There are many things that I believe I can claim to be true.
One of them is that the ability to stare at nearly any body of water can, for
the most part, cure what ails a person. I have pulled myself up at the shore of
these curing waters over the last two days. Visiting a friend’s cabin, I have
spent much of my time either sitting on the dock or on the overstuffed couch
inside the cabin staring through the window at the glassiness of Little Boy
Lake.  The first few minutes of staring
is often just spent taking in the lay of the lake…..cabins to the right, YMCA
camp to the left, sailboats anchored like birthday candles on the surface of
the water, trees in various shades of green in their full, summer glory, a few
fishing boats here and there. It can often take an hour or more for the monkey
mind of my daily life to switch off, until I can allow the vision of the lake
in its stillness to begin to seep into me. 
Eventually, if I can allow myself to be present to the water long
enough,  I can begin that slow movement
into breathing with the lake. Watching the wind make its shifts on the water, I
can feel my own breathing slowing, changing, as I perhaps remember that
waterworld in which I, in which we all, had our beginning.

With more than 10,000 lakes dotting the Minnesota landscape, one of the gifts of
summer is that, with little effort, we have the opportunity for ‘lake staring’
within reach. Even city dwellers need only go a few miles before arriving at
water’s edge. There is something about being present to the water, about
allowing the shape and condition of the lake to wash over the state of  being human that is transformative. When I
think of the many healing stories of Jesus, I am reminded that so many of them
happened by the lakeside. While the disciples may have found themselves in
desperate straights, riding out storms or eating on the beach, they seemed to
always be changed by the encounter of Jesus on or near the water. Perhaps the
scripture writers left out the parts where staring was involved!

 Last night we sat and observed four loons who seemed to
simply be riding on the water. Their rhythm of bobbing and diving became a
focal point. As the day was drawing to a close, their black shiny bodies and
white accents of feathers shone against the glistening water. Their red eyes
were attentive to the human ones who were sharing their environment. They were,
no doubt, skeptical.  Every now and then
one would lift its body slightly off its water bed and flap its wings as if to
resettle into a more comfortable position. I found myself breathing with their floating
and gasping at their water dance.  What
does it mean to share space with such a gorgeous creature? It seemed such a
blessing.

After two and half days I will return to the regular rhythm
of my daily life, to the lists of what needs to be accomplished, to meetings
and laundry and all the tasks of being human, of living my life. If I am lucky, some place deep
inside I will be able to recall the gentle lapping of the lake, how the time
spent staring helped to heal my soul. If I have stared well, I might even be
able to breathe the rhythm of lake once again.

"Though a tree grows tall, the leaves return to the root." ~Malay proverb

In one of our cars we have the luxury of satellite radio. I will not use this space for commentary on some of the inane things that cane be found on some of these stations. It is not a car I drive often, but when I do, I always turn it to the folk music station. This station plays everything from the traditional to the obscure songs that are considered the 'people's' music. Music that tells the stories of hardship, struggle, love, and war. Music that can be sung by large groups of school children and small circles of intimate friends nestled around a campfire. In this music you can hear where people came from, both the literal place and the political and faith home, in short what makes them 'tick'. The music always reflects the deep held values of the songwriter and, by association,the singer.

The show I was listening to contained a retrospective narrated by Pete Seeger. He was telling how the song 'This Land is Your Land' came to be a sort of national anthem for many, particularly school children. These children, as they grew into adults, had that song planted in them in a deep way, in some place where songs go to take root and inform who we are as people.It was interesting and enlightening to hear his wonderful voice, aged and wise from years of offering his songs to the world. At the end of the show, a radio voice interrupted with the tag line of the show:"Don't forget to water your roots." I laughed.

Roots. What a wonderful image! I thought about my own roots. I have roots that hold me to the earth that are my small town, southern Ohio roots…..the roots that grew me into an adult. Further back, I have the roots of my Welsh ancestors….roots that planted a love of music and poetry so deep it seeps out of my pores, when denied access to what nourishes them can send me into a depressing tailspin. I have my faith roots, born into a Christian household, baptized Presbyterian, defected to United Methodism….roots that tie me to the hope of the church,no matter how I might struggle with the institution at times. I have my Minnesota roots, those I forged when I moved here and ones that now hold my heart in place……roots that help to make me weep over the beauty of Lake Superior and the sound of a loon's call. I have the roots of my family, my friends….roots that remind me of the connections that will not desert me even when I might deserve to have backs turned, when I become too full of myself, too out of touch with what really matters. So many roots that needs to be watered.

