still singing

July 31, 2010 at 7:10 pm (simply observing)

Driving into Baltimore, right where the road I was on merged onto the Beltway, I had to stop because of traffic. I had the windows down, and so I noticed there, in the little triangle of green between a road continuing and another beginning—noticed within that small oasis of grass and weeds, the sound of crickets.

Because the traffic there was stop and go, at one stop, I noticed strands of spider web glistening in the sun, strung between tall grass and cattails.

Now I don’t believe there’s any question but that we have imposed too much concrete on the earth. I don’t believe there’s any question but that we have been short-sighted and overly influenced by convenience and immediate gratification in our decision making. I don’t believe there’s any question but that the way we have chosen to live will have, perhaps unintended, but nonetheless profoundly difficult consequences for our children and our children’s children.

And yet, I am grateful that even in the smallest patches of green, nature still sings.

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speaking of God

July 30, 2010 at 3:50 pm (God, living faith)

Russ Dean grew up a Southern Baptist P.K. (preacher’s kid) in South Carolina. His dad and mine were in seminary together, and we got to know each other in seminary ourselves. He has just recently started a blog in which he seeks to celebrate God and his Christian faith in conversation with the truths of the quantam world in which we live. His passion lies in discovering the insights the truths of our world offer into the Truth of God and the energy present when the Truth of God is found to resonate with the truths of our world. His is a vibrant, questing, questioning, Scripturally grounded, intellectually curious, emotionally faithful faith, and I invite you to join him in his searching. It will be well worth the time you invest.

Recently he shared some thoughts on the creative power of our words about God. What we say about God creates an image of God that may or may not correspond to the truth of God transcendent that lies beyond our ability to know or name.

Frederick Buechner wrote “In Hebrew the term dabar means both “word” and “deed.” Thus to say something is to do something.” Russ suggests that what was true for God in the beginning (God spoke, and it was), is true for us as well.

The great risk lies in the unfolding truth of the parallel, for while when God spoke us, we were created in God’s image, when we speak of God, we create God in our image. Though parallel, the one truth is an ever expanding one, the other a necessarily limiting one. Also an inescapable one (the alternative being silence—which makes for an interesting reflection on the advice, “be still and know that I am God!”—Psalm 46:10).

So how do we speak with confidence of God? There’s that whole three legged stool idea: we speak in accord with Scripture, Tradition and Reason (or Experience). There’s value to that, though scripture, tradition and reason (or experience) have, individually and collectively, certainly all led people astray. So, again, how do we speak with confidence of God?

Because, I believe, God continues to speak. Because the image of God in which I am created continues to work in and through me speaking images of God. I confess the limitations of my words. I confess the limitations of me. But a transcendent yearning not only keeps me thinking—imagining—imaging—speaking, but is, I believe, made manifest in and through my speaking. And sometimes, it is the consistency of the struggle to speak that speaks most honestly … I think.

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consistency

July 29, 2010 at 3:39 pm (God, living faith, scripture)

I went in to the office the other day, and stayed for a meeting that night. Made the trip back to my parents’ late. Then went back to Baltimore the next day. “Why not spend the night in Baltimore?” someone asked. “Because my girls are not in Baltimore,” I said. “And right now, we’re each other’s consistency.” Amidst all that’s been changing (moving from a hotel room to some friends’ house, to Mom and Dad’s, to the lake house, to a hotel, another hotel, back to Mom and Dad’s, back to friends’), amidst all that’s been discarded, amidst bedrooms being redesigned, amidst the topsy-turvy turmoil that is our stuff—amidst all that’s been changing, we are each other’s consistency.

I’m trying to decide if it’s fair to claim we like to surround ourselves with as much consistency as we can. It’s certainly a claim that makes sense in a world like ours—with so much always changing—so much that’s out of our control—so much that’s so terribly fragile.

We locate consistency in concentric circles rippling out from home and nuclear family (our spatial and relational base), extending through community and routine: extended family, friends, church, job, gym, school, responsibilities and hobbies. This is who we are, we think. These consistencies.

And as many of those as have stayed the same for us, we’ve lost the fundamental spatial consistency of home (the place from which we go out to our other consistencies and to which we then return, the place from which we go to church and job and gym and school, from which we go to friends, to which we invite friends, where we go home to—to weather the inconsistencies of life—where we relax, where we rest). So, for now, our concentric circles of consistency just ripple out from us—the four of us.

