This morning I watched as the children who board the school bus in front of our house got on for the last time this school year. I had already heard from one of them the many things she was looking forward to this week. The final week of school was to be filled with fun things…..water games, field sports, ice cream, many special outings to various parks and other amusements. The learning of this year is complete. They have, no doubt, cleaned out their desks and have a grocery bag of things to take home. Tests are finished. What was hoped to be accomplished is past, whether the goal was met or not.

As the kids got on the bus I noticed the changes in some of them. All are taller, their now longer legs attached to torsos that are beginning to lengthen or fill out in ways that point to the development to come. I watched as one of the moms took a picture of them boarding the bus, a hoped-for mirror of ‘before’ and ‘after’ which will fill the scrapbook of the first and last days of school. Only one will move on to middle school next year and he patiently stood as his mom snapped one more picture of his elementary school days. I dare say he will not stand for such a thing come fall. But she does not know that yet.

I thought of the year that has gone by for these students. They have learned many important new skills, valuable information, and have overcome obstacles that are a part of moving from childhood to adolescence. Many have also made new friends and come to love teachers they weren’t too sure of in September. Some have learned to deal with words that have hurt them, ways they have been ridiculed by those who make it their business to make certain children’s lives miserable. My prayer is that they have acquired ways to heal those wounds so they do not carry them into the next school year or into the rest of their lives. Some have been so inspired and moved by something they have learned that it has planted a seed that will carry them toward their life’s work. Others have continued to struggle to understand what the subjects they study have to do with their real life. All this and so much more happens in any given school year.

Those of us who are no longer in the school year mode often forget this rhythm, this nine month attempt to grow in new ways. But if we allow ourselves to reflect on these past school year months, we will all come to see that we, too, have learned new skills, gained some information that has shaped who we have become now that summer is here. Some of us have made new friends and lost very dear ones. Many of us have found new teachers we never thought we’d find. Like those elementary school kids, many have also had to use deflective armor to ward of hurtful words and rise to our highest selves to not be taken down by some real life playground bully. If we are blessed, we may also have learned something that planted a seed for the ‘what next’ in our lives, something we never thought we would have the opportunity to experience, something that may move us down our life’s path in an adventure we only dreamed about in September.

September to June doesn’t seem like a very long time. But when measured by all the lessons, tests, friendships, teachers, we might experience, it can be an amazing nine months. As adults, we have most likely not grown taller. Many of simply hope to not grow shorter! But hopefully we have grown in ways that have made us healthier and stronger. No one captured our entry into the journey in September and no one came to snap our photo as we headed out into this particular morning. But make no mistake about it, we each have changed in ways that are visible and invisible.

May God add a blessing to this school year for the children and for all of us.

In an effort to get a jump on the heat that was to arrive yesterday, I headed out early for my morning exercise. Making my way through my neighborhood and along the bluffs of the Mississippi River, I encountered many other runners, walkers and bikers who were doing the same. We were all out early trying to get in some cardio before the heat and humidity could make the process unbearable.

Along this particular stretch of sidewalk I frequent are poems printed directly into the concrete. They were printed there last year as a part of a project by the city. I love coming upon these words, now permanent, in the concrete I so often pound with my running shoes. I always take a moment to reread the lines that were, I imagine, labored over by poets as they sought to make beauty, humor, wisdom out a few, spare words.

But yesterday brought an added surprise. As the humidity began to rise, I made my way up the shaded side of the street. There, in yellow and blue sidewalk chalk were the words:“The world is a hologram. Make it your adventure.” What a great gift for a soon-to-be hot day! This invitation to adventure began to open up before me. Suddenly my day began to have more possibility that it had had just a few minutes ago. I wondered at the person who had printed this message with such intention. Were they hiding behind the curtained windows nearby to see who stopped to read their message?

Moving on down the block, I found another message: “Life can be fun….if you are on the right path.” Now they had my attention. Yes, life can be fun, is fun, but I so often take myself too seriously to remember. Does that ever happen to you?  I am not sure what the writer meant by ‘right’ path but I am going to assume it is the one that connects with that ‘adventure’ message. If we see life as an adventure, fun must be in it someplace.