What are your roots? Have you taken time to water them lately? It is important work. It is, I believe, our human work to remember where we came from as much as where we are going. It is this nurturing that provides our vision, our understanding of our place in the world, our commitment to making our lives and the lives of others somehow better. This weekend promises to be a hot, steamy one. It might be a good time to think about your roots, what needs watering, and to take time to nourish what lies at your root. The whole world may be the better for it.

"When people rethink their personal stories, they begin to build a sense of connection and responsibility. They recognize that their actions can matter…..They learn to view their personal stories as intertwined with history." Paul Rogat Loeb

Yesterday I got to do one of my favorite things. Sitting with colleagues over lunch, we brainstormed ideas around our fall church-wide theme of 'story'. This theme was chosen mostly because the scriptures that will be used for fall worship center around Jesus' parables. Our hope is that we can encourage people to write, tell, and share their own stories in an effort to create deeper community and to be open to the way their faith story shapes who they are and how they see the world. I am so enlivened by the process of sitting with others and 'having at' any particular question or idea. Being present to the many ways any one person hears and processes a thought or idea just fills me with energy. It's better than the strongest cup of coffee to get me going!

It was wonderful to recognize how people move toward their dominant way of communicating and learning in these conversations. How the visual people use 'seeing' concepts to describe what they are thinking and the auditory people use 'hearing/listening' ones to talk about the same subject. It is also interesting to notice those who are more conceptual, thinkers, and those who tend to be 'feeler's who speak with heart language. And in the end, how we are all enriched by being present to such good, open conversation where nothing has to be black or white, right or wrong. Everything is simply shared. It becomes a nearly Utopian moment for me.

As we talked about the power of story in our human lives, the one idea that kept surfacing was how all our stories are intertwined in some way even when we don't realize it. One person talked about how, if it were not for the fact that we all worked in a United Methodist Church, we would not be sitting having lunch together. There would be no reason why our lives would have intersected, save this fact. And that that fact was connected to the greater story of the Christian faith of which we are all connected. Even when we are not in agreement or alignment with the official parts of the doctrine of either institution, we are still connected to one another and to all those who claim these groups to be a part of their story. It can be a heady thing to spin out the invisible lines of connection that hold us together. And when we add our human story to the even broader and greater story of Creation, our intricate connections with the non-human elements of what surrounds us, what makes up our lives can become mind-boggling.

Our Native American brothers and sisters and other indigenous cultures tell stories to remind one another of this web of which we are all a part, the connections that are to be taken seriously and held gently. These are the stories that shaped the consciousness of the generations of these humans, the stories that were told to small children and held sacred by the wise ones whose work it was to preserve their way of life and connection with the Holy. They, too, are parables…..stories that teach a lesson.

 We would all benefit from the reminder of the ways in which we are all apart of the Sacred Web of Creation. Yesterday was an example for me of how one idea can lead to another and another and another. How laughter is contagious. And how good conversation, shared over food, can remind each of us that we are not merely individuals traveling life's path, but that we are a community of people creating stories together. Stories to be told, savored and shared.

"Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit.  A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world."  ~Ada Louise Huxtable

This morning as I walked out the door I detected the faint scent of fall in the air. I shook the thought and smell out of my head. It is too soon to be turning the corner toward autumn. There are still too many things to do to savor the gifts of summer. I have not picked raspberries yet, or blueberries. I have not seen the North Shore in its summer finery. I have not had nearly enough ice cream cones or watermelon or red, juicy tomatoes. There is still too much to squeeze out of these precious days.

Summer is a time of opportunity. A time to try new things, master a new skill. Like the person inside a house I walked by on my walk today. The sounds of novice drumming filled the air. Bang! Crash! Ta-dum-ta-dum! All in broken, tentative rhythm. For this person it must be the 'summer of learning to play the drums.' I was reminded of the different summer goals I've set for myself over the years: learn to sew, do a swan dive,drive a car, read all the Nancy Drew mysteries, twirl a fire baton, learn the hula-hoop. Hour after warm hour I remember working to perfect these new skills that require the leisurely time only summer can provide. Do you remember similar things from your own childhood or adolescence? 

Further along on my walk, I was greeted by a cheery "Hi!" Two fresh faced four year old girls were lining up a croquet set and a bag of tennis balls at the edge of the front porch. "Guess what?" the one with Pippi Longstocking braids asked. "We get to have a picnic tonight. We get to decorate the table and we are planning all the games." I had never seen these two girls before  in my life and yet  they talked animatedly about the summer fun they were preparing. One girl had some red, blue and yellow face paint that had now merged with her sweaty, little skin giving her face the appearance of a melting rainbow. They beamed their excitement and anticipation of tonight's festivities toward me. For them, it could be their 'summer of planning parties.' 

