Praytell

Friday, June 4, 2010

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Today, I move into the word and find it full of color.  In poetry, the change of a single word here, a line or two there, and a new creation appears.  In paintings, a bit more water, a dry brush stroke, the mixture of colors that don’t seem like friends but are, the same thing happens as new creations spring to life.

Maybe.

And so I share them with you to see if they do.

Looking East

Looking the Other Way

Most of the time we look west.
The steps lead that way.
It’s hard to miss the setting sun
over there in the west.

But sometimes,
before breakfast,
a sneak walk to the beach
prompts us to look east.

The day hasn’t quite decided
what hue it will be.
It takes an hour or two
to make up its mind.

That’s good.
It takes me a long time too
to do something new.

Storms Like This

We were way up there,
maybe near Long’s Peak,
maybe Mt. Massive
when the storm came in.

We put down
the metal fishing rods
and took cover
listening to the thunder.

Ever since then,
I’ve loved both the storm
and the finding of shelter.

Tim was three when
a storm arrived in
Manitou Springs
and gave lightening that hit not far
from us.

I took him outside,
held him in my arms,
letting him feel
both storm and safety.

Maybe the clouds that day
felt something like this.

Nightlight

Nightlight

The band of orange
at water’s edge
is not unexpected.

It’s been there before,
squeezed light
beneath the deepening night.

For a few minutes,
it thinks it might
not have to go away.

It might win.
But then it fades.
And we learn again

night and day
both carry blessings
we were lucky enough

to share.

Job Said It First

This Far, and No Farther

After Job had 38 chapters
to make his point,

God decided to say something.
He wasn’t sure exactly what the words should be.

So he went to Squaw Bay
to mull it over.

Down on the beach,
he looked over the waves

as they spread over the sand
and then fell away.

And then he said:

Hey Job, were you there when I wrapped the lake in clouds and swallowed its water in shadows,
when I closed it in with barriers
and set is boundary, saying,
“Here you may come, but no farther;
here shall your proud waves break.”

Those are the words that brought Job home.
Look at the lake, and we see they’re still in play.

Always have been.
Always will be.

Square Butte

The Offering

The Blackfeet
considered this
a sacred place.

Ranches
“civilized” it.

But that’s okay.
I consider the
wheat fields
to be offerings,
Square Butte the altar

that reminds us
where we’ve been,
and who we are.

Monday, October 13, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

White Snow, Black Hills

When white snow

falls on the Black Hills,

aspen and cottonwood leaves

bend towards the ground

just before their

golden fall.

When white men

fall on the Black Hills

they push aside leaves,

then the soil,

then the earth itself

to find gold in places

the light has never been.

Next year,

white snow in the Black Hills

will heal once again,

returning gold to the earth.

Not so the mines.

For them,

it could be a long winter.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

As we assemble sacred space we are both constrained and freed at the same time.  The table is a table . . . not a chair . . . but any table will do.  The bowl of water is a font, but any bowl, any creek, river, or sea will suffice.

In the end, there is order.

When the clerk takes his or her seat in a Quaker meeting, everyone knows it is time for the silence to begin.  When the pastor says, “may the meditations of my heart and the words of my lips will be acceptable in thy sight, everyone knows the sermon is about to begin.  This order is a beautiful thing.  Like love, it has its own way but is nether rude nor arrogant in expressing that way.

So there we are.  The hubbub of getting the kids ready, leaving a messy kitchen, stepping on a potential argument or two, finding a place to park, wondering if the church will ever sort itself out . . . whew . . . it all somehow finds a place to settle.  “God is in this holy temple . . . let all the world keep silence before him . . . keep silence . . . keep silence . . . keep silence before him,” our choir sang when I was a child. The tune, the words and the meaning keeps flowing through me even though there will be more talking or singing than silence in the way we worship.

Be that as it may, here we are.  Which leads to a question:  Why are we here?

I have a basket full of ready answers.  It’s part of my life, it’s what people do, it pays attention to things that are often ignored.  And I’d like the church to work.  I want it to be healthy.  I want it to be caring, brave, alive, useful, meaningful, and not something I worry about.  I am, perhaps, a bit like Obama who just wants church to be church in ways that are meaningfully filled with justice, mercy and humility.

I’m well aware that may involve a committee.  Oh dear!  And so I’m on one.  How’d that happen?  Our committee  had been invited to reflect on what would make the church better, more useful, more meaningful, more inviting.  There is a place for discussions about “more,” but more often than not they tend to run out of gas or get a bit prickly.

