We all arrive into this life helpless and needy, completely dependent on others to survive. If there wasn’t an intuitive tenderness in parents dedicated to caring for their young, there would be no tomorrow for any of us. Even God sent His only Son in a completely helpless state, knowing He would identify more closely with us.
Despite such care and protection, there are inevitable hurts and injuries as we are buffeted and bruised by life. The scars we bear remain proof of the gentle healing touch of our Creator. We are never so far beyond His reach that He can’t leave His mark on us.
We know this, even though we forget… We are not so far beyond reach. God Himself reminds us of His love by the scars He bears.
photo by Joel DeWaard
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Let us go forward quietly, forever making for the light, and lifting up our hearts in the knowledge that we are as others are and that others are as we are, and that it is right to love one another in the best possible way – believing all things, hoping for all things, and enduring all things… ~Vincent Van Gogh in Letterto Theo Van Gogh – 3 April 1878
Yet another racially motivated killing appeared in the headlines today. So much collective societal energy is spent emphasizing, elaborating, indeed celebrating our diverse differences. If anything, this separates us rather than unites us, whether it be issues of race, culture, religion, political leanings or sexuality.
Yet we are alike far more than we are different. Despite the variety inherent in all living creatures, we share remarkable similarities deep in our cellular functions – mirror images of each other, intentionally created in the image of God.
“…we are as others are and that others are as we are, and that it is right to love one another in the best possible way –“
Each of us are born from the womb of our mother and each of us will die to dust someday. Those bookends to our lives bind the pages of our lives together, rather than tear us apart.
For some, similarities are not welcome – many hesitate to admit it is true, desiring to maintain distance and disagreement.
Can we make for the Light, enduring this painful journey together? Can we be bound by striving for unity? Can we agree to agree rather than disagree – it is right and true and worthy to love one another just as we are loved by our Creator?
I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. ~Maya Angelou
Years ago, our small church, Wiser Lake Chapel, once belonged to a summer co-ed softball league, along with 8 other churches and a few local businesses. This was a traditional Thursday evening summer activity for a generation or longer. Couples met for the first time on the ball fields and eventually married. Babies attended games in back packs and strollers and eventually were catching at home plate. Relatives going to different churches found themselves on opposing teams yelling good-natured insults. During our years of participation in the league, there were a few bopped heads, abrasions, sprained fingers and one broken leg as part of the deal. Hot dog roasts and ice cream sundaes were the after-game rewards.
Nothing was quite as wonderful as how a team recreated itself year after year. It was thrown together by our coach Brenda in a mere two weeks prior to the season starting, with the youngest members needing to be at least age 14 with no upper age limit; we’ve had our share of 70+ year olds on the team over the years. Some ball players were raw beginners having never played catch or swung a bat outside of school PE class. A few others had extensive history of varsity fastpitch in school or other community league play so meant business when they strolled out on the diamond. During a few years, we were a force to be reckoned with when we had over a dozen local university students join our church who were incredible players and power hitters.
It was the ultimate diverse talent pool.
A different dynamic exists in church league softball compared to Little League, Pony League, minors or majors when you watch or play. Sure, there still are slow pitch teams that stock their ranks with “invitation-only” players, reserving the best and most athletic so there is a real chance at the trophy at the end of the summer. Churches like ours, a mere 150 people average weekly Sunday attendance, had a “come one, come all” attitude, just to make sure we avoided forfeiting by not having enough players week after week. We always did have enough. In fact we had more players than we could find positions for. And we had a whole bleacher full of fans, dedicated to cheering and clapping for anything and everything our players did, whether it was a pop-up foul ball, a strike out swing, a missed catch, or an actual hit. We loved it all and wanted our players to know they were loved too, no matter what they did or what happened.
I think that was why the players and fans came back to play week after week, though we hadn’t won a game in years. We rooted and hollered for each other, got great teaching and encouragement from our fantastic coach, and the players’ skills did improve year to year despite months of inactivity. We had a whole line up of pre-14 year olds eager to grow old enough to play, just so they could be a part of the action.
