"You are the future, the immense morning sky
turning red over the prairies of eternity.
You are the rooster-crow after the night of time,
the dew, the early devotions, and the Daughter,
the Guest, the Ancient Mother, and Death.

You are the shape that changes its own shape,
that climbs out of fate, towering,
that which is never shouted for, and never mourned for,
and no more explored than a savage wood.

You are the meaning deepest inside things,
that never reveals the secret of its owner.
And how you look depends on where we are:
from a boat you are shore, from the shore a boat.
~Rainer Maria Rilke

Last week I found myself, once again, involved in a conversation about the use of inclusive language for God. I have been at this 'church stuff' for a lot of years and, I have to admit, this is one of those conversations I thought would be over by now. And yet, the issues are so complex and so rooted in tradition and power that it continues to be revisited with regularity. Which is, I have to admit, a good thing. Our scriptures, written at a certain time, and our hymns, written at still  other times, are laden with male images for God, a fact that has led to a fairly narrow way of imagining and addressing God. And yet none are exclusively so. The Bible is full of other beautiful images: potter, eagle, mother, even El Shaddai meaning 'mighty-breasted-mountain'. 

And so the next day after this conversation, when I ran across this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, using such compelling words to describe the Sacred, I was heartened. Future. Immense Morning Sky. Dew. Daughter. Guest. So many images and words to describe the way God moves in our lives! Why would we ever want to limit ourselves? But my favorite line of all is:  'And how you look depends on where we are:from a boat you are shore, from the shore a boat.'

Such truth. How we describe the movement of God is tempered by where we are from, what our life experiences are, how much searching we have done, and what it is we believe we have found. As we struggle with our faith and life's challenges, our words expand and contract to fit our experience. As our hearts are flooded with joy and amazing gifts, they change shape once again. If we are in the boat, the Holy may be the welcoming port of our arrival. If we are on the shore, God provides a beacon of light and protection on the stormy sea.

The danger in creating too small a dictionary  of names for God is, not only idolatry, but the creation of too narrow a stage on which the Holy can play. This small arena soon leads to our own narrowness. And wouldn't it be a shame if we missed an opportunity for a new, fresh, and inspired experience of God? One of the exercises I have used for expanding my vocabulary about God is to simply say,"God is like ___________________ because_____________." After filling in the blanks, it becomes a kind of game, one in which I am on the shore sometimes, and in the boat still other times.

What are your ways of speaking about God? How do you name the Holy One's movement in your life? These summer days are ripe for creativity. I invite you to take stock of the many ways you name God. Stand on the shore. Or get in the boat. What might you discover……about yourself and about the One who made you?

t 

"Friend, please tell me what I can do about this mud world I keep spinning out of myself!"
~Kabir

There are times in our lives that are simply filled with greater clarity.There are the days that flow out just as planned, one foot in front of the other, all the order imagined takes shape and, there you have it, a perfect plan, perfectly executed. When we are in these times of smooth going, it can seem as if we are on top of the world. It is very easy to become prideful about how organized and together we are, turning our faces away from the Humpty Dumpty we all fear we are. 

But more days, I believe, are like the ones the ancient mystic Kabir speaks of: mud pies that spin out of our center. These are the days that find us waking up fuzzy-headed without a clear sense of  which side of the bed is the best to begin our daily walk. Trying to shake the cobwebs free from the night's sleep we stumble into yet another seemingly futile journey of seconds, minutes, hours until we fall back into the bed we crawled out of earlier. What happened in the in-between hours? What muddy mess did I make? Or was I so busy squishing through the mess of yesterday that I never got to today's muddy laundry?

It has been my experience that these mud world times are really not the mess they may appear to be. Instead, the days when my 'mud world comes spinning out of myself' are the days where creativity is happening though I am usually oblivious to it. While I'm spinning, there are greater powers at work that are planting ideas, song fragments, little poems, and all manner of creative ideas into the muddy, moving mess of my life. It can feel discombobulating but if I hold on gently enough, I arrive at some new place, almost always a better place, equipped with something brand new. This new place is not one that could have happened if I'd made neat rows, stacked things in increasing order of size, lined other things in drawers. This new place had to make its way through the chaos of creativity,the over-flowing drawers,into mud worlds, through spinning, to arrive, to be born.

We should know from our origin story, Genesis, that creativity is born out of chaos. Out of spinning fragments of light and dark. Through spiraling globs of mud and splashes of sea. Until stars were born. And moons. And suns. And things that creep and crawl and walk and fly. Until those of us created in the image of the One who breathed it all into being would get to live out creation every minute, every hour, every day. 

So that's what we are doing with this mud world that spins out from each of us. We are helping create the world anew. Day after day after day.  What a life!

