Annua Sacrificium

Damn!

It never fails.  Each year springtime sneaks into Montana amid the stubborn exit of winter.  I see the signs all around . . . trees leafing out . . . bulbs sprouting . . . flowering buds . . . green . . . and the wife making her annual trip to the greenhouse to purchase our annual sacrifice to the gods of nature.  In a week that we have seen temperatures ranging from below freezing with snow to the upper 60s . . . spring is exerting itself in the face of the stubborn winter that does not want to leave.  As usual, I am not ready . . . I am already losing the battle.

Despite the fact that we have now lived in Montana almost six years, the wife still practices the “annua sacrificium” or “annual sacrifice” of the potted flowers.  Every year with the first whiff of warm air, the wife is off to the local greenhouse to purchase flowers to be potted and placed in the yard.  It is our annual sacrifice to the gardening gods . . . about fifty bucks worth of flowers every year.  Every year the wife runs out, purchases a boat load of flowers to pot, and then places them around the yard.  Every year it snows within two days of the flowers being placed in the yard.  Every year the flowers take a beating . . . die . . . and we start all over again.  The second time is always the charm.  But, as I stated, it is usually about fifty dollars worth of flowers that take the hit.

It is blackmail, plain and simple.  Whoever these gardening gods are, they have quite a racket going on.  I just wish they would set up a Swiss bank account somewhere, send a ransom note stating they will kill our flowers if we do not send a check for fifty dollars to them.  Sadly, they won’t do it . . . the wife is left to guess.  Since moving to Montana I have come to accept that I will make an annual donation to the gardening gods so that the rest of the Montana warm weather will allow our flowers to grow.  Though it pains my wallet I have come to accept the fact that it keeps the wife happy to make this annual sacrifice . . . as we all know, if Mama is happy everyone else is happy.  I like a happy home.

At the end of the mowing season last fall, I swore I was going to get the lawn mower ready for the next mowing season . . . tuned up, blades sharpened, the usual manly stuff.  Well, the yard has been mowed once . . . with a sputtering mower and a dull blade.  How dull is the blade?  To be honest it wouldn’t cut butter much less mow over stubborn grass . . . basically it knock it over.  With my mower you have to sneak up on the lawn.  First you go in one direction, then quickly turn around to catch the grass off guard before doing it a third time.  Usually it looks good for a day or two, but then the unevenness of the grass boldly exerts itself. 

Now I have been swearing this tuning up of the mower for . . . oh say, almost five years.  Every year the yard gets ahead of me . . . I panic . . . gas up the mower—dull blade and all . . . and, I start mowing.  The yard is always one up on me.  I beat the grass into submission.  I have tried cursing the grass, but God is not listening to the prayer . . . no, I think God is having a great chuckle at my expense.

I believe that lawn care . . . especially mowing the lawn . . . is sacrilegious . . . that it goes against what God desires.  If God is all powerful . . . all controlling . . . and wants grass to be a nice level two inches tall; well, then, I think God would have made grass stop growing once it reached two inches in height.  Grass does not stop growing at two inches . . . that expectation comes from the neighbors and the town.  They frown on me letting my lawn grow as God would desire it to grow . . . threaten me with fines if I do not mow my yard.  Hell will be filled with these dogmatic lawn worshippers.  It would be nice if God would send down some horticulturalist with a stone tablet declaring that grass is free to grow . . . but, I guess God had enough of stone tablets after Moses brought down the first set.

Despite the choppiness of the grass, the neighbors and town has to admit that everything is green . . . well, mostly green.  There are those spots in the yard where yellow is making a concerted effort to make it presence known.  Yellow . . . always beautiful against a deep green.  Yellow . . . always the color of dandelions.  It is not even mid-May yet and those little boogers are already making their presence known.  How in the world there is even one dandelion in the yard I cannot understand.  I dug them up . . . ripped them out . . . sprayed them . . . cursed them . . . flipped them off . . . even begged them all last summer to the point that I thought I had finally gotten rid of them when the first snow came.  But . . . NO!  No, they just hid under the snow and waited . . . waited until the grass turned green and made their appearance with a vengeance. 