It occurs to me that perhaps we should direct the discussion another way.

“Why do we go to church?”  I asked.  A moment of silence ensued.  A well of emotion and recognition gave itself to me.

“I go to church for the restoration of hope,” I said.  “After my strokes God left, and I had to leave the church I loved.  I lost hope.  And so for me, worship is a place, a time, and a way to restore hope.”  I can feel the emotion in the words.  What happens in worship is precious, essential, and pivotal.  I wonder for a moment if I have said too much. The strokes aren’t a secret but neither have I shared.

Maybe I should have remained silent.

But no.

I was and am not talking about the way I’d like the church to be.  I was and am talking about what worship that blesses an essential and elemental return of  hope.

And you?

Why do you go to church?  And what lies beneath your answers?  It could be a worthy discussion . . . one the table, the water, the food, the windows, the symbols, the pianos, the harps, the hymns, the keys, and the congregation are both waiting and eager to hear.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The church is empty.

It is, at this point, just a building.  In the building there are rooms.  Our task is to turn this into the sacred space known as church, or mosque, or temple, or synagogue.  We know we can pray anywhere.  We may be apt to say God is within us, and that is enough of a temple in and of itself.  That’s right.

But still . . . if space is to become sacred space . . . what do we need?  Where do we begin.

Some years ago, an elderly woman was sitting all alone in her pew.  I’d been wondering what it would take for the church to “grow.”  And so I asked her.

“What do you think Arlene?  How are we going to grow this place?”  She looked at me perhaps not knowing if I was teasing or if I really meant it.  And then she spoke a single word:

“Food,” she said.

I burst out laughing in delight.  Of course, a church provides nourishment for the soul, we call part of communion the “bread of life.”  In that particular church, there was a long tradition of serving a feast at least one Sunday a month.  The members knew about it, the town knew about it, everyone knew about it, loved it, prepared for it, shared it, and joined together doing it.

It was all about food.

I realize that sounds crass.  And I know full well there is a difference between a restaurant and  church.  But this concept of nourishment is so very, very important.  I am in Memphis, interviewing a pastor.  The mailman stops by.

“How are you doing?” asked the pastor.

“Fine,” said the mailman.

“We’ve got some tea for you,” said the pastor.

“Thanks,” said the mailman.  The pastor returned his glance my way.

‘”His son was shot three weeks ago,” said the pastor.  “So he’s in our prayers.  Every day we try to give him something, some lemonade, some tea, some ice, just to let him know we’re aware of him.

Food.

There is scarcely a church, a synagogue, a temple or a mosque that does not have a kitchen in its midst.  Many have two.  Some have three.  Some have five or six, each one for a different function and administered (perhaps guarded is a better word?) by one guild or another.

At my last church, in Big Timber, Montana, the coffee hour was more than just a cup of coffee.  There was elk sausage, cheese, fruit, fresh bread, muffins, tomatoes . . . we filled our plates, cozied over to a table, and spent time with each other laughing, talking, caring, teasing . . . food.

In each of our homes there is a dinning table.  Even if the table is just a tray (I say that because we have not had a dining table for some years now), it still gathers us, holds that which nourishes us, and receives our attention.

In the front of the church there is a table.

Sometimes it has words.  “This do, in remembrance of me.”  Sometimes it has a cloth on it.  Sometimes it is just a table.

Somehow it is both God’s table and our table.

Somehow its presence turns a room into a sanctuary.  Somehow it orders our presence.

“How are we going to grow this church?”

“Food,” said Arlene.

She’s right.

Soft walking,

Larry

Monday, July 13, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

This weekend I missed church.  That doesn’t happen very often.  I love the rhythms of Sunday morning.  Watching the dawn’s glow embrace the skyline, reading over the New York Times, brewing coffee, carrying it to a table wondering if I’ll spill it or not, and feeling the gentle thrill of actually being alive.  After my heart attacks I found myself awaking each morning saying almost without thought but with love, “I’m still here!  Still here!”

The words still flow through me, surrounding the coffee, the news, the shower, the clean shirt, the wait for the elevator to take me from the 22nd to the first floor, the unlocking of my bike (Geeze!  Nobody stole it!  Wow!) and the ride to church.  I suppose you could say it is all a prayer of thanksgiving that is sometimes inturrupted with words.

