Tuesday, July 22, 2014

like a hen collects her chicks under her wings

At prayer this morning (beginning at Mark 15:37)

Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!”

There were also women looking on from a distance; among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joses, and Salome. These used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee; and there were many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem.

There were only women watching him die.
Is this because they had nothing more to lose
that without him they were as good as dead any way

Is this because men can't cry,
which isn't true because I have seen plenty,
or perhaps, because they are men,
they thought they still had much to lose

Is it an icon of sorts, in words,
that only the those on the bottom rung
have heart enough for eyes to see and ears to hear

I don't know.

I do know that the one who knew first,
who first told of new and unexpected life
was throttled with the name 'whore'
was labeled as one possessed with demons
was caged by reputation for eons

the women could only be virgin or whore
not the 'providers' they were

Jesus, our Mother,
who like a hen collects her chicks under her wings

Jesus, like a mother you gather your people to you; •
you are gentle with us as a mother with her children.
Often you weep over our sins and our pride, •
tenderly you draw us from hatred and judgement.
You comfort us in sorrow and bind up our wounds, •
in sickness you nurse us, and with pure milk you feed us.
Jesus, by your dying we are born to new life; •
by your anguish and labour we come forth in joy.
Despair turns to hope through your sweet goodness; •
through your gentleness we find comfort in fear.
Your warmth gives life to the dead, •
your touch makes sinners righteous.
Lord Jesus, in your mercy heal us; •
in your love and tenderness remake us.
In your compassion bring grace and forgiveness, •
for the beauty of heaven may your love prepare us.
Anselm of Canterbury

Monday, July 21, 2014

the belly of death itself

'We should fill up the tank,' I said.
'What tank,' Joel said.
'The propane tank.'
'It is. Got filled last week.'
'Oh,' I said.
'Why?' he said.
'Because propane is only $1.50 a gallon right now...'

--at least, that is what I heard at the wake last night. The local propane company won't offer any contracts for a gas price for the winter months. They fill it when they fill at whatever price. During the worst of the winter, propane was sent to the south first, and we paid over $5 a gallon for it up here. Pipes froze all over the place.

I remember the bite of winter --and I think about having a shiver, but I can't. It is supposed to be 101 degrees today here, with rain. Rain would be nice. One of my weather gadgets has a feature that identifies the locations of active fires and the resulting smoke and where it is blowing. The smoke is so thick over us right now I can hardly see the tops of the trees just beyond the tin tipis behind our house.

Here is the link to that gadget. It will probably open up to your location --but there is a list of options that can be shown in a column on the right --scroll down, and click 'Fires'.... you will see the smoke clouds shown in gray. (You can travel the globe by using the direction arrows in the upper left corner.)

101 degrees. With rain. I can only hope it rains AFTER the burial... standing out in the muck and heat, watching men sling heavy mud that won't come off the shovel will not be... well, what's the word... conducive to prayer --except that prayer of a certain kind, laced with absurdity and expletives deleted.

--although, the jokes might be really good... Somebody told me this winter, when snow would not come off my shovel, to use 'Pam' --that non-stick spray stuff... I wonder if it would work with mud, too... perhaps I shall stick some in my sacristy purse...

--I keep meaning to buy rubber garden boots...

And these are the hardly deep, hardly meaningful thoughts wandering 'round in my brain --on the Monday of a week where this little prairie town will bury three folks --one last week, three this week... one elder --a holy death, and the grief is different than the other three who are all in their mid-thirties. Lives captive to inherited grief. Born in to a system of grief and despair so overwhelming...

--and the system can't be broken from the outside. The will and the strength and the courage to do that must come from the inside. And that is where I see hope. Because the foundation for that is being constructed. Some might not see it. But I do. Little by little --not in a cohesive plan. Not in a linear fashion. But by the power of the Spirit.

Joel and I were watching our Korean dramas that we like to watch --and one of them was set in the 1880s --with the introduction of guns from the west in to a sword culture --and the devastating shock --all protocol, all custom, all that was known about honor and death --sent right out the window.

But I was also watching the cultural responses to such swift and devastating pressures that were part of the background of this particular drama. I was watching the political machinations --do we allow this in the country --or that --do we allow ships from Japan or the West --what about the science, the medicine --the whole cultural system trying to figure out what was going to be good and/or healthy for them as the tidal wave hit them. They had tried to regulate it all, tried to shut out those things they did not want --but it didn't work... and soon all of Korea was occupied by Japan --and soon again Korean language, culture, food ways, religion --all of them outlawed by the occupiers.

The shutting down of their borders and the devastation that followed was equaled only in what happened to their souls --trying to keep it alive within... the common people bearing the sins of the wealthy, the greedy, the motives and goals of the occupiers...

Most contemporary Korean dramas focus on the interplay of the old and embracing the new stuff from the West --and a new occupier, a new border enforcer, the United States.

In cultural dynamics writ large, there are great commonalities between what I see around me, and what is portrayed on the Korean screen. A culture under duress from overwhelming outside forces.