If it were not for the neighbors . . . the town . . . or what the horticulturalist gurus espouse, I’d let them go.  Take a look at the picture above . . . beautiful isn’t it?  But they are dandelions . . . dreaded and cursed dandelions!  Dandelions are a pretty flower . . . even when they go to seed.  I cannot wait until I have the opportunity to teach the granddaughter how to blow the seeds off of dandelions . . . she will love it.  We will rejoice in the joy of the experience . . . especially as I teach her to blow them towards the neighbors’ yards.  They should experience the joy we are experiencing.

Dandelions are not the only weeds overtaking the yard.  There are other weeds.  I always tell folks that I just mow them down because without them . . . well, without them I have no yard. 

This evening I sat on the deck, a light mist falling from the sky, watching for birds.  I surveyed the yard . . . a bright green . . . spring was definitely springing.  The yard was uneven.  There were yellow patches here and there.  I saw plants where there shouldn’t have been plants.  A pang hit my stomach . . . damn, I am already losing . . . the weeds are going to kick my butt.  For a moment I cursed the gardening and lawn care gods with their dogmatic expectations of perfection.  I cursed my inability to control the acts of nature running rampant across the lawn.  I felt like a failure.

At least at first . . . but then I thought, who cares?  After the sacrifice, the flowers will grow.  After the mower knocks the grass down, it will sprout back up.  After the dandelions are picked and blown, they will come back and add color to the deepest green.  The weeds will grow back.  The yard will begin to look like the scenery I see while driving around in the wilderness of Montana . . . beautiful.  God’s handiwork is always beautiful.  Let it grow . . . let it thrive . . . if God wanted it any other way, God would have landscaped it for us.  I relax and accept the fact that whatever I do is good enough for God . . . the neighbors and town, well I guess I could refer them to God.  Let God deal with them.

In the meantime, I am going to relax.  The granddaughter and I are going to have a blast this summer.  Nothing beats blowing the seeds off of a dandelion . . . especially when sharing with the neighbors.  Everyone ought to have a little of God’s handiwork in their yard.  After all, weren’t we all taught to share in kindergarten?  I think so . . .

As we enter into the period of time known as “annua sacrificium” let us rejoice in the power of our sacrifice . . . let us rejoice in the fact that nature is going to do whatever nature wants to do . . . and, despite our best efforts to ruin it all, it still turns out beautiful.  I get over the fifty dollar hit . . . always do.  May the gardening god appreciate the sacrifice . . . now bring on the onslaught!

Beholder

“People often say that 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder,' and I say that the most liberating thing about beauty is realizing that you are the beholder. This empowers us to find beauty in places where others have not dared to look, including inside ourselves.”

(Salma Hayek)

I am guilty . . . but, I am not the only one.  We are all guilty.  I don’t think most of us mean to be guilty, but we are . . . it just happens.  In the realization that it has happened, we know that we are guilty.  What is it that we are guilty of?  Well, we are guilty of being judgmental . . . guilty of being snobbish and non-inclusive . . . guilty of being prejudice knowingly and unknowingly . . . guilty of being incongruent between what we say we believe, what we say, and what we actually do.  We are guilty of being hypocritical.  I am guilty of it . . . most of us are guilty of it. 

Whenever the congregations of the church gather for study, worship, prayer, and fellowship there is going to be a good time.  The brothers and sisters are going to let it all hang out and get into the spirit of hospitality and fellowship.  The Spirit is going to dance with everyone.  People are going to feel good.  There are going to be “hallelujahs” . . . “praise the Lord” . . . and smiles everywhere are people experience a sort of koinonia—a sense of community.  Church gatherings are always a blast as the brothers and sister come together . . . and, this past weekend it was no different as the communion I am associated with came together for its annual meeting . . . there was a feeling of “common unity” or community . . . koinonia. 

Yet, as perfect as that picture was . . . the body of Christ celebrating, worshipping, praying, and fellowshipping with as one . . . cracks were appearing from the git go.  Cracks that as the weekend went on became more apparent . . . and the guilt came seeping in to my mind and my heart.  As much as we all wanted to embrace this time of wholeness and holiness, the truth of the matter is that the edges of the picture was fuzzier than most of us would have imagined.  In the shadows . . . what was that that was lurking in the shadows . . . or, more importantly, who was that lurking in the shadows?

From time to time I ask the congregation that I serve to take a moment and look around the sanctuary . . . to look around the sanctuary and see who is not there.  I challenge them to look at the table—the Lord’s Table—and see who is not there.  It is peculiar to me how the “church” or the “body of believers” can say one thing while something completely different is the reality.  I cannot think of a “church” or “body of believers” that does not believe and state that they believe that Jesus and God loves everyone . . . EVERYONE.  So, we need to be reminded from time to time to look around the table . . . to look around the sanctuary . . . to see who is not there.

