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Down by the Riverside

A Rant from the Day after the Election

     It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I was deeply troubled when President Trump was re-elected. However, on the day after the election, I didn't binge on potato chips, I didn't get drunk, and I didn't run screaming into the yard, although I considered all of those things. Instead, in the tradition of essayist David James Duncan and poet Thomas Lynch, I wrote a rant.

     What is a rant? "To talk or say in a loud, wild, extravagant way; declaim violently; rave," Webster says. A rant is not reasonable. It is full of vitriol, bile, and barely-suppressed rage.

     In his memoir, My Story as Told by Water, David James Duncan composed several rants—long, complex, outraged paragraphs—on behalf of the rivers and forests of his native Oregon that had been polluted by paper mills and clearcut by loggers. Thomas Lynch wrote a curse-poem rant against his ex-wife, a masterpiece of invective that was wildly popular with audiences. Until the day Lynch's son was present for a reading, and Lynch considered what it might be like for the young man to hear this diatribe against his mother. Lynch resolved never to read the piece aloud again.

     Rants are serious business. A friend told me said that posting a rant publicly is "pressing the nuclear button."

     I considered not sharing my rant at all. I'm usually very careful with my speech. I've seen the damage words can do. And, on October 26, just before the election, I had posted a blog in which I had exhorted myself and others to refrain from finger-pointing, name-calling, and demonizing those with whom we disagree. I urged us to "eat of the fruit that makes for peace."

     But there is also the matter of speaking the truth as you see it.

     And, the intensity of emotions that I felt the day after the election—fear, frustration, disappointment, disgust, anger, bewilderment—seemed to demand some kind of response.          

     Because it felt like a curtain of darkness was falling over our nation.

     I had experienced some of the same emotions on January 6, 2021, when a violent mob broke through police lines and attacked the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. The mob had come from a "Save America" rally organized by supporters of President Trump to challenge the results of the 2020 election.

     I felt angry at President Trump's repeated attempts to undermine the democratic process. I was afraid this riot was the start of a civil war.

     Two people died as a result of the attack. Ashli Babbitt, an Air Force veteran from Southern California, who was shot and killed by Capitol Police as she climbed through a broken window just outside the House chamber. Officer Brian Sicknick, a twelve-year veteran of the Capitol Police force, who died of injuries inflicted by rioters.

     One legislator, Illinois representative Adam Kinzinger, later told The Atlantic that as the mob invaded the House of Representatives on January 6, he "could feel a darkness descend over the Capitol." One of his friends in Congress, the Oklahoma Republican Markwayne Mullin, heard the same report of descending darkness from members of the Capitol Police.

     I worry about what a second Trump administration will mean for our country. I fear a continued rollback of women's rights and an escalation of violence against LGBTQ persons and people of color. I fear a massive deportation of immigrants, some of whom are American citizens.

     Looming over these is my fear of what will happen to all of humanity if climate change goes unchecked in the richest nation in the world.

     Dread for the whole earth wakes me in the night.

     The park we visit every week, Hudson Mills, through which our beloved Huron River flows, still shows scars of a 2022 summer storm that was most likely intensified by climate change. Eroded banks. Re-routed trails. Mature oak trees snapped and twisted and thrown down like pick-up sticks. Weather watchers reported 60-75 mph winds and "gustnados"—small whirlwinds which form as an eddy in a thunderstorm outflow along the leading edge of a line of storms.  

     The trees in our own yard were spared.
     That time.

     I worry about how we are harming the earth, our only home, harm that will get worse in the next four years under President Trump, who backed us out of the Paris Climate Accord, and whose allies spent his first term trying to dismantle environmental protections for rivers, lakes, wetlands, and wilderness.

     And now Los Angeles is burning.

     This, too, is serious business.

     So, here it is.

     A rant from a conflict-averse, usually cautious and circumspect pastor. If nothing else, the rant can serve as a record of what the day after the election of 2024 felt like to one lover of the earth. And perhaps the second half of the essay can serve as a recipe for the days to come.

     Except for a few tweaks, and an addendum prompted by the fact that Epiphany and the anniversary of the Capitol attack fall on the same date, the rant is as I wrote it on Wednesday morning, November 6, 2024.

 

* * *

 

     When I imagine the worst for the years that are to come—my river permanently poisoned by PFAS—the oaks in my yard, already weakened by wilt, toppled by climate-change-driven high winds—the cattail swamps I admire daily dredged and developed because the MAGA Supreme Court has made federal wetland protections harder to enforce—the Lake Michigan shoreline I love soaked with Enbridge-ferried oil—the soil that produces the food I eat depleted and poisoned by overuse of fertilizers and chemicals while farmers cannot sell their grain to China anyway because tariffs have shut down the market—when we no longer have clean water to drink or fresh air to breathe or food to eat or trees that hold the earth together—when, after slowly watching the earth around me die in a thousand ways—I imagine saying to this generation of calculating, sycophantic Republican leaders and to the Christian pastors who disregarded Trump's flagrant immorality and told their congregations to vote for him, thereby re-electing a lying, lawless, brawl-loving narcissist, whose plan to deal with the ticking time bomb of climate change is to deny that it exists—I imagine saying I TOLD YOU SO.

     I imagine siting in my tree-strewn yard choking on foul air guarding my diminished larder and saying with perfect coldness to family members and friends and everyone else who voted for him I TOLD YOU SO. 

     You were warned that this would happen.

     You were warned about the increasing heat, the raging wildfires, the rising waters, and the increasing intensity of the storms.