Not too much farther along the sidewalk were just two simple words: “Be curious.” Ahhh, yes. Curiosity. The gift and playground of all creative people….artists, inventors, teachers, parents, and especially children. So the message of this sidewalk prophet was to embrace the adventure, to have fun and to be curious. My day was being seeded for something I hadn’t planned, that did not exist on any to do list I had made earlier.

And finally one last message: “Life is good.” Indeed, it is. And my life was made better by one person who took the time to grab a piece of chalk and head out to the sidewalk. Leaving a message in the spirit of a child this person gave shape to my day and lifted my spirits in ways they will never know. It was a gift. It was fun. It was an adventure.

The sidewalk prophet’s words were not permanent in concrete like the poets’. A rain or a lawn sprinkler could erase them at any moment. But nothing the heat of the day could conjure up could dampen my lifted spirits after reading their words.

And so I give thanks for this person who had an idea and followed through. Blessings on you, dear one. You made more of an impact than you might ever know.

When United Methodists gather, as we have over the last few days from all over the state, there are many traditions. One of those traditions is a worship service that honors the ministers and spouses who have died over this past year. It is always a meaningful and touching service.People are reminded of those spiritual leaders who helped them struggle with their big questions.Those who sat with them when a loved one was ill or dying. The person who accompanied them on a part of their life’s journey that was transformative. Or those who simply were a good friend, a deep listener, a faithful companion. This is true, not only for those who were a part of a church these people knew as home for awhile, but also for those of us who knew them as mentors, teachers, nudgers, inspirers.

One part of the service involves the slow, measured reading of the names of those whose faces no longer grace our circle. As their name is read into the silence of the room, a bell is rung and that clear tone carries out over the people until its sound dissolves. Those who have had a relationship with the now departed person, stands at hearing their name. It is a witness to the imprint this person has made on our common life.

At this morning’s service, I became aware of how our bishop stood as the first name was read and remained standing throughout the entire reading of all the names. Perhaps this has always happened and I simply have not noticed. But as she remained standing, I began to realize that she has indeed been touched by all these lives.She has known their churches, their homes, their families, their gifts and their challenges. She has known where they struggled and the people within their churches who loved them and those who didn’t. She has heard glowing love of them. And she has also, I’m sure, heard vile complaints. As I became aware of her standing, it seemed to me a terrific load to bear.

The United Methodist Church claims as one of its central tenets a concept we call connectionalism. Each church is seen as a little point of light connected to another for reflecting into the world our understanding and experience of God. This is done through how we are church in any given community through worship and service, through trying as best we can to be the hands and feet of Christ in a world in desperate need of healing. The picture of this work comes in many forms, as many as there are people who try to express it. But the point of this ‘connection’ is that we are never in this work alone. No church, no minister, no member or constant visitor stands alone.

As this bishop, this one person given the responsibility,honor and authority to lead this rag tag gathering of well intentioned, faithful people who don’t always agree……to be honest who often don’t agree….on what that work should look like, she stood. Holding the work and the faith of those who had passed from this life into eternity. She stood holding the grief and pain of the family members who looked back at her from their seats. Both, I imagine, were remembering the people they could no longer reach out and touch. From time to time, others stood around the room as names were read. But the bishop stood for all.

She stood out of respect, as witness, and perhaps out of love. But certainly, most certainly, she stood full of her knowing. And as I became aware of her standing, I was struck that some day, a bishop will stand in just such a way for me. And I felt blessed to be a apart of this connection of people. Blessed and known and filled with humility.