That’s not all bad. I would be one to say, after all, that the relational base is more important than the spatial. And in the loss of place, we have become even more important to each other. Our daughters have named the truth that they don’t so much care where we are, as long as the four of us are together. But we’ve also been profoundly reminded of the importance of space—personal space. As much as our communities have invited us in—as important as that’s been—as good as that’s been—at the end of the day, we are displaced.

One of my recurring thoughts reflecting on the wilderness wandering of the ancient Hebrew people, is the spatial inconsistency of their exisence within a relational consistency focused on the ever-presence of God-with-them—their opportunity to locate their fundamental consistency in the experience and assurance of God. Which raises the question, how can we—more intentionally—more celebratively—claim and emphasize, within our displacement, the experience and assurance of God in our car, God in our wandering, God-with-us—the absolute consistency?

Is there a difference between the affirmation of the consistency of God with us, and us with each other, us with friends, family, loved ones? Surely those consistencies must be part of any absolute consistency, but what is there beyond that? Other than the affirmation and the celebration of the truth that is ….

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uncommon things

July 28, 2010 at 4:30 pm (stories)

In the sleepiest corner of a sleepy state at the sleepiest time of the day, the birds, heads tucked under wings, weren’t singing; the wind wasn’t blowing, wasn’t swirling, it was just breathing, evenly and heavily; the bugs were taking naps, antennae twitching; the grass dozed, and even the sun’s rays gathered in small pools of sleepy light, curled up and snoozed, shimmering slightly. It was there, and it was then, in the very midst of all the dreams and the snores, in the sleepiest corner of a sleepy state at the sleepiest time of the day, that a rock woke up.

Now, it’s a big deal for a rock to wake up. It doesn’t happen very often—well, actually it happens more than we think …, it’s just that usually rocks don’t stay awake … rocks get really dizzy. They wake up, look around, and everything’s whizzing by, moving oh so very quickly. They wake up to a world spinning by on a completely foreign time frame. It’s disorienting. It’s disconcerting. It’s uncomfortable. So, most of the time, a rock will simply close its eyes (it’s not really eyes, but that’s the easiest way to understand. It’s actually rather complicated—has something to do with caves)—anyway, usually a rock will simply close its eyes and go back to sleep. It’s the easiest thing to do, and so it’s the most common thing to have happen. But rocks don’t always do the easiest thing to do. Uncommon things do happen, and every now and then a rock becomes aware, blinks rapidly (rapidly for a rock, that is)—blinks at everything spinning by, and decides to stay awake.

Now a rock awake, looks for something like unto itself—something with a time frame more recognizable, more comfortable, more suited to a rock—which is, most often, another rock. And thus you have mountain ranges. Mountain ranges are often, indeed, usually, awake. A collection of peaks, a range of peaks, help keep each other up. And together, they bolster their own time frame. Ever wondered why mountain regions can be so restful? Everything seems to slow down, to be taken at a slower pace? It’s no coincidence.

A rock staying awake, you see, is a truly momentous event. A rock deciding to stay awake has significant consequences, immense consequences, because a rock staying awake exerts an almost gravitational pull on everything around it, and the spinning, the moving oh so very quickly, it all slows down, imperceptibly at first, but the more awake the rock is, the more awake rocks there are, the more another time frame is imposed on the area . . . the time frame of rocks.

A rock, awake, looks for something like unto itself, something with which it can counter the rapid pace of the world, something like unto itself, which is usually another rock. But sometimes a rock awakes and looks upon, say, a body of water. Now not just any water. Not a pond, a creek, not a lake, a river—bodies of water profoundly, essentially, and relatively quickly affected by season, by weather, by what lines their shores. No, but sometimes a rock awakes and looks upon the ocean. And mesmerized by the tide, remains awake, pondering an existence as immense and as deliberate as its own. And the ocean, too, can be a restful place—an environment in which time seems to slow down.

Rarely, so rarely, a rock awakes and looks upon a life long lived, unmoved by time and circumstance—an ancient tree, a coral reef. Uncommon things do happen. And here, too, time warps, and yesterday, today and tomorrow blend. Time loses its tight grip and can’t pass with its accustomed ease. And you can lose track of yourself leaning against such a tree, resting against its roots and in its shade.