     You were told by scientist after scientist around the world that this would happen.

     And it has.

     But I TOLD YOU SO is thin soup. To imagine saying I TOLD YOU SO over and over cannot sustain soul and body through the hard years that are to come.

     Better to stock my soup with the bone broth of kindness, simmered for long hours and stirred with hope. Better to stuff the pot with the earthy pulp of potatoes, the yellow coins of carrots, sweet chunks of parsnip, fibrous celery, translucent onion, crumbled bay leaf, and whole peppercorns, all of which, with the sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, kindness, and self-control— when stirred and simmered together and then scooped, steaming, into bowls, will fill the mouth with richness and nourish the soul.

     Better to get the stepstool and take the heavy ceramic bread bowl down from the top shelf, and bake a loaf of honey-whole wheat bread leavened with the yeast of faith that God is still at work in the world. Oh, the nutlike sweetness of the wheat germ! Oh, the feel of the dough as I knead it! So warm and pliable under my hands.

     The dough will rise in the oven under an old cotton tea towel that was once a calendar hanging on my mother-in-law's kitchen wall. 1968. Another dire year when our country seemed to be tearing itself apart. We survived that.

     If the kitchen is cold, the dough will rise slowly, but it will rise. I will punch down and shape the dough into loaves, folding the ends and hiding the crease on the bottom, and ease the loaves into pans. Then I will wait while the dough rises again. When the bread has been baked, the moist slices will fall away from the knife, we will slather them with butter, and take a huge bite.

     Soup and bread together on a bleak November day.

     This, too, can be imagined. And must be, if we are to be sustained through the years that are to come. We need strength of body and soul to save ourselves and the earth itself from the worst of ourselves.

     And if, when I bite on a peppercorn, the savage flavor momentarily causes me to wince, so be it. No man, however powerful, rules forever. The Trump presidency, too, will pass. Behold, all flesh is as the grass, the requiem says, and no one escapes. Only the word of God stands forever, and we will, each of us, be called to account.

     In the meantime, may we imagine a future in which all people, and not just the rich and the powerful, feast on abundance. May we eat and pray and work for the day when what we dream more nearly resembles a heavenly banquet, the restoration of paradise, the upside-down, wrong-righting coming of the kingdom of God.

 

* * *

 

Addendum – January 11, 2025 – Week of the Epiphany and the anniversary of the Capitol Attack

 

     In his eulogy for President Jimmy Carter, Vice-President Walter Mondale summarized their four years together with the credo they had used to guide the work of their administration: "We told the truth. We obeyed the law. We kept the peace."

     The contrast with President Trump could not be starker.

     I believe that the election and re-election of President Trump represent a frightened pushback against the progress our nation has made in the last fifty years toward civil rights, gender equality, and environmental protection. The same pushback has occurred in other countries around the world.

     Fearful elites inflame others to preserve their own power.

     In the Bible, the gospel writer Matthew tells how King Herod and the religious leaders in Jerusalem were afraid because the wisemen had told them that a "new king" had been born. Jesus. Who would welcome the outcast and bless the poor. Seeing this "new king" as a threat, Herod tried to get the wisemen to reveal the whereabouts of the baby. They did not. Herod was so incensed that he ordered the massacre of all children in Bethlehem under two years of age. Warned in a dream, Joseph and Mary took the child by night and fled to Egypt, where they stayed until King Herod died.

     Herod and his allies ultimately failed.

     Because, aided by God, Jesus escaped. And the second time the powers-that-be thought they'd killed him for sure, he rose from the dead.  

     Another gospel writer, John, testifies to the final outcome: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it."

     God is not done with us yet.

     God gets the last word.

     If darkness is falling, shine a light.

 

Scriptures: Isaiah 40:1-8, Matthew 2:1-20, John 1:5.

Playlist: "Behold, all flesh is as the grass," A German Requiem, Johannes Brahms, 1868.

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This Terrible Freedom

     In the summer of 2021, my husband and I joined our oldest daughter and her family for a vacation in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. During a day trip to Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, we hiked down to Miner's Beach, baby Riley in a backpack and three-year-old Emmett skipping ahead of us along the path.

     When we got to the beach, Emmett went straight for the water. While he was throwing stones into the surf, a wave surged up, slapping him in the chest and legs. The look on his face was priceless.

     Pure outrage.

     Even in August, Lake Superior is cold.

     How Emmett felt when that wave hit him is how I sometimes feel about events in the world. I ask God: Why did you let this bad thing happen? Why is there so much suffering? Why do evil people get away with murder and good people die young?

     Outrage.

     I'm not alone in feeling this way. If you read the Psalms, you see that many of these ancient prayers express a complaint directly to God. "How long, O Lord?" they ask. "Don't you see what is happening to us?" Psalm 17 makes a case to God as if the speaker is addressing a court of law. "Hear a just cause, O Lord; attend to my cry."
     Biblical scholars call this kind of psalm a "lament." The Book of Psalms contains more than fifty psalms of lament, some spoken by individuals, some by a congregation. Lament psalms usually contain five elements: 1. Complaint 2. Plea 3. Confession of trust 4. Request for help 5. Praise.

     The 19th century poet Gerard Manley Hopkins seems to have channeled some of these psalms in what literary critics call his "terrible sonnets." In one sonnet Hopkins complained, "Comforter, where is your comforting?" In another, he wrote, "Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend / With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. / Why do sinners' ways prosper? And why must / Disappointment all I endeavor end?"

