The Path Leads On

I'm trying another little step here, to see if this blogging path is still right for me.  I have been keeping my head down for a while, wanting to sort things out for myself away from the din of other voices, other labels.  That and being very busy with a bunch of business that is nobody else's business, thank you.  Sure, I've still been up to lots of interesting remodeling and such, but that's not the stuff that rattles around my mind and demands to be written.

One thing that did get written was a song (surprise!), and in a circumspect way, it says something about where I've been.

The Path Leads On
© 2009 Laura Herman

Here's a hand
to help you back onto your feet.
Take my arm for awhile;
take my shoulder if you need it;
but once you're steady,
once you're ready,
the next step is yours...

The path leads on
from wherever you have fallen.
The path leads on;
it's a winding, narrow way.
There is no place
too far, too wrong:
starting just where you are,
the path leads on.

Here you are.
I know you think you should be there,
high above all of this,
and you're sinking in despair, oh,
but while you're hurting,
while you're searching,
you are on the way...

The path leads on
from wherever you have fallen.
The path leads on;
it's a winding, narrow way.
There is no place
too far, too wrong:
starting just where you are,
the path leads on.

Being "on the straight and narrow" -
what a sad, mistaken notion!
He said "strait is the gate" -
like Gibraltar to the ocean:
a narrow way that leads
to life
where your heart
and your horizons
open wide... open wide...

The path leads on
from wherever you have fallen.
The path leads on;
it's a winding, narrow way.
There is no place
too far, too wrong, too gone:
starting just where you are,
the path leads on.

Annie Gardenbed's Song

Your world is good for me
and so I give you thanks
for soil and seasons, seeds and sun,
for water and wisdom and work to be done.
Your world is good for me
(Annie Gardenbed) -
Amen!

This work by Laura Herman is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.5 Canada License.

Sorry about the Noncommercial break, but I wanted Disney's
legal hordes to know that I'm not trying to profit by this.

Your world.
I don't say who "you" is, but there is no need. I am singing to one who is present, listening; why use a name? It would only drag us off into arguments about the connotations of the name, and then about which gender of pronoun we should use when the name is too burdensome to speak in its entirety.

Isn't it rude to argue about someone when they are present?

Your world is good for me.
It is a whole world, and it is larger than my doubts and fears about what may be done to me specifically. It is a good place in which to choose my way.

I give you thanks . . .
and in so doing, I open my own eyes, and my whole being, to the wonder, blessings, and possibilities that are all around me, always, whether I remember to give thanks or not.

Soil.
Do I own it? Because I can surround it with survey stakes, do I really own the soil? If I turn and tear it with the movement of steel, driven by combustion commanded by cash, do I forget? It is much more ancient than I and my title. It is more fluid and changing than the lines on the deed. It anchors the roots of life, records the traces of centuries, and yet whole decades of its building can be swept away, to a new place and people, in a few windstorms or a single flood.

Is soil, all too often, taken as a given instead of as a gift?

Seasons.
Dave Sauchyn of Regina, trying to create the few bullet points asked of him to somehow sum up a 448-page report on the impacts of climate change in Canada, said this:

Canada is losing the competitive advantage of a cold winter.

Seeds, sun, and water . . .
the things we often remember in our thanks.

There is so much more.

Wisdom.
If you find a little here, I am thankful.

Work to be done!

In our modern world we only deem something a success if we can stand back idle and watch it work. If any physical effort is required, it is an outright failure. . . . The very first thing we do when seeing something so elegantly simple and useful as this pump is scheme to make it work while we just stand by and stare at it.

--Eleutheros

There is a pitfall in being thankful for things given to us. The story of Johnny Appleseed is inspiring, but the popular version, as summed up in the merry little verse, drifts toward a "big-rock-candy-mountain" vision of idyllic idleness achieved at last, as a result of someone else's generous hard work. That vision entices, seduces, and robs us of the wonderful gifts of our own work: tending; bringing forth; growing strong; growing wise; being present; finding meaning.

Through work we receive the ability to give.

Your world is good for me!

Amen.

