Full Speed Ahead Backwards Through the Bridges

On Saturday we rowed waaaaaay out into the Bay, to what we call the tripod. I was in the bow seat of the eight, which seat I love because it calls for exceptionally good rowing and so is challenging, and is also a place where the bigger rowers (like me) rarely sit. So my teammate Corrie and I, an unlikely bow pair, were happy to be together, rowing one and two.

Our coach announced that we would race all the way back, under the freeway bridges, past the boathouse, down the straightaway, to the "finish line". I was in the youngest boat (we handicap by age), so we had to sit for a very long time while the other boats got a head start. We had a great race, about twenty minutes in total.

It was at the point that we rowed full pressure under the bridges that it occurred to me, again, how much trust it takes to go full speed ahead when you cannot see exactly where you are going. There are eight of us, trusting a teenager to steer, movitate, correct technique, all going full out backwards. But the bridges are especially tricky; and scary, since large concrete pillars pass into our peripheral vision as we are just barely missing them with the ends of our oars. And then, once safely through, we pull again with all our might, trying to push our boat forward.

A life lesson Saturday, about being aware of the perils, and still nativating through them, backwards, trusting that all will be well. That is the kind of thing I learn from rowing. I was thankful for rowing Saturday, it was a great reminder.

Tutoyer

I took years of French, in high school,in college, and then even spent a semester studying in Paris my sophomore year. My college professor M. Leggewie was very strict on the use of the familiar "you"...in French (if memory serves) "tutoyer"...to use the familiar "tu". He used to say that he only said "tu" to his wife. That's a high bar for the familiar and it has stuck with me all these years.

I haven't thought of Tutoyer in thirty years. This morning I decided to pray the Lord's prayer en francais (which I needed to look up, of course). Last week some wonderful French-speaking people came by Nativity seeking a place for their new congregation to worship. We prayed in "franglais" (French and English all mixed together) and it inspired me to return to a language I used to be quite proficient at.

As I prayed I was astounded to realize that God is addressed as "tu" which makes perfect, complete and wonderful sense. It is a wonderful sensate reminder of God Out There and God Inside, God Vast and God Intimate. So many other words that could be shared. Je te remercie, mon Dieu (hoping those are right words!)

My favorite psalm, for the 27th day...

Ok, ok, I looked ahead to Evening Prayer, but I can't help it, this is my favorite psalm of all. Birds of paradise always look like nature laughing to me!

When God restored the fortunes of Zion, *
then were we like those who dream.

Then was our mouth filled with laughter, *
and our tongue with shouts of joy.

Then they said among the nations, *
“God has done great things for them.”

God has done great things for us, *
and we are glad indeed.

Restore our fortunes, O God, *
like the watercourses of the Negev.

Those who sowed with tears *
will reap with songs of joy.

Those who go out weeping, carrying the seed, *
will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves.
Psalm 126

a light upon my path

Your word is a lantern to my feet
and a light upon my path.
Psalm 119:105

Psalm for today

I pray the psalms these days a la Cranmer, using the daily morning and evening prayer rubrics as a guide. This verse is Nativity's favorite; when I first arrived, people told me that David Barnette had used it as an offertory sentence. I suspect it was also used as the Scripture to open Morning Prayer.

The day feels like fall to me today, crisp and a bit cooler than summer, so a picture of Yosemite in autumn, many years ago.

On this day the Holy One has acted;
we will rejoice and be glad in it.
Psalm 118:24

Happy are the people whose strength is in you...

...whose hearts are set on the pilgrims' way.

Those who go through the desolate valley will find it a place of springs, for the early rains have covered it with water.

They will climb from height to height, and the God of gods will be revealed in Zion.

Psalm 84:4-6

God is in the whisper

During the past week, the tree trimmers have been working on the huge oak trees that surround my house. The one out back, which I believe is actually two trees, was so overgrown that it was difficult to see the branches.

The crew chief came over one morning to talk with me, and as we stood gazing up at the majestic tree, he raised his hand and swept it across the landscape of the tree, as if to illustrate the words he was about to say. He said, "the breeze will be able to come through the branches now, and it will be much better for the tree." I loved that image, and the beautiful language he used to describe the art of what his crew had just accomplished.

I thought of this image of the breeze the other morning as I was re-watching the amazing film Into Great Silence. One of the first scriptures used in the film is from 1 Kings. It says that Elijah was told,

“Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Sheer Silence. Other translations say Gentle Whisper, Still Small Voice. I kind of like the idea of Gentle Breeze Through the Oak Tree. All of the deadwood pruned away so that the voice of God can be heard.