For the most part I do not believe that this exclusion is purposeful . . . I just think that, for the most part, we are just not conscious of it.  It might be because we live in pretty homogeneous communities where everyone pretty much does look and act like everyone else.  It might be that we have old church structures that are inaccessible.  Who knows?  The facts are the facts and they show that our communities of faith are pretty segregated . . . by race, age, abilities, gender, income, education, and so on.  Yet, each and every one of these communities of faith state that they welcome all to join them . . . to become one of the family.  So, why are there empty seats at the table?

My guilt hit me as the wife and I were decompressing from the weekend festivities on our long drive home.  She shared a conversation she had with another person who had been in attendance at this “family” gathering . . . how she and her husband had left their daughter home because they did not feel that she was “welcomed”.  Their daughter struggles with mental illness . . . she can be loud, unruly, and at times seem inappropriate.  This woman said that there was no place for her daughter in the church . . . the church could not handle her behavior, didn’t know how to respond, how to be hospitable to someone who was “different” than the rest.  No youth retreats . . . no church camp . . . no church gathering.  The crack widen.

I mentioned how there had been a call for help to those who were gathered.  How I witnessed one offer her services to help . . . but was refused.  She more than anyone wanted to handle.  Now, she was not refused gruffly . . . but, denied anyway.  I witnessed how others were embraced in their offers, while others were gently put off.  The crack widened a little more.

The youth . . . the good ol’ future of the church . . . they were missing for the most part too.  True, youth can be noisy, loud, rowdy, inappropriate, whiny, and more of a hassle than a help . . . but, aren’t we all?  Oh, we saw glimpses of them here and there, but they were never really fully welcomed into the fellowship as full members of the group.  For some reason they just sort of showed up for a few things here and there . . . didn’t really participate in the conversation . . . in the fellowship.  The crack . . . grew a little more.

People of color . . . well, we were pretty lily white . . . and, we were pretty old . . . as the ones who gathered from around the state.  Sunday morning, well the host congregation muddied up the waters . . . but, outside of the national speakers, there was very little color in our gathering . . . very few youth . . . it continued to widen this crack that started out so fine that the naked eye could not see it.

People of disabilities . . . again, few and far between.  There were a few in wheelchairs . . . and, a few others.  For the most part, we were a pretty healthy group.

I do not want anyone who reads this to think that this was not a wonderful event . . . a wonderful celebration . . . a worthy mark in the spiritual journey.  It was.  There speakers inspired . . . the music was beautiful . . . the hospitality was gracious . . . the fellowship fun . . . it was a great event.  Probably one of the best that our gathering has thrown in a long, long time . . . but despite the wondrous joy of it all, there were cracks in our gathering, shadows on the edge, and people missing from the table.  And, for the most part, it was unintentional . . . sins of omission.  I do not think that anyone purposefully set out to exclude anyone . . . but, it happened.  So, mixed in the joy I felt was guilt.

I like the quote above by Salma Hayek who reminds us that we are the “beholders” . . . we are the ones who hold the key to the gate.  If beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder . . . the beholder is the one who controls the gate for who gets in and out . . . then what does it say about us as beholders when we look around and realize how empty the table really is?  I doubt if many of us really take the time to examine our “likes” and “dislikes” as we go about our daily lives . . . to listen to our words and compare then to what we do.  Are they congruent . . . or do we walk a different talk than we talk?  As I said, we are all guilty of it.

The Spirit works in mysterious ways in each of our lives.  Sometimes (if not a whole bunch of the time) we miss the Spirit’s prodding in our lives.  It was a beautiful drive through the mountains and landscape of Montana as we returned from the church gathering.  Yet, the Spirit was there working . . . poking . . . challenging . . . and, ripping open those cracks letting the sun shine through.  Guilt should not be embraced, but should be explored . . . explored for its root causes . . . to open up what it is exactly about ourselves that we did not like.  In the conversation of the journey, I came to realize that I still have a long way to go . . . I came to realize that the church has a long ways to go.  There are still those in the shadows . . . those on the edge . . . those missing from the table.  Sometimes I and others stumble into the kingdom, but more often than not we trip right over the opportunities without ever realizing it.  Yep, that is the Spirit at work.

