(Ir)Reverend Ramblings

Hello dear readers – I am basking! Basking in California sunshine. Basking in family hospitality. Basking in the indulgence of delicious food and exceptional wine. Basking in late nights and late mornings. Basking in time to read and sightsee. It is all so therapeutic.

Walter Farquharson wrote the lovely hymn, “Give to Us Laughter”. His lyrics explore the way being together with those you love – laughing and crying together – can give us, as he puts it, “wholeness and health” which are, “the sign of true wealth”. By that standard I am a very wealthy person.

My journey of this week began with an overnight with long-time dear friends. We laughed together about so many things. We laughed heartily till tears rolled. And there were a few stories and reminiscences that brought tears, authentic, heart-felt cleansing tears. My air flight brought me to the sunny shores of California where I have been held in the embrace of family. They have lavished me with conversation and fine food and drink. Really is there anything that can’t be soothed with a delicious glass of wine?

At the same time, I have been keeping in touch back home with my dear Syrian family who came to Canada in 2017 and are devastated by the news of destruction and death following the earthquake in Syria and Turkey. The Bracebridge community have rallied around them offering emotional support and arranging a means for people to make financial donations to send money to the Kurdish community in Northern Syria. There has been, I know, tears and compassion for this family so far away from their roots. Missing home while grateful to be safe in Canada – needing community.

All this has led me to think once again about the power and healing of community. The goodness we can be for one another. Jesus seemed to have gotten this idea and practiced it with ease. So many of the stories we love to hear and love to tell about Jesus are stories of him in community. He gathered people around him. Scripture often mentions him at table with his friends. He shared his deepest thoughts while walking a trail with his disciples. I take heart from these stories. I use them as a model. We are best when we are together.

Last week I went with my sister and brother to see the movie, ‘A Man Called Otto’. Tom Hanks plays the main character, Otto, a grumpy older man who has given up on life. He is critical of everyone and everything. I had seen the trailers and I expected the movie to be humorous. There were some funny bits but mostly I found it to be poignant and thoughtful. Otto was a lonely, grieving man. He had no family and his wife had died and all he really wanted was to die so he could be with her.

Otto’s plan for his demise kept getting interrupted by helpful people. The main help came from a family who moved in next door and just would not leave him alone in his funk. Their interruptions came, at first, because they needed help and then, as they got to know Otto their interruptions were interventions of care and concern. In fact, she was relentless in urging Otto to grow out of his negativity and grief. As Otto received their ministrations he began to remember ways he had helped others in the past and he regained his sense of community and neighborliness. In the end I left the theatre feeling pretty good about humanity and with a lot to ponder about community.

In the church we talk a lot about community. We have shifted from calling congregations just that, congregations, and we now call them communities of faith. We talk about reaching beyond our walls into the local community and into the global community. And we talk about the challenges of living in community. I have known a few people in my congregations over the years who resemble Otto – sad, grumpy, critical and desperately needing the community to remind them they are precious and loved by God … and us.

There is an old gospel hymn, ‘Blest be the tie that binds’. We don’t sing it very often. It is old and the words are dated but the sentiment is applicable and needed more than ever in this post covid reality that we find ourselves in… “Our fears, our hopes, our aims are one, our comforts and our cares.” … “We share each other’s woes, each others burdens bear; and often for each flows the sympathizing tear.”

Community gets practiced in a variety of ways. The most visible is when we gather on Sunday mornings for worship and the richness of community and connection is lived out in the coffee room after the service. It also happens when friends gather around a family who has lost a loved one and when they gather round a family who welcomes a new family member. It happens in simple ways when someone offers a drive to another who has reached the age where driving to church is not possible. It happens in the simple phone call, email or text that says, “How are you doing?”

We human beings are not solitary creatures. Some, like Otto think they are but even he, when push came to shove, felt the love of another and extended that love to those in need.

If you haven’t seen the movie, I recommend it. It leaves you with a lot to think about.