Today marks nearly the middle of July, a midsummer marker of sorts. There is still time to set a summer goal. What might you use these warm and long days to accomplish? Is it time to dust off the piano keys or pick up the guitar again? Has your bicycle been out of the garage yet? Have you always wanted to enter something in the State Fair? (There's still time!) Or what about that monstrous novel you've been wanting to read(or write) forever?

There's no time like the middle of July to grab summer by the horns and fulfill a long held dream. Come September the drummer down the street may be in band. What goal would you like to accomplish in what's left of summer?

Happiness. I have been thinking alot about happiness lately. I have even been asking people if they are happy. Try it some time. You get surprising results. I am not sure what prompted this examination of happiness. Perhaps it was the recognition that I don't, perhaps, laugh as much as I once did. It was an odd discovery about oneself. I think of myself as happy most of the time. But when I realized that, in truth, I do not laugh as often as I once did, it was a kind of wake up call. So, I have been doing a personal survey of happiness.

"Happiness grows only in the sweet soil of time." writes Wayne Muller in his book Sabbath. "As our time is eaten away by speed and overwork, we are less available to be surprised by joy, a sunset, a kind word, an unplanned game of tag with a child, a warm loaf of bread from the oven. But for all our striving and accomplishments, our underlying need for happiness does not withdraw and disappear. So we pursue happiness on the run, tying to make our lives more and more efficient, squeezing every task into tighter increments, hoping to somehow 'get' our happiness when we are able to fit it in." That pretty much sums up my daily life. How about yours? 

Yesterday I was zooming through a neighborhood in St. Paul when a lawn sign caught my eye. "What if there is more to life?" the sign read. I nearly threw on my brakes, hoping to read the smaller print that lay below the large, bold letters of this compelling question. What could this possibly be an advertisement for? Who would put this sign on their lawn? I looked for others like it as I sped along, hoping it was some kind of neighborhood conspiracy to wake us all up to ourselves. What if there is MORE to life? And just what is 'more'?

Well, I suppose everyone would answer the 'more' question differently. For some, more is knowing they have enough food to feed their children and the money to pay their rent.  But I think the source of this question is more existential than that. I have a feeling it ties back into my own happiness question. What does it mean to live a life well, one that brings happiness? What does it mean for you? 

It is said that the Buddha equated the spiritual life with a life of happiness. He was often known to offer blessings of loving kindness with the words "May you be happy." Oddly enough,on the 4th of July I happened upon a copy of the Declaration of Independence and read the words written by those who dreamed our country into being, lifting high the goal of 'the pursuit of happiness.' Our very existence as citizens of this country was shaped by the notion of happiness.

These warm summer days can provide time for ruminating over many things. What better thing to allow our minds to roll around in than the state of happiness? Are you happy? Are you making room for happiness to walk in and ask you to dance, to make you laugh? If you, too, have been considering your own happiness, I invite you to join me in the pursuit of this spiritual life. And may our searching contain a few good belly laughs. 

May your weekend be filled with laughter……..

"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? 

"Taoist philosopher Lao Tzu said:"The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." Right now, said journey feels more like 50 thousand miles. And still the work is the same: one step at a time." 

What to do with a morning that begins with a horoscope like this? That is my day's quest. When I read this daily, sage advice, I laughed out loud. The blending of the wisdom of Buddhist teaching and the guidance of the stars tickled my funny bone. But within a few minutes it brought me to a deeper place. What journey am I on right now? In my life. In my work. This year. This day. What about your journey? Where is your journey taking you?

The metaphor of journey is so rich. I do think about it often and yet I am not sure I truly live with the powerful gift of it. It is so easy to get up every morning and plan a day in which much may be 'accomplished' but few miles are traveled. Days can be frittered away, checking off the little details that nag at any life. But what about the journey? Has the first step even been taken? Or in the accomplishments, is the movement more stationary than forward? 

This stepping out is so much easier to recognize in others than it is in oneself. It is so easy to look at someone else and ascertain whether or not you think they are making steps on their journey. I can give all kinds of opinions about choices people are, or are not, making that will move them on their path. It is not so easy, or comfortable, to always be as honest with myself. The excuses come much more easily about what is keeping me from taking that important first step.

So, receiving this free, guiding advice via the morning paper has brought me up short, has thrown the mirror toward my own waiting face. Like most people, I have a few deep desires that fall into the 'some day' category. 'Some day', I'll finish that manuscript. 'Some day', I'll lose those extra pounds. 'Some day', I'll mend that wounded relationship. Some day….some day….some day…..

What are your 'some days'? What journey is asking one step from you? Given the fragility of each precious day, perhaps today is the one on which to take the first, important step. As always, I am happy to share my horoscope with anyone who thinks it fits their journey on this 'one day at a time' life.  It sure spoke to mine.