Two Fables

There is a story of a man passing by a building site, and asking one of the workers what he was doing. "I am laying bricks," the worker replied, without looking up from his monotonous task. The passerby walked on and asked a second worker what he was doing. "I am building a wall," he replied, with a wave of his trowel as if to say the answer was obvious. The passerby continued a few more steps, and asked a third worker what he was doing. This man straightened up, gazed into the air above the growing foundation, spread his arms wide and declared, "I am building a great cathedral!"

When I was young and ambitious, eager to mold the world to my beneficent dreams, I heard that story with delight.

Later, weary with searching, I heard another story less frequently told. I wish I could remember who told it, or tell it as richly as they did.

There was a long road through wild and desert land. One night a small band of travellers came trudging, their waterskins empty, their lips cracked and dry. As darkness came upon them with nothing but dust and dry rocks in sight, they sank down by the side of the road in despair. But one of their number walked apart, unwilling to simply watch and endure this suffering.

After a time, as the shadows deepened, one stone seemed to draw him. He crossed to it, touching its rough surface, stretching out his arms to encircle it, and finally tugging on it, harder and harder. "I am mad with thirst," he thought. "Even if I move it, what will I find but more dust? Perhaps when it yields, it will roll and crush me." And still he tugged, and at last it seemed to him that the rock had shifted. He braced himself better, and with a mighty effort, he rolled back the stone and revealed a spring of water.

As the years passed, many travellers stopped at that spring to cool their throats and fill their waterskins. Some stayed a while to clean it and build a stone basin where water could be gathered without muddying the source. Others gave thanks and passed quickly on.

Later, as fears darkened the minds of men, some thought that the spring was too precious a thing to be left so open to the sky, to the wild, and to all manner of people who passed by there. And so they built a shrine to shelter and protect it, and a dwelling nearby for those who would tend it. And they welcomed travellers, holding out a cup to them and filling their wineskins with a dipper.

Years passed, and the shrine was expanded and refined. Travellers gathered inside, bowing in gratitude and praise, listening to the sound of the water somewhere deep within, and finally taking a little sip before they journeyed on.

At last a great cathedral stood upon that spot, and those passing on the road would tell the story of how a spring of water once rose up from the stones in that place. Sometimes one of them would venture inside, and in the dying echoes at the end of a great hymn, he might catch his breath in wonder, imagining that he heard again the trickle of clear water.

Dear God, This Is Adam

© Laura Herman 2002

Dear God,
This is Adam.
Have you noticed us lately, six billion strong?
O God, hear your Adam.
We've been toiling, and toiling, and it's coming along.
You told us to fill all the earth, and subdue it.
When you gave that command, did you think we'd pursue it?
Did you ever imagine that we just might do it?
Are you proud of us now?
O God, are you proud of us now?

Dear God,
This is Adam.
Well, it's one of the voices that fill Adam's head.
O God, hear your Adam.
Can you hear this small voice, with so much being said?
We've got most of the planet pressed into service,
As donkeys with burdens of fuel for the worship
Ascend to the altar, not knowing the purpose.
Are you sure of us now?
O God, are you sure of us now?

O, Dear God,
This is Adam.
Well, a small part of Adam that keeps looking back.
O God, hear your Adam.
Are we fit for your kingdom, trailing the pack?
But God, look at your biosphere, stretched on the altar,
All the wonder of life, the hope of the future,
Lying quiet like Isaac, bound by his father.
Are you watching us now?
O, Dear God, are you watching us now?

Where is the ram?
Our knife is falling!
Surely, God, surely
there is a ram?

Narrow Way

My song of prayer for these days of remembrance. I'll be singing it at the Remembrance Day service, not because I especially wanted to have it heard, but they were looking for "something different" and couldn't find a soloist, and then even the usual choir anthem was looking unlikely since so many choir members will be away - and so I stuck my neck out. Later another soloist came forward, and I tried to back out, but no, they wanted both.

I hope it works out alright. I am always drawn to the borderlines, the places where controversy brews, and I fear negative reactions to my explorations. All I've heard is positive, even when I thought certain people might be offended, but still I wonder. Are they just being polite? Maybe some are thinking, "That Laura, she's always pushing her way into every community function with one of her songs." And what about my ideas? What do they really think?

