Pentecost Eve

On June 5, I returned home; I was listening to the reflections of D-day veterans as I drove.  I got to eat a lovely meal on my front porch.  I thought of those soldiers 70 years ago who would have been eating dinner and wondering if it would be their last supper.  When we said grace, I added a prayer of thanks for those soldiers who won that battle, that battle that some historians consider the most important of World War II, perhaps the 20th century, perhaps of the Western World.

Of course, at the time, most of the soldiers likely saw it as one more battle to slog through.  They didn't understand they stood at a turning point.  We often don't know we're at a hinge time until much, much later.

On the eve of Pentecost, those believers didn't know what was about to happen.  I imagine that they felt at loose ends.  Christ was with them, then crucified, then with them again, then gone.  What now?

Pentecost would answer that question.  But it's good to remember that not every day is Pentecost, not every season has that kind of transformation at its center.

Maybe we have been feeling that we're in a post-Ascension, pre-Pentecost time.  Maybe one mission has come to an end, and we're not sure what to do next.  Maybe we're still recovering from a time of grief and loss.  Maybe our favorite leader has left.  Maybe we're casting about for a project that could set our hearts on fire.

Pentecost promises us that we won't be adrift forever.  At some point we'll hear the rushing wind and feel the flame, and we'll be able to do more than we ever dreamed possible.

Pentecost: Flames to Ashes to Blooms

The feast of Pentecost looms large this week.  What would descending tongues of flame look like in our modern time?

 

Would it look like light?  Or perhaps the opening of flower clusters?

 

 



If you looked up to see a descending flame, might it look like the underside of this wind chime?  I see metal and blazing light--would a descending flame remind us of trumpets?

We fear the flame because we worry we'll be burned to ash.

But out of ashes, new bulbs can bloom.

Thomas Merton, Adjunct Professor

I was struck by this post on Paul Elie's blog that noted that Thomas Merton was an adjunct instructor at Columbia University’s Extension division.  As such, he could have taught J.D. Salinger.

Elie goes on to trace the many footsteps that have followed in that path, paths that might have crossed in that classroom building:  "And it’s striking that, while we [Elie and Salinger biographer Thomas Beller] were there, Eudora Welty – who had traveled to New York from Jackson for the memorial service for Walker Percy – paid a visit to the Graduate Writing Division and recounted that she had been a student in the same building, pursuing a degree in business in 1930 and 1931."

I briefly thought about which paths might have crossed mine--Gail Godwin coming to my little liberal arts college campus for a visit, James Dickey playing guitar at grad student gatherings at the University of South Carolina.  But then my brain went back to the earlier part of the blog post.

Thomas Merton was an adjunct instructor?

Of course, it was early in his life.  I can't imagine that Merton the mystic or Merton the monk was fully present in that room.  But what if he was?

Did his later students realize they'd been taught by Merton the mystic monk?  Did they go back to their freshman year notebooks and look for stray bits of wisdom?

He didn't go on to become a famous educator, so maybe he wasn't the kind of college professor who would inspire frantic note taking. It was early in his life--maybe he didn't have the choice insight that he would display later.

Maybe Merton was boring.  Maybe he stumbled through lectures.  I'm imagining that he taught literature classes, since it was the 1930's, and we didn't have the same kinds of Composition classes that we have now.  What poems would he have taught?  I'm thinking about his comments on essays.

Maybe he was like the musician Sting, who also taught school before he became famous for something else.  I remember reading the liner notes to Bring on the Night; in the note for "I Burn for You," Sting remembers setting his students to their writing tasks while he worked on songs for the gigs in his early band years.  He said that the students passed their A levels, he got his songs written, and everyone was happy.

There, too, I wondered if his students ever made the connection between the later Sting and their early English teacher.  I was early in my English teaching career and fascinated by this approach.  I, too, tried to use every scrap of spare time for my own projects.

I like these pictures of the early years of people famous for their use of language.  I need that reminder that we're all human.  Merton was not born a mystic.  He became one over the course of many decades.  Along the way, he had the same sorts of experiences as many of us will have.

It gives me hope that we're all on a path that will only make sense later, perhaps only after we're dead and biographers begin to tell the tale.  It gives me hope that nothing will be for naught, nothing will be wasted.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 8, 2014:

First Reading: Acts 2:1-21

First Reading (Alt.): Numbers 11:24-30

Psalm: Psalm 104:25-35, 37 (Psalm 104:24-34, 35b NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13

Second Reading (Alt.): Acts 2:1-21

Gospel: John 20:19-23

Gospel (Alt.): John 7:37-39



Ah, Pentecost, day of fire and wind and foreign languages.