The Dilemma

I decided that a good portion of this year's vacation would be dedicated to two things: teaching myself how to row a single racing shell and practicing the craft of photography. I've been doing both of these things since I was a young child and like to see my devotion to both of them as part of my life-long spiritual practice. Who knew that both activities would continue to challenge me and transform me?

I'm reading Galen Rowell's Mountain Light as I try and conquer the digital camera and become as familiar with it as I have been with my beloved film cameras in the past. Familiarity with the mechanical ins and outs of the camera is essential before the image-making can begin in earnest. I know what I want to see in the image I capture, and so I need to know how to make the camera work for me.

I'm also rowing the single every day we don't have team practice, and I'm finally at the point where I only have two or three "uh oh" moments each time I venture out: "uh oh" being shorthand for "I think I'm about to go in the water." This is progress. I am committed to becoming proficient to add repetoire to my rowing. I would like to race the single next year. There is something very different, and extremely satisfying, about getting immediate feedback about my rowing. One bad yank and I receive an "uh oh" moment. One good stroke and I send the boat skimming through the glassy water, feeling that I could row, like the icon of St. Brendan, to heaven.

My vacation has presented me with a newly discovered dilemma. I'm not quite sure why I haven't noticed this before. Both of my activities take place best at sunrise. Actually, photography actually best happens through sunrise: before, during and after. Sunrise light is my favorite time of day. The water is the most smooth, the possibility for good row and good image at its peak.

But there is only one sunrise each day,today happening at 5:59 a.m.. And I want to be at two places at once! How did this happen, that my passionate activities best happen in the same moment in time? Choices need to be made, for sure, but my discovery makes me want to re-think my "real life", that is, after vacation, schedule. These two things feed me like nothing else, and I need and want to do them both fully. Something else to ponder on StayCation!

rowing the single and centering prayer

I have resolved to learn how to row a single shell this summer. I have made many maiden voyages, year after year, but until this year have never found the discipline to keep at it so that it becomes relatively comfortable.

I am rowing what I call a "skinny single", that is, a racing single shell, and in about ten days I have progressed from an ever-so-tentative push away from the dock with an iron grip on my oars, to the point where I can go up and down the creek and only have two or three "uh-oh, I'm about to tip over" experiences. This is progress!

This morning as I was contemplating the glassy water (which turned into ripples as the wind came up) I thought about how learning to row the single shell - perhaps learning anything new that requires such concentration - requires at the same time a complete letting go. If I think too much about anything, I get tense and things go haywire. Kind of like when, in centering prayer, I indulge yourself in following whatever pops into the prayer time. Instead of being open to God in prayer, I end up on some tangent. Interesting, perhaps, but that distraction is for the other 23 hours of the day.

Suddenly the prayer time has been consumed with, as Thomas Keating would say, following the thought down the river, rather than gently returning to the sacred word.

Suddenly the smooth rhythm of my oars and the send of my shell are disrupted by too much thinking. Just do it, let the boat do its work and get out of its way.

Prayer and rowing. Two of my favorite activities!

the silence at the start

At the start of one of my races at Vancouver Lake last weekend, I had the thought to write some words about the silence of it. That particular morning was a bit less windy than the rest of the weekend. Just a small breeze, but enough so that we had to keep sculling the bow around to keep our boat pointed straight down the buoy lines.

Long moments of silence while people sat ready, oars buried, boats locked on, rowers watching the starter's flag. Then comes the command from the starter "sit easy", there are still small adjustments to be made. That silence before the start lasts an eternity. It has the same quality as the silence in church after Communion. The silence of the silence reigns supreme. It is a moment in which anything seems possible, all is fulfilled and all is potential. A brief moment in chronological time and yet eternal in its fullness, all in all. The moment is fleeting, all is ready, and yet in it is contained the universe of what is and can be.

Then the starter's command again, "Attention (more silence) Go!" and the flag drops and the lats of eight people engage and the legs of eight people go down to pry the boat forward. And we are off, into the fray, one stroke at a time. We don't know what the outcome will be but we surely know the goal, one good stroke at a time.

What can the church learn from this, when the silence is so much the same? The people are fed, and ready to go out the door to feed a hungry world. How can the church command, gather, harness, focus, her people's attention in a similar way?

In Prison

I'm realizing that prison has been on my mind the last few days. The other night when I was coming home on the ferry from a meeting in the City, I was compelled to take out my phone and snap some pictures of San Quentin Prison through the streaky ferry window. I row past this very large and very old prison almost every day, but for some reason the light on the buildings, which light would normally want to draw me in, instead drew my inner attention and prayer to the many ways that people are imprisoned.