But rocks, awake and with eyes to see, looking for something like unto themselves, end up looking beyond the spinning whirling moving oh so very quickly, to find themselves slowed down. They discover that they haven’t in fact, been looking for something like unto themselves, but something far grander, much older, something utterly beyond themselves.

This they discover looking upon eternity. And from vast expanse of cliff on high mountain peak to a sea-washed pebble lodged in a crack between this and that, in a vast language encompassing ages, the very rocks will sing: “Hosanna!”

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ages of rock

July 27, 2010 at 10:55 pm (God, living faith, simply observing)

So it’s the young rock at North Carolina’s Grandfather Mountain that’s 65 million years old. But, many, many, many moons ago, the shifting of two of the earth’s major tectonic plates pushed older rock from down below up over the young rock. This was at a time when Grandfather Mountain was significantly higher than Mount Everest is now! Appropriately named Grandfather Mountain, worn down through the millions of years, is actually among the oldest of mountains on earth. So, along with the 65 million year old young rock, there’s also some older rock that’s been dated at 1.2 billion years old!

Further north, Virginia’s Natural Bridge is carved out of 500 million year old grey limestone. Standing an impressive 215 feet high, with 40 foot thick walls, spanning 90 feet in its arch, we look to little Cedar Creek, flowing gently under the massive bridge. And we look from the simple mountain stream flowing to the sea up to the rock bridge to see, again, the inexorable work of time.

Human beings might, with high explosives and various and assorted kinds of machinery duplicate the natural bridge … making an unnatural one. The wonder is, precisely, no one did. To see what was accomplished without us, what was not made with human hands, is to remember … to be reminded that creation did not begin with us—that the biblical record affirms the blessing of creation before we were ever around. And to stand on Grandfather Mountain or at the Natural Bridge is to be reminded why.

There are some of my faith who deny such numbers (the years, not the feet) as a threat to their understanding of creation, their affirmation of God, and some justification for their faith. Those numbers are though—that creative process extended through time is rather, for me, invitation to wonder ….

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pictures in my mind

July 26, 2010 at 10:16 pm (simply observing)

We’re not back in Baltimore yet. But we’re in Maryland—at my parents’—realizing that what we so gratefully left (house-wise) awaits our return, and I return in my mind to the past week … not ready yet, to face this one!

Two years ago, at Preaching Camp 2008, on a South Carolina lake, I tried to get up on one ski. Wasn’t happening. Not a chance. Felt uncomfortable … unnatural. I couldn’t even remember which foot I used to have forward. Neither position felt right.

So I got up on two and skiied around for a while, but never could relax—couldn’t get comfortable—never felt stable. And even though it had probably been some fifteen years since I waterskiied before that, what a let down! This, in spite of the cheerful encouragement and affirmations of our resident water ski expert preacher (neat the way expert can reflect back or look forward … you notice that?), Russ Dean (If I knew how to put pictures in this blog, I’d impress you at this point with a picture of Russ skiing!)—what a let down in spite of Russ’ encouragement and his and my great amusement at the other two preachers in the boat having had a wave dumped on them (mind you this was in October and they were wearing sweatshirts! … don’t I wish I had a picture!)—who had a wave dumped on them, courtesy of Russ’ driving, despite his protestations of innocence.

Well, this past week I got up on two skis early in the week, behind the boat with Russ’ two boys, Jackson and Bennett, Carolina lake boys the two of them (if I knew how to place pictures, I have one of the three Dean boys skiing in a pyramid formation!). I had not planned on skiing so there was but a bright orange floatation device in the boat (no way to call that thing a vest!), but in graceful solidarity Jackson and Bennett surrendered their vests and both donned like-colored floatation devices, and the three of us skiied Lake James in what can only be described as sartorial splendor!

Later, I got up on two by myself and found myself so much more comfortable than I ever remembered having been back in ’08—crossing the wake, shifting my weight—somewhat frustrated, in general (sometimes it’s a good feeling to be frustrated!)—somewhat frustrated at the more restricted mobility of two skis—wanting the greater freedom of a slalom ski.

So, on our last day, I got up on one ski. A simple declarative sentence that in no way reflects the group effort! Russ, Amy (Russ’ wife), Jackson and Bennett persistently cheering from the boat, my wife and girls from the dock, Russ patiently offering advice each time he looped around to pick me up again.