Narrow Way
© 2006 Laura Herman

O, God, help us
find that narrow way.

Where we honour those who died
and stand by the veteran's side
but never glorify the battle day:
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

Where we heed the call to serve
and convictions steel our nerve
but yet where evil will not be obeyed:
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

Where we cannot close our eyes
to the horrors and the lies
but still our hearts are soft enough to pray:
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

Where our world is once again at war
and we doubt the hope we knew before
help us stand our guard;
help us name the sin;
help us work for peace,
but not give in:

help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

For Sunday

A Prayer of Approach
Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Sunday, September 24th, 2006

Mighty and merciful God,
you are the God
of darkness and of light,
of water and of dry land,
of creatures that creep and creatures that soar,
of creatures that swim and creatures that walk,
of the weak and of the strong,
of the least and of the greatest,
of the last and of the first.

You welcome all.

You call us all
to give our all in loving you
and to let the love we know ourselves
flow on to neighbour
after neighbour
after neighbour.
Help us to remember
that the child Jesus welcomes
is every child of your creation.

And remembering this,
in everything we do, everywhere we go,
may we share that welcome.
So may we welcome your son, Jesus,
and so, welcome you.

Amen.

Written in the Trees

Laura Herman
St. Andrew’s United Church, Arcola, SK
April 2nd, 2006

Two weeks ago, I came home from the singing workshop at PCTC-Calling Lakes Centre with a song running in my head, in my heart, and in the rhythm of my steps along the street. I walked down Souris Avenue and up Carlyle Street to this church, and that song swung along with me. Perhaps it’s running in your head right now.

[The song was “Oh Great Earth" by Linnea Good.]

As I walked, I was thinking about wisdom. I was wondering what simple sayings could be written to guide someone who wants to live God’s love in this world.

The rhythm of my footsteps took me along under the arching trees, past their sturdy trunks, one after another, and all at once I was thinking about wisdom that is already written in those trees.

It started with the roots.

Trees stay in one place. They reach deep into the soil and draw out what is stored there from all that has gone before. They draw up water that sank into the earth months or years ago. They draw up nutrients that have been laid down over decades and centuries and more. They cannot wander in search of a better place, but they make their own place better.

A lecturer once said: “If you want to change the world, pick a place and stay there.” Another teacher said, “Do with what you have at hand.” Still others have taught that although you may see great good in other religions, it is best to go deeply into your own religious tradition, for you will find what you are seeking there. And in Tai Chi, we learn the principle of returning to your root. When we practise Tai Chi, we move through a sequence of postures taking us away from our starting point and back again, so that we end where we began.

I see wisdom in all these teachings about rootedness, because I have been a wanderer, always seeking that greater wisdom that would help me save the planet. There are many wanderers in our modern world, always seeking ways to better the world or themselves. Some accomplish great things, but as I wandered and listened to the stories of other wanderers, I got the sense that even greater good would come, if many of us went home and tended to our own little pieces of the Earth.

A tree does not wander in search of good that it may do elsewhere. There are other trees in the forest for that. When the troubles of the world seem overwhelming, we can remember that others see and care about those same troubles, and all over the world, they are doing what they can in their own places.

Trees grow slowly. Grass springs green in just a few days, but it takes years for the boughs of a tree to spread and give shade. As the hero of a Nicholas Sparks novel said, “I often overestimate what I can do in a day, but I underestimate what I can do in a year.” Little by little, if we are patient, letting the Spirit work through us, we may be amazed to see what grows from small beginnings.

Not only do trees stay still; they also keep within themselves traces of all that has gone before. In the rings of their wood, they keep a record of the past. Although the growing part of the trunk is a thin layer near the surface, all the older wood within gives strength and support to the whole tree. It is easy to give all our attention to the growing edges of things, but it is important to honour the past as well. Much of the everyday goodness of our lives is the result of struggles in the past, when such goodness was not so ordinary.

The tough bark of a tree is old as well, thickened and hardened in response to all the little stresses and injuries of weather and wild things. A certain amount of toughness is a good thing, so that we don’t waste our energy on woundedness; we just let the blind, random bumps of the world bounce off us without harm.

