, it’s a bit daunting, sitting alone, studying, reading, gazing out at the mother of all rolling in to the rocks. No phone, no ‘Pastor, I know you’re busy, but…..,’ no responsibilities except that of studying.



I make an agenda. Despite the definition of ‘Study Leave’ demanding that I put the work of the church behind, that’s mostly what I do. I plan whole seasons of sermons and classes and retreats. I can’t get that stuff done at the office or at my house. Life’s too much with me late and soon. But I do get a good amount of thinking done. I take walks. I forage for stones for my bonsai, and feathers and drift wood to adorn my wizard’s tower. (That’s sort of like a man cave without a TV). I tend to take naps, and smoke a cigar or two as I investigate the wreckage the winter sea makes and leaves as it interacts with the flimsy land.



I can’t visualize having such a retreat without the winter sea. The land is busy and productive and demanding. The summer sea is sensually inviting. It draws me into its embrace and onto its sandy skirts. No, it’s here and now I must retreat like some beast, valued for its ability to perform. Now I don’t need rest, sleep and inactivity, though if truth be told, I need that too. No, I come here to the winter sea, brutal and unforgiving, beautiful and steady to find my balance.



Back there, in the office, the study, the class room, around the committee table, producing the stuff that makes the whole thing roll with the minimum hassle and difficulty, rolling in the most efficient, least costly, in people’s feelings and their money, and all the time keep it leaning, sometimes ever so slightly toward the eternal, there is no time to pay attention to the source. To do so is inefficient and too often rude to the one in the door way ignoring my focus on book or paper or key board. Ministry is done in the hall way and in the cross roads. I’ve told my staff and leaders that we run a bus station. Security and safety and dependable parameters are not only too much to expect, but are probably counter to our ultimate purposes.



Beside the sea, the winter pounding frigid sea I remember the source of it all. Perhaps that’s why I’ve learned to go out there before the dawn to watch the miracle each day. The light comes softly, reminding all of us that walk in darkness that though our resources are limited there are other sources of illumination. And then it comes proudly, all subtly is laid aside. The world comes clear. And I remember why I came here.

Hard Work

Psalm 19

Preaching for me is a frightening endeavor.  Part of it is research of what was, part of it is consideration of what is happening in the world, part of it is remembering what issues are working in the community of faith.  But that makes up less than half of what happens in this holy moment.

I remember my father working on sermons.  He’d close the French doors that sealed off his study like some wizard in his tower.  If I stood at the right angle, I could watch him working, hunched over the desk, covered with volumes of commentaries.  After hours, these would be replaced with a Hebrew or Greek text and an English text.  Then there would be times of elbow supported head holding.  I never saw him all the way through this process, I had other things to do, trees to climb, things to imagine.  But many times when I came back from my excursions, he was still there. 

Years later I’d been taught to use those magical tomes.  I was now the wizard, I had my own tower.  And I came to realize that all the incantations within the tomes, all the ingredients I could gather from the wide and local world meant nothing.  They were dry weeds and empty words.  And I remembered him, elbows planted, holding his head.  I came to realize that he’d been praying, praying for the lightening, praying for the spirit that altered these bits of news and scholarship, transformed them with the breath of the eternal into a living and breathing moment of God’s touch.

He did that.  He opened the pipes for people to be touched with a sense of more.  Everything else he did for and with and in the churches that he ran and administered and pastored may have been important to the world and to the people, but it was all secondary to those moments of touch.  Because then and there, God was present. 

I also came to realize over time, that all the preparation in the universe couldn’t open any pipes, because the Lord of all time tends to work in the present tense.  That time of preaching is consecrated, set aside.  It is a place of glory and of storm.  It is full of hope and fear.  It is full of darkness and of light.  And I remembered the prayer he said each Sunday, ‘May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in Your sight, our rock and our redeemer.’

Then I realized, and have ever since that this whole thing is not about producing some sort of presentation or even achieving a result to be measured by categories of success or failure.  It is an act of prayer.  It is about placing everything one can gather, every bit of wisdom and perspective before the living Lord as a sacrifice, to be used by that Lord as He wills.  It needs to be acceptable in no one’s sight except His.  And that net is thrown over the entire congregation.  We’re all confronted by the measure of the God of all that is, was, and will be.  So, why aren’t we simply terrified?  Because, as we pray, we also claim this Lord as our ‘rock and our redeemer.’  We preachers open ourselves in humility and confidence, we claim this Lord as our own.