     Pastor Katie Hays, who started a church for spiritual refugees in 2013, expressed the mood of the lament psalms in a less traditional way. When she reflected on the lives of her parishioners, most of whom had experienced abuse, and when she assessed the emotional toll that church planting had taken on her and her family, Hays said we need a new prayer. Recalling the trilogy coined by writer Anne Lamott -- Help, Thanks, Wow – Hays said the fourth basic prayer is What the f* *k?

     Hays confessed that WTF was the prayer she prayed most often.

     "I believe this to be a biblical prayer," Hays said. "Many of the Psalms can be summed up thusly, as a confused and angry servant of God wonders angrily when the promised relief will come."

     WTF is an expression of outrage – and bewilderment.

     Sometimes we voice prayers of lament when we watch a video that shows a flood of muddy water destroying a whole town. Sometimes we voice a psalm of lament when we hear about an eleven-year-old child killed at a funeral by an exploding walkie-talkie. Sometimes we add our voices to a chorus of lament at the state of political leadership in our country and around the world.

     Sometimes we don't even know we have been praying psalms of lament. Our faces don't show it. But in our hearts, we have held a long bitterness born of anger and disappointment at other people and at God. This shouldn't have happened. God shouldn't have let it happen.

     When suffering or injustice occurs, "This shouldn't have happened" is a profoundly ethical response. We say it precisely because God has shown us how the world ought to be.  When harm is taking place, when a bully is picking on a smaller kid, for example, or when someone is taking more than their fair share, we expect authority figures such as parents, teachers, police officers or judges to step in and stop it.

     So, we expect God to do the same thing on our behalf.

     God does love justice. The Bible is clear about that, too. "I, the Lord, love justice. I hate robbery and wrongdoing." (Isaiah 61:8) God shows particular concern for those who are poor and vulnerable. "Father of orphans and protector of widows is God," Psalm 68:5 says.
     We have a right to expect intervention from God.

     And yet, my own outrage may also be fueled by a faulty understanding of God's role in the world and God's relationship to human beings. God does not exist to make my life easier. And, God has given human beings free will. Though not all suffering is caused by human choices, much of it is. War, for example. Poverty. Greed.

     Even last autumn's flooding in the Southeast – what insurance companies would call an "act of God" – may have elements of human causality. Many scientists believe that the intensity of tropical storms has been increased by climate change. Climatologists have been warning us for years about the effects of rampant use of fossil fuels. They tell us to expect storms of increasing frequency, longer duration, and greater violence.

     We are free to do things that hurt ourselves, each other, and creation.

     WTF?

     God seems to love human freedom more than I do.

     Yet, if we are free to do harm, we are also free to do good, to be compassionate and courageous, to challenge wrongdoing when we see it. We can choose to protect people and the earth. "Be perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect," Jesus said. Jesus did not mean perfection in the sense of never making a mistake. He meant being perfectly, completely, whole-heartedly committed to what God loves.
     To love justice is to love God.

     Perhaps the way that God prefers to intervene in human affairs is through us.

     May we accept the responsibility of this terrible freedom. May we believe in ourselves as much as God seems to believe in us.

     What suffering of human beings pulls on your heart? What desecration of creation makes your blood boil? What might you do about it?  

     John Wesley said "Do all the good you can, by all means you can, in all ways you can, in all places you can, at all times you can, to all people you can, as long as ever you can."
     Jimmy Carter, who helped build Habitat houses into his nineties, said something similar. "My faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I can, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference."

     Wow.

     Dulled by holiday fatigue and winter gloom, I'm not sure I can promise all that every day as long as I live. I'm not John Wesley or Jimmy Carter. But I can imagine doing one small thing today. A note to a grieving colleague whose good friend was killed by gun violence. An email to my senator asking how if she did, indeed, vote to appropriate funds for a proposed mine that would deposit toxic waste next to Lake Superior and Porcupine Mountains State Park.

     What one thing can you do today to make the world better? I believe that when we commit ourselves to doing good, God gives us the strength to do it.

     May this be the way that the New Year begins: one small thing.

     Start there. Start now.


Scripture: Psalm 73

Playlist: "Do Something," Matthew West, Into the Light, Sparrow Records, 2012.

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Pirate at the Creche

     Last Christmas, our six-year-old grandson, Emmett, stayed overnight at our house. He brought along his Toniebox, a music listening device for kids. This is how it works: Emmett places a plastic action figure from the Tonie collection on top of a cube-shaped speaker and the device then plays songs associated with that action figure. Like "Let It Go" sung by Elsa from Frozen. Or Peso's healing song from The Octonauts. Some Tonie figures allow you to download custom content onto a generic piece – a monster, superhero, fairy, or pirate.

     When we were cleaning up after Emmett had gone home, we found a pirate Tonie tangled in the sheets. I put the pirate figure in front of our Little People creche and took a photo. Then I sent it to our daughter and asked her to show the photo to Emmett so he would know that his lost Tonie had been found.

     Maybe you are feeling a little lost yourself this Christmas season. Maybe you're unsettled by political news, or missing someone you love. Maybe you feel out of place in your family or a friendship circle in which you used to feel safe. Maybe you've always felt like an outsider, looking in.