Why did it not matter that we didn’t win games? We were winning hearts, not runs. We were showing our youngsters that the spirit of play is what it is all about, not about the trophy at the end. We were teaching encouragement in the face of errors, smiles despite failure, joy in the fellowship of people who love each other–spending an evening together week after week.
We are family; family picks you up and dusts you off when you’ve fallen flat on your face during your slide to base while still being called “out.”
Most of all, I see this as a small piece of God’s kingdom in action. Although we no longer gather for church league baseball — the competition got too fierce (and hazardous to our health), the rules too tight — we still gather for a pick-up game now and then, just to remind ourselves of who we are and what we are about.
Our coach models Jesus’ acceptance of all at the table, and embodies the fruits of the spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self control.
Our players are the eager, the ambivalent, the accurate, the flawed, the strong, the weak, the fast, the slow: chosen for the game even if they were completely inadequate to the task at hand, volunteering to be part of each moment as painful as it can sometimes be.
The cheering from the bleachers comes as if from heaven itself: Do not be afraid. Good will to all. We are well pleased. Amen!
We’re sliding to home plate, running as hard as we can, diving for safety, covered in the dust and mire and blood of living/dying and will never, ever be called “out”.
Let’s play ball.
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Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins “Pied Beauty”
The unconventional and unnoticed beauty, freckled, spare and strange– helps me feel beautiful too. The interplay of light and shadow within every moment of our existence, some moments darker than others, some brilliant and dazzling.
I try to find the sweet and sour, knowing I’m capturing my own dappled essence – a reflection of the Fathering that loves us even in our fickleness, who possibly could know how?
There is no perfection outside of Him; His reflected beauty, His transfigured face has no uniformity yet is past changing.
We give Him glory in our imperfection, through defects and blemishes which only He can make whole.
Who knows why He does this? Yet He does.
Glory be.
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One sees great things from the valley, only small things from the peak. ~G.K.Chesterton
Two things are yours that no man’s wealth can buy: The air, and time; And, having these, all fate you may defy, All summits climb.
While you can draw the fresh and vital breath, And own the day, No enemy, not Hate, nor Fear, nor Death, May bring dismay.
Breathe deeply! Use the minutes as they fly! Trust God in all! Thus will you live the life that cannot die, Nor ever fall. ~Amos Russel Wells “Inalienable”
It is all a matter of perspective- what we see from where we are standing, whether on the peak or down in the valley.
We need to breathe deeply of this time, wherever we are.
it takes great strength and determination to climb a peak, looking down upon the valley left far below where even mighty mountains seem diminished.
Yet what gives our lives most meaning, what encourages our faith, what instills our hope, is how we are met by the Lord in the deepest of valleys.
He dwells alongside us, watching over us, never leaving us, always encouraging us to lift our eyes to the hills
They are not long, The weeping and the laughter, Love and desire and hate: I think they have no portion in us after We pass the gate.
They are not long, The days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream Our path emerges for a while, then closes Within a dream. ~Ernest Dowson “They are not long…” “Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam” (Our brief sum of life forbids us to embark upon a protracted hope)
photo by Joel DeWaard
When I consider the bittersweet brevity of life, I don’t think how much I will miss wine and roses. Eventually, when I pass through the gate, it will be other loves that determine my path into the misty night:
My husband’s kind eyes and gentle hands Hugs and snuggles with grandkids Worship and prayer and potlucks with church family Just-baked bread and dark chocolate The smell and sound of long-awaited rain Ponies and puppies Scent of sweetpeas and taste of green peas in the pod Tunes of bouncy bluegrass and familiar folk songs Birdsong in the morning and frog chorus at night Wistful sunsets, and more so, welcoming sunrises
and ever so much more…
We are called forth from here to a hope beyond imagining. This is only a taste.
With my arms raised in a vee, I gather the heavens and bring my hands down slow together, press palms and bow my head.
I try to forget the suffering, the wars, the ravage of land that threatens songbirds, butterflies, and pollinators.
The ghosts of their wings flutter past my closed eyes as I breathe the spirit of seasons, the stirrings in soil, trees moving with sap.
