This morning started out with a flurry of activity. Last night I had baked a cake that I wanted to share with my co-workers and knew I had to run to the grocery store this morning for whipping cream to top it off. My feet hit the floor with the running list of 'to be done' zooming through my head. Making my way downstairs I found that we, in the night, had been home to a sick dog in the living room. (You don't want to know.) This threw a wrench into the works of what was already an out-of-the-ordinary morning. By the time breakfast was eaten, hair was washed, dishwasher loaded, lunch packed, paper read, I felt as if I had lived nearly a full day and it wasn't even 8:00 a.m. Several times in my bustling about I had glimpsed, out the window, the grape iris in our garden as it seemed to grow even taller reaching toward to sun. Each time I saw it I thought, "I have to go out there and look, really look at it." Distracted by the next thing, I moved on and never made it outside.

As the morning sun shone on the backyard, its rays coaxed the brilliant purple petals open on this queen of the garden. I busily packed all the stuff I needed for my day into my car and backed out of the driveway. As I buckled my seat-belt, my eyes caught one last view of the stately iris. I made it all the way out of the driveway and several feet down the street. Then I stopped. I halted the busyness of the morning and pulled over and parked my car. With purpose, I got out and walked back  up the driveway and into the backyard to do the one thing I truly should have done all morning. I walked up and stood looking at the sun's rays fall across the deep purple of the iris. I stared into the heart of it, its deep yellow center with the brown stripes like eyebrows floating out toward the petal edges.(How is this possible?) The sun caught the colors as I reached down to smell the grape scent that emits from the deep purple, a smell that only comes my way for a few days of every year of my life. In just a matter of weeks these beautiful flowers will have died and been cut back as the next wave of color arrives in the garden. To have missed it would have been, dare I say it, sinful.

This morning was for paying homage, for being a pilgrim in my own backyard. I could have missed it. I could have continued driving and made my way onto the freeway and the rest of my day. But something inside me would not let me go, urged me to stop and see. Whether is was the Spirit or just good, common sense depends on your perspective I suppose. Whatever it was, it was a blessing and It has made all the difference in this day.

"Each day, every moment, you place your hand of blessing upon the brow of creation. In your touch, in your words, everything flowers, everything remembers the deep, perfect loveliness within. The deep, perfect loveliness of you." ~Sam Hamilton-Poore, Earth Gospel

What a glorious weekend we've had! Here in Minnesota the days were filled with bright sunshine and warm temperatures. The rains we had earlier last week created a lush blanket of green grass that rivals the Irish countryside. With the rain came some colder temperatures that helped hold the blooming flowers….lilacs, irises,columbine, bleeding hearts, jack-in-the-pulpits….to a more realistic calendar. These early spring flowers are now showing their color accompanied by the sweet fragrance of the lily-of-the-valleys that dot the edges of many gardens. It seemed everywhere I looked this weekend, there was a veritable banquet of beauty. 

As this Monday morning begins another work week for many, we can wear the glory of this past weekend like a cloak, a cloak that reminds us of the amazing world of which we are only a tiny part. Always a warranted reminder lest we become too full of ourselves and our place in the cosmos. As I was thinking about that very thing this morning, I read the following words: "May the craft and mastery of my daily work enhance the great weaving of the universe."

Wow! Most mornings I simply stumble out of bed,caffeinate myself, create my to-do list and head into the work day. I rarely think of the work I do as having 'craft' or 'mastery' much less how it might enhance the 'great weaving of the universe.' Perhaps this is not your experience. And yet when I really allow myself to think of the work I do, the work which hopefully uses the gifts I have been given in the best way I know how, why shouldn't I spin that thought out to its greater place in the big story of things? Why shouldn't we all? If we are here at this time and place, living with a certain intention about, not only our work, but our relationships, our values and our footprint in our community, why shouldn't we seek to live our lives as important strands in the great weaving that is our world?

Sometimes I think of those people who have moved in and out of my life leaving an indelible mark. I think of teachers, family members, friends who have said just the right thing at the right time to move me past a deep, dead spot I felt I could not overcome.I give thanks that at some place they understood their part in the big picture. I also think of those people who may have done the exact opposite, bringing a sense of negativity and dismissal to an idea or dream I held dear.I think of the time and energy it took to heal from those wounds. I would pray that I have spent more of my time being the former person than the later in people's lives, don't you?