On January 1st we had 9:01:01 hours of daylight. Today we will enjoy 9:21:41 hours of daylight. 21 minutes doesn’t seem like much in a 24 hour day but it sure seems like a lot when it means the sun will brighten the sky for that much longer on a January day. It seems to me that January days are either cold and gray with overcast skies or brilliant and sunny with a sky so blue it almost hurts to look at it. Yesterday was a blue sky day. Today, where I am, the sky is as gray as a muddy puddle and the damp weather chills to the bone. I like sunny, blue sky days better!

It is interesting to me how people feel the need for light. For some of us, darkness can wrap around and bring a sense of comfort and coziness, but for many of us our moods are brightened when there is an abundance of sunlight. In fact SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, can be debilitating for some people. The need for light is so fierce that they feel a slump of energy, become moody, and have to cope with depression.

In the church year, the season after Christmas is Epiphany and its symbolism is light – star light, candle light, moon light, sun light, Christ the light, you name light is light and Epiphany celebrates the coming of light into our world.

Yesterday sunrise was 7:47 and the sun set at 5:07. Today the sun rose at 7:46 and will set at 5:08. We get an extra 1:47 minutes of daylight. Last week, one afternoon, I looked out and realized it wasn’t dark yet. After the weeks of early darkness it felt so refreshing to see the lengthening days.

This coming Sunday, at church, we will sing, “A Light is Gleaming”. One of the lines reads, “So let us live in the brightness God has giv’n, and let us rise to see the dawn.” Well, I am not very good at rising to see the dawn but I do enjoy that the sunset is a little later each day. But there is also a line that says, “When light comes pouring into the darkest place, it hurts our eyes to see the glow.” Are there times when you prefer to stay in the shadows? Or when the light just seems too much to bear? How does light effect you? Are you longing for light or is sitting in the shadow where you need to be right now? I am interested to know how light effects you and if this is a season of comfort or challenge for you.

Do you remember the words, “Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.” We hear it in the Christmas story from the gospel of Luke (2:19). Those are words I have always loved. Truth be told, I have been pondering this post for a couple of weeks now. Pondering, mulling, wondering, ruminating – all those things – in my heart and in my head.

As you might know, during the month of December I spent every Saturday and Sunday dressed in a long red velvet dress with a white wig on my head and gloves on my hands. Dressed as Mrs. Claus to greet children young and old into Santa’s workshop on the Knox Farm. The little ones were variously mystified, terrified or magically drawn to Santa. We welcomed them in and remarked on how much they had grown since last year. We talked to them about their family’s traditions on Christmas Day. We talked about the gifts they hoped for. We asked what they were going to give their parents this year. We reminded them that a surprise gift on Christmas morning was sometimes the best thing. And then, with a cup of hot chocolate we sent them on their way.

Towards the end of the season, Santa (aka my brother) and I had a brief conversation about perpetuating the myth. Were we doing kids a favour? We told them the story about a stranger who would sneak into their house on Christmas Eve and leave presents … if they were on the nice list?!

Then, just days later my little ‘adopted’ Syrian granddaughter, who is seven, and Muslim, and living in a household where Christmas is not the frenetic event it is in many North American homes, asked me, “What is Christmas about anyway?” I told her the story that Christians believe about Jesus. She was filled with questions, the most strident being, “Is it true?” Then I told her the Santa Claus story because that is what she hears her classmates talking about and again she said, “But, is it true?”

Both myths focus on gift giving – the gift of the incarnation and the gifts of toys and filled stockings. The nativity story is deeply Christian and is a treasured reading on Christmas Eve. Many people, who have heard it year after year can almost recite it from memory. It is a universal story that speaks to children and adults alike. The Santa Claus story has Christian origins but then it got highjacked by commercialism. It’s focus is directed to children with the mystery (tinged with greed) of a secretive Christmas Eve delivery.

I confess, there is a part of me, even in my advanced years, that looks up to the sky on Christmas Eve and scans the constellations with the slightest of hope that a messenger dispensing good news and maybe even gifts might appear. Such is the power of myth.