In spite of the hardness of their wood and the toughness of their bark, trees can bend and sway in the wind. If they lose that flexibility, they may snap in a storm, and all those years of slow and steady growth are lost in a moment. But as long as they can bend, the branches can give a little when pressures are extreme, and still spring back to their true form when calm returns.

A tree can endure for many decades or even centuries, and even send up new shoots from the stump of an ancient trunk. Still, no tree will last forever. A fire may sweep through the forest, or waters may rise, or deserts spread. No matter how ancient the tree, it takes only a moment to topple. Yet even as the wood rots away, younger trees are reaching upward, unfolding the essence of that same tree that bore the seeds from which they grew.

If we share the wisdom of our experience with others, it is not lost to this world when we pass on. We might think we have nothing of value to share, but it doesn’t have to be something that will change the whole world. It could be something that will help carry on the simple goodness of this piece of the Earth, some piece of wisdom of this place, something that a wise person from another place would not understand. And if we take the time, not only to grow our own skills, but to tend and nurture those skills in others, we make our way of life as enduring as a forest.

Trees give. Not only do they give life to a new generation of seedlings; trees also offer gifts to people and many other living things. They give shade, shelter from wind, fruit in its season, and beauty for those who pause to see it. They give without being asked or thanked, and without even knowing whether anyone will be there to receive what they offer. These gifts simply flow from the very nature of trees, from the way God has created them.

Sometimes our giving can feel awkward, or contrived, if it comes more from outside expectations than from our own nature. Still the Spirit works within us, unfolding the gifts that God is creating and nurturing in us. Our work is to attend to that growth, to trust it and support it, and through it, to explore new ways to reach upward to the light of Christ in our world.

This brings me to the lesson of the trees that overwhelmed me when I saw it.

Although I have spoken about firm roots, strong wood, and tough bark, trees also have tender buds and delicate leaves. They drop their leaves and toughen their twigs in preparation for winter, but in spring the buds soften and swell, and fragile films of green emerge into the sun.

There is no way that a tree can take the sun and grow new branches reaching higher to the sky, unless it first grows those tender, vulnerable buds and leaves.

In these days of spring, the twigs are softening; the buds are swelling.

In these days of Lent, God calls us to soften our hearts, to risk new growth that reaches beyond the sturdy teachings of our tradition — reaches into the light of a direct relationship with God.

The Cross on the Horizon

Laura Herman
St. Andrew’s United Church
Arcola, SK
March 26, 2006

Here we are on a Lenten journey, a journey to the cross.

You might not like to think of it that way. You might prefer to think of it as a journey to Easter. After all, Easter comes after Lent. Why not just say it’s a journey to Easter?

The short answer is that we can’t have Easter without the cross.

Now for the long answer.

When we say that Lent is a journey to the cross, we have to face the fact that this is no easy journey. This is a journey to a place we’d rather not have to go. When that cross looms up in our Scriptures, we may start to shrink back and grumble, “God, why did you bring us here? Why lead us out to this place where someone has to die?”

We may also start to have some doubts about this God. Is this a loving God? If this is a loving God, then why this dark and lonely place of death? Have we been tricked?

If we start to doubt and question God this way, we’re certainly not the first people to do so. When the Israelites followed God’s chosen leader, Moses, out of Egypt, they found themselves wandering in a desert, eating bad food. They wandered cheerfully enough for the first little while, but it wasn’t long before they started having doubts. Pretty soon they had decided that the whole journey was a plot to kill them.

They were wrong. The desert was just a desert, and the bad food was just bad food.

When poisonous snakes came among them, the Israelites were convinced that it was a punishment for their complaints about the desert and the food.

They were wrong again. Those snakes were just snakes. Moses lifted up a bronze image of one of those snakes on a pole, and suddenly, instead of being the poison, the snake was the cure. We still see that image of a snake on a pole today, in symbols of the medical profession.

The core of modern medicine is science, and science is about knowing. Perhaps the greatest achievement of modern medicine has been the knowledge of disease-causing organisms. With that knowledge, people everywhere have been able to replace fearful chanting and sacrifice with thorough cooking and soap. Once people knew what was causing their illness, they could do what was necessary to live.