Perhaps today, Monday, is a good day to take stock of what it is your work is calling you to craft with the mastery only you can muster. On the heels of such an amazing display of Creation as we were given this weekend, we are given the opportunity to recommit to being a part of the marvelous whole, bringing our unique offerings to the weaving of this day. 

Let the weaving begin!

I know people who are really drawn to certain kinds of buildings. Barns, for instance. They are drawn to the beauty and intrigue of the many kinds of barns that dot the landscape of our country. Red barns, brick barns, perfectly painted white barns. Barns that have 'Mail Pouch' painted across the side, offering advertising from a different time. Round barns with green roofs. Giant barns with several silos. There is something solid and purely American about barns.

Barns are great but I am drawn to churches. My family has been known to set limits on the number of churches that can be entered on any given day while we are on vacation. On car vacations I always look out the window toward the steeples reaching from the main streets of small towns that are just out of reach of the speeding traffic. These steeples change in architecture and style, usually influenced by the ethnicity of those who settled the particular area. For my money, you can't beat the small, white wood church with a simple steeple that can be seen in nearly every small town across the land. 

Once while riding the Atlanta Metro with friends, mostly church professionals, one voice rang out:"Wow! There it is!" We all turned to look at the grey cinder-block building with the simple sign that said:'The Perfect Church". We laughed out loud thinking of all the times we had tried to create just that…..the perfect church. No disagreements there. No out-of-tune choirs. Perfectly executed sermons, deeply engaged parishioners, children who never wiggle and are always well behaved. Our laughter may have held some longing but also the deep knowing that the perfect church was perfectly impossible.

Last week while traipsing off the main highway my husband and I came upon another interesting church building. It sat well back off the road. What had been the lawn was filled now with overgrown weeds and fallen branches. Its once white exterior was chipping paint and the red cross that had been painted on the side of the church seemed tarnished. The sign on the outside simply said "EndTimes House of Prayer". I had to stop and simply look at this place that had at one time meant a great deal to those who found a place to express their faith. Its doors now closed,clearly abandoned, I wondered where its members had gone. While I know that the end times of which they most assuredly spoke was not something I think much about, I did wonder: Had their prayer held them through the end times of their lives together? I pray so.

In a few weeks I will attend our denominations' annual gathering of clergy and lay people where we will, not only ordain people for ministry, but also take action to close churches that are no longer able to support a congregation. It is always a deeply sad time as we are present to a remnant of people whose lives have been tied up in the life sustaining work of a faith community. Births, baptisms, deaths, funerals and all the very ordinary events have held these people together in a building that has provided, not only shelter, but a deep sense of place. The walls of these church buildings have held the tears and joy of all the holy days that have been celebrated. They also hold the prayers, all the prayers, that have been spoken and offered for the many life events that connect humans to one another and to God. The building itself holds the power of home. A home that will be no more.

Today I found myself offering this prayer…..For these end times and all the end times that come our way, may we each find our house of prayer.

"Turner of the Season's Wheel, while I have slept you have been hastening summer. Before I enter into the motion of the day-star, I rest in the stillness of the wheel's turning." ~Caitlin Matthews

I begin many of my mornings by using a devotional book called Celtic Devotional:Daily Prayers & Blessings by Caitlin Matthews. I love this little book for many reasons. It has a rhythm about it, moving from the outward to the inward, staying in touch with the seasons and their turning. But one of the things I love most is the myriad of names that Matthew uses for God. Names like: Gardener of Dew, Summoner of Night, Faithful Companion of the Night, Opener of Morning, Healer of Hurts, Smith of Souls, Keeper of the Heart. The list goes on and on invoking the many ways in which the Holy One weaves in and out of our daily walk whether sleeping or awake.

