Shining Spirit

What if I told you that I was in a meeting with Billy Graham years ago. Right there with this giant of a Christian man. Billy and me. And 75,000 other people. Or, that when I was in London a few decades ago, I walked along the boulevard with the famous actor, Peter O’Toole. A memorable moment, as he passed me walking in the opposite direction, never saw me, never said “Hello.” Proximity doesn’t qualify as knowing.

In Luke’s chapter 13 we get a glimpse of what Jesus thinks about name dropping. In that feisty translation by Eugene Peterson, The Message, we hear Jesus making the point. A bystander has just asked him about who or how many will “be saved.” His reply: “Whether few or many is none of your business. Put your mind on your life with God. The way to life–to God–is vigorous and requires your total attention. A lot of you are going to assume that you’ll sit down to God’s salvation banquet just because you’ve been hanging around the neighborhood all your lives. Well, one day you’re going to be banging on the door, wanting to get in, but you’ll find the door locked and the Master saying: ‘Sorry, you’re not on my guest list.’ You’ll protest, ‘But we’ve known you all our lives!’ only to be interrupted with his abrupt, ‘Your kind of knowing can hardly be called knowing.”

At the risk of being redundantly redundant, knowing about Jesus is not the same as knowing Jesus. Does hanging around the neighborhood make me a good neighbor? Does knowing all about the child of Bethlehem qualify as knowing him. I may know the chapters and the verses, the stanzas to lots of hymns; I may even be able to tell you the names of half a dozen saints, but hear it one more time: “just because you’ve been hanging around the neighborhood all your lives…” isn’t enough. Take him at his word: “the way to life, to God, is vigorous and requires your total attention.”

So, why not resolve on this wonderful Wednesday to be present to, not in proximity to, the One who offers us bread for the day and strength for the journey? Intentional. Vigorous. Total attention. Name dropping won’t get anybody a seat at the table.

Did I mention that I had breakfast with….never mind.

“Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of faith is to see what you believe.” St. Augustine
May it be so for me today, Lord.

“Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps the singing bird will come.” Chinese proverb
May it be so for me today, Lord.

“It is the heart that experiences God, not the reason.” Blaise Pascal
May it be so for me today, Lord.

“As long as matters are really hopeful, hope is mere flattery or platitude. It is only when everything is hopeless that hope begins to be a strength.” G. K. Chesterton
Help me, Lord, to hope beyond mere flattery or platitude. May my sense of hope this day begin and end in You. Amen

I went to a movie last night. I discovered two important things: those theater seats are so comfortable and the pre-movie ads, previews, and promotions are as loud and generally obnoxious as the ones I saw the last time I sat in a theater. My choice: suffer through the offensive thirty minutes of promotional pandemonium or time my arrival to coincide with the actual start of the movie. O, the choices that present themselves!

The movie was the powerful story of a German man who, in the early days of Adolf Hitler’s rise to power, was faced with an agonizing choice. I recommend the movie Bonhoeffer to you. It is well worth seeing and discussing. The movie led me back to the 1960s and Joseph Fletcher, the founder of a movement known as Situational Ethics. This way of thinking and making choices looks at a particular action and evaluates it on the basis of the context of the moment rather than on a universal code of ethics or morality. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran pastor who became involved in opposition to Hitler’s terror and who finally moved away from the universal moral code of his religion. When Bonhoeffer became part of a small group determined to assassinate Hitler, he crossed the line into Fletcher’s world of Situational Ethics and he faced the terrible dilemma of choosing between an ancient code of moral conduct or the needs of the immediate moment.

That same choice dilemma exists today and it will always be part of our human journey. Do I follow the mandates of my faith; is that code the authority that informs my actions. Or, do I choose to act on the basis of the moment’s particular circumstances. Is the Gospel of Jesus my source of ethical and moral responses, or can I step beyond those spiritual principles and act on the basis of “the greater good” or my interpretation of the particular moment. It’s a tough place to be, but you and I are there almost daily. As a spiritual exercise, become familiar with Fletcher’s work. Google it and grasp the basics of what he taught, and then consider the spiritual demands of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. This puts the phrase “love your neighbor” in a whole new light.

Tucked away on an infrequently visited bookshelf, this little red Bible is worn around the edges and the pages are beginning to yellow. It is old. Things happen as you get older. But this isn’t about my latest visit to the doctor. Or yours, either.

This is about a little book that has a big message. If the number of Bibles one has on the shelf determines sainthood, I am now St. Roger. But among the many translations is this one, the little red one that belonged to my Mom, and it still has something to say. The first time I opened the little red book I thought to myself: this little book has Mom’s heart prints all over it. That’s particularly true when I turned to the back, inside cover. In this usually blank space after the writing has stopped, I found thirteen little strips of paper glued to the blank surface. Each strip of paper had a message in a few printed words. “The time will come when civilized man will feel that the rights of every living creature on earth are as sacred as his own.” Mom loved animals. “Animals are such agreeable friends: they ask no questions; they pass no criticisms.” “Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.”