With my third eye, I conjure the red fox, its healthy tail, recount the good of this world, the farmer tending her tomatoes, the beans
dazzled green al dente in butter, salt and pepper, cows munching on grass. The orb of sun-gold from which all bounty flows. ~Twyla Hansen “Trying to Pray” from Rock. Tree. Bird.
the thorn that is heavier than lead— if it’s all you can do to keep on trudging—
there is still somewhere deep within you a beast shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted—
each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered lavishly, every morning,
whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray. ~Mary Oliver from “Morning Poem”
A Sabbath sunrise becomes unspoken prayer – I open my hands and arms to it, closing my eyes, bowing my head, giving myself over to silent gratitude.
Gathering up the heavens, the sun moves from subtle simmer to blazing boil.
I trudge forward every day, each step in itself a prayer answered; thankful I can still take a next step, and a next, until I reach tomorrow and again after that, I celebrate there will be a next tomorrow.
Amen.
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Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood. How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of rising. How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken. How people come, from delight or the scars of damage, to the comfort of a poem.
Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.
Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads. ~Mary Oliver “Mysteries, Yes” from Evidence
We must learn to acknowledge that the creation is full of mystery; we will never entirely understand it. We must abandon arrogance and stand in awe. We must recover the sense of the majesty of creation, and the ability to be worshipful in its presence. ~Wendell Berry from The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays
photo by Sara Lenssen Larsen
Vermeer–Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window
…in being a living mystery: it means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist. ~ Emmanuel Cardinal Suhard of Parisquoted in Walking on Water
I’m unsure how much of a mystery I am – I am transparent as glass most days, easily see-through. My life makes no sense without the knowledge God’s Hand created me, His breath becoming mine. He forms the bridge over the deep, so I may safely cross.
It’s astonishing, to be truthful. It makes me laugh and point and cry out “Look!” to anyone who will listen so we can bow down together, amazed.
Leonardo Da Vinci’s Hand of John the Baptist
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The Old Church leans nearby a well worn road upon a hill that has no grass or tree The winds from off the prairie now unload the dust they bring around it fitfully The path that leads up to the open door is worn and grayed by many toiling feet of us who listen to the Bible lore and once again the old time hymns repeat. And every Sabbath Morning we are still returning to the altar standing there; a hush, a prayer, a pause, and voices fill the Master’s House with a triumphant air. The old church leans awry and looks quite odd, But it is beautiful to us, and God. ~Della Vik“The Old Church” (adapted in song by Stephen Paulus, linked below
photo by Barb Hoelle
…when I experienced the warm, unpretentious reception of those who have nothing to boast about, and experienced a loving embrace from people who didn’t ask any questions, I began to discover that a true spiritual homecoming means a return to the poor in spirit to whom the kingdom of heaven belongs. ~Henri Nouwen from The Return of the Prodigal Son
Our family had driven past the boxy building countless times hurrying on our way to other places, barely giving it a second glance. It had a classic design, but showed its age with peeling paint, a few missing shingles, an old fashioned square flat roofed belfry, and arched windows. The hand lettered sign spelling out “Wiser Lake Chapel” by the road constituted a humble invitation of sorts, simply by listing the times of the services.
On a blustery December Sunday evening in 1990, we had no place else to be for a change. Instead of driving past, we stopped, welcomed by the yellow glow pouring from the windows and an almost full parking lot. Our young family climbed the steps to the big double doors, and inside were immediately greeted by a large balding man with a huge grin and encompassing handshake. He pointed us to one of the few open spots still available in the old wooden pews.
The sanctuary was a warm and open space with a high lofted ceiling, dark wood trim accents matching the ancient pews, and a plain wooden cross above the pulpit in front. There was a pungent smell from fir bough garlands strung along high wainscoting, and a circle of candles standing lit on a small altar table. Apple pie was baking in the kitchen oven, blending with the aroma of good coffee and hot cocoa.