Then, at our Fresh Start meeting today, I chose the following Scripture for our worship together. There was rich, compassionate, poignant sharing and dialogue for which I was very thankful.

Hebrews 10:32-39

Recall those earlier days when, after you had been enlightened, you endured a hard struggle with sufferings, sometimes being publicly exposed to abuse and persecution, and sometimes being partners with those so treated. For you had compassion for those who were in prison, and you cheerfully accepted the plundering of your possessions, knowing that you yourselves possessed something better and more lasting. Do not, therefore, abandon that confidence of yours; it brings a great reward. For you need endurance, so that when you have done the will of God, you may receive what was promised. For yet “in a very little while, the one who is coming will come and will not delay; but my righteous one will live by faith. My soul takes no pleasure in anyone who shrinks back.” But we are not among those who shrink back and so are lost, but among those who have faith and so are saved.

Refreshment for the Soul

Last week I took a break; my soul needed some refreshment. So a couple of emails to friends and voila, I had a 24 hour trip to Yosemite organized. We blasted out Thursday and back Friday night. Just enough time for a trip up the Mist trail and Nevada Falls, a night in a Curry Village tent cabin, then up early, Yosemite Falls, and home. We had a GREAT time, other than the fact that we were overtaken by an unexpected thunderstorm. Camera survived, Blackberry, not so much. It was exactly the trip I needed.

As we came back down in the thunderstorm, a group of young people from Sacramento asked if they could hike with us. At first I thought they were trying to help us, but as went along, we realized how frightened they were and that we were actually helping them. They would ask "which way does the trail go" and we would point and encourage them onward. As we made our way down the slippery granite steps, I thought of the many ways that our mutual help and aid to each other often goes unspoken, unsaid, and unappreciated.

As we hiked, I gave thanks for these young people and prayed for their safety (and their developing wisdom: for example, to take our advice NOT to enter the Merced River because yes, the current is quite strong at the moment!)

The rainbow on the Mist Trail just beneath Vernal Falls was spectacular, as was the water rushing over fall itself. Praise God for the grandeur which is Yosemite!

the moment of light

This morning I was "on land" for practice, so Liz T. and I erged a bit and chatted a bit and then headed out for our days. I grabbed my camera, since I am so rarely not on the water when the morning light is coming and then comes. I walked along the creek where we row, very attracted to the fog hovering around while the sun was coming up.

I love the photographer Michael Fatali and especially these words he writes: "Photographing these magical monuments of God's creation requires the practice of great patience. Waiting for hours, days, or sometimes even years for the right light is what is required to communicate the wonder."

I also love that in his field notes, he notes the amount of time waiting for the light he has spent on each image. I hope some day to have more time to wait for the light. For now, it's catch as catch can in between my various activities!

the thirty thousand foot view

There is something important about getting perspective. I have been buried in the forest for a little too long now, and long for the trees. I love this picture, but especially the shoes. It gives me the idea for a little photo essays on the shoes that have been removed to walk upon holy ground.

blowing my head off...

I am so fortunate to be surrounded by friends and colleagues who love me, challenge me, teach me, help me offer my gifts. I've always loved Parker Palmer, and am currently (as my class in pastoral care in the seminary is coming to its close) reading Palmer's The Courage to Teach. More insights than I can possible offer here, but I will offer the statement that stands out among all the others... kind of like these shots of seagulls that I just happened to be lucky enough to grab on Saturday during the Amazing Birthday Race. I have to be grateful when something falls into my lap and sticks - like this sentence about truth, or this picture of seagulls - since they are entirely beyond my capability to make happen on my own! Grace, maybe?

p. 106 of The Courage to Teach says: Implicit in this exploration of how we know is an image of truth that can now me made explicit: truth is an eternal conversation about things that matter, conducted with passion and discipline.

from the Glenstal Book of Prayer (and Luke!)

This morning I woke early, probably because we had an erg test scheduled. I did well enough, but as I prayed in the early morning, I thought of the dawn that I am priveleged to wake up in almost every morning.


In the tender compassion of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to shine on those who dwell in darkness,
and the shadow of death,
and to guide our feet on the road of peace.

The New Day

I have always been a morning person. My current home lights up in the morning with the rising sun, and on Sunday morning as I was getting ready to preach the morning light was especially beautiful. This picture does not do it justice at all, but the best I could muster as I was throwing myself together.

I need to find a way to work some extra photography minutes into my morning routine..usually I am out the door walking the dog or dashing to the boathouse. This morning the water was completely glassy and still, perfect rowing weather. I'm giving thanks today for these past two mornings, and pray that the brightness of the light carries me through my days.