Maybe you have something that reminds you of someone special, or a special moment in your personal history. I’ve said many times that we cannot live in the past. But we can certainly learn from the past, respect and honor the past, and give thanks that Love speaks to us in so many ways, through photos, letters or notes discovered, and little Red Books.

Thank you, God, for the Word contained between the covers of this book, and thank you for the heart prints that give it life even now.

I learned yesterday that Robert Willis, former Dean of Canterbury Cathedral, died October 22 of this year. I didn’t know the quiet, gentle man; never met him and he did not know me. I was, though, a member of his Garden Congregation, a creative response to the terror called Covid. When the terrible illness struck, churches, among other public gathering places, shut their doors. Crowds of potentially infected people posed great problems. So, Fr. Robert thought: If they can’t come to the church, the church will come to them electronically. So, he created morning prayer each day in the lovely Cathedral garden where his onsite congregation consisted of thousands of online viewers and local congregants: chickens, pigs, cats, rabbits, birds, ducks…any and every living thing was invited to The Garden Congregation. It was not at all unusual for Fr. Robert to speak of the Love of God will holding a cat in his lap, balancing his Bible in one hand while scratching a pig’s ear with the other hand. He was authentic. He was a kind man who cared for his “flock.”

I offer the following as a tribute to the man who pulled many, many of us through the dark days of Covid.

The Garden Congregation

They had a meeting in the garden today,
a sad meeting, a weeping meeting.
“Is it true?” a large white duck asked a piglet.
“Tell me it’s not true.”

“It is so sadly true,” piglet replied.
“But,” said duck, “who will cast grain for us
across the lawn? Who will pour milk for Leo
and Lilly and Tiger?” Piglet sprawled on the
ground: “But who will scratch behind my
ears anymore?”

A choir of circling birds looked down
on the empty lawn chair and began
singing a dirge of despair. There is
no lap I can jump into, thought the cat.
Chickens wandered aimlessly through
the trees and along the old wall.
And there on the simple little table that
held his tea set was a single pitcher,
the small one that held milk for
kitten’s paw, now turned on its side.

At the hour of his usual appearing,
black cassock dragging through the wet
grass, prayerbook cradled under his arm,
tea set rattling with each step,
at that moment the Cathedral bells
clanged into a harmony that swept
through the streets and the halls and
the homes of Canterbury, causing all the
aimless animals to look up into the sky.

“Did you see him? I saw him,” the
gray cat exclaimed. “There. Just
above the pointy steeple.” But when
they all looked, the gentle puff of
cloud had disappeared into soft
droplets of rain that fell over the
garden. Some said later that it
didn’t rain anywhere else that morning,
only on the garden and the animals
awaiting his appearing.

Only on the Garden Congregation of his
tending where his gentle voice is silent
until the roses bloom another day.

“Come to me all who labor…and I will give you rest.”
Matthew 11:28

“I think I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree…”
From “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer

Redwoods, ancient guardians
Maples, flame-throwers of color
Aspens, white-coated mountain spirits
Oaks, sturdy neighbors along the country road
Pines, mass choirs chanting sacred melody

Trees talk in their own language, communicate with each other, living – breathing – speaking

Trees promote mental health…ever take a walk in the woods?
Trees clean the air…particle filters
Trees are high-rise apartments for wildlife…sparrows and eagles
Trees cool the climate…the ultimate refreshment: shade
Trees filter our water…life in a gulp

My infant child’s crib, the carvings of artistic masters,
the cane that allows me to walk
I cannot live without trees.
The world cannot survive without trees.

Then, why do we cut down 27,000 trees
globally every day to make toilet paper?
27,000 Every day

There must be a better way.

“I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a…” roll of toilet paper.
(Sorry JK)

I can give you 14 reasons why you should
never chop a hole in the roof --
bumblebees   rain   snow 
woodpeckers  dust
and 9 more

Unless you are locked out of something
absolutely  surely  certainly
critically important
like love

What if I knock a hole in the roof
and it starts to rain?
Dance in the puddles

What if a bird flies in?
Invite her to tea

What if dust settles on everything?
Draw pictures with your finger

What if I break through and
love isn't there?

What if I don't and
it is?

According to my records, this was the first photograph published on Shining Spirit more than a decade ago. The most recent posting was number 1,040. I found myself strolling down memory lane early this morning when I opened my eyes to this Sunday dawn with bits and pieces of an old song tumbling around in my brain. Here are some of the memory pieces: “the little congregation,” “chapel bells,” “little Jimmy Brown.” You won’t remember the song unless you can make it back to 1959.