And it wasn’t uncomfortable (once I got up). I felt somewhat relaxed, fairly stable. And it was fun. I had told Russ I thought I would regret it if I didn’t try (mindful that I might regret having tried!), and now I continue to celebrate remembering the sense of pride and accomplishment (especially after the experience in 2008), the strong pull of the boat, the initial resistance and subsequent support of the water (there’s a lesson), all those lovely angles: the angle formed by the trajectory of the boat and the line of the ski rope, the angle from the surface of the water along the skier’s body, the angle of skier’s body and skier’s arms—a geometry of grace (more when any of the Dean clan ski than I, but nonetheless …!), the look of sun on water, the feel of sun and water on me, the feel of a gliding kind of speed, that wonderful fatigue after you’ve let go, sunk into the water and are trying to climb onto the dock.

Next year, I’ll hope to get up on one ski early in the week … maybe wearing a bright orange floatation device. I bet Jackson and Bennett would be up for it!

Be sure and check out the other preachers’ comments on our week: Amy’s, Don’s, Jim’s, Russ’. Hmmm, seems they all know how to insert pictures! Enjoy.

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slowing down

July 25, 2010 at 2:14 pm (simply observing)

We’ve had a good time of glorious meandering. Leaving the lake, we made our way up to Linville Gorge where, after eating at Famous Louise’s Rockhouse Restaurant, we hiked out to Wiseman’s View, there to look across the gorge at Table Rock. Then we wound our way up 221 to Boone where we spent the night. Yesterday morning, after an enjoyable time browsing Earth Fare: the healthy supermarket, we backtracked to Grandfather Mountain.

In his workshop at the foot of the mountain, we watched woodworker Tom Wolfe and had a conversation with him about knives and gouges (particularly fun for me since I have one of his books!). We drove about halfway up the mountain and had a picnic before walking through the natural animal habitats. The river otters and bears were fun to watch. To see Wilma, the bald eagle injured by some idiot with a gun, was less fun and more sad. She’s been there twenty-nine years, unable to fly. To be an eagle unable to fly ….

Driving on up the mountain, we walked across the mile high swinging bridge. On the other side, I clambered out onto Grandfather’s Linville Peak to take in the beauty and majesty of the 360 degree view.

Coming down Grandfather Mountain, we got on the Blue Ridge Parkway and headed north. Butterflies galore. Leisurely pace (the speed limit is 45 mph). No trucks. Minimal signage. Knowing how much further you have to go to get to where you need to be isn’t a priority. Lots of overlooks. We would pull into a fair number of them. As did other travelers … who also just pulled over onto the shoulder. We would pass a man just sitting on a rock looking out over a valley, a couple sitting on the rock guardrail, facing out, talking, a family around a blanket in the grass.

One time, we stopped upon passing two picturesque, old wooden structures only to discover one was Cool Spring Baptist Church! Though a sign did note the structure was mainly a weather shelter as the “meetings” took place outside.

We ate at Bluff’s Restaurant before sunset, so we could pull over after dinner to watch the sun go down over the western mountains. Driving on, we noted that the butterflies had finished their day shift and that the fireflies were on now.

We got off the Parkway in Virginia to get on the highway. Startling. The speed. The traffic. The immediate focus on getting to where we wanted to get.

Later, we’ll get off the highway to take in Virginia’s Natural Bridge. Maybe do a little backtracking, a little more slowing down. Lessons maybe we can take back to routine. It would be good. It’s been so good.

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saying goodbye to say hello

July 24, 2010 at 12:13 pm (living faith, simply observing)

Thursday afternoon came the first goodbyes. Rude intrusion into our idyllic week. Then Thursday night, we had to say goodbye to those leaving early Friday morning. More goodbyes after breakfast. A call from those who left Thursday—safe and sound back at home. Then one more time out on the boat—into the water. Back to the house for lunch—a text from those who left early that morning—now well on their way. Then it was all about the packing, continuing the washing and drying cycle, cleaning the bathrooms, the kitchen, making beds, saying the final goodbyes and hitting the road.

Throughout it all—grief, but also a sense of appropriate returning—everyone going back to where they belong—where then need to be to continue their living and their working so we can gather again for a sabbath week of family and church set apart.

