Live Little

How do candles work such magic?
A little wax, a sprig of wick, and
with a flame they right
a room.

Hatred ebbs,
worries wane,
uncertainties erode,
and hope obtains
for a time.

It is amazing what a little
light does in its being little.
Brightness blinds and search
lights cast hard shadows.
But a gentle lumination hallows a room and
creates a warm space that slips inside.
The softness suggests Spirit,
birthing hope,
suckling faith,
begetting love
from a spirited candle,
teaching us to live little.

Love Is Born Again

This eve is utterly unique
yet ordinary in time
as the holy invades
the cosmos, infusing the divine in
napping trees,
dormant grass, and
evergreens never letting
up on watching the crib
and lauding the One who
comes once and for all,
again.

The days are lengthening,
it seems, although I cannot yet
feel a surplus of sun in my
bones. But that doesn’t mean
hope is destitute – no, I know
that I will but blink and spring
will be upon us.

And so tonight I breathe in and out a hope –
holy in local dialects of grace and
whole in the wind’s good word that
love is born again, now and for always.

Not Quite a Cardinal

It’s not quite a cardinal, but
still this leaf sings. It cannot
cock its head so I do and
hear its hymn sideways.

She lauds the coming cold.
She portends a hard frost
and snow so soft it lulls you
into steep sleep that
awaits a choir of
hunger pangs to sing
you awake.

This leaf-come-cardinal
sneaks into my heart and
starts me thinking about how
fall has blessed me.
She sings of a
harvest of faith, of the
hallowing of love, of
hope in the shape of
votive candles.

This cardinal sings me.

Whispers

I lay prostrate on the lawn,
jog-fatigued, and yet fully
flushed with a different sort
of force. My nose caught
a scent of life, rising from
the same ground that holds
the blessed dead,

And then I listened.

The wind came to me
from four directions, and
I sense You to my left, about
ten metres back, taking me in,
reminding me that I am humus
and to humus will return.

You whispered in my ear
“In the meantime, it is enough that you are.
I take pleasure in your delightful silences,
your awkward offerings, your tears,
in turn, of joy and at failure.”

I looked up to see
the Japanese maple blessing me.
And I turned to You
now gone
into me.

The Greatest of These

Friends, a poem I wrote for chapel at Luther this last week…

Faith, and hope, and love abide but which of
these charisms do you prize, deep
in this time of COVID, this time of
hoping for a cure for social paralysis, this time of
putting our faith in the science, even while
others despair of besting this tiniest of beasts?

All the while that spiky protein spins – it
mutates, and revolves, and rolls with the punches.
Don’t you just hate it? Or, perhaps you prefer to
hate something, or someone seen – like maybe
an incompetent politician, or your next door neighbour, or say
a racialized person, or perhaps someone
hating racialized people…

It seems hatred seeks something or someone
concrete to sink its teeth into,
aching to slake its thirst. And we know
so well the power of hate;
its grip in our belly,
its throttle at our throats
its sweet-bitter taste on our tongues as we
take down this one,
rake that one over the coals.

But love, love brooks no business with
hate – never sated by seeing
my sworn enemy put in her place,
but grace-fully love questions the place of
putting in place in our economy;
our oiko-nomos; our oikos; our house.
Love is a house-holder, setting the table instead
of settling the score – always finding a spot in the
ever-widening circle that is finally eternity, where
hatred is seen for what it is: abject fear – fear
cast out by love, by
… embracing those I fear, by
… embracing those afraid of me, by
… embracing the fears inside of me.

The disciples were locked in by fear but
Love walked through the door. Beloved
Thomas feared the truth but love exposed
its wound and wound its way around Thomas –
around me, until I found and now still find
me and you and those I hate in the
very same circle, in the same herd, shepherded
there by Love.

Faith, and hope, and love abide, these three beside
one another but the greatest of these is love and
the greatest of these is…
it really is.

In My Eye

A tongue of fire
rises from this candle
taller than two
others; brothers
flanking her. Their
tongues, their talk
lumine her. These three
enter me times two, then
become one in my mind’s eye.

I see my reflection in them:
flaming away I deplete each day
until I will be but one with You,
alight in Your eye – finally and fully
a human seen, as surely as
You have been a human being
aright in my eye.

But I digress…

For a good bit of last week I was in Vancouver, attending the Congress on the Social Sciences and Humanities, a yearly meeting of academics and folk interested in the things interesting academics. I look forward to this, and am able to attend most years. Although the event draws in thousands of professors, researchers, and activists, most people connect to a smaller organization. I belong to the Canadian Theological Society, and so am happy to meet old friends and new at CTS’s meeting. There are always great papers given by established and young scholars in a supportive and collaborative atmosphere. The networking opportunity is always appreciated, and the learning opportunities rich.