Sung by The Browns, the song “The Three Bells” was a huge hit. I guess it was with me because it has stuck around for 65 years in the crevices of my consciousness. And, of course, given the wonder of our technology, I entered a few words in a search process and within one minute I had the name of the song, the artists, and a You Tube of the song being sung at The Grand Old Opry. We’ve come a long way in 65 years.

The photo above is still powerful in its contemporary message. This morning I see the bridge, the deep fog that obscures one end of it, and an almost eerie quietness in the forest setting. Given the uncertainties of our own day, are we coming out of the fog or into it? The unknown teases some and terrifies others. If I am driving into the blinding fog, what waits ahead? I want to see the curves and turns in the road, but I cannot. How does my faith inform my responses and reactions to the fog?

In hindsight, 1959 seems to have been a quieter time. More stable? Probably not. It hadn’t been so long since we came out of a World War. Korea was next. Viet Nam waited. Maybe there has always been fog at the end of the narrow bridge. Maybe the road has never been comfortably clear. For those of us who are approaching the fog, clutching the steering wheel until our hands ache, tenuous and tired and troubled by what might be lurking around the next unseen curve, I offer three words that, like The Three Bells song, insist on escaping from my mind this morning. The words are Despair, Daring, and Devotion.
These words were not in my consciousness when I started writing this post. They have come out of the fog and offered themselves to us.

Despair: some of us have chosen this word and we dread waking every day to disillusionment and doubt. We live in a house of fear.

Daring: some of us have determined to be daring. Or, as one writer put it: Stand up. Speak out. Speak often. Demand truth. We will live in a house of courage.

Devotion: some of us, and I hope most, will draw hope and strength from the faith that we profess. If we really believe it, now is the time to live it. We will live in a house of faith, a house built on a Rock, a house framed with the strong supports of values, principles, and ethics.

Like it or not, there is bridge ahead, a bridge that leads into an unknown. Will it shape us or will we shape it? Last thought: as I read back over these words, I realize that I’ve simply described the way life is for millions of people in hundreds of places at any hour on the clock. We can’t see the end of the bridge ahead, so we have a choice to make. The house in which you choose to live will make a big difference. Don’t fear the fog; follow the Way. Press on.

Just because you spread your wings doesn’t mean you will fly. The air is waiting for you, but there is some effort needed to soar. The bird sitting on my balcony railing jumped into the air with his wings moving up and down, and he rose gracefully into the morning breeze. The breeze lifted him because he trusted the air and he did his part.

Bit of a similarity there, do you think. Today, if you want to fly, trust the Spirit to lift you as you give yourself to that surrounding and abiding power. Soar, glide, do acrobatic rolls…flap your wings if you want to stay airborne. Live today very intentionally by the wisdom of Jesus, by the sacred Wind we call The Spirit, and by the love of God given to you so that you can give it away.

Leap into life. Flap those wings. Come on! Let’s fly!

If you have Luke 17 handy, take a moment and read the story of the 10 lepers who approached Jesus and asked for help. Go ahead; I’ll wait.

Now, with that story in mind, here are some observations. We know from history that any person diagnosed with Leprosy was isolated from community. They were cast out of the village and left to roam on their own. To be sure that a “clean” citizen knew of a leper’s proximity, the afflicted person was forced to wear or carry a bell to signal their presence and to call out: Unclean! Unclean! as they moved around the outskirts of the village. So, in the story, the 10 lepers call out from a distance. They beg for healing and for mercy.

Here are three things to note about this story:
1. Jesus tells them “Go and show yourselves to the priest.” And as they went they were healed. Not before they went…as they went. They left Jesus still leprous and found their healing as they followed his instructions. Trust comes to mind. How often do I want to have the assurance in hand, the answer given before I take my first step. “We can’t go to the priest, Jesus. Look at us. We have leprosy. Heal us and then we will go.” A pastor friend used to call it “stepping out in faith.”

2. Ten went and one came back. All got the healing but only one was grateful enough to say Thank You. The others were probably celebrating, walking the streets for the first time, shaking hands with their neighbors. But one came back. Gratitude is an essential element in our faith. I wonder if this grateful man even got to the priest? “Then one of them, when he saw he had been healed, turned back.”

3. The one who came back was not a Jew. “He was a Samaritan.” He was a foreigner, a menace, a threat to Jewish welfare. Do you think Jesus is making a point by telling us that the man was a Samaritan? I do, too. That even our enemies need mercy and healing, not rejection and hate. In fact, why “enemy” anyway?

So, three points to ponder. Take a few minutes and let this wonderful story marinate in your mind. Ponder it. I’ll wait.