I am busy packing up the car to head north for the Fourth of July. It seems impossible that this holiday, so central to summer, is here already. I will spend it, as I have for over 25 years, with family and dear friends at the cabin in northern Wisconsin. It is a holiday with many rituals that have changed and shifted over the years and this year will bring, yet more, changes. For many years our boys brought friends and the neighboring cabin owner's nephews also were present. We lovingly referred to them as 'the boys of summer'. These 'boys' are now, for the most part, men. Some will be present while others will spend their time with other friends, no longer a part of the ritual that held us together for so many summers.  Instead girlfriends are now involved and there are those waiting the birth of babies and even one little one for us all to adore. The Princess of the Lake.

This is one of those holidays that means very different things to different people. For some it is the patriotism of the celebration of our country's freedom. For others it is the true height of all that spells summer: lakes, boats, ice cream, parades, lightly sunburned skin, walk-around foods and eating outside. For still  others it is simply a few days to pull away from the office to try to soak up the freedom known primarily by those younger that sixteen. And of course, there are fireworks. Those completely indulgent, slightly dangerous, displays of oohs and ahhs.

Whatever your experience of this holiday, it is one of those days that binds us together as Americans. It is the day when even the least patriotic rustles through their bureau drawer to find something red, white and blue to wear. It is the day when we all stand at attention when our veterans march by. Most of us cannot know what they have known and so the only response that seems appropriate is our feet on the ground, our eyes on them, signaling our honor, silently offering our thanks. We watch the children, freckles emerging with each passing moment, their faces smiling as they lick ice cream cones or run for the candy thrown in the parade. Every small town across the country hauls out its fire engines and police cars, shines them up and turns the siren on as loud as possible to the delight of the children as they move along the parade route. Queens wave from the backs of convertibles as we herald the many festivals that will flow out from this signature holiday that celebrates such things as strawberries, apples, lumberjacks, and, in Wisconsin, even cow-pies. 

At some point we might look around at the color, the smiling faces and the sheer frivolity of it all and realize we have forgotten any worries we had. We might even have relaxed into a nonproductive moment, simply being. And wouldn't that be wonderful?

What ever our experience of this mid-summer delight, it is surely a time to remember that we live in a beautiful, blessed country and to give our thanks.

"The wind blows where is chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit." John 3:8

We have a very interesting set of circumstances happening in our church sanctuary. Over the past two weeks, and for yet another one to come, there is a large crane that has been moved in to facilitate cleaning the stonework. Still tarnished by the old coal dust and years of use, dirt and other debris, this is the summer of cleaning. The crane's presence has also necessitated the movement of pews and a general appearance of 'fruit basket upset' in the normally ordered space. This past Sunday all the pews on one side of the church were scrunched together in a picture that looked somewhat more like moving day than a place for worship. Yellow caution tape was strung across doors to keep people from getting into certain doors where the sanctuary seating was rendered unusable.

Most people have been patient and gracious during this process knowing that it won't last long and that the outcome will be worth it. Still, I had to think about what a wonderful metaphor it was for the spiritual journey. Like most churches, people here have their 'regular' pew in which they take up residence each Sunday morning. Sometimes this pew has been 'theirs' for decades, perhaps even passed down from the time they were children and their family sat there. Now none of this is formalized, of course, but just try sitting in their pew and find out what happens! In some ways it would be much easier if we employed the nameplates I've seen in British churches where the family name is printed on a plaque and placed in the pew so as to warn any interlopers. What this all says about hospitality and welcome to guests boggles the mind.

But this past Sunday, most people from a particular section had to move to 'the other side'. What to do? Where to sit? I was not in the sanctuary to see the jockeying about but I am told all went well. I wonder if those who were sitting in an unfamiliar seat had a different experience of the hymns sung, the scripture read. How did the sermon sound from a different pew? Was prayer deeper on the other side of the room? I wonder if people met folks they haven't before or if they recognized someone they hadn't seen in years. I'm sure the stories will be told over the next few weeks that will illuminate these questions.

The spiritual life is full of pew changing, I believe. Sometimes we have taken our place in a seat that has become comfortable, easy to see from, hear from and then comfort leads to complacency. It might be just that time that the Spirit blows through our lives and we are moved to see and hear things from a different perspective, a more challenging or enlivening viewpoint. The Spirit's blowing can also cause us to leave our seats altogether for awhile. Take a break from what's familiar and seek out other traditions or no tradition. Sitting in faith in the same place can sometimes be a wonderful thing and other times can bring a sense of longing, of loss, of a deadness that wants to be reborn.

At the end of next week, the pews will be returned to their normal places. The crane will be removed and, what looked messy and upset, will be orderly once again. It is my hope that those who were displaced this past week might continue to move around the sanctuary looking for new perspectives on their worship life. Like Goldilocks looking for the perfect chair, perhaps some will move from place to place and realize that each section has gifts to offer and that what they thought was the perfect spot really doesn't exist. So it is with the spiritual journey. And in that moving that was forced by cranes and cleaning, perhaps new friendships will be forged as people meet and decide they not only like sitting near one another but that a cup of coffee together, or even dinner, might be equally as great. 

Sometimes the Spirit works in mysterious ways. A screwdriver. A crane. Some rags and buckets of soapy water. Who knows where it will all lead?