     At one of the churches where I was a pastor, we decorated the sanctuary for the Christmas season on the last Sunday of November. Children helped. They put red bows on the pews, hung ornaments on the tree, and placed the Holy Family inside the miniature stable on the altar. One child arranged the shepherds, sheep, donkey and cow in a precise circle outside the stable. Another child, a six-year-old literalist, insisted that the baby Jesus should not appear on the bed of straw until Christmas Eve. Following this logic, her older brother picked up the three wise men and moved them to the top of the organ, halfway across the sanctuary.    

     "What are you doing?" the six-year-old asked.

     "They come from the East," he said. "And they don't arrive until Epiphany. January Sixth." Even if he was a Sunday School show-off, his point was well-taken.

     The wise men were from really far outside the circle.

     Not only had they arrived late to the party, they weren't even Jews.

     According to Jewish law at the time of Jesus, righteous Jews were supposed to keep themselves completely separate from Gentiles. No touching, no socializing, no shared utensils. The laws had been established for good reasons: to protect their distinct identity as the Chosen People and to honor the holiness of God.

     But according to the gospel of Matthew, some dignitaries from the east, non-Jews, had seen an unusual star in the sky, consulted their astrological charts, and determined that the star heralded the birth of a great new king. They headed west to pay him homage.

     But nobody would have expected them to be there.

     Pastor Debbie Blue points out just how jarring their presence would have been to the family gathered inside. "They are popularly and familiarly known as the wise men or three kings," Blue says, "but they are more properly Magi: magic. They follow the stars. They conjure. They are really more Merlin than Arthur. Yet year after year they stand there at almost every manger scene all stiff and innocent and respectable as if they fit in, as if they've always been there, as if they're supposed to be there, as if they're not flaming pagans intruding on the birth scene of a little Jewish family."

     Blue puts it in modern idiom: "It would be like finding a big plastic Homer Simpson leaning over the baby Jesus on the Cathedral lawn."

     Anyone can be there.

     For the gospel writer Matthew, who tells the story of the Magi's visit, the presence of these wise men at the manger demonstrates that Jesus is for everyone, not just for his own people, the Jews. Perhaps Matthew was remembering words spoken by the Jewish prophet, Isaiah, "I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth." (Isaiah 49:6) The story of the Magi suggests that God's love moves in ever-widening circles, like when a stone is dropped into a pond, rippling out in wider and wider circles until it touches the whole earth.

     Legend has it that animals of all kinds gathered at midnight around the stable, made peaceable by the coming of Christ. Maybe a sparrowhawk flew over the wadi and perched on the roof. Or a lion stalked the perimeter, then eased its head down on massive paws. A black beetle skittered alongside the wall.

     All can come.

     May you find your place at the creche this Christmas. Everyone is welcome.

    Come.

 

Scripture: Matthew 2:1-12

Playlist: "We Three Kings" by John H. Hopkins, Jr., 1857.

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For All the Saints

     I sing alto in a modest, sixteen-voice choir at our church. We prepare an anthem and help lead worship three Sundays a month. But every autumn we also rehearse a major work for a community concert in December. This year it's Sunrise Mass by composer Ola Gjeilo.

     We will be joined at the concert by other vocalists – a high school ensemble, another church choir, and various itinerant vocalists whom directors have summoned to fill out the parts.

     We could use the help.

     Although our choir has six (!) altos, we need more sopranos, tenors, and basses. Sopranos provide the soaring high notes, tenors the lovely harmonies, and basses the strong foundation for choral music. My husband, Ed, and another man are the only two basses in our choir.
     And, truth be told, most of our voices are aging. I've lost the top of my range, my sight-reading has slowed, and I can't sustain long notes like I used to.

     Rehearsals have been a hard slog.    

     While Sunrise Mass promises to be sublime, Gjeilo (pronounced Yay-lo) asks a lot of his musicians. The opening movement, "The Spheres," has eight vocal parts, layering the voices in long, sustained notes with little support from the orchestra. That's right choral sports fans – the first thing the audience will hear is our voices, almost a cappella.

     In the second movement, "Sunrise," the string section plays its own sweet part while we vocalists struggle to find our entrances and maintain our own rhythm.
     The third movement, "The City," goes on for twenty-two pages, a full eleven minutes of accidentals and strange time changes while the string players saw their way through hundreds of fast-moving sixteenth-notes, bars and bars and bars of arpeggios. The orchestral score looks like someone dipped a paintbrush in black ink and flung it at the page.

     And, did I mention that the text is in Latin?

     But here's some good news: Our church choir participated in a community concert featuring this same piece eight years ago and the woman I sit next to in the alto row learned it then. You can see me leaning toward her during rehearsals to hear our part.
     Also, I had some random good luck – I was given a vocal score used by an alto the last time around. Her penciled notations remain on the pages of the score. She reminds me "In 3" when there is a time change over a page turn. "Stagger breath" lets me know someone else will hold the note while I breathe. "Same note" informs me that though they look different, A-flat and G-sharp are the same sound. She provides pronunciation aids for the unfamiliar Latin words.

     She helps keep me from stumbling as I move through the piece.

     Whoever you are, I thank you.

     This unknown alto is one of a whole host of kindly people whose instructions have shown others the way. Like canoe voyagers who notched blazes on trees to mark the portage from river to lake. Or hikers who piled cairns to show later travelers which trail to take down from the rocky outcrop on top of the mountain.  
     Or, those blessed folks who make YouTube videos telling you how to change the headlamp in your Subaru (harder than it looks) or how to tape and paint a drywall seam. Most of these YouTube gurus are not professionals – they're not in it to promote a product, they just get a kick out of showing you how it's done.

     God bless them.