These names open doors for me. To tell the truth they keep me from trying to put God in a box I can latch tightly, securing the Sacred within my own limitations. These names keep me from trying to control the ways that I build the Sacred in my own image rather than the other way around. Many of the names might stretch readers sense of the Holy. Names like Hostel of Welcome, Lap of Peace, Revealer of Dreams or Singer of Summer. And yet when I allow myself to say those names, let them roll around in my mouth and my heart, I remember times when, indeed, God was a Lap of Peace to me. I have known the Holy as One who throws open the door of a hostel, welcoming me in with a warm bed and a filling meal. I have also known God as the One who prods and pokes me until the dreams I cannot see or choose to run from are revealed in ways I cannot deny. And who among us, though we may not express it this way, has not come to the end of a glorious summer day filled with green and brilliant sun, colorful flowers and freshly harvested vegetables and not given thanks to the Singer of Summer?

Mostly we try to fit God into the smallness we can understand. We even make rules about which names for God are acceptable.  We sometimes even further fit those names into denominational boxes or constrain them within faith traditions. I find this very sad. It seems to me that this Mystery we experience as the Source of All cannot be contained in one or even a hundred names. And so I will continue to pick up my daily devotional and try on yet another name for the Unnameable I try so hard to know, hoping beyond hope to glimpse a clearer vision of not only myself but the one who delights in all Creation.

Cradle of Quietness…..Womb of the Night……Keeper of the Flame…..Cup of Transformation…..Ocean of Blessing………..on and on and on chasing after Mystery.

"The woods were my Ritalin. Nature calmed me, focused me, and yet excited my senses." 
~Richard Louv

In my travels to Ohio this past week, I was present not only to our son's graduation from Ohio Wesleyan University but also to the green rolling hills that shaped me. Driving through small towns and countryside, I was once again reminded of the visceral experience I have when I drive through these hills and valleys. There seems to be something in the landscape that jogs a place of connection within me that is difficult to describe. The one thing I am sure of is that most people have a similar experience in their own 'homeland'. It is a place of groundedness, a place of feeling deeply at home.

On this particular excursion, I decided to return to the church campground where I had spent some formative times as a teenager. Camp Francis Asbury sits in the woods near Rio Grande, in the foothills of what, within a few miles, becomes the Appalachian Mountains. Several years back a fire had ripped through the camp destroying the buildings and it has slowly been being restored to welcome campers again. Driving into the campground, I found myself looking toward a particular shelter house remembering conversations, friendships and songs shared around the fire. On the shore of the lake which seemed much smaller and much muddier than I remembered, I thought of the lazy times we spent on the beach trying to catch the eye of the lifeguard who was also a gifted guitar strumming singer. Church camp was not all Bible stories after all!

The woods and the camp gave shape to my early faith. It was a place where my questions were welcomed. a place where we all felt safe to grapple with the 'big' issues of our time. The leaders listened with care and helped us find our way in the wilderness of being teenagers. All this was done within the sanctuary of trees, trails, green grass and a lake for swimming. The evenings were spent slapping mosquitoes while we sat in a circle around the campfire, singing, laughing, feeling the dirt under our feet and the breeze through our hair. Speaking our deep wonderings about God, our faith, our world into the fresh air brought a different experience than in a classroom or at our places of worship.

As we left the campground I thought of the book Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv which was published a couple of years ago and has now created a movement in which people are finding ways to connect children with the natural world, something that has fallen in short supply. As children spend more and more time in structured, indoor activities they are spending less and less time in the natural world. It seems such a sad thing which, at the same time, comes on the heels of our need for even greater environmental stewardship.  The awe and wonder for Creation that was planted within me and the other campers during those summers in the woods seems to me to be at the very heart of what is needed to create stewards of our planet.

As we left Camp Francis Asbury we stopped the car so I could take a picture of the newly painted sign that will, in a few weeks, welcome campers for the summer. It is my hope that those children and youth will find their questions as welcome as I found mine. It is my hope that the leaders will know that the week spent in the woods may just have the power to create a deep impression on both city and country kids alike. Impressions that may lead them to be filled with a wonder and appreciation for what it means to be a part of something bigger than themselves, Creation. Something that just might bring them to change the world for the greater good of all. With dusty feet and sunburned noses, the fire crackling and lighting up their faces, they will hopefully be reminded of the goodness that lives at their very core, something planted by the One who breathes through it all.

Yesterday morning, heading east toward Wisconsin, we drove into the potential of
the sunrise of the day. It was a stupendous sunrise…..rolling lavender and white
clouds ringed the horizon as the pink sheen of the sun spread across the ever
lightening sky. We were perched on the cusp of a new day, full of conversations
and experiences yet to be revealed.