The Labyrinth Dog

Today we walked the labyrinth with the three young people preparing for confirmation. I've walked Nativity's labyrinth numerous times myself, but this was the first time of walking it with others. I brought Molly Brown, who walks the labyrinth the same ways she walks on a leash...in circles. She's a herding dog, and not too mindful of the "proper" place to be with regard to the leash and to me, her Person.

As we walked today, and as I turned the corners and she circled, I had the sense of a slow dance in circles. Sometimes she stands still, waiting for me to complete my turn, sometimes I stand still and she walks (and tangles my legs) around me. And eventually we reach the center, just as we are supposed to. It takes a while, but we get there.

On this circuitous journey we are on together, thank God for the Labyrinth Dog!

Praise today

Recently my spiritual director gave me a wonderful collection of spiritual sayings and poems that are in the form of an almanac, to be dipped in to...the perfect response to my recent lament that I have found it hard to pick up a book, any book, and read it straight through. There are half-read, corner-folded-down books scattered through my life - home, office, car - and yet this small book has offered me some amazing words of hope in just the right sized bite.

Here is the offering today:

Praise What Comes

surprising as unplanned kisses, all you haven’t deserved
of days and solitude, your body’s immoderate good health
that lets you work in many kinds of weather. Praise.

talk with just about anyone. And quiet intervals, books:
that are your food and your hunger, nightfall and walks
before sleep. Praising these for practice, perhaps

you will come at last to praise grief and the wrongs
you never intended. At the end there may be no answers
and only a few very simple questions: did I love

finish my task in the world? Learn at least one
of the many names of God? At the intersections,
the boundaries where one life began and another

ended, the jumping-off places between fear and
possibility, at the ragged edges of pain,
did I catch the smallest glimpse of the holy?


“Praise what Comes” in The Light of Invisible Bodies by Jeanne Lohmann

Hallelujah!

Molly Brown, my canine companion, tested negative for heartworm yesterday after having the first cycle of manufactured arsenic treatment...which is brutal on the dog (and to the worms.) Somehow I believe that she knows she is better...tail is wagging more and her lively self seems to be back. Of course it may just be me, but who cares, all that matters is that she is getting better. One young parishioner baked her special get-well treats, which I am sure made all the difference!

Easter

I have a number of close friends and parishioners who are experiencing deep grief and loss this Holy Week and Easter. So for them, I imagine that the day of Resurrection is a bittersweet and even confusing day. For them, then, this image. It's a common flower, showing up here and there at Nativity. I don't know if it is a weed or a flower, but it is beautifying the hilltop amongst the true thistles and rattesnake grass and miner's lettuce and purple morning glory and the wild iris and milkmaids and lilies. Even amongst the jumble, the new life of God appears.

Gethsemane

Another’s words
are not sufficient,
cannot describe the intense desire
to do as he asked, Wait with me.
Like another, my eyelids close,
Every intention to wait and watch and weep
with him
fades like a dream,
like the vigil itself
meant to be remembered,
caressed,
held.
Instead I sleep again, three times,
I cannot fulfill my desire.
But still I rise with him in the garden
and dare accompany him. And he
forgives.

Tenebrae

21. E Tenebris

COME down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land,
Whence all good things have perished utterly,
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
If I this night before God’s throne should stand.
“He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.”
Nay, peace, I shall behold before the night,
The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
The wounded hands, the weary human face.


Oscar Wilde (1854–1900). Poems. 1881.

Five Years

The fifth anniversary of my mother's death is on Sunday, but I really am going to celebrate it on Monday. She died on the Monday of Holy Week, and as I was recounting to parishioners the other day, the gift of that week, which is still present to me, was the overwhelming outpouring of love from friends, colleagues, from the church. Clergy and lay friends stepped in and took over Holy Week; they did not ask, they simply came. I came back on Easter Day with mom's ashes under my arm; my dear friend Nancy Eswein came and served, friends from all over came to church, mom's ashes rested under the altar. It was the best Easter ever.

My friend Pamela's father died just six days before, so this time of year is dear for both of us. We spoke today of our parents, and it's true; no matter what day the 5th falls on, the Monday of Holy Week is always a solemn day for me. The church does that to us...takes a day and makes it holy.

That Sunday, Easter, I preached a sermon and baptized a young six year old boy and talked about the messengers at the empty tomb. I told about the messenger that had been sent to me several weeks before.

I said, "in the dream, my father and mother were together, my father completely healthy, free of his own life-ending illness, and he was there holding the arm of my mother, who was struggling in her own distress. And when I woke I knew in my soul that resurrection, that new life happens, that the communion of saints is real, that in his life in God, my father is whole and healthy and watching out for his beloved. And he and Jesus are both welcoming her into heaven. And that knowledge is real, more real to me than any theology."