The theme of our church gathering was based on the story of the Good Samaritan and Jesus’ challenge to “go and do” . . . to “go and do” as the Samaritan did in the story.  It was a rousing challenge and charge . . . one that I think many embraced . . . and, it scratched my heart and soul as it prodded me to reflect and pray . . . where do I “go and do”?  Where do I start?  I start with the Beholder . . . I start with myself.  If there were those who were absent from the table then it is up to me to invite them, assist them, and to stand by them so that the other Beholders can begin to see them.  It is my voice that must be the voice for those in the shadows . . . those who are forgotten.  It is I who needs to start living koinonia . . . living in the common unity of being God’s creations and children . . . if I am to be honest is getting up to “go and do”.  It is amazing what a little guilt can do to one’s spirit.

It was a wonderful weekend.  It was filled with honest joy and worship.  It had great fellowship.  As one who beholds—as a Beholder—the journey begins with me as I begin to clear my vision to embrace the eyes of the One who Beholds me . . . the One who sees beauty in me . . . loves me . . . and accepts me for who I am.  May all the Beholders find this same vision and beauty.

Stuck in Time

It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school.  My military father had finally succeeded in getting transferred from the paradise of Colorado to a real military base in Bellevue, Nebraska . . . not quite the beauty of Colorado.  But . . . I got a reprieve.  My parents agreed to allow me to stay an extra two months in the mountains of Colorado to be a counselor at the Lions Camp for the Deaf and Blind in Woodland Park.  So, they packed up the car with their suitcases and my siblings and headed off to the Cornhusker state . . . leaving me the dust of a camp with a group of strangers . . . strangers that were college students and teachers in schools . . . to spend a summer camping with kids whose only real disabilities is that they had a hard time hearing and seeing.  It was a blast . . .

. . . and, it was an education.  That was the summer I learned a lot about life . . . learned a lot about the counter-culture of the early 1970s . . . learned that not everyone was like the people I had lived with on a military base.  And, I learned about music . . . all sorts of music.  I learned to love the sultry music of Roberta Flack . . . the haunting metal of Led Zepplin . . . the acid influence of the Beatles . . . the gentle folk of James Taylor . . . the longing of John Denver . . . the mystical Moody Blues . . . and, the beautiful lullabies of Carole King.  That was the summer I was introduced to Tapestry . . . Carole King’s defining musical tribute to a generation that often found itself lost and then found again in the lyrics and music of that time.  I fondly remember lying in a field in the mountains of Colorado . . . viewing an infinity of stars dotting the darkness of the night . . . and hearing the songs of Carole King echoing through the darkness.

Carole King was one of the musical idols that defined my life . . . she is firmly etched in my memories and mind.  I can close my eyes and picture her sitting in the window still . . . the sun shining in . . . she looked like everyone else in that summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school.  That is how I remember her . . . how I picture her in my mind whenever I hear her voice singing.

It is funny how we get stuck in time.  I am much older now than then, yet when I hear Carole King singing I picture a Carole King from nearly forty years ago . . . young, wild, and vibrant.  The problem is . . . well, the problem is . . . reality.  None of us can avoid the motion of time.  We all age.  Forty years ago I had hair . . . lots of hair, curly hair.  Forty years ago I was young . . . semi-wild . . . and, full of life.  Now, well now, I have very little hair . . . have a heck of a lot more of me than forty years ago . . . not even sure what the word “wild” means . . . and, life, I am just happy to wake up every morning and see that my name is not in the obituaries.

At least that is how it is until I hear music.  Music throws me back into time.  Moves me back into those moments in my life when I first heard a particular song or artist.  Makes me remember the way things used to be, not the way that things are.  Carole King comes on and there I am again . . . in a Colorado field, watching the stars, and being sung to sleep by a musical angel.  Happens every time . . . and there I am, stuck in time.

Then reality strikes . . . sometimes the reality is of our own making.  This past weekend Carole King (who is a resident of Idaho) was in the state of Montana stumping for her friend who was one of the Democratic candidates to be a senator for Montana.  She was playing two benefit concerts . . . intimate affairs for sixty people . . . and, all it would cost is a hundred dollars.  One of the concerts happened to be in Missoula where the wife and I were scheduled for our annual church conference.  Anyone who knows me knows that I am pretty tight with money . . . and, yes, I do squeak when I walk across the room . . . and, a hundred dollars times two (Carole King is the wife’s favorite singer/songwriter) is two hundred bucks and my wallet was getting cramps from the very thought of me spending that sort of money for an intimate concert with Carole King. 

