What Do We See?

I was standing on the chancel, up in front of the church, half way through a funeral. A granddaughter was speaking about her ‘Pop-pop.’ I was behind her, backing her up in case she fell apart. Above her head, all the way on the other side of the sanctuary, colors, deep stained glass colors shining out of the louvers that control the volume of the pipe organ. The colors came through the organ, all the pipes, bellows, air boxes in the dark back there behind the balcony. I stood there, amazed.
Later, I looked up and the lovers were in a different position, revealing only shadows. I real ized I’d never look up there again without searching for the stained glass shining through.

What do we see when we look at something or someone? How much of our expectations have to do with a moment, a glimpse that becomes the template for what we see? How many of our prejudices, our fears, our guilts, barriers that separate us from each other and from hope and acceptance have to do with simple perspective? How many walls in our world are nothing special until we see through them to the colors shining through the darkness?

I think I’ll alter my expectations about blank walls and shadows. You never know what might come shining through.

Watermelon and Skinny Dipping

It’s February. We’re past the celebrations of Christmas, cleaning up in the infancy of the year. We get to whoop and holler during the Super Bowl. We get to be romantic on Valentine’s, but the month is hard. It’s cold, and we’re tired of it. It’s dark. Each morning feels like we’re tunneling out from under this rock better known as winter. Everybody ought to get a trip to the Bahamas included in their health insurance as a preventative strategy for health and well being. In our dreams. And then there’s Lent. Hey, if there’s a season to intentionally put pebbles in our shoes, this is it.



That’s not a snide comment. We’re rarely interested in spiritual disciplines at times when everything is clicking along, happening the way we’d like them to. The grand concourses of life rarely draw us to disciplines of self examination and contemplation. But these narrow, in these narrow, dim days it seems natural to consider depths that we would rather skim across.



So, right now we’re considering what we’ll use as a Lenten fast and a Lenten intention. We give up something and we do something extra. A friend of mine, who lived in the warm and balmy state of Wisconsin, always gave up watermelon and skinny dipping. The depth of his sacrifice was less than effective at self examination or contemplation. He told me that story in seminary. Something changed. He found the value of seeking that which cannot be found in the shallows.



Two years ago we gave up popcorn. That was rough. It doesn’t sound so difficult, but it had become a ritual of comfort and sharing after rough days. The salt and butter didn’t hurt, but its value lay far deeper than taste. So we found out. We wouldn’t have without giving it up. I suggested we give up working. Certain problems arise with that. This needs to be a reminder, not an injury. We’re working on it. I’ll let you know what we come up with.

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.