Myth also seeks to explain those things that are unexplainable. The joy that comes from finding the perfect gift to give another. The humility and the inexpressible power of love that overwhelms when we receive something that is so much greater than we deserve. Myth, even the most unbelievable of tales, holds a truth, a kernel of real longing and reality dressed up in story and make-believe.

This year we had several families make the trek to see Santa even though the children were now teenagers and young adults. They laughed at themselves a bit self-consciously, as they explained that a visit to see Santa at the Knox Farm was just part of their Christmas tradition. Tradition undergirds the power of myth. Myth shapes and forms our lives in ways we cannot explain or even understand. We just know it has an important role. For in the end myth makes us human and the Christmas myths make us believe in the goodness of others and the love of God.

I hope Santa was good to you this year. I hope that the babe of the manger found room in your Christmas festivities. I hope that your dreams were crowded with angels and shepherds and magi and the wonder of God coming into our lives with such truth that the story has been told for centuries. I hope you have been able to take the richness of that story and ponder it in your heart.

Merry Christmas on this the fifth day of Christmas. I am still waiting for the delivery of my ‘five golden rings’!!!!

We have passed the mid-point of the month. Where I live, the ground is now white with snow. It feels like winter has come early this year but I think I might say that every year. At the first of this week I was digging the last of my dahlia tubers and trimming the scraggly mums. Yesterday I shoveled the snow aside so I could plant my spring bulbs. Seriously, I did that.

November always seems like a sad month to me. It kicks off with All Saints Day when, within the sugar hangover of Halloween we remember all those people who make up ‘the great cloud of witnesses’. Then there is Remembrance Day. November is also the birthday month of some dearly departed family members – that always tweaks a bit sorrow. November carries with it overcast skies and dropping temperatures. And then there is the time change bringing darkness an hour earlier each afternoon. Sigh.

On Remembrance Day this year I chose to not go to the cenotaph in town. It is in a beautiful setting in Memorial Park, right in the middle of town. The gathering of people, the laying of wreaths, the readings, are all quite moving but I chose instead to spend the time alone at home. At 11:00 I was raking the leaves on my front lawn and I spent that time remembering. As I did, I realized that some of the memories were not my own but memories of what others have told me. One memory was of my mother remembering her mother, my grandmother, who seldom showed deep emotion, but often spent Remembrance Day in tears as she thought of the youth of her generation that went to World War 1 and then the youth of her children’s generation that went off to World War 2. Another was hearing the stories of an uncle I never knew who went off to World War 2 as a young airman and never came home, instead he is buried somewhere in France. My parents and my aunts and uncle would speak of him with fondness. I feel like I knew him, not from my own memory but from memories shared by others.

Remembering is a funny thing – what we remember, how we remember and, even more interestingly, how our memory varies from another even though we both participated in the same event. Also interesting is what sparks a memory. The other day, I opened a box and there was a photo I hadn’t seen for years. It brought back not only the event and the faces of the people gathered there but also the recollection of the sound of their laughter, the scent of their perfume, the tone of their voice. It sparked the memory of the journey to get to the event. It triggered other gatherings with those same people. It teased out memory after memory of laughter and tears, of arguments and joyous reunions. Memories all mingled together.

How many times a day do we begin a sentence with, “I remember”, “I am trying to remember” “I can’t remember”? November – the month of mingled memories. November – as the darkness closes in and much of our environment slips into hibernation we too have the opportunity to go into those caves of memory and think of those places and those people we have loved.

Today promises a cozy afternoon by the fire, a cup of herbal tea, maybe a cookie, and conjuring up the mingled memories of the past. I wish rich and wonderful day dreaming to you.

Thanksgiving weekend for me, and perhaps for you too, meant several generations at the table for dinner. It was delightful, as it always is, to sit with both a younger generation an older generation and the one in between. For a while I was in the younger generation, I graduated to the middle generation, now I sit among the elders. Sigh.