The service was a Sunday School Christmas program, with thirty some children of all ages and skin colors standing up front in bathrobes and white sheet angel gowns, wearing gold foil halos, tinfoil crowns and dish towels wrapped with string around their heads. They were prompted by their teachers through carols and readings of the Christmas story. The final song was Silent Night, sung by candle light, with each child and member of the congregation holding a lit candle. There was a moment of excitement when one girl’s long hair briefly caught fire, but after that was quickly extinguished, the evening ended in darkness, with the soft glow of candlelight illuminating faces of the young and old, some in tears streaming over their smiles.
It felt like home. We had found our church.
We’ve never left; every Sabbath day finds us back there. Even through the hard months of COVID shut-down, our Chapel first met online, then moved to outside services, and then together again in our beloved sanctuary.
Over the past 107 years, this old building has seen a few thousand people come and go, has had peeling paint and missing shingles, a basement that floods when the rain comes down hard, toilets that doesn’t always flush, and though it smells heavenly on potluck days, there are times when it can be just a bit out of sorts and musty. It really isn’t anything to boast about.
Like our pastors over the decades – Bruce Hemple, Stephen Tamminga, Albert Hitchcock and now Nathan Chambers – our chapel is humble and unpretentious yet envelops its people in a loving embrace of God’s Word, with warmth, character, grace and a uniqueness that is unforgettable.
It really is not so different from the all the flawed folks who have gathered there over the years, once lost but now found.
We know we belong, such as we are, just as we are, blessed by God with this place to join together.
Perhaps you belong at this old church too…
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Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:— We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.
Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount,— He guards us too.
Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair:— What profits all this care And all this coil?
Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food:— Much more our Father seeks To do us good. ~Christina Rossetti from “Consider”
…if I were a lily I think I would wait all day for the green face of the hummingbird to touch me. ~Mary Oliver from “Lilies”
Homer Smith: [the final English lesson] Oh, *I* built a chapel…
All of the sisters: *I* built a chapel.
Homer Smith: *You* built a chapel…
All of the sisters: *You* built a chapel.
Homer Smith: *We” built a chapel…
Mother Maria: [points to heaven] *He* built a chapel.
From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel and densest drama, literature is asking us to pay attention… pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein and thereby learn at last to pay attention to yourself and all that dwells therein.
Literature, painting, music—the most basic lesson that all art teaches us is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet, including our own lives, as a vastly richer, deeper, more mysterious business than most of the time it ever occurs to us to suspect as we bumble along from day to day on automatic pilot. In a world that for the most part steers clear of the whole idea of holiness, art is one of the few places left where we can speak to each other of holy things.
Is it too much to say that Stop, Look, and Listen is also the most basic lesson that the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us? Listen to history is the cry of the ancient prophets of Israel. Listen to social injustice, says Amos; to head-in-the-sand religiosity, says Jeremiah; to international treacheries and power-plays, says Isaiah; because it is precisely through them that God speaks his word of judgment and command.
And when Jesus comes along saying that the greatest command of all is to love God and to love our neighbor, he too is asking us to pay attention. If we are to love God, we must first stop, look, and listen for him in what is happening around us and inside us. If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in.
In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that “Consider the lilies of the field” was the only commandment she never broke. She could have done a lot worse. Consider the lilies. It is the sine qua non of art and religion both. ~Frederick Buechner from Whistling in the Dark
I have broken the Biblical mandate to “consider the lilies” way too many times. In my daily life I am considering almost anything else – my own worries and concerns as I walk past so much beauty and meaning and holiness. My mind dwells within, blind and deaf to what is outside.
It is so necessary to be reminded that I need to pay attention beyond my own bubble, to be reminded to love and care for my neighbor, to remember what history has to teach us, to search for the sacred in all things.
Stop, Look, Listen, Consider: all is grace, all is gift, all is holiness brought to life – stunning, amazing, wondrous.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me. As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave, He is Wisdom to the mighty, He is Succour to the brave, So the world shall be His footstool, and the soul of Time His slave, Our God is marching on.
(Chorus) Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! While God is marching on. ~Julia Ward Howe — final original verses of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”
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