Again Jesus began to teach beside the sea. Such a very large
crowd gathered around him that he got into a boat on the sea and sat there,
while the whole crowd was beside the sea on the land. He began to teach them
many things in parables, and in his teaching he said to them:
“Listen! A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seed
fell on the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Other seed fell on rocky
ground, where it did not have much soil, and it sprang up quickly, since it had
no depth of soil. And when the sun rose, it was scorched; and since it had no
root, it withered away. Other seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up
and choked it, and it yielded no grain. Other seed fell into good soil and
brought forth grain, growing up and increasing and yielding thirty and sixty
and a hundredfold.” And he said, “Let anyone with ears to hear listen!”
***
Driving back home yesterday I got excited to see what was
new in the manse garden. Before I left, I had spent a weekend moving dirt,
sprinkling grass seed, planting tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers, cosmos and
hosts and bleeding hearts, and about two dozen pots with various lavenders and
chives, and morning glories, and flower seeds in silver, blue and white. Upon
return, I learned I can grow grass and Cosmos, that the sprinkler doesn't reach
the random four foot squared section where I planted the vegetables. I learned
sprinklers every other day in the month June in Eastern Oregon is not enough
water for anything to grow besides Canada Thistle and Pigweed, and that if I’m
going to spend the time planting things, I should also spend the time making
sure the conditions are right. But life is like that sometimes.
Its particularly like that when we’re rushed with too many
things and too little time. Church this year has felt like that, life has felt
like that. I can’t keep up. We can’t keep up. Perhaps by trying to do too much,
without focus, we are simply creating more work for ourselves, two dozen pots
where nothing grew. Maybe it takes ears to hear and listening.
When is the last time you listened to your life? Was it
recent enough to know what its saying? When is the last time you noticed the
patterns of repeated struggles, the rocky ground, the thin soil and the scorching
sun? When’s the last time you named the thorns which chock out your blossoming?
Conversely, when is the last time you took note of what is blooming within you,
and the soil and sun and the rain which allows your flourishing? Do you know,
have you counted your yield?
When I turned thirty I asked for the gift of advice, and
Suzanne Fouty told me to have what she called, ‘touchstone days,’ where a
couple times a year, you take the time to access your life, to note where you
are, and where you want to be, and the distance between, and the things that
are holding you back, and those that are propelling you forward, and those that
find you exactly where you are, etc. etc. Well, for me, traveling alone for
three days by car to plane, then tram to train, from train to train, to ferry,
to bus, to ferry, to rocky path up barren island landscape of short alpine
grass, captured under grey skies, surrounded by blue water, ending at an Iona
Abby, beginning with worship where old moss covered stones echo harmonies as
desolate, harrowing, and scared as the grave, and in like manner lift, to that
which transcends words and notes and sound itself, there was nothing to do but
listen, to the emptiness, to the quiet, to the place of feeling beyond
thinking, to the place of watching beyond doing, to the place of being stripped
down to shivering bone and (breaking) beating heart, senses heightened to the
simple interactions of a community of transient pilgrims shifting equally with
the North Wind, which set forth our visible breath, spiraling,
“I will weep when you are weeping
When you laugh, I’ll laugh with you
I will share your joy and sorrow
Till we’ve seen this journey through.
When we sing to God in heaven
We shall find such harmony
Born to all we’ve known together
Of Christ’s love and agony”
It was a touchstone moment, and if I am honest it was two,
that I hate being cold, but yet, even still, worship, in moments when it
transcends, is inseparable from who I am and my connection to all of creation
and life itself. That, and I will never go to Europe
again before late July or August. Warmth and worship, two things that are some
of my deepest soil, where my roots can dig down, where I can flourish if I
don't just rush through. On the plane ride over, I had put together most of the
summer’s worship, and a decent amount of Fall’s, but there in that Abby, I knew
I had to plan to sit in the heat of backyard this summer and plan Advent
through Ordinary Time. I knew I needed it, and I knew we as a congregation
needed more spirituality, and were ready for a deeper worship. This is the
patch of new thick neon grass at the manse, and the cosmos that grow whimsey
and wild within me.
I wonder where do you have to go to be away enough to listen
to silence? Whom do you need to see to let go? Whom do you have leave for
awhile? What do you need to not be able to do that blows you off track like the
cold North wind? What feelings will you discover beyond thinking? What will you
find yourself watching? What is your place of deepest soil, and what does that
tell you about your calling? What does your calling look like in your church,
your community, the world? And Jesus said, “Let anyone with ears to hear
listen!”
What do we as a church need to do to find a quiet spot to
think, to listen to our calling to our community and the world in praise of
God? What do we need to not be able to do? What feelings will we discover
beyond thinking? What is our place of deepest soil, and what does that tell us
about our calling? And Jesus said, “Let anyone with ears to hear
listen!”