Yet, in retrospect, I surprised myself when I offered to pay for the wife and I to attend the benefit . . . my wallet fainted.  But . . . NO . . . the wife reminded me that we were in Missoula for Jesus and God and the church . . . we were not going to the benefit and let down the holy trinity of Jesus, God, and church.  I said that I think Jesus would take advantage of an intimate concert with Carole King . . . that God would understand . . . and, that the church would eventually forgive us.  That is when she told me that I could go by myself if I wanted to go . . . but she said it in that voice that really meant, “If you go, you can find someplace else to sleep tonight.”  So, I went to the church conference . . . looked around for Jesus and God, but couldn’t find either one of them.  Later heard that they were at the concert.

Basically moped around for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours . . . lamenting that I had missed an opportunity to sit in a room with a small group with one of my musical idols.  Then I found out that she was going to do a rally in the park in Missoula . . . a political rally . . . free hot dogs . . . free pop . . . and, the possibility of Carole King actually singing.  But it would be in the afternoon between noon and three . . . with a six hour drive still ahead for us to get home.  But there was hope . . . I cajoled the wife in letting me have the chance to see if we could catch her before we left.  Surprising, mainly because we went for ice cream at noon, she granted me the opportunity . . . off to the park we went.

Of course when we got there some band was playing, but not Carole.  I wandered through the crowd thinking she might be standing off to the side . . . but, she was nowhere in the crowd.  The wife and I stood there . . . with me hoping . . . that maybe she would pop up on the stage from the back, but she was not there.  So we headed back towards the parking lot . . . back to the car . . . and the long, long trip back home without ever seeing or hearing Carole King.  As usual, a missed opportunity.

Off we trudged . . . my head down.  Then the wife tapped me on the shoulder and pointed . . . there she was!  Less than ten feet from me, standing on some steps, smiling, shaking hands, and talking.  Dumbfounded, I walked towards her.  I reached out my hand, mumbled some silly statement about how her music touched my life and how honored I was to meet her . . . to shake her hand.  And, then she talked to me . . . held my hand, looked me in the eyes, and told me to remember to vote.  Needless to say, I was in heaven . . . so was the wife.  The wife was so enamored that she signed up to campaign for the candidate.  Then Carole King went up on the stage, made a rousing speech, and then began to sing . . . she sang six songs from her most popular and defining album, Tapestry.  The six hour drive home flew by.

To be honest, for a moment, I did not recognize Carole King . . . she was older . . . she was more wrinkly . . . her hair was grayer . . . she had crow’s feet when she smiled.  This was an older person standing before me . . . a person who, like the rest of us, could not escape time.  This was not the Carole King that resided in my memory or mind . . . this was an older, more mature woman . . . a woman who looked as if she had lived life well, enjoyed life, and made the most of the time she had been blessed with.  The person before me met the person I once imagined . . .

Then she began to sing.  Oh, how that woman can sing.  That sweet voice.  That magnificence smile.  Those twinkling eyes.  The voice and music echoed through my mind . . . through my memory . . . and I closed my eyes.  I was back in that field on a starry Colorado night . . . I was stuck in time.  I was not longer that man in his mid-fifties . . . no, I was that fifteen year old kids enraptured by a voice and an image . . . full of life.  It was a bittersweet moment and nearly brought a tear to my eyes.

I love music and its ability to transport me back in time . . . in its ability to allow me to fade away and remember a gentler time . . . in its ability to make me happy and to forget my troubles and concerns, even if it is only for a few moments.  It is a gift.  It is a blessing.  And, as I get older I find myself appreciating it more and more.  I don’t mind pausing for a moment, closing my eyes, and being stuck in time . . . sometimes that is the only thing that gets me through the day.

Yeah, the Carole King of my memory and the Carole King of today do not match up very well . . . we’ve all gotten older.  But, I noticed that when she sang . . .she closed her eyes . . . closed her eyes and got stuck in time . . . to gentler times . . . times of laying out in a field on a starry night, watching the stars shoot by, and being young once again.  It is a gift . . . a blessing . . . and, each generation has it memories.

This is the Carole King of today:

Close your eyes . . . be stuck in time . . . it is a gift . . . it is a blessing.