May she rest in peace, and rise in glory.

Fishing

For some reason I've found myself in lots of fishing conversations recently. I have several friends who are avid fly fishermen, and then I came across this picture I took many moons ago of my brother Peter, fishing I believe along the Rogue River in Oregon. I have so many fond memories of Peter and fishing...he loved to fish, whether with a drop line off the Balboa pier in Newport, or in a river on a family vacation, or just anywhere. At the time, I didn't understand; I didn't like fish, couldn't imagine waiting, waiting, waiting for the fish to bite, if ever it did, the whole enterprise seemed to me an exercise in frustration.

Nowadays, the people I know who love to fish, Paul, and Nancy, for example, exemplify people who are passionate about most everything they do. And fishing no less than anything else. At the same time, in my imagination, fishing takes my friends away to another place, where quiet and waiting and yes, perhaps an occasional nibble on the line, are ultimately satisfying. I'm not sure I'll ever even try fishing, but I have a new appreciation for the love of it.

the wind...

It has been blowing a gale up on the hilltop these past few days. The wind comes howling through the Lucas Valley, which connects ocean to bay. The wind is always unsettling to me, disturbing, although also compelling when I am out sailing, windsurfing or doing other "wind" activities. This picture is a very old one which I just had scanned. Not the best photograph, but it speaks to me today. It was taken in 1991 when I attended the Henley Royal Regatta with my friend Sandy. This is of some grass in the English countryside. I love the action of the wind and the stillness at the center. It reminds me of the view I had of my own legs this morning at rowing...as we take up the rate and row full pressure, the water we are rowing in begins to blur, while the rhythm of the rowers stays in full, clear view.

Kind of like a life of seeking God. Things can be blurry, speeding by, and usually there is a little glimpse of clarity, even when the wind is howling so loud you can barely stand it, or the boat is going so fast you cannot believe it. That little glimpse, like the small portion of bread and wine we receive each time we make Eucharist together, nourishes us for the journey ahead.

Pie Jesu and what friends are for...

This morning an incredible Brandon Marsalis rendition of Faure's Pie Jesu woke me gently...I had to go find the music and buy the CD it was so beautiful. My fleeting thought was "if I died right now, listening to this music, I would be happy." What a thought when one is trying to put warm feet on cold floor and get moving. I eventually did get moving, but only because of the thought of my friends waiting for me at the boathouse. I actually lay in bed and came up with so many plausible excuses to give: tax appointment is coming up, I don't feel well, Molly Brown needs me to stay home...and some others I have already forgotten. Fortunately, the strains of the music plus the allure of friends got me vertical eventually. And I'm glad I did, it's a good day.

a soothing light

Today I spent a good part of the day at the Bishop's Ranch, which is the retreat center of our diocese. I've been going there since the early nineteen seventies, when I went there with my youth group from St. Paul's in Burlingame. The chapel has always been a soothing place for me, from the dark cold mornings when we used to follow the Franciscan friars in for a sleepy Morning Prayer, to today, when the chapel was filled with warm light and the glow from the stained glass windows.

I found myself giving thanks today, and the words of T.S. Elliott came:

You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid.

Stay and see

I had a wonderful conversation yesterday with my friend and colleague Jim, about the holiness of the hilltop Nativity sits on and the ways in which the seasons change in front of us. There is something profoundly satisfying about being in a place long enough to be able to enter in to the subtle changes that nature offers. I realize that I felt that way about Mt. Calvary, and now understand the same relationship with Nativity.

We were talking about the green, which has just in the past couple of weeks burst out, thanks to the rain we have received. We talked about the grey green hills and our longing over the past month for Mother Nature's regular show of emerald green new growth...it has been slow in coming, and perhaps will be shorter this year, but that moment of brightness on our ever-changing hills is here for an instant right now, it may be gone this afternoon. As we sat overlooking the valley, we both breathed in the moment and gave thanks for it. Amazing just how far just a hint of the holy can carry us.

I love the rattlesnake grass at Nativity. It is a later spring thing, but I saw yesterday the beginnings of it as I walked Molly Brown. For everything a season!

the green green trees

Today after church I went home and collected Molly Brown and my camera and headed back to hike back down to the creek. It takes less than five minutes to travel from the church parking lot to the water's edge, but today, it took me at least twenty minutes since I spent lots of time trying to capture the beauty on the way. I've realized that Molly Brown is an excellent photography companion...she simply sits down or continues her nosey exploration when I decide to spend ten minutes trying to photograph one tree. The light was beautiful, but hard to photograph today.