“The sky does it simply, naturally
day by day by day.
The sun does it joyfully,
like someone in love,
like a runner on the starting line.
The sky, the sun,
they just can’t help themselves.
No loud voices, no grand speeches,
but everyone sees, and is happy for them.
Make us like that, Lord,
so that our faith is not in our words but in our lives,
not in what we say but in who we are,
passing on your love like an infectious laugh:
not worried, not threatening, just shining
like the sun, like a starry night,
like a lamp on a stand,
light for life-
your light for our lives.”
~ Kathy Galloway, the Iona Community

I was awakened quite early this morning, and quite literally, by the sun. It has been so overcast these last few days that, when I went to sleep last night, it never occurred to me to close the drapes that covered the windows of my hotel room. It also never occurred to me that those windows were facing east. While I am normally an early riser, this wake up call was more brilliant than I had anticipated. The bright sphere of the sun reminded me of a Georgia O’Keefe painting as it created an enormous yellow-orange circle with shoots of light forming a cross heading up, down, left and right.

Not long after being jarred awake by this powerful light, I read this poem/prayer in a book I had carried with me to the Minnesota Annual Conference. This gathering of United Methodists from around the state is a yearly event in which we come together to remember who we are as the vast diversity that can be this beloved church. Unlike some other denominations, we can paint a wider swath of theological perspectives and ways of seeing and articulating our faith. This has, as you might imagine,both gifts and challenges. Our yearly gathering brings out the fullness of this diversity. We can often rise to our best selves even in that diversity. And we can often fall far short of it. My prayer for this week is that we will be more of the former.

Knowing and being our true selves, which is what I believe Kathy Galloway is pointing toward, is difficult and often risky business. Our culture leans toward human conformity. Our churches have followed that lead. We have not only created creeds we ‘must’ say to fit in,to be a part, we have also fought wars and committed murder in this pursuit. Our schools create tests and curriculum to try to ‘normalize’ behavior and the product of our education. It can make the work of knowing oneself, of being true to any inner voice we hear that might rub against those norms, very difficult, even dangerous to follow.

How is it that we let the light of the Spirit shine through our lives? Certainly how that light shines through my life will be quite different than the way it does through my child’s or my neighbor’s or yours, don’t you think? And what of the person whose life has been laced with experiences so drastically foreign to my own life and yours, experiences that may have imprinted deep wounds we have never known? How could we possibly speak of our faith in similar ways? Holding gently the fullness of these faith experiences is, and should be,the holy work of any church.

In the end, this diversity is the gift of Creation and a Beloved Creator. I do not have to try to be the Sun or a star. Thank heavens! My life’s work, and yours, is to be the fullest expression of the image of God within each us. It will not mean blazing through windows to awaken people from sleep. But it will mean allowing the light of the Spirit to shine boldly through us in a myriad of diverse ways. It will often be messy and chaotic.

But if we are true to ourselves and the God within each of us, it will, I believe, create something beautiful.

“It could be said that God’s foot is so vast
that the entire earth is but a
field on God’s toe,

and all the forests in this world
came from the same root of just
a single hair
of the Holy.

What then is not sanctuary?
Where then can I not kneel
and pray at a shrine
made holy by God’s
presence?”
~St. Catherine of Siena

During my Saturday morning trip to the farmer’s market this week, I had a realization that filled me with awe and humility. As I walked the rows of colorful flowers and fragrant herbs, I had this overwhelming feeling of connection with both those who sold their wares and those, like me, who were doing the shopping. As I handed my money to the beautiful Hmong woman whose head was wrapped in a brilliant blue and red patterned scarf and she, in turn, handed me my rhubarb, I knew we were in this thing together. I listened to the laughter of the tall, blond farmer, dressed in bibbed overalls as if in costume, selling honey and humor. As his voice washed over me, I had the full bodied sense that we were all in cahoots with one another in this journey called life. I looked at my fellow shoppers and saw, not strangers, but family caring for the very basic need of all creatures. The need to eat.

Now this may seem to some a lot to hang on the simple act of shopping at the farmer’s market. But it was truly one of those full bodied realizations that comes to us every now and then. One of those feelings of recognition that we are a small part of a much larger, intricate and beautiful whole. I thought of the work that these farmers had done on our behalf. The planning, the planting, the watering, the weeding, the watching and the eventual harvesting. All the shoppers were there to reap the rewards of the work of others. And while money was exchanged for services rendered, it seemed much more than that.