 Traveling further into the landscape, I was aware of the
potential that surrounded us. Fields had been plowed and some planted with what is to be corn and soybeans of the yet to be discovered summer. If my eyes
caught the rows in just the right light, I could see the hint of green as the
crops emerged from the ground. These seeds, planted and cared for by human
hands, will connect with the power of the sun, the gifts of rain and weather
and, no doubt, a few prayers thrown in for good measure, to provide food for
humans and animals.

 The visual image of the potential of these farm fields
unfolded in mile after mile as we crossed Wisconsin,
Illinois, and Indiana. Someplace along the stretch of
highway in Indiana,
I witnessed a man(father?) and small boy(son?) on their hands and knees in the
plowed soil. A signature yellow and green John Deere tractor sat near by. I saw
the man turn back toward the young boy and say something. I imagined that I was
witnessing the passing on of some important information to a future farmer, one
of those who will continue to feed our nation.

 This road trip that took us into Ohio moved us further toward the experience
of being surrounded by potential. We have taken this drive to be present at the
college graduation of our oldest son. For months now the nagging question on my
lips, in my mind, filling my heart is: “Where have the four years gone?” And
yet here we are, here he is, about to walk into the potential of his future. He
will be joined by young people that were unknown to him only four years ago that
have now become friends for life. He has read, studied and been exposed to
experiences that have prepared him for the next phase of his life’s journey. We
will be privileged to be present for all those young people who will give shape
to the world that is also full of a potential yet unknown to them, to us.

 From the rising of the sun to the flowering of the fields,
to the unfolding lives of the young and the not-so-young, each day is ringed
with potential that calls us to breathe deeply and be filled to overflowing
with gratitude. The newness of each sunrise is imprinted in our DNA and that
rests at the heart of Creation.

 Sometimes we simply call it…….hope.

Yesterday morning I stopped at one of the coffee shops at which I am a regular. Standing in line,I tried to remember the number of properties found on a Monopoly board. 23? 28? 35? 52? The correct answer could buy me 10 cents off my over-priced cup of coffee. I soon became distracted by the two shop workers and the woman in front of me who were looking intently at the dollar bill they all three were holding. They were feeling the texture of the bill, turning it first this way and then the other. One took in her hands and held it to the light. My curiosity getting the best of me, I stepped closer to see what the mystery was. 

Noting that the customer had handed the cashier three one dollar bills, I heard her say: "It says 'this note is legal tender for all debts, public and private' ". I then asked if she had been carrying a counterfeit bill. She turned with a smile to me and simply said, "Look." As I did I saw that the green dollar bill looked exactly like the other two she had handed over. The difference was that instead of the wooden face of our nation's first president, there was the face of a lovely angel, wings, halo and all. Now four people were examining the bill. She tried to remember where she might have received the money, what she had purchased last that would have rendered this one dollar bill as change from a larger denomination. As we stood in our little circle staring down at what was certainly not 'legal tender' in the monetary sense, our faces were shining happiness and warmth toward one another. We all felt a part of something out of the ordinary, special, that had just happened without any effort on our part. 

Taking the angel dollar back and saying she would take it to her bank, she handed over the real money and received her coffee. I stepped up in line and placed my order. But the experience of that encounter changed the course of my day. Because of the surprise of this angel currency, I had encountered a moment of mystery with three strangers. We had laughed, talked, and questioned together. The experience only lasted a few minutes but it put a spring in my step all day and helped me to breathe deeper, more fully.

I cannot know the intention of whomever created the angel dollar bill. Perhaps it was sinister. Perhaps it was meant to trick people into spending money that had no value. But for me, for the four strangers who spoke on a normal Tuesday morning, I believe we had a different experience. We were somehow connected in a way that suspended us from all the things we believe to be fact and concrete. In the simplest form of a dollar bill , something else showed up, something that made us wonder and brought joy and laughter, and made us question the things we take for granted.

Angels are said to be the messengers of God. Their wings allow them to move from place to place with the freedom of flying and with ease of earthly effort. Their halos ring their heads with light to show the path toward what is of heaven. As the angel took her place in the center of George Washington's frame, that presence brought a lightness of being to those of us who gazed at her. A moment of transcendence or of trickery? I don't know. But I am sure that my day would have been different if I had not had this encounter.