Contemplate how much of Scripture circles around the breath of God. Reread Genesis--creation comes into being because God breathes it into life. Something similar happens in the Gospel of John. Jesus breathes on his disciples and transforms them. Likewise in Acts--that great rushing wind. For those of you in love with words and older translations, we often find the same word in these passages: Pneuma (yes, that root that creates our modern word of pneumonia).

The twenty-first century church, at least some branches of it, is in serious need of the breath of God. Perhaps you are too.

I often think of those first followers, who went out with the breath of God in them, and transformed the world. In the history of social movements, few have been as broadly successful as Christianity.  My atheist friends would chime in that few have been as destructive--we both may be right. What an unlikely story: a small band of weirdly talented or distinctly ungifted men and women head out in pairs, carrying very little with them, and they survive enormous obstacles. In the process, they change the culture--and often, then, they move on. Think of the distances that they travelled--often on foot. Think of how hostile the culture was. You wouldn't be able to suspend your disbelief if you read it in a book.

The breath of God should transform us in the same way. Jesus transfers his powers to his disciples; we're given the power to do what he does. Now, if only we could believe it.

Maybe the key is to act as if you do believe it. You can do remarkable things, even if you don't feel like you can.

We start on a small scale. We go to church. Maybe we remember the weekly lessons on Monday. As years go by, we're better at being Christians throughout the week. We bolster our efforts with spiritual reading and prayer. As we find ourselves transformed, we transform those around us. Many of us stop at this stage or we run out of time--but some of us will go on to transform society: maybe we'll start a food pantry or create legislation that takes care of foster children. Maybe we'll challenge our home countries to look out for the civil rights of all. Maybe we'll issue the same challenge to other cultures. Hopefully, whether it be on a small scale or an international scale, no Christian can be immune to the call to care for the dispossessed, whether on a small, interpersonal scale, or a large, international scale.

It's also important to talk about the cyclical nature of the spiritual life and work. Even Jesus needed to retreat to solitude at times. Even Jesus had to practice self-care. If you feel that you've had the very marrow sucked out of your bones as you've cared for the world, maybe it's time to retreat. Even if you can't physically leave, you can let the machine pick up the phone and turn off the electronics. If you can't do much else, claim some time for the occasional nap. No one can go at an insane pace for very long and stay sane.

Pentecost is an overlooked church holiday. No church holiday gets as much time as Christmas, not even Easter. But Pentecost is such an important reminder of why Christmas happened. God became incarnate to prepare humans to carry on the work of Kingdom creation. And Pentecost reminds us of our job description.

So, receive the breath of God. For a powerful meditative exercise, you might imagine that as you inhale, God breathes into you. Breathe deeply.

Paper Flames for Pentecost

If you're looking for a great Pentecost arts project, or a great conversation/conference/retreat starter, let me recommend a project that we did last year. 

I wanted to do something with flames, and I didn't have the kind of time that some of my friends have had, the time to make fun headpieces out of cloth.  I cut out a lot of flame shapes out of paper.

But what to do with them?  I thought about having people write spiritual gifts that they hoped God would give them on each flame--but I didn't want to reinforce that God-as-Santa-Clause idea that lots of people have.  My pastor suggested that we have group members write spiritual gifts that they see in each other on each flame.
We glued the flames on heads I had drawn on posterboard.  I think it might be a special blessing to take the flames with us--if I do the project again, I'll include that element.

But if I should do that, I'll also stress that our spiritual gifts are not about us.  They're not meant to be private, kept in our pockets, hidden away.  God gives us our gifts to enrich the community.

The project that we did was a great way of exploring how others see our spiritual gifts.  If I worked with a group who didn't know each other well, I think it could also work to have people write the gifts that they think they have, the gifts they want to strengthen, as opposed to the gifts that they wish they could have.

And I'd want to remember that a wide variety of gifts can work as spiritual gifts.  We think of being able to heal with the laying on of hands--but having a gift for listening without advising can be a healing gift too.

Pentecost approaches:  are you ready for that great rushing wind and the flames of power?  Are you ready to receive your spiritual gifts?

This blog post has pictures as I walked people through what we did last Pentecost Sunday morning

Yeast and Pentecost

I am leading our Worship Together service for the two weeks of Pentecost (yesterday and Pentecost).  Worship Together is designed to be a more interactive service, a service which often includes skits, art projects, signing, and other types of activities to teach the faith.

For our art project, we'll be making wind chimes with elements to remind us of the triune God.  I'll post more on this project next week.  Yesterday, we talked about some of the elements:  washers, nails, clips.  I also added other elements:  sunglasses, a camera, a pen.  We talked about these elements as metaphor:  how do these elements remind us of God?