It was a reminder to me of all those who labor so my life, and yours, may be lived. All those who work unseen to make sure my lights turn on when I flip a switch and the heat goes on when I press a button. All those who drive trucks and trains and planes to bring other goods for my use and consumption. It is staggering when you think about it. All the lives that are attached to ours through their work. It is a fact that could humble us if we let it.

The truth is we are all in cahoots to live this life. We can move through the world acting as if we are independent and self sufficient but the reality is that very few, if any, can live our lives without the work and toil of others. The very idea fills me with such a deep sense of gratitude and joy and humility. It becomes, for me, an image of this huge family that travels with me wherever I go. We are kin of the living kind, depending on one another, looking out for one another, supporting one another, always full of the realization that when one rejoices we all rejoice and when one grieves we all grieve.

At the farmer’s market I was happy to look across the sea of faces and notice how different we all looked. Different body shapes, a myriad of skin colors, some old and wrinkled and others new to the world, and yet all kin. All joined together for that moment in the pursuit of good food. Food offered to us by hands that had known the soil that would feed us all. In that moment it seemed to me not only an act of Creation but also an act of communion.

Thanks be to God.

“The day of my spiritual awakening was the day I saw
and knew I saw all things in God and God in all things.”
— Mechtild of Magdeburg

In preparation for Sunday’s worship, I have been searching through several books of writings by Christian mystics. Each time I come upon the words of these who have tried to express in words their deep experience of the Holy, I find myself once again flooded with humility. So many of those we now speak of as mystics lived at times when it must have been truly dangerous to speak many of the things they did. While many men fall into this category, an equal number are women, also a humbling and amazing fact.

What does it mean to be a mystic? Most definitions point toward someone who has great intuition that leads to a spiritual truth, one that allows a communion with God, which is often brought about by meditation or deep contemplation. From that definition it might seem as if there are few, if any, mystics among us these days. But I don’t believe that is the case.

In the first place, many children are mystics. Have you taken a walk with a child lately? Have you watched them spend time with, say, an ant hill? Squatting next to a child and an ant hill can make a mystic out of the most logical person. The questions they ask, the insights they have could fill a hundred books. If you want to have a mystical experience invite a child to accompany you on a walk in a park or in the woods. Let them set the pace, stopping at every interesting stone, feather, tree, flower, animal print. Children are the first teachers that God is present in all things. Each of us were teachers once too, but along the way we may have forgotten to stop, to look, to listen, to know the Holy One’s movement in the every day acts of our living.

Spring is a particularly good time to hone one’s mystic skills. Walking out on any given morning, it becomes nearly impossible to miss God showing up everywhere. The pink and drooping bleeding hearts can offer infinite wisdom about fleeting beauty. The rich, piercing fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley can settle on our spirits and stir us to memories of times we were held close by perfumed, fleshy, grandmother arms. The strong and powerful push of hostas once more making an entrance into the world teach us of an abiding presence and endurance which holds us through cold,frozen even difficult times.

Mechtild of Magdeburg was a medieval mystic who lived in Germany in the 13th century. Her mystical experiences of God were described in her book The Flowing Light of Divinity. She was often known to be critical of church authorities and doctrines and the ways in which the church often tried to reign in the Sacred. Instead she described her encounters of the Divine in all things and how all things are at the same time held in the Divine. It is fascinating to me that she was allowed to live and write and speak. After her death, for more than four hundred years her writings were suppressed. But over the last years her words, like so many mystics’, have made their way into wider circles. Perhaps they are the very words we need for the times I which we live.

Have you had an encounter with the Holy recently? Have you shared it with anyone? Have you spent time looking at an ant hill or a bird’s nest or the irises that are waiting for just enough sunshine to bloom? We were each born as mystics, I believe. The experience of the Sacred is just a breath away. If we take our time, honor the gift of the moment, and remember to act like a child.