Most years I attend a few sessions by other groups. This year I heard a lecture on re-interpreting the book of Samuel at the Craigie Lecture, sponsored by the Canadian Society for Biblical Studies, a session on early church authors at the Canadian Society for Patristic Studies, wherein a colleague of mine gave a great paper, and a jointly hosted panel on Indigenous issues, featuring the formidable Lee Maracle.

Most years I spend quite a bit of time in the book store, but for some reason this didn’t happen so much this year. It might be, in part, because of the beautiful setting of the University of British Colombia. I spent a good bit of time wandering about, and made it down to the ocean a couple of times, and into the renown Museum of Anthropology, which had some stellar exhibits of totem poles, and also some work by Bill Reid (see below). It was breath-takingly beautiful.

I spend a good bit of my life going to conferences. Years ago, when I first started attending conferences, I felt anxious to hear all the right papers, to meet the right people, and to get my money’s worth. Things have changed. I have come to rely on serendipity much more. Also, I plan this activity, but listen hard for that still small voice that says drop your plans and check out that event instead. I usually try to capture something of the culture of the location of the event, realizing that academic work that is done without attention to context just no longer much motivates me. And I work hard now to balance meeting new people and visiting old friends, with spending a bit of time on my own, which allows me to take stock of my work, my life, my passions, etc. I used to want conferences to advance my career. Now I want them to pique my curiosity. And they generally do.

Conferences all have a kind of a soul, in my experience. Each one is different, marked by a kind of “flavour” built upon the interaction, the experiences, the context and so much more. I think I have decided that, for me, this year’s Congress’s flavour was “digression.” Much that happened was tangential to plans, and some of it I am still processing. I was especially moved by my visits to the ocean at sunset, and to ponder how the sliding of the sun below the horizon speaks to the transitory, yet cyclical nature of life, my life. This horizon reminded me that life does not come with certainty, but it is rife with stark beauty. It called me to settle into a trust, and reminded me that faith, which grows out of a call from without, also grows into a call within that is ever reshaping, remaking me.

Running the Faith

Yesterday I entertained a luxuriously long run. I’ve been slowly working up to longer distances after 6 weeks away from jogging while on my most recent jaunt to Switzerland, and then India. I am happy to be working my way back up to my pre-travel fitness level. I walked as much as I could while away, and did a few exercises – a push-up here, a sit-up there – but now is the time to do a little catch-up.

I find running to be relaxing. I know that not everyone has this experience. But I find that I sometimes enter a Zen-like zone on the trail, something I’ve written about elsewhere. Jogging is pretty much meditation for me. I have a profound sense of God’s presence when I am running. I’m not at all surprised that the apostle uses a running metaphor to describe the spiritual life in 1 Cor. 9, although the idea of running to gain a prize isn’t altogether intriguing for me. Running is the prize, in my experience.

While on my most recent run I started thinking about running a marathon. Once upon a time, I was asked if I would ever do this, and I said no. At that time, I think the idea of the physical and time demand was a bit overwhelming. But now I find that I crave this time on the trail. I get lost in my thoughts, or perhaps my lack of thoughts. The idea of a marathon intrigues me because it will demand of me the sweet discipline of clocking in a significant number of kilometres each week in preparation. And so the idea of running a marathon marries the discipline of training and the experience of spiritual communion. I suppose it becomes, then, a spiritual discipline.

Spiritual disciplines are notoriously hard to define. It is easy to point to prayer, scripture, worship attendance etc. But I like an expansive definition, and readily include art, and conversation with friends, and walking, and baking, and running, etc. A spiritual discipline is an activity that promises a more intense awareness of God’s presence, although sometimes in the modality of a delayed gratification. There are so many ways in which I experience a more acute sense of the presence of God. To think that running has this benefit, as well as the joy of increasing one’s physical, emotion, and mental health too, is an amazing thing. But that is true, too, for other spiritual disciplines.

I am not absolutely certain that I will run a marathon this summer, but a seed has been planted. Perhaps the plant will be a surprise, but that’s the nature of grace, ever giving me joy in new and wonderous ways.

Of Leaves and Letters

Aside from some time spent at Open House at Wilfrid Laurier University, yesterday was spent marking papers and raking leaves. The word leaf, of course, can reference both that thing that falls from the tree and a sheet of paper once a part of essays. These days, as you may well imagine, marking students’ work doesn’t involve much by the way of leafing through paper, but is done on computer – at least that’s how I do it. This method has much to commend it: fewer trees fall, the essays run through turnitin and so I know if there are academic integrity issues from the get go, and finally students don’t have to try to read my horrendous penmanship. I am able to type comments on the essay in comment boxes, and the system nicely allows me to preload comments such as “Please use ‘quotation’ here since ‘quote’ is a verb.”