"I am going to send an angel in front of you, to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared." Exodus 23:20

Suffice it to say, the last several days have been challenging. The world news has been dominated by the horrific oil spill off the Gulf Coast as we have watched untold species of animals threatened, people's livelihoods destroyed, and the fragile ecosystem of which we are all part be harmed in ways that will have a reverberating affect for years to come. The Twin Cities area has been gripped in the horror and sadness of murders and people seeming to have gone mad with violence. And from a national standpoint, once again the people of New York City have been catapulted into the dark hole of fear by a car equipped with explosives in the middle of Times Square.

It is difficult to know how to hold, much less pray for, such overwhelming pain and suffering. And yet, in most churches across the country and our state, that is just what we did yesterday. We looked with confused eyes and open hearts into the community that shapes our faith and then raised our words, and our prayers that could find no words, heavenward. We did this in trust, in faith, and in hope.

After offering these prayers in church, I headed to the annual gathering in Powderhorn Park for the May Day parade and celebration. This yearly event held on the first Sunday of May signifies the coming of summer with a beautiful ritual celebration of the return of the Sun, a 15-20 foot immense puppet carried across the lake by canoes. May Day is the single most elaborate production of In the Heart of the Beat Puppet and Mask Theater, a theater dedicated to creating community and change.

 This year's theme was:"Uproar! A call to be fully present to the uncertainties of these shifting times." Its goal: to stop to inhale the immense beauty of the world we share, to exhale a thunderous Uproar!, an embrace of multitudes joining together with collective strength for the present and future health of the world. This theme was arrived at by a huge number of people coming together for conversation and creativity as they talked about the things that troubled them and those that brought them joy. As all ages are present to one another, listening, sharing, building trust, images begin to appear to the people from which the huge puppets are created for the parade. It is truly an act of collaborative creativity that has the power, not only to trouble complacent thought, but bring such hope. 

That was what happened for me yesterday. Carrying the pain of a sorrowful world, I was reminded what can happen when people come together for great good, to create something bigger than themselves, full of beauty and promise. I was reminded that this is the gift of the seasons, the gift of the way in which the universe works; the coming together of smaller pieces to form a more beautiful whole that has potential no one single part can fully imagine. I was reminded of what happens when the Spirit blows through any given situation bringing a dose of hope to hearts that are heavy. 

As the Tree of Life was raised at the arrival of the Sun from its journey by canoe across the lake, I was heartened by the truth that life always trumps death. As the wind blew through the dancers, musicians and puppeteers connecting them with the goodness that lives at the core of Creation, I felt the prayers that had been spoken earlier take flight making their way to the heart of the Great Healer. Hope was once again reborn.

For images of this fabulous event, please visit  www.hobt.org.

"Every day people are straying away from the church and going back to God." ~Lenny Bruce

Over the last couple of days I have attended an annual gathering at the seminary from which I graduated. It is always a nice time, seeing old friends, catching up and hearing what the school is doing these days, what new things are exciting both professors and students. The days consist of worship and lectures by professors and former students. This year the alumni speaker was,Craig Wright,who happens to be a playwright,producer and screenwriter for such television shows as Lost and Six Feet Under. He had been asked to speak about what popular culture and the entertainment world has to teach the church of today. As he offered his very entertaining lectures, he was clear that he was not a 'church-growth' expert and that what he said was, above all, his opinion, nothing more.

Now it is not big news that main line denominational churches are declining in membership, and have been doing so for many years. The plethora of books and seminars on this subject is mind boggling. I have to admit to my overall sadness, and perhaps boredom, on the subject. There is such desperation in the intent of nearly all of these offerings. And so, I am imagining that those who planned the event invited this former student, not only out of the desire to have such a successful student back on campus, but because they thought he might actually have some answers to this perilous dilemma. A dilemma most students will walk out the door to try to solve.