Have a blessed weekend………

Alright. I admit it. I rushed home from the office yesterday to watch the final episode of ‘Oprah’. Off and on over the years I have tuned into this show and have watched the gradual transformation of, not only the show, but the woman. I have admired the ways in which Oprah encouraged a pursuit of reading and the birth of book clubs and conversation around the interpretation of books. I have often seen her speak boldly to people who needed it and be gracious and kind to those who most would have turned their backs on. I have been amazed at her generosity. I would only hope that if such fortune ever came my way, I would be as gracious and thoughtful with my resources.With others, I have watched her battle the demon of weight control and seen the inspiration she has been to so many.

People may disagree with me but what I have come to see, to believe, is that Oprah grew into a fine preacher. She used words like ‘calling’ and ‘redemption’ and ‘transformation’ in ways most Sunday morning preachers do. But she was heard in a different way. From the safety of the brightly colored, soft and comfy looking living room set, she spoke of God, even Jesus, without seeming to exclude anyone. She was always upfront about it. Never apologized for speaking about her faith to what she knew was her diverse audience. She spoke of the hardship of her life while welcoming others to do the same. She also spoke openly of the privilege that she now has and how she understands her responsibility to be a good steward of what has come her way. I often watched as she used the tools of any good preacher to bring people to a deeper understanding of a topic but mostly of themselves.

On her final show she graciously spoke of all that the audience had given her. One of the most profound sections of the show recounted a woman who had had a stroke and was unable to speak. The woman was a psychologist and told of how the doctors had come into her room and spoke about her as if she wasn’t there, saying things that no thoughtful person would say in the presence of another if they thought the person could hear. Contrasted were her family and friends who spoke words of love and encouragement as they surrounded her with love and compassion. Through this experience the woman, who is now recovered, spoke of how each of us are energy, vibrant electrical beings, who carry the ability to effect others in negative and positive ways. She had given Oprah a large card that had been hanging in her makeup room. It simply said: “Please be responsible for the energy you bring into the room.”

When Oprah reported these words, words which had come to guide not only her but her staff, I reflected back on all the times I have been in a meeting where the energy in the room was so negative it seemed impossible to do good work of any kind. I thought about the times when I have been surrounded by the energy of people who are so loving and caring it seemed we all might levitate. I was reminded of the times I have carried negative, hurtful energy into a situation only to have the gathering implode before my very eyes.

We are all energy and we carry energy into every encounter, every meeting, every relationship, every conversation. It is an awesome responsibility if we take it seriously. What kind of energy are you carrying today? Is it energy that will serve the world for good? Or will it cause more harm to an already troubled time? Perhaps it is time to take stock. To consider the way our energy, the energy of each human being, is helping to bring healing and hope this day. I truly believe none of us would want to carry an energy that would have the power to hurt another.

So perhaps today, this minute, is the time to print these words on our doors, on the palms of our hands, on our fragile hearts: “Please be responsible for the energy you bring into the room.”

The Twin Cities’ area is still looking over its shoulder after the tornadoes that ripped through North Minneapolis on Sunday afternoon. Friends who live near there have spoken of the devastation and the sadness of seeing many who were already living on the economic edge now dealing with no roof, no power, needing help with services many of us take for granted. While no where near as destructive as the storms in Missouri, these hurts close to home have held our thoughts, our prayers. They also have reminded many of us about the power of perspective as we take stock of the ups and downs of our days.

We certainly know that when storms of this magnitude move through any populated area the damage does not fall on humans alone. We are, after all, a part of an intricately woven Creation. To see the trees that were uprooted and split along block after block is a gentle reminder that these are homes, too. Home to birds and animals, all as fragile and as easily displaced as humans.

This morning I read about the heron rookery that existed on one of the lakes in the path of the storm’s winds. Several dozen great blue heron nests called these trees home. In those trees were nests, each holding two or three young herons, fresh and new to the world. After the storm, the mature herons, their strong deep blue wings soaring, were seen circling overhead looking for their young, for a sign of their former homes. What a tragic sight that must have been.

I thought of my favorite poet, Mary Oliver, who has written so often about the beautiful herons she has observed in her many years as a poet and lover of all that lives. In a recent book of her poetry she writes:

“It is a negligence of the mind
not to notice how at dusk
heron comes to the pond and
stands there in his death robes, perfect
servant of the system, hungry, his eyes
full of attention, his wings,
pure light.”