     As we rehearse Gjeilo's mass, I am helped, too, by the conductor who marks the rhythm with his hands, by the rehearsal accompanist who pounds out our parts, and by the music itself, which, when we listen closely enough, will tell us how to sing it.

     I am surrounded by helpers.

     On the first day of November, the Christian church celebrated All Saints' Day, a day on which we remember not only famous saints like St. Peter and St. Paul and Mother Theresa, but also ordinary folk who have gone before us in faith.   

     It might seem odd to describe ordinary people as "saints," but that's exactly what the apostle Paul does in his Letter to the Ephesians. "To the saints who are in Ephesus and are faithful in Christ Jesus," he writes. We usually think of saints as spiritual superstars, but the way Paul uses the word, saints are regular people who, by their faithfulness, help others on their way.      

     In his memoir, The Sacred Journey, novelist Frederick Buechner says that on All Saints' Day, we should remember friends and family members and mentors, "all the foolish ones and wise ones, the shy ones and overbearing ones, the broken ones and whole ones, the despots and tosspots and crackpots of our lives…, by whom we were helped to whatever little we may have, or ever hope to have, of some kind of seedy sainthood of our own."

     On the night before the election, I was lying awake in my bed, legs tense and shoulders scrunched, full of dread about the future. Unable to quiet my mind any other way, I began to pray, over and over again, "Lord, have mercy on us." Then I began naming saints I have known and asked them to stand close by and help us through this.

     I named my mom, Mary Inwood Smith, my friend Barbara Lewis-Lakin, my mentor Juanita Ferguson, and one of my bishops, Judith Craig. As I breathed, and named a name with each breath, it seemed as if I could sense their presence around the room, just beyond a filmy veil, watching, sending their love. As I breathed and prayed, I felt a jolt of something like electricity flow through my body. Though it was still a long time before I fell asleep, my shoulders relaxed into the pillow, and my legs unclenched under the sheets.

     Who are your saints? Who would you name?

     This is my prayer in these dark days of November: May you be given help when you need it. May you be blessed by the presence of faithful ones, living and dead, who stand beside you and show you the way. May you know that you are not alone.

Scripture: "Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witness, let us lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith." – Hebrews 12:1-2

Playlist: "For All the Saints," William W. How, 1864, to the tune of SINE NOMINE by Ralph Vaughn Williams, 1906.

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Eat of the fruit that makes for peace

     I love rivers.
     Knowing this, a friend gave me a canoe paddle inscribed with a Bible verse about a river: "Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God" (Revelation 22:1)
     A crystal river!

     But even the prettiest river can flip your boat. Once my husband and I went hiking beside the Gunnison River in western Colorado. Narrow canyon walls squeezed the river, creating unpredictable currents deep below the surface. Sometimes, the water boiled up as a whirlpool. Sometimes, it erupted in violent standing waves.
     Ed said maybe we could put a canoe on the river.

     I said, "No way." The conflicting currents made me uneasy.

     I feel the same way about our election season. Tempers are boiling up. Violent opinions are being expressed in attack ads and on social media. I've had to snooze Facebook friends – Christians – on both sides of the political spectrum who think derision is an acceptable form of debate.
     Even if we are careful with our speech, we may still harbor hostile thoughts about friends or relatives. "How can you believe that?" we may wonder. "Who are you?"

     Perhaps we could benefit from hearing the next verse in Revelation: "On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, . . . and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations" (Revelation 22:2).

     We need healing in our nation.
     For John of Patmos, who wrote the Book of Revelation, the tree of life represents God's vision for the world – peace and plenty for all people. The imagery harks back to the tree in the Garden of Eden from which Adam and Eve ate. Eating from this tree banished them from Paradise.
     But eating this fruit, John says, brings an entirely different outcome. People experience healing. Paradise is restored. Eating from this tree grants salvation and eternal life.

     How might John's river and tree of life help us deal with each other in a heated election season?  

     I find a clue in the last phrase of the first sentence of Revelation 22, which says that the river flows "through the middle of the street of the city" (v. 2a).
     When we put Jesus in the middle of our lives, asking for God's grace to flow through our hearts and our streets, healing can begin – healing of relationships, communities, and nations.  

     A Christian psychologist and marriage counselor suggests how we might open ourselves to healing. In his book, Never Fight Again…Guaranteed, David Hawkins says that many people have an "adversarial" relationship with their mates. "I don't like what you're saying or doing, so I set out to prove you wrong. I may cloak my words in something nice, but make no mistake, I'm out to win. And where there is a winner, there must be a loser."

     Have you ever experienced a win-lose dynamic in an important relationship?

     "When we're in a conflict state," Hawkins explains, "we slip easily into a right-versus-wrong or good-versus-bad mentality. We shift into extreme thinking that distorts what we're saying to each other. In a few short moments our helpmates become our adversaries, our lovers become our rivals. We're no longer interested in seeking the highest good for our mates, but in winning."
     I think Hawkins' description of marital conflict also applies to the political arena. Hawkins calls for a change in our way of thinking and our patterns of behavior. "Once we uncover our hurtful patterns of fighting," he says, "we can replace these patterns and tactics with healing actions. We cultivate an open heart, accepting that things won't always [go our way]."

     We give up the desire to win at all costs because this desire breaks the bonds of love that hold us together.

     Change of heart is not easy, though. The stakes feel high. Our differences go deep. In the heat of passionate conversations, I've messed up many times. Ask my family, who've had to call me out. They have reminded me of the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
     The Golden Rule could be applied in an election season as: No name-calling. No finger-pointing. No demonizing those with whom we disagree.
     A better approach might be to cultivate curiosity: Can you help me understand why you feel that way? Where did you get that information? What experiences led you to that conclusion?

