Perseverance with St. Francis

It can be hard to continue on a road less traveled when the twists and turns seem to lead only to more twists and turns. None of us can see the end of any road, really, but the results of roads less traveled are even more difficult to predict. Rarely in life do things come together as quickly or smoothly as we might want. These past weeks have been times of deep prayer, waiting, hoping, and unexpected support and joy. They have also been weeks of anxiety, uncertainty, and questioning.

I have found a certain amount of comfort reading Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel on the life of St. Francis. In this rendition, Francis sets out from Assisi little knowing where the road will lead or what exactly he is being called to do. He only knows that God is compelling him to leave all behind and find the salvation of his soul. In some ways, this has been my journey. Like a fire burning in my bones, I have followed a unique calling, not knowing exactly where I will be led.

I am learning to trust the journey. So often my heart is full of uncertainty and fear. I, like many people, like things to make sense and to happen quickly. But the spirit that drives me, she is like the wind and I am caught up in it. Slowly, I am learning that this too is the work of God in my life. I am learning to rejoice in the wind.

And God has been faithful. My needs have been provided for. Amazing support and mentors have entered my life. And plans are coming together to begin ministry.

Everything may not happen just as I had originally thought, but there have been lovely experiences at every twist and turn. I think of the forests that I love so much. When I hike a new trail, I never know exactly what will be over the next rise or around the next bend. But there is always something beautiful—trees towering and dripping with moss, a stream, a view of a rocky beach, a tiny squirrel. At each point, the meaning is in the journey, the lessons I am meant to learn are already present. There is no end to this journey, no arrival. Ministry happens at each step and learning never ends.

This summer, I have learned much about myself. I have deepened my spiritual practices. I have learned to wait. And I have been inspired to begin a new phase of ministry. I am finding that the ideas, the inspiration, the support all come as I journey. God brings them all one at a time.

Be still my soul and wait. "For you will see what I will do." 

Missing Voices in the Church

“Too many potential leaders in our church are excluded because people who already have power and access to money, technology, and education enjoy the privileges not available to all of us. We are a great and diverse body gathered here today, but I know—we all know—that too many voices are still missing. Too few of us gathered here today are poor, or young or people of color. In our idealistic yet imperfect polity, too many voices remain unheard in the councils of the church.” Bonnie Anderson

While I was not able to attend, I have been keeping up on the Episcopal General Convention in Indianapolis this week. There is a lot of talk about money and budgets this year; unsurprisingly, given the current state of the economy. The words that have struck me most so far are from the opening address given by the outgoing president of the House of Deputies, Bonnie Anderson, quoted above.

She openly states that the Episcopal Church, as much as we might talk about social justice, has a long way to go when it comes to inclusivity or openness when it comes to race and class. I am more and more aware of who is left out because they do not have the language—or as Bonnie points out-- the “money, technology, or education” to be included.

“Too few of us here today are poor…” Bonnie notes. It is an important point and deserves a great deal of thought, I believe. The Episcopal Church, like most mainline churches, talks about poverty, domestic and foreign, and donates a good deal of money to try to help end it. We support political measures that could mitigate poverty and we run soup kitchens, open our basements for shelter, extend the use of our showers, and do many other admirable works of mercy. And all of this is very important. Working on the Boston streets taught me how deeply people on the streets relied on the food and shelter offered by local churches.

But is this important work enough? I learned something else on the streets of Boston. My homeless friends did not just need help; they had a tremendous amount of wisdom and faith to give. In a basement Eucharist in the Episcopal cathedral, week after week, I heard people from the streets give sermons and lead services. What I learned there, I will never forget. Born out of deep suffering and life experience, people knew God, experienced God, doubted God, cried out to God. Never before had I experienced such power in worship. I am not joking when I say I heard the best sermons in my life in that basement.

It is not surprising that those who live on the edge often live closest to Jesus of Nazareth, the prophet with nowhere to lay his head. But would we really want to listen to him if we met him today—dirty, ragged, poor, and perhaps a little, well you know… crazy? In not hearing, however, in creating spaces and churches that have no room for the poor except as objects of pity and charity, we have lost this wisdom.

So why are there not more leaders and active participants in our churches who are poor? I think of a dear friend of mine who happens to be homeless just delivered a beautiful sermon at the Boston cathedral. Several others sit on vestry. And lets not forget the powerful work done by peasant lay leaders in Latin America in Christian Base Communities.

The so called poor sometimes do not walk into our churches because they know they are not welcome—they do not have the right clothes, know the right words, eat the right food, or drive the right cars.

But make no mistake, there have always been notable exceptions and our tradition is steeped in the traditions of a rural, agrarian society. I know and have been honored to work with many of these. A Purepecha congregation run by lay leaders who are part of their community. Several Boston homeless congregations where members of the community take a lead in organizing events, preaching, fundraising, planning services, and leading groups. These examples give me hope.   

So, as we talk of money and budgets and social issues, let us also be aware of what we are not hearing and whose voices are not present. And let us seek out those voices, pray to hear those voices, work to open space in our churches for those voices. The so called poor do not simply need our help. We need—desperately need—their wisdom.

Meditations on Place

Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
--Wendell Berry

The sun is finally peeking out in the rain soaked Northwest. Eager to enjoy it, I went for a morning walk in the forest. Every time I breathe the air of the forest, rich with the smell of rotting fir needles and wildflowers, I know that I am at home. I was practically raised in the forest—our little farm surrounded on all sides by wild undergrowth, tree farms, and stands of older trees dripping with brilliant mosses. I have always said that the trees talk to me and I can understand them. As a child, I also developed a keen sense of direction that only seems to manifest in the forest (I can get lost two blocks from home in the city). 

This morning, the sky was a patchwork of stunning blue and lumpy clouds, sending shadows over the trees and casting eerie shadows among the branches. A swallowtail butterfly rejoiced in the sunlight in its black and yellow glory, feeding off of the recently blooming purple foxglove. Since I was walking in a tree farm, not a naturally growing forest, most of the trees were 15-30 year old Douglas Firs, but I was delighted to see Cedar saplings fighting for space. The smell of a Western Red Cedar is rich and pungent and it is by far my favorite tree. The Native tribes of the peninsula call it “the tree of life.” A mature tree can live for centuries and it always feels like a tree full of magic and history to me. I love to sit under them.

I am always amazed at how the cycles of life and death and rebirth are so clearly displayed in the forest. Old stumps and fallen trees scatter the forest floor, rotting and giving life to the mushrooms, salal, and wild strawberries. Small saplings grow out of their base, new life sustained by the death of the old and reborn. And the huckleberries are nearly ripe. The tiny red berries are sour, but when they are ripe, you can taste the juicy sweetness of the forest. They also prefer to grow out of the stumps of old cedar trees.

In the absolute aloneness and stillness of the forest, surrounded only by the trees, birds, and squirrels, I feel in my bones that I am a part of this place and it is a part of me. Even while away studying for the past two years, this place—the forest—called to me. It reminds me of the power of place, of home. We humans are meant to belong somewhere, not the conquerors of space, but part of it, part of the landscape, of the local ecology. The love that swells within me when I am home—in the northwest forests—is a love that people all over the world have talked about when they talk about home.

And, yet, the past few hundred years have wrenched most of us from place and any connection to it or to the land. Most people who were closely attached to the land were and still are wrenched from it as it has become harder and harder to survive, to compete with agribusiness, and to disregard to lure of city jobs. And, yet, I believe that we all long to find home again. One of my greatest dreams and most ardent prayers is that the American underclass—people living on the edges, on the streets, in migrant camps—will find a way to reconnect with the land, with home, with place.