I love to hear the chatter that flows around the table. I eavesdrop into conversations and enjoy whatever the talk is about. This weekend I heard a good one. A grandmother referred to the pound sign (#) and her granddaughter looked beyond puzzled until the one in the middle generation explained pound means hashtag! That made me laugh out loud. Pound means hashtag! What was so clear and understood by my generation was a puzzle to the one down the line who has lived her life in the metric system and probably has no idea what a pound is let alone the symbol for it! Now # means hashtag and that puts me into a whole dialogue that I don’t understand. Hashtags, first used with Twitter and now common on other social media platforms are something I do not understand. I don’t twitter or tweet!

But the whole conversation exchange has left me thinking about words and phrases that have changed meaning or do not get used at all anymore. We don’t really “dial a number” so we? We key it in. We don’t “roll up the window” in our car or “turn the dial” for a new tv station. We seldom lick an envelop because we don’t often write letter and never lick a stamp anymore they come ready to peel and stick. I don’t remember peeling and sticking things when I was a kid, I always had to lick stuff first with that resultant terrible glue taste in my mouth. Drive-throughs and take-outs were not known by my parents generation, the novelty in my youth was going to the A&W when they would bring the food to your car and hang a tray on the car window – remember that? And yet today, can we imagine a world without the convenience of drive-through and take-out? Remember having two keys for your car – one for the ignition and one for the trunk? Now we use a fob – keyless entries started in the early 80’s and quickly became the way of life.

All this translates into church land too. Inclusive language – a hot button issues for many church leaders in the early 80’s is now expected, well, at least in liberal denominations. Hymns that speak of salvation and use blood imagery are not used anymore and we focus more on the work of the Spirit than the need for redemption. We did not sing the hymn, “We Plow the Fields and Scatter” this year because the imagery seems remote from this suburban congregation I am with right now. Because I tend to use the Common Lectionary with its three year cycle of scripture readings for each Sunday I have always kept files of my services so I can refer back to them. When I look at what I was preaching when I began ministry, and the prayer language I used then, I am often slightly embarrassed and I usually end up putting those pages in the recycle bin.

Sometimes we bemoan change and sometimes we rejoice in it. I miss Sunday afternoons when it felt right to do nothing much other than rest and reflect but I do sometimes appreciate the convenience of stopping in at the grocery store on my way home from church. I miss the feeling of it being special when someone called ‘long distance’ and your conversation was treasured because every minute cost money. But I do like being able to pick up the phone at any time and catch up with someone no matter where they live. Phrases like “Hold your horses” and “Hit the hay” speak to our rural heritage but they still occasionally pepper our language.

Curious – what words and phrases have you heard that make you stop and think or maybe make you wonder what they mean or cast you back to a day of your youth? Let me know – this could be fun!

As you know I am well into my second gig of half-time ministry. This time the minister is on sabbatical and I am filling in for three months. This faith community, like the last one, is located very near where I grew up. In fact, the High School I attended is just a three minute walk down the road.

This congregation is lively and thriving and I am having a great time working with the folks here. They are flexible and accommodating and, most important of all, fun to be with.

Like last time, I am staying with my brother for the half a week that I am here. We get along well and usually end the day watching a little Netflix or catching up on the news. His house is very comfortable and his hospitality is beyond welcoming. It is my home away from home. But here’s the thing … it feels like I am NEVER at HOME. And I miss it! When I do get to my Bracebridge house I have to tend to the house and the garden, do my laundry, catch up on the mail and before I know it, it is time to leave again. I can manage the odd visit with a friend. This week I have to try to squeeze in a haircut and an oil change for my car.

The other challenge is remembering where stuff is. The book I go to grab is at the church … or at the house … wherever I am not. The food I thought was in the fridge is actually in the other fridge at the other place. The notes I made for my sermon got left on the other desk, that one that is there, not here. Arghh!