     How we engage each other in the political sphere is spiritual work. If Christians, who claim to follow the teachings of Jesus, cannot model civility and love in the public arena, how will anyone else desire the salvation that is in Jesus Christ?
     This work is so hard that sometimes I'm tempted to avoid political activity altogether. I just want to go out to the woods and stay there until it's over.

     Yet we must take the risk to do our part to bring the world closer to God's vision of peace and plenty for all. I think about early Methodists who worked to abolish slavery. I think about Nelson Mandela, who persevered in prison twenty-seven years to bring down apartheid in South Africa.
     Sometimes we must speak out or take action even when we expect to be met with anger.

     So, I do my small part. I put up yard signs and pray that God will guide and bless the people who see them. I fill out my ballot, asking God to guide and bless me. This fall I'm serving as a poll worker, hoping to help keep elections accessible and fair.

     What do you feel called to do?

     What we do may not be as important as how we do it.
     In 2015, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and His Holiness the Dalai Lama met for a week of conversation in Dharamsala, India. Both of these Nobel Peace Prize recipients had suffered much at the hands of enemies. Yet they were not consumed with anger. On the contrary, says Douglas Abrams, who described their meeting, these two men were full of joy. And, during their week together, they spoke over and over of the need to have compassion and understanding for persons who have hurt us or with whom we disagree.
     "We need unbiased love toward entire humanity irrespective of what their attitude is toward us," the Dalai Lama said. "Your enemies are still human brothers and sisters, so they also deserve our love, our respect, our affection. That is unbiased love. You might have to resist your enemies' actions, but you can love them as brothers and sisters." 

      Resist with love? Impossible.

     But what is impossible for us is possible for God.
     Resist actions. Love people. 

     This election season and beyond, when I have conversations with friends or relatives, I will say in my mind, "You are my beloved sibling in Christ, no matter who wins the race." If someone misunderstands or attacks me, I will say in my mind, "You are my beloved fellow citizen, even when we disagree."
     May the river of God's mercy flow through the middle of our hearts and streets. May we eat of the fruit that makes for peace.  

 

Scripture: "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." – Galatians 5:22-23a (NRSV)

Playlist: "The Gift of Love," Hal Hopson, 1972.

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Numbered

     Every other Friday, my husband and I drive to Grand Rapids to watch our three-year-old granddaughter while her parents are at work. Riley has reached a delightful and exasperating age. Having acquired the smarts and persistence to advocate for her desires, she does just that.

     Continually.

     Riley wants two sweet treats for snack. No jacket when we go to the park. She delays nap time by various means for half an hour – and then doesn't sleep anyway.  

     "This is why young people have children," I muttered to Ed during our last drive home. "I'm too old for this."

     Ed tells me we should enjoy it while we can. Because our days of driving across the state to watch Riley are numbered. Twenty-one, to be exact. She'll enroll in Young Fives next fall.

     On the same drive home, we discussed other changes in our lives wrought by the passage of time: Hearing aids. Hiring a contractor to replace some facia boards on the second-story dormer instead of doing it ourselves. And, we've decided to fly rather than drive all the way to Washington and Oregon next summer when we hope to visit our 49th and 50th states.

     While we talked, I kept swatting away a fearful thought – that our plans might not come to fruition. One day one of us will die, and the other will be left alone.

     Morbid, but true.

     A colleague recently posted on her Facebook page a quote by a 35-year-old Ukrainian-born actress and self-described mystic, Delfina Alden, a quote that was picked up by the blog, Mindful Christianity: "The problem is, you think you have time," Alden said. "On average, we get 80 summers…if we're lucky. Don't put off the trip. Stop waiting for life to begin. Stay up late with friends. Get up early to watch the sunrise. Catch every sunset. Book the trip. Go on that hike. Go to the beach. Spend time with those you love. Tell them how you feel." (@heydelfina)

     That's deep wisdom from someone who's only thirty-five.

     I remember an evening once when we talked with friends late into the night, sitting by the fireplace in a cabin beside the Mohican River in Ohio. We looked at our phones and said, "Wait? What?  How did it get to be 11 o'clock?" The next morning we woke to the blue light of falling snowflakes. We marveled at Virginia bluebells poking up through the snow.
     But hey, Delfina, there's a problem. When you get to be "a certain age," you have to rest up between adventures. After watching Riley, who spends the whole day testing our mettle, we're pooped. If we had also stayed up late the night before talking with friends, we would have been too tired to drive. Could have crashed the car.

     We can't do every sunrise and every sunset.

     We're not thirty-five.
     If anything, however, getting older sharpens our awareness of what has always been true: Our time on earth is limited. The people we love will leave us – or we will leave them. We don't have control over most things that affect us.

     80 summers. 21 Fridays.

     Ed and Delfina are right. All we can do is choose to receive each moment as a gift. We can choose to trust in God rather than live in fear of what may come.  

     Jesus once said, "Why are you anxious about tomorrow? Today's trouble is enough for today." Another time he said, "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows."

     Two weeks ago, while we walked along the Lakelands Trail, bright sunshine backlit the petals of wild sunflowers and made the full heads of the goldenrod glow. "Would you call this late summer or autumn?" I asked Ed.

     Then I wondered if I were in the late summer or the autumn of my life. Could be the winter. Hard to know. It depends when I die.