We had a great conversation, and then I brought out the yeast and the bowl of sugared water.  I poured the yeast in my hand, and we talked about how yeast is like a community of believers.  Then I put it in the bowl, and we left it alone for the rest of the service.

Unfortunately, I had too much water and not enough sugar.  But we were able to add more sugar and warm water and by the end of the service:  voila!  We had foaming.

Next week, I'll do the presentation again, as we remember the Pentecost story.  We'll talk about how a small community of believers can transform the world, just like yeast transforms water and flour into an amazing loaf of bread.

Poetry Sunday: Hurricane Season 2014

June 1:  the start of hurricane season 2014.  My cousin-in-law's husband says that if the upper level winds stay the way they are, we won't see many storms.  I'm saying a prayer of thanks for upper level fierce upper level winds which shear storms apart.  Long may they continue to blow!

The start of hurricane season always takes me back to storms I have known.  The most serious storm that I've experienced was Hurricane Wilma back in 2005.  Our church was much more damaged than my house. Winds peeled back the flat roof over the educational wing. The sanctuary was also damaged--lots of water intrusion. Happily, the carpet was old, faded, and ugly. No one cared that we had to get rid of it.

No one cared, but few people showed up to help with the hard work of hauling it out of the building. To be fair, we were an older congregation--there were only about 10 of us capable of doing that work. And it took a long time for the streets to be passable. My spouse and I didn't live far away, so we could show up to work.

I remember the day that the Bishop appeared. I had been hauling wet carpet to the curb after ripping it out of the sanctuary. I was wet and dirty, with bloody hands, when two men came into the sanctuary. They must have been dressed in casual clothes, because I asked, "Are you the carpet guys?"

The assistant puffed up a little and said, "This is the bishop."

Oops. Like I said, I'm fairly sure they were dressed in casual clothes. If the bishop had come wearing his purple shirt and his impressive cross, I'd have known he wasn't the carpet guy.

Somewhere there's a picture of me, dirty and wet, shaking hands with the Bishop.

The Bishop looked at our damage, took notes, and left us with a case of bottled water and some tarps.

At the time, I remember wishing for a bit more help with the physical labor, as I went back to ripping up carpet and hauling it to the curb.

But later, I got a great poem out of it. And now, that poem has been published by North American Review, so I'm happy to post it below.

It's part of a series of poems that imagines what would happen if Jesus came back in our current world and moved amongst us today. Long ago, a Sunday School teacher asked us what we thought would happen if Jesus came back today (today being 1975). Little did she know that I'd still be playing with that question decades later:

Strange Communions


Jesus showed up at our church to help
with hurricane clean up.
“The Bishop was so busy,” he explained.
“But I had some time on my hands,
so I loaded the truck with tarps and water,
and came on down. What can I do?”

“Our roof needs a miracle,” I said.
“Do you know a good roofer?”

“I used to be a carpenter.
Of course, that’s getting to be a long time ago.
Let me see what I can do.”

I set to work ripping up the soaked
carpet in the sanctuary.
As I added a piece of dripping padding
to the pile, I noticed Christ across the street,
at the house with the fallen
tree that took out both cars and the porch.
He walked right up to the door to see
how the household was doing. I dragged
sopping carpet, trip after trip, while Jesus sat
on the porch and listened to the old woman’s sad
saga. The rough edges made my hands bleed.

Good smells made me wander down the dark
church hall to our scarcely used
kitchen, where I found Christ cooking.
“I found these odds and ends and decided
to make some lunch. Luckily, you’ve got a gas stove.”
I shrugged. “Why not? Otherwise, it’s just going to rot.”
How he made the delicious fish stew and homemade
bread out of the scraps he found
in our kitchen, I couldn’t explain.
We went out together to invite
the neighborhood in for a hot
meal, even though they weren’t church members.
We all spoke different languages,
but a hot lunch served by candlelight translates
across cultures.

I dragged drywall, black with mold, to our dumpster,
and noticed Christ walking by the cars in line
for the gas station on the corner.
When I got closer, I noticed he handed
out fresh-baked cookies and bottled water.
“Have some sweetness.
Life is hard when you can’t get necessities.”
Some drivers stared at him, like he was one of those predatory
scammers they’d been warned against.
“What’s the catch?” they growled.
“No catch,” he said with that convincing smile.
“Just a gift of grace, freely given. You’re free
to accept or refuse.” A strange communion.

Jesus left while there was still
much work to do: new carpet to be installed,
drywall to be hung, fencing to be constructed
around church grounds. I watch him drive
his empty truck, followed
by some of the neighbors, away from the church.

The next time it rained, I noticed
that the long, leaking roof had healed.