I am not complaining, not really, because I do love these short term opportunities with different congregations. What I have realized is how important to me it is to be rooted. To have a place that is home. To feel an at-home routine. But here’s the rub – when I am home without commitments I am bored. Yep, I am a restless cat these days – wanting to be busy and wanting to be still, wanting to have something going on and wanting to relax. I am always wanting the other.

Here is my goal for this week… to know that what I have is enough. To accept that what I do is enough. To see that where I am is where I am meant to be. To believe that the Spirit has called me to this time, this place, this moment and to rest in it. To trust that there is something that transcends impermanence.

My self-absorption with my picayune problems pale in significance to those who have seen their houses swept away by Hurricane Fiona. My longing for home is ridiculous in the face of the loss and devastation the people on the east coast have experienced. But I long ago learned that by comparing my problems to someone who has bigger problems does not erase mine. It just puts them into a different perspective.

Julian of Norwich, that slightly odd Christian mystic from the Middle Ages, famously said, “All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” I think we can hear that statement of faith in the broadest cosmic sense. Sometimes it calls us to lean into our discomfort and sorrow as deeply as we do our joy and delight. Sometimes it requires we lean heavily on those around us who offer support and kindness as surely as it sometimes means providing that care for others. Sometimes it means living with our restlessness and accepting it as graciously as we accept those days of peace. So I am learning that it doesn’t matter if I am here or there, there or here. What matters is resting in the presence of the Spirit.

The virus caught up with me. Like so many others, I tested positive last week and spent 5 days cooling my heels in isolation. Thankfully I was one of the lucky ones who had light impact and no lingering effects. In fact, it gave me a few days to get some rest and catch up on some Netflix.

One day during my time of separation someone ring my doorbell. I positioned myself half way behind the door as I opened it and I said immediately, “I am Covid positive.” She jumped back. I mean it. She wasn’t close to the door, and therefore me, in the first place, but the threat of being exposed to Covid caused her to literally leap back. She was dropping something off and she said. “I will just leave it here on the step.” and then she hustled back to her car.

It made me think of all the times in history when illness or plague threatened the population with the resultant need for separation. I thought of the stories from the gospels when those with leprosy would have to shout, “Unclean.” “Unclean” as they travelled through a village or town so that people would keep a distance due to its infection rate. I thought of the years when people would not say the word cancer and the disease was barely whispered about. I thought about the years when AIDS patients were shunned and locked away for fear that they would spread their illness. I had only five days, but even in those five days, I felt the sting of others being afraid of what might happen if they were too close to me. I was so relieved when the test came back negative and I knew I was free of the virus.

The experience taught me anew the power of rejection and the isolation of being feared, not for who I am but for what I might quite innocently carry. It reminded me of the power of touch and the impact it must have had when Jesus reached out and touched those with leprosy. Was that the real miracle of healing? Bridging the gap between one well and one not? I remember when it was so revolutionary for Diana, Princess of Wales to touch those with AIDS and thereby help them feel accepted and cared for.

This past Sunday, even though I felt well, and even though I trusted that most of the people at the church were healthy, I kept my hands in my pockets so I would not be tempted to shake hands. One person said, “Can I give you a hug?” and I said, “No, I don’t think that is a good idea.” But there is something so debilitating and isolating about building boundaries instead of bridges.

I don’t have answers to this dilemma. I don’t want to get sick and I don’t want to share illness. But I also don’t like the feeling of being, “Unclean”!

I have had a few conversations lately with people who are struggling with their relationships… primary couple relationships, son/daughter relationships, and troubled friendships. I have come to the conclusion that relationships and family dynamics can be messy, hard, and sometimes downright ugly.

It is difficult to listen to people’s stories when they are in pain. It is also very hard to resist rushing in with advice on how to fix things. Or, worse still, to take on the load of pain and sorrow as if it were my own. I have to keep reminding myself that it is important to listen but it is not my story. I can be sympathetic, reassuring and kind without being a problem solver. This is especially hard when it is someone we are close to and we want to help them shoulder their pain and unhappiness. I have to step back and take a deep breath and try to find that fine balance between being supportive and caring but keeping apart enough to be objective and let other people’s story be their story and only theirs.