     80 summers. 21 Fridays.

     Then I noticed how the wetlands were bursting with foliage and color, lush and expansive, yellows and purples and tinges of scarlet. Some of the cattail were starting to release their downy seeds.
     I stood in the middle of the path and spread my arms wide.
     When fear constricts our vision, God invites us to open our eyes.
     In the summer of 2023, Ed and I paddled our canoes out to Lake Michigan from the Platte River as the sun was setting. To the east over the land a clear blue sky trailed edges of pink. To the west over the water the horizon was molten gold. Ed snapped a picture of my canoe silhouetted against all that wondrous light.

     God's love is the vast water on which we paddle. Limitless. We can trust the water to hold us up. Whatever comes.

     May you know today that you are not forgotten by God. May you savor each moment, sunrise or sunset. May you move without fear toward the horizons of your life.

 

Scripture: Matthew 7:25-34, Luke 12:6-7

Playlist: "His Eye Is On the Sparrow," Ethel Waters, 2014.

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Surprised in November

Frost on the patio railing

     Yesterday we woke to a hard frost that sparkled in the sun, making patterns on the patio railing and furring the grass.
     This has been the sunniest November I can remember.  

     Except for a few gloomy days around the time change, we've had a peek at the sun nearly every day this month. I know, because I keep track on my calendar whether or not the sun shines.  

     I need the sun.

     While walking on the Lakelands Trail west of Pinckney last week, I stopped on the bridge over Honey Creek and swiveled my head toward the south like a flower, letting the late afternoon rays bathe my face.

     While hiking on the nature trail at Hudson Mills Metropark, I stopped mid-step and spread my arms wide like the branches of a white oak tree, letting the light soak into my limbs.

     As my family and friends  know, November is my least favorite month. "Dark" was the meditation that began this series of blogs in 2021.

     But this November has been different.

     Because of the extra sunlight, I've noticed the blue sky between the branches of the trees. As poet and priest Arnold Kenseth said, "Now are the trees windows, / And the eyes see distances."

     I've noticed how the Norway maples hold their golden leaves longer than the other maples.
     I've even appreciated the muted colors of November's palette, the grays and beiges and browns, spiced with an occasional dash of scarlet. Or the bleached beauty of field corn rattling in the wind.

     I am grateful for simple daily things like the smell of Ed's coffee in the kitchen in the morning or the colors in a bowl of chicken chili – red tomato, green pepper, yellow corn.  

     And I am grateful for special things, like the prospect of seeing our family over the holidays when grandchildren will careen through the house.

     I am grateful that a long spell of difficult work is nearly over, and that I came through a bleak period of internal pain. It's been a hard autumn for me, which is why I haven't written a blog in several months.

     But, now, to my surprise, in November, I skip while walking and sing while praying. I am grateful for that, too. Because it doesn't happen all the time.

     And if I kiss my husband on the back of his neck rather than glower over my breakfast cereal, that is a gift, too.

     I know the dark will come again, and soon.

     But today I feel myself blessed beyond measure.
     So, as the scripture enjoins, I bring the sacrifice of praise.

     I say in the words of an old prayer, "For all thy blessings, known and unknown, remembered and forgotten, we give thee thanks."

     Happy Thanksgiving, dear ones. May you, too, come through whatever hard season you are in. May you be surprised by a thankful joy.

Scripture: "Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise—the fruit of lips that confess his name." – Hebrews 13:15 (NIV)

Playlist: "We Bring the Sacrifice of Praise," Kirk Dearman, 1984.

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Touching the White Oak

My offering for August is a guest blog on the site of my friend, Maureen Dunphy, a Michigan writer who also loves the outdoors. Her most recent book, Divining, celebrates trees.

 

If you want to read my guest blog, follow this link:
https://maureendunphy.com/touching-the-white-oak-by-guest-blogger-sondra-willobee/

 

As always, I'm grateful for your thoughts. May you enjoy these lovely, end-of-summer days.

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Cattail

     My husband, Ed, does most of our grocery shopping. I feel guilty about not sharing the load, so occasionally I offer to go along. "I could do the dry goods, you could do the meat," I tell him.
     Turns out, he doesn't like to go grocery shopping with me. He says I take too long.
     It's true—I do dally. I peruse the offerings on the seasonal shelves or consider the items that hang invitingly next to the pink confetti frosting in the baking aisle. 

     I especially enjoy the chromatic array in the produce section. The glossy purple eggplant. The scarlet radishes. The red, green, and yellow peppers stacked together in a bag like the colors in a traffic light. "Stop," they whisper, "look at me."   
     So I do.

     Now, I know that these are calculated strategies by the marketing department. They dangle impulse purchases like low-hanging fruit. They arrange the eggplant to please the eye.      

     I know I'm being manipulated.

     But the kid in me? She just wants to look and look.

     My husband, though, is the son of a factory worker at Pontiac Motors. Ed himself did time in the hot, dirty, and dangerous foundry during one summer of his college years. That was enough, he said, to send him back to school.
     Of course he just wants to go to the store, get the job done, and go home. Condensation is forming on the waxed carton of milk. The ice cream is melting.
     "Keep the line moving," my husband says.

     A lot of us in the Detroit area have a punch clock embedded in our minds.
     Don't get me wrong. I prize efficiency, too. I worked at a factory in Walled Lake for one summer, operating the injection-mold machines that spat out the plastic toys sold at Kmart.