I don’t much like goodbyes when it comes to those I love, but for those with whom my being is intertwined, goodbyes are but the necessary conduit to future hellos, and separation the context for anticipating and celebrating future communion. There’s some theology to that, isn’t there?

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admirable

July 23, 2010 at 12:56 pm (church)

I’ve started a book I think it’s going to take me a while to read: Austrian-born, U.S. child psychologist Bruno Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales.

As a pastor, I find so much of value in considering fairy tales for the benefit of children, and I say that with the absolute highest regard for both the children of God and all those biblical once-upon-a-times.

In but the first few pages, I read: “The question for the child is not ‘Do I want to be good?’ but ‘Who do I want to be like?’” Before a child is developmentally capable of naming and claiming morals, s/he is capable of admiration, and, hopefully, admiration—of worthy mentors—will subsequently lead to morals, but that’s later ….

I have so enjoyed being, this weekend, with people I’m thrilled my children both enjoy and admire (as do I). I am so appreciative that that affirmation, significantly, includes both older youth and adults. And I so enjoy the affirmation, as well, that as we leave this experience of church, we return to another in which I’m also thrilled at the children, youth and adults my family enjoy and admire. It’s one of the best gifts of good church.

As we prepare to leave preachers’ camp 2010, as we take our last ride in the boat, last dip in the lake, wash towels for the last time, sheets for the first and only time, pack up, move on, I am again grateful for the call to be a part of something so fundamentally … admirable.

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notes from preachers’ camp

July 22, 2010 at 11:56 pm (church, simply observing)

I have retreated this week—retreated from routine—from normal and accustomed (which this year includes retreating from bed bugs and the whole process of debugging!). I have retreated to a mountain lake in North Carolina with five peers—colleagues, friends—fellow pastors with whom I’ve been meeting annually now for seven years. We get together to share thoughts on the lectionary texts for the upcoming year, to talk about the church and about ministry, to be supporters and encouragers of each other. We share our joys and our frustrations, our hopes and our fears, our accomplishments and our griefs—our ideas and our sermons. We are, to my way of thinking, church to and for each other.

Interesting to wonder if we might should be thinking in terms of how many “churches” of which we are members instead of which one. Interesting to think of a church’s mission as encouraging members to find other … more churches!

Our “church” has always relied on the generosity of members of our various other congregations—a mountain cabin in West Virginia, a farmhouse on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, two beach houses and one lake house (twice) in South Carolina, and now this lake house in North Carolina. How appropriate to gather as ministers and to talk about worship and ministry and church—always within the generosity and hospitality of the larger community of faith.

This year, our seventh year, our Jubilee, we brought our families. What a treat to see our children together. What joy to see my girls interacting with these who are so important to me, and to see how lovingly these who are so important to me cared for and celebrated these girls so precious to me. How significant that one friend knew my oldest well enough to check out a bunch of books for her from the library! How wonderful to know my precious girls will now anticipate this opportunity again. How wonderful that preaching camp (as special and vital as it has been) has been redefined, and is now all the more intimate for the inclusion of more loved ones.

We dedicate our mornings and evenings (after the youngest children are in bed) to our work, but the afternoons are dedicated to … well, fun and play. After lunch we go down to the water, and we don’t leave the water until it’s time for a late supper. We hang out on the dock, jump in the water and play with the kids, float, talk, take out the wave runner, go out in the boat, ride the inner tube, ski. My daughter started a list: “my experience water skiing,” “my experience inner tubing,” “my experience wave running,” “my experience getting dumped off the wave runner.” She could add, “my experience dancing with preachers,” “my experience in prayer and the breaking of the bread,” “my experience of another church community.”

Our first night, at bed time, one of our girls whispered, “This is neat.” Another night, being put to bed and hearing activity in the other room, she said, “Everything that’s fun happens in the night … and in the day.” The other girl, on one occasion, called one of the boys here her brother, and, on another occasion, one of the men here, my brother (“my experience of a bigger family”). And within their experience, as within mine, our hearts burn within us, and we know the presence of more than we can name—an experience that is a yearning even as it is a celebration. And we are church to and for each other—pastors to and for each other, old and young, male and female, employed by another church or not, baptized or not. And it is recreation. It is joy. It is hope.

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