How did the snake become the cure for the Israelites? It was held up on a pole where everyone could look at it and see that it was just a snake. It was not a punishment from God, any more than the desert was a plot by God to kill them. The desert was just a desert, and the snake was just a snake. Once they understood that, they could see that God did not intend for them to die. God intended for them to live.

That knowledge was powerful. There are certain cultures where you can put a hex on someone, and it will kill them, just by making them believe that they are going to die. The Israelites, complaining in the desert, believed that they were going to die. But if they were going to survive the desert, the food, and the snakes, the Israelites had to believe that they were going to live. They had to believe that they were meant to live.

When I read the text from Numbers this week, I took it at face value. The Lord sent the snakes; that’s what the text said. I didn’t question that. It’s not that I believe that every snake that crosses my path these days is an omen, or that every bad thing that happens to me is a punishment. I just didn’t think about it.

Then I read a commentary that suggested that the Israelites had to look at what was biting them in order to be saved. That loosened up my mind to get something more from this text than just what it says on the surface.

But what really got me thinking was when I looked at the Gospel passage from John. It contains the most famous verse from the entire New Testament: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.” (John 3:16). Everybody knows it. Most know it by heart without even trying. But who knew that this passage was connected to the Numbers story about the poisonous snakes in the desert? There it is, in the two verses immediately before: “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” (John 3:14-15). I was mulling this over, trying to understand the connection, when it hit me. Jesus didn’t come into the world to condemn it, any more than those snakes came into the desert to kill Israelites. The Israelites were already doomed by their belief that they were going to die. The snakes could finish them off, for sure. But when a snake was lifted on a pole for them to look at, that snake became the cure, opening the eyes of the Israelites to a new belief, so that they could be saved.

When God’s son came into the world, he did not come the way old beliefs suggested he might come. He did not come as a warrior king, slaying his enemies. He did not come as a mighty judge, condemning all those who had complained or spoken against God. He came as a human being, filled with God’s love for all humankind. Through all the ages of the world there had been confusion about God’s intentions towards humankind. The message of love was there, all along, but often overlooked by humans struggling to understand their world and their God working in the world.

When Jesus was lifted up on the cross, the message could no longer be missed. Misunderstood, yes, but not missed. God loved the world.

God loved the world so much that God sent Jesus to heal, to forgive, and to show mercy, no matter what the consequences might be. God sent Jesus to live God’s love, even when it stirred up violence against him, and to go on living that love all the way to the cross. Through our own human violence, God showed that God does not intend violence towards us. The cross lifts up, for all to see, the consequences of our violence, and the consequences of God’s steadfast love.

Last week’s lesson from Corinthians spoke of God’s foolishness. God’s foolishness is this steadfast love, a love that plunges into the heart of the world and refuses to protect itself with power. When we claim the name of Christians, it is a bold and scandalous claim we make, by calling a man who was crucified, the Christ. We believe that God chose and anointed for us, not a warrior king, not a mighty judge, but a man who went to the cross rather than call down power to save himself by destroying others. When we look at this Jesus, lifted on the cross, we see both our salvation and our judgement.

Our salvation: the knowledge that God loves us – that God intends us to live.

Our judgement: the knowledge that God rejects our violence. God’s answer to violence is not more violence, but peace in the face of violence. God intends us to live, but this means to live as Jesus lived, in the way of peace.

Even if that way leads us to a cross.

Miraculously, just as the terrifying serpent of the desert has become the symbol of medicine and healing, so the terrible instrument of crucifixion has become the symbol of salvation and steadfast love. Yet this meaning is really not so new. A cross is a very old symbol, much older than the crucifixion of Jesus. Its older meaning is very simple, and very powerful: spirit (the vertical) plunged into matter (the horizontal).

Today we look ahead through our Lenten journey. We see the cross on the horizon, lifted against the sky. It is what it is: an instrument of crucifixion. It is also much more: it is a reminder, always, that God’s spirit is here with us in this material world, not to kill or condemn us, but to stand among us and embrace us all with a boundless, foolish love.