It would be impossible to try to even summarize Wright's lectures in this small space. But I will try to elaborate on one of the key ideas. He spoke about the purpose of entertainment as that which keeps us from being confronted with our 'being-ness' and 'Being'. Basically, that's seminary talk for what it means to be a human being in relationship to the Presence of God, however we name it. This 'being-ness' is all tied up in what it means to be alive, our fear of death, our anxiety over all the things we are anxious about, what happens after we die,…well, you get the picture. Wright was saying that what entertainment does is keep us from having to really confront what it means to be truly alive. And as human beings in the 21st century we are people grasping at being entertained. We spend countless hours watching television, playing video games, on our computers, and on and on. 

Now, I don't think he was saying that any of this entertainment is bad in and of itself. It is only how we use it, how much we use it, that causes things to get dicey. When we use all the many ways we can be entertained to keep us from really living in the moment, from being aware of what it means to be alive, with all that means, we are denying the gifts of life. And to deny the gifts of life is also to deny the Creator of life.

So in answering the question about what popular culture, which has entertainment as its main goal, has to teach the church, his answer was clear: it doesn't. Creating worship services that entertain only created an environment in which people have another opportunity to  disconnect from what it means to be a creation of God, in all its complexities. The church is meant to make us MORE aware of what it means to be alive. The church is meant to share the gospel, the good news of how the Holy moves among us. The church is about serving…one another, the least, the lost, the left out. The church is about sitting still, which is what Jesus did a lot of, especially when things got tough, when being human was at its lowest and highest points. In sitting still, in not being entertained, we come to remember our own breath, to feel it, to hear it, to know it for the power it holds. And in this knowing we connect with the Breath that moves through all Creation, as a reminder of the fragility of our very lives, and we can perhaps, with grace,  offer our gratitude. 

If every church put as much time and energy in these three things: sharing the gospel, serving, and sitting still, as they did in marketing plans and ad campaigns, goal setting and 5-year plans, perhaps we might find a way not only to survive but to thrive. I suppose only time will tell.

It promises to be a beautiful spring weekend…..ripe for sitting still….enjoy!

"With the rising of the Sun, let us seek to know God, whose coming is as sure as dawn, whose grace is like rain, renewing the face of the Earth." Hosea 6:3

I have been having a crazy-busy week. Everything I have been doing has been wonderful and enlivening. It has just been a whirlwind of meetings, gatherings of people which has kept me traveling at a certain pace. 

As I arrived home yesterday after being in this constant state of motion and as I drove my car into the driveway my eyes fell on a sweet, little yellow pansy that had somehow, not only survived winter but planted itself in an unlikely place at the edge of our garden. It had taken up the work of shining its yellow face into the world far away from where last year's pansies had been planted. How did it happen, I wondered? Pansies are not perennials but can make their way back in spring in some miraculous and mysterious way. after a year they will bloom not where they were planted, so to speak, but in a space far from their original home.

I don't know how it happened that this little, yellow, spring flower had traveled to where it did. I only know that in the frenzied nature of my week it was the catalyst that caused me to stop, to take a deep breath and remember that I am guest of this world. This sweet little flower was like the hostess of a really great party saying 'welcome' with petal-arms held wide, reminding me to take in all the beauty, the change, the gifts of this wonderful world. 

And so I did. I walked into the house and put aside the still unfinished to-do list and I put on my walking shoes and headed out into the waning hours of a beautiful day. As I walked along I saw so many signs of new life and color being added to a world that has been quickly emerging from its drab state. Crab apple trees are in their full splendor painting the landscape in pinks and reds. Phlox, purple and white, line sidewalks and rock gardens. Tulips are everywhere……red, yellow, white, purple, orange popping up from the places they have known as home in the frozen ground. I even saw, not only dwarf irises, but tall, deep purple irises blooming in a sunny spot along one house. I had probably ridden by many similar scenes during the day, scenes that had gone unnoticed traveling at my own version of warp speed.

And yet this stray, yellow pansy was what had been the catalyst that woke me up, that had reminded me that I am a guest of this world. Without its far-flung presence I might have walked into the house, opened my computer and continued chipping away at my to-do list, doing what I thought 'needed' to be done. Instead this little flower provided a much needed time out, not sitting in a chair until I learned to behave, but heading out into the world to be dazzled. It seems the Universe had other plans for me yesterday and I needed a wake up call.

For all those strays…..those planted in places that seem irregular, unplanned, misplaced….I give thanks. They just might be in that place for a reason beyond their knowing, waiting to give guidance to a pilgrim who has lost the way.