Those interviewed in the paper who know about herons and other ones with wings, seemed less troubled than I was at their plight. They spoke of how the herons are survivors and will  continue to live out their summer life and will make their way back to this place next spring. The fallen trees, they reminded, will now become home to other birds who make their homes closer to the ground, nearer to the water. The herons will rebuild their nests and begin again. It is the way it works. These ‘servants of the system’ understand perhaps things we in our city mentalities do not. They will cast their pure light on what is yet to be.

Unlike the herons, humans may find it difficult to see much past the devastation at this point. But I do know that there are countless people who, at this very moment,  are carrying food and water, chopping up fallen trees and hauling debris, reaching out to neighbors whose names they had not known before Sunday. Within hours, people were collecting money to fuel the work that needs to be done. Prayers were said and continue to float in the air, hovering over the streets and blue tarps that act as roofs, much like the outstretched wings of the herons over the rookery.

Pure light. Pure light.

On Saturday morning I braved the gloomy weather and headed to the St. Paul Farmer’s Market. It is one of the true pleasures of my week to begin my Saturday in this way. Even in these early days of the growing season I find myself undone by the beauty of vegetables, the color of flowers, the smells of brewing coffee and the sight of so many different kinds of people. All up early. All shopping for food. Asparagus, spinach and rhubarb shown forth as the ‘first to the market finish line’. People were scooping up tiny tomato and basil plants as they dreamed of the bruschetta that will come in July. Children, and some adults, munched on sugary, sprinkled donuts as we chose not to notice the gray, rainy skies.

Instead of a donut, I opted for a toasted pumpernickel bagel. While I was waiting for it to take a turn on the grill, I watched the young adults who work this booth. They wore the Saturday morning sleepy look of most their age. A look that belies a too late night followed by a too early morning. But they laughed and joked with one another showing the camaraderie they have developed in this job that will lead them to something else, i.e. a tuition payment, rent for another month, enough spending money for another late night.

In my scanning of these young people, my eyes fell on one young man, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a dark, gray t-shirt. And then I saw the tattoo that formed a ring on his neck. Moving from left to right, across the sinking place on his white, fragile skin were the dark blue, elegant letters that said simply:”I am so sorry.” For some reason these words hit the pit of my stomach and didn’t bounce back. What could this young man be so sorry about that he had this tattooed forever on his neck where all would see? Why had he made so permanent this perpetual apology? These questions seared through my brain as another young woman handed me my warm bagel oozing with cream cheese. As I walked away I felt my heart tug for him.

All day I thought of this quick encounter with someone I may never see again but whose bodily adornment had so moved me. The words on his neck caused me to think of all the situations, all the actions in the world for which I am so sorry. I thought of all the people I come into contact with during a given week who are homeless or living on the edge. I am so sorry that as a nation we cannot figure out how to keep people from falling through the cracks of our social systems. I am so sorry that we continue to engage in hate and fear-filled actions that threaten to marginalize people on the basis of whom they love. I am so sorry that we continue to lash out at those whose faith is foreign to us, those who appear different because of the ways they dress or speak or even eat. I am so sorry that children and the elderly often are the recipients of the actions of a few making decisions for the many. So much to be sorry about. This young man took, in my opinion, a radical and permanent way of living this.

It is easy to get lost in sorry. But somehow it seems to me the gentler thing, not only individually but communally, is to try to get at the front end of apology. To try to take a breath before acting, before speaking so as to cut down on the need for perpetual apology. In some ways it is an impossible intention but also a noble one. Even in our communal life to ask ourselves, as the prophet Micah did: “What does God ask of you?” To ask and then to shape our lives around the answer: Do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with God. How might our need for apology be changed if these values guided our actions? It is something to ponder.

I am thankful for the toasty bagel that fed my body on Saturday morning and the hands that prepared it. And I am thankful to the young man whose message has traveled with me and will continue to nudge me to be careful with my words,my actions, and with my life. The pain he must have endured to wear the words he carries as a mantra was not lost on me.

Wherever he is, may God bless his path this day.