I remember times in my own life, when telling my story, I have wanted to talk it through to someone, in order to get a perspective as it is often in the way I tell something that I am able to sort out what it really bothering me or what is the nub of pain and heartache. If a sympathetic listener rushes in with a solution or advice too quickly it just frustrates and aggravates me. But, oh wow, it is hard to sit by and watch someone’s life unravel and not just want to put a band aid on it for them.

Given the challenge of human dynamics, and the varying rate of personal growth it is not the least bit surprising that relationships that once worked, that were in fact a dream come true, hit bumps and wrinkles. Sometimes we can work them out and sometimes we have to close a chapter on that part of our life and move on. Oh, that hurts so. But it is also equally true that relationships that were challenged and unhappy can be resolved and find a new way to flourish.

I like that word – flourish. Flourish – to be growing, vigorous, and healthy. Wouldn’t it be great if our human dynamics, our relationships could all flourish? I am sure that is what we are called to work towards, healthy, vigorous families; growing, supportive loving partnerships; sensitive and flexible and understanding friendships. Ah, yes and Utopia would be a great place to live in too! Because, as I said when I think honestly about relationships they can be messy, hard and sometimes downright ugly.

I often try to put my ramblings into a Christian faith context. There are several stories in the Gospels about Jesus and the disciples mixing it up around their friendship, their relationships and their goals and ambition. Jesus seemed to be able to walk that line of patience and clarity. He didn’t get drawn into the drama. He would listen and then speak clearly into the dialogue as to what were the priorities for the way forward. That doesn’t always work in the mix up of family dynamics but I think it is a hint as to how we might shape the way we live through our struggles and support others as they muck about in the chaos of life.

Frank Sinatra sang it, “… Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention…” I have been thinking about regrets because I just finished reading the book by Matt Haig called ‘The Midnight Library’. In it the main character, Nora, decides she is tired of her life, tired of living and decides to end it all. She ‘wakes’ up in the midnight library. There, accompanied by her elementary school librarian Mrs. Elm, she is compelled to look into a book that contains all the regrets she has from her life. As she considers each regret she is given the book that tells how her life would have turned out had she made a different choice. It is an engaging read, a great summer read, and has left me reflecting on the impact regrets have on how we live out our life.

I confess regrets are part of my reflections somedays. ‘If only’ and ‘what if’ can pepper my thoughts as I consider how my life has turned out. Let me hastily add that I am not disappointed with my life and I am no where close to feeling the depths of despair that forced poor Nora to enter the midnight library. I have had a great career in a vocation I felt called to, I had a great marriage and am generally satisfied with how things have turned out for me. But I do sometimes ruminate on what would have happened had I made a different choice when a choice had to be made. And yes, that does lead to regretting some of the things I chose to do or chose to say or which decision I chose to make. The interesting thing about visiting the regrets of life is that we generally think that if we had made a different choice life would have been better. But, of course the likelihood of that is slim to none. I think we generally make the best decision at the time based on the information we have at the time. It is only in retrospect we think we could have done better, been better, acted better.

For many years the Prayer of Confession was a regular part of the liturgy in a church service. It gave people the opportunity to name those things, those sins, those actions that caused them regret or pain or were simply the wrong thing to do. I have noticed that confession, like the word sin, has fallen out of favour. I think it is because it feels negative, disempowering, even depressing to think of what we did wrong. But, in truth, there is a role for confession and reviewing our past, not to wallow in our sins and errors but to put them behind us, to gain perspective, and to move on with a healthier attitude.

In the book Nora discovered that some of her possible lives were good, some were great, some were terrible. And that is the truth of it. Choices mean consequences. So, yes Frank, regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention. How about you? Are there regrets in your life you can’t shake off?