     I was raised by the son of a farmer who had a similar attitude about work. You do your chores as fast as you can because there is always something else that needs to be done. The next row to hoe. The next crop to harvest. Before rain ruins the hay or turns the fields to mud.
     My mother, also raised on a Michigan farm, had no patience with woolgathering, either. She needed all of us kids to pick beans in the garden and hull the strawberries she bought by the case. I remember September afternoons when we pulled glass jars of canned tomatoes out of the steaming kettle with the big metal tongs.

     I can still hear her voice: "Get your nose out of that book and come help me."   

     I get it.
     Life is hard work. The Protestant work ethic is bred into my bones.

     I know that if I want spotless mirrors, I have to get out the Windex and wipe. If I don't want dust bunnies, I have to wrestle the flexible hose of the Dyson into position, thrust it under the bed and suck up the stuff.

     "Days of toil, and hours of ease," the old hymn says.
     And were it not for Ed's speed, it would take two days instead of one afternoon to clean our house.

     But, still.
     Sometimes the kid in me wants to come out and play. To be released from the relentless ticking of the clock. Just to be.

     When I was in seminary, I learned that ancient Greek philosophers had two words for time. Chronos was the word for the ordinary, chronological, sequential time under which we labor.
     Clock-time.
     The Greek word, Kairos, meant something else, the crucial or right or opportune moment. In the New Testament, Kairos means "the appointed time in the purpose of God." When God acts in human history to fulfill God's purposes.

     God-time.

     Kairos is the word for those mysterious moments when the transcendent breaks into our humdrum existence. When time stands still.
     That's why I go to the river.
     When I am canoeing, the flow of the water soothes my mind and releases something in my soul. The chatter of "monkey mind" inside my brain ceases.
    I can listen. I can see.
    The push of the paddle becomes a prayer.
     When I get off the river, I feel less burdened. More playful. More whole.

     Kairos happens for me sometimes when I am writing, too.

     So, if you see me tapping on my keyboard at the library or loitering in the aisles at Meijer, you'll know what's going on.
     And, if you see me on the river, for God's sake, don't tell me what time it is or how many miles we have yet to go.
     I don't want to know.

     I want to stay in the moment when the world stands still, when there is nothing but the rasp of the cattails and the trill of the blackbirds in the marsh. Nothing but the press of the current against my paddle.  

     I want to be open to what God is doing around me.

     May you be given such moments when God breaks in.

 

Scripture: "The time (Kairos) is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand." – Mark 1:15 (NRSV).
Playlist: "Down to the River to Pray," Alison Krauss, O Brother, Where Art Thou? 2000.

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Shine

     Two years ago today my friend Barbara Lewis-Lakin died. This morning a colleague who also loved Barb emailed me a poem by Maya Angelou about grief.
     Beginning with the line, "When great trees fall," Angelou traces the progress of our bereavement when "great souls" die. Angelou describes how the very air around us changes when we remember things undone. She tells how our souls, dependent upon the nurture of these loved ones, "now shrink, wizened."

     That word—"wizened"—is exactly how I felt when Barb died.

     "Wizened" means to "dry up, wither, shrivel." As in a sustained drought.

     Angelou predicts that "after a period peace blooms / slowly and always / irregularly."[1]

     I read Angelou's poem this morning while looking at a blurry photo of Barb taken during the summer of 1985 at a restaurant in Melvindale, part of a region that Detroiters call "Downriver."
     Barb and I were both young pastors. We may have agreed to meet for brunch after she conducted worship at her church in Melvindale. Her son, Peter, a toddler, stood on the bench seat beside her, eyeing the knob that flipped the selections on the juke box.

     My daughter, Laura, just weeks old, slept in a bucket-style car seat on the floor. My husband, Ed, was watching Peter, perhaps to catch him if he tumbled.
     The table, awaiting our order, was spread with coffee mugs and condiments. Maybe a waitress took the picture for us.
     Barb was, as the scripture says, already "acquainted with grief." [2] Her first husband, David Byers, had died seventeen months before.

     She smiled for the camera with a sweet, steady weariness.

     Maybe it was a trick of the light shining from the window behind her head, but even then Barb seemed suffused with the radiance that Maya Angelou describes in her poem.

     Throughout her life, as a pastor, counselor, and friend, Barb showed us how to meet grief with grace and courage. And how to make space for joy.
     Though my heart still aches—I wish we could meet again for brunch and I could show Barb the photo, and laugh about my ridiculous sandals, and about the way she often sat with her foot tucked under her skirt—I am feeling more at peace.

     I was blessed to know Barbara Byers Lewis-Lakin. She was a great soul.

     If you are downriver of grief of any kind, may comfort come to you.

     May your senses revive over time.

     May you be surrounded by the radiance of those who have gone before us.

     Oh, how they shine.

 

Scripture: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." – John 1:5 (NRSV)

Playlist: Philipp Nicolai, "O Morning Star, How Fair and Bright," 1599; translated by Catherine Winkworth, 1863.

[1] Maya Angelou, "Ailey, Baldwin, Floyd, Killens and Mayfield,"

https://wexnermedical.osu.edu/-/media/files/wexnermedical/patient-care/patient-and-visitor-guide/patient-support-services/spiritual-and-pastoral-care/poems/ailey-baldwin-floyd-killens-and-mayfield-by-maya-angelou.pdf?rev=3f8d42a410d741adbecddff6b3bdc363&hash=FD194A4A54AC2DAC71DF6927EAFE4F91
[2] Isaiah 53:3.

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