Most professors do not count marking as their favourite task. I’d agree with that but neither is it the worst. Marking is one of those things that runs a gamut of experiences. It can be frustrating and tedious; it can be really quite exciting; it can be heart-breaking and sometimes moving to the point of bringing me to tears. As you may guess, I am not marking math – although calculus instructors may arrive at tears from time to time as well! I teach theology at Waterloo Lutheran Seminary at WLU, and so sometimes mark reflection papers in which students integrate their life experience with theological themes. I count it an honour to see something of students’ faith lives from time to time. I find it quite humbling to have them relate their doubts, and express their joys, and narrate their varied and rich experiences with God. Of course, giving these kind of papers a grade is rather odd, but that is my job and so I do it as best as I am able.

I read some stellar papers today, and had some very moving experiences with some of them. But even so, it can be hard work and upon hearing that we were having leaf pickup on Monday I decided it was wise to take a break around noon and rake some leaves from the front yard – awash in colours – to the curb. The silver maple in our front yard is a world onto itself in size and more, and every year we harvest some of its joys and sorrows. I lay down a tarp and rake these tales onto the tarp and drag it to curb where I dump the leaves for the city. I then repeat this many times over. As I do so I think. And this thinking usually takes me deeper into me. I recall the past summer season; I recall past falls; today I thought about my parents. They have been gone some years now, but sometimes I think I feel them to be closer with each passing year. Perhaps that is because with every year I am one step nearer them.

I’m not certain why I thought of them today. We didn’t rake many leaves on the farm – or at least I didn’t. Maybe it was that movement from labouring in the soul to labouring near soil that opened up something. Maybe it was the fecund smell of dirt under the colourful quilt on the ground that took me to the farm. Maybe it was our proximity to All Saints Day. Maybe it was the realization that our days are not only as grass – as per the psalmist – but also as leaves. Not only do we fall not far from the tree, but we write, or paint, or sketch the life we are on the leaf we are. These are days with many such memory aids. These are the days when winter calls to fall, and I bow to both.

The Canvas that is Everyday

Today is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. We ate our turkey yesterday, and so today is given over to the happy task of left-overs, that ever important tradition of receiving yesterday’s gift, and so yesterday as gift. This seems a rather fitting motif of thanksgiving itself: revisiting in order to receive anew. As I think about this task, and turn my sights, not to the year behind me, but the week just past I am ever surprised by the convergences of joys and sorrows; of hope amid brokenness and pain.

Monday morning began with work, and the reminder that I do what I love for a living. This is no small gift. I go to work cheerfully, and although mine is not a perfect life or job, I find that my days go by with plenty of opportunity to count myself rich. I am especially grateful, this week, for my Monday afternoon class of GC 101: Christianity and Global Citizenship wherein a student spoke to the fact that the scandal surrounding football players kneeling during the American national anthem was originally a protest against racism, but has since been leveraged to different purposes for different reasons. This African Canadian student reminded me that it is easy to forget the roots of movements, and that social justice agendas, too, can be co-opted.

Tuesday is the day that Inshallah, the global choir to which I belong practiced. I have written of this choir before. This is simply a life giving moment in my week. To sing with joy and to pray for the gift of seeing love and justice meet (Psalm 85:10) is a delight. As I think back on the growth and increasing depth of this choir I am humbled to be a part of this effort to sing the circle wide.

Wednesday was a hard day, with the news that a former student – a beloved pastor of a community, as well as a husband, son, friend et cetera – was killed in a motor vehicle accident. I taught a class for our aspiring pastors immediately after hearing this news, and had to pinch myself from time to time, trying to live into this harsh reality of the death of 39 year old servant even while thinking through what it means to confess the faith onto death; and this with those who have a full life of ministry before them, a life that may be long or not as long as it ought to be.

Thursday gave occasion to take my middlest daughter out for a birthday supper in Ottawa, where I travelled for a conference. This was a special treat and also gave me occasion to meet her new kitty Willow and become reacquainted with her puppy Hazel. I was reminded that animals, in their own way I think, bear a different kind of image of God: being paw prints of divine creativity. This occasion also served as aide de memoire of the three births I attended and the happy truth that life can be ridiculously beautiful.

I was occupied with the conference Friday and Saturday, the former which gave me occasion to present a paper on “Faith, Freedom and the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms (1982).” Good conversation ensued. I learned much from many very fine papers and had occasion to share a wee dram or two with Matthew, a dear friend who roomed with me for this event. On Saturday I drove home and caught the most spectacular sunset as I drove westerly. The sky modulated reddish orange over-coating a blue green canvas with gestures of clouds that floated about as leaves on water’s face. It was breath-taking and gave me opportunity to give thanks for breath.

Sunday involved church and then the happy meal that began my reflection. Two of my three daughters were home, one with a friend new to our acquaintance. The third is presently traipsing about Peru. The day involved an leisurely afternoon in our backyard with mid-summer weather in October, followed by a fine meal, a board-game and then to bed. This, with the knowledge the next day – now today – is a holiday, a holy day that may well remind me that every day is holy, hallowed by sacred sketches by the divine artist on the canvas that is the everyday.