But not yesterday.

Over the weekend I realized I had a cold.  That may not seem like a big deal to you, but for me it is very unusual.  It has been five or six years since I’ve had a cold.  I tend to go for the “bigger deals” such as heart attacks, strokes, diabetes, eye surgeries . . . you know, real stuff.  I don’t get colds.  But I did this weekend.  I woke up wondering if I could get up, and realizing that I was the fringe edge of my strength.  So I didn’t go.  “It wouldn’t be wise to expose others to a cold,” I said . . . realizing within an instant that I used the excuse as a bit of rationalization.

All day long, I felt something was missing.

There were no prayers lifted in songs known as hymns.  There was no listening to the prayer concerns of others, no way to join in a circle of prayer for Joyce who had just been diagnosed with cancer, no offering, no listening to some word of scripture, no reflection on those words, no folding of the chairs and putting them back, no looking around the room with a sense of satisfaction that I now know perhaps half the names, but there are still many I have yet to meet.  Take that away and something is missing.

Years ago, Weavings magazine, published by the Upper Room, devoted an issue to the Sabbath.  A pastor and his wife came to the realization that they would not really worship and lead the sabbath at the same time.  Although I completely disagreed with that premise, I read their story with interest.  I apologize that I do  not remember their names.  But I do remember what they so beautifully wrote.  On Monday morning, they packed a light lunch and headed for the mountains.  Once there, they would hike until lunch.  Along the way, they did not speak a single word.  Instead, they let the trail, the stream, the sky, the hillsides, the chipmunks, the birds, the grass and trees speak to them.  At lunch they shared what they had seen.

It was a prayerful sharing.  They then returned home where they read the paper, answered mail, did some reading, and prepared supper.  Their sabbath observance restored their soul.

“We try,” they wrote, “to get the rhythm right.”

That line has stayed with me.  Sabbath is about “getting the rhythm right.”  When we miss it, we realize anew how very important that is.  Just a hike doesn’t do it; television doesn’t do it; shopping doesn’t do it.  Sabbath does.

“Observe the Sabbath and keep it holy,” God said.

Good idea, I say.

Very good idea.

This poem was written for and shared with graduates of the CPE program at Fairview Hospital, in May, 2008.

It didn’t take long for the call that began
with a single word to become
an extended conversation.

“Heal,” we heard.

The hospital heard it and said,
“Let’s see what happens
when we heed this call.”

Believers heard it
and asked,
“Who will help us heal?”

The patient heard it
and now says,
“I thought I was a goner, but
something’s happened.”

We trust this call is from God,
but we chaplains wonder just how it is
that night breaks into day
and who it is
that needs healing.

And so together we trained,
urging each other
to let curiosity take the reins.
Why would I have said that?
What is it you said?
And you, what did you hear me say?

Sometimes we brace a bit,
or regroup a bit,
until finally
we touch the waters
of a healing river.

It turns out that the call we heard
opened our eyes
as we bathed in
the day room’s streams of light,
and watched frail hands guide sturdy walkers
as we found our way into worship.
In the dead of night
we’ve seen kind words cut palpable tension
in unexpected encounters we now count as sacred.

We leave here remembering when
the healing river
sent its waters down hospital corridors
undiverted by fear
and asked us to entertain
a four word addendum
that says:
“I am with you.”

Thanks be to the God who said, “heal,”
and bessings to you
who heed the call
and bring
the single word
to life.

Amen.

We enter this building

in various stages of disintegration.

Bones ache,

hearts are broken,

we didn’t know how fast

our lives would pass.

Here and there a patch,

a stitch or two

try to deny time

its consequence.

Icons line the corridors,

blessing the gentle descent

while some panther

runs us down.

Even cancer can’t keep up

when its victim slips away.

Whose room is this?  We suddenly wonder.

Who has slept here before?

And how long a sleep has it been?

Published in the North Coast Review, fall/winter 1996

This sun has thrown its light

to the clouds and the clouds

have thrown their shadows to the city;

       The city has thrown its shadows

       to the street and the street 

       has thrown these shadows to my window;

A sheet has thrown its shadows

across my shadow and as I throw

my shadow across you;

        you catch all five shadows

        and turn them into light

        for the window to give the street;

for the street to give the city

for the city to give the clouds

and for the clouds to give the sun;

       which has thrown its light

       smooth and warm between my arms

       on a January night.

-  Lawrence M. Pray –  August, 1970