I can only recall, biblically, the first destruction of the Temple, the people carried away in captivity --the changes, the survival... and note the death and the birth pangs here.

But this week, the people we bury here are known to me. Their lives. Their humor. Their hands. It is not a history, an anthropological description and analysis.

It is Arlen. And Stella. And Herman. And Jeanne.

And, so, in the midst of that, I watch my weather gadgets and smoke plumes. I remember the cost of propane last winter. I think about putting slip-off grease stuff in my sacristy bag. I remind Joel to take his pills. And turn on the A/C. It's going to be hot. Too hot.

Momentary distractions...

And I offer up to God my unwillingness to dig deep into the grief at this moment. I offer up to God my willingness to carry it for a time. I know. I see.

And I wait, expectantly. In great hope.

At prayer this morning (Matthew 26:36-46)

Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.”

He took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be grieved and agitated. Then he said to them, “I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me.”

And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want.”

Then he came to the disciples and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, “So, could you not stay awake with me one hour? Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

Again he went away for the second time and prayed, “My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.” Again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy.

So leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same words. Then he came to the disciples and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? See, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. See, my betrayer is at hand.”


Yes, I avert my eyes every now and then...

Yes, I sometimes sleep.

But the Great Betrayal is always before us all. Always at hand.

--as is the horror of the death of Good Friday. The despair of the prolonged hours of Holy Saturday.

And unexpected life. Not called back to the same old life. But busting wide open the belly of death itself...


Saturday, July 19, 2014

joy comes in the morning

The sky.... where is the forest fire? The sun is like an orange moon...

Went to the hospital late. Another death.

Fr. B is coming over early to clear branches away from the roof.
I will pick them up and carry them to the dumpster.
Then they drive back to Chicago.
Thank you guys.

A Mission Council meeting in the morning.
Prayers for the dead this evening.
Church tomorrow --a couple of times. A hundred miles apart. At the least.
A wake tomorrow night. A funeral Monday.

And I am so grateful --that is too soft a word... but it's all I got. Grateful to serve here.

At prayer this morning (Psalm 30)

I will exalt you, O LORD,
because you have lifted me up *
and have not let my enemies triumph over me.

O LORD my God, I cried out to you, *
and you restored me to health.
You brought me up, O LORD, from the dead; *
you restored my life as I was going down to the grave.

Sing to the LORD, you faithful servants; *
give thanks for the remembrance of God’s holiness.
For God’s wrath endures but the twinkling of an eye, *
God’s favor for a lifetime.

Weeping may spend the night, *
but joy comes in the morning.
While I felt secure, I said,
“I shall never be disturbed. *
You, LORD, with your favor, made me as strong as the mountains.”
Then you hid your face, *
and I was filled with fear.
I cried to you, O LORD; *
I pleaded with the Lord, saying,
“What profit is there in my blood, if I go down to the Pit? *
will the dust praise you or declare your faithfulness?
Hear, O LORD, and have mercy upon me; *
O LORD, be my helper.”

You have turned my wailing into dancing; *
you have put off my sack-cloth and clothed me with joy.
Therefore my heart sings to you without ceasing; *
O LORD my God, I will give you thanks for ever.

Off I go.
Always, joy.

Friday, July 18, 2014

what. if.

I don't know how he got so ragged looking --unkempt
my littlest dog
keeping cookies in his beard
dragging garden beetles on his back into my bed

I caught him tasting shed snake skin
out by the stoop
a summer delicacy
picking pistachio nut shells up
from the rug
running away when I say drop it
when I clap my hands

he comes when he chooses if I call his name
but always if I call the other dog's name
who is obedient enough to shame me
before God and all creation
imagine, he says as he sits or comes,
imagine me telling you what to do,
and then he bows his head
like a bird with beak under the wing

and in the yard
they share the chase of the same red ball
the littlest one faster than lightening, leaping on ahead
turning, and cheering the other on

they both avoid where the prairie cactus grows
tunneling as it does
in a subterranean mass under the fence
erupting in to the sun where I sheer the grass short
a border ignored
like so many other borders

both of my dogs undocumented,
sprung from jail cells
that smelled of urine and reeked with disease
I know they remember
sometimes it is a ghost I can see
in their eyes

we had a boy once, a beautiful brown boy
sprung from a border patrol cell
his prints not found in the system
because he chewed on his fingers
for that very reason
and we were told he had come here as a child
a victim of untold abuse
seeking refuge
so many ghosts in his eyes

but he was just a felon from Texas
willing to tell a story,
any story when he got swept up in that net
he was just a kid
with gang tattoos
doing his best to hide

the ghosts were real

he would have liked the snake skin
and the pistachios
and the way the cactus ignored the fence

there is not a mother here
who does not laugh at something in summer
when things should be easier
except to feel the searing loss too
having watched that labored breathing
in the dance of death

there is not a mother here
who doesn't wonder
what if

At prayer this morning (Romans 12:9-21)

Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor.

Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord.

Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer.

Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers.

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.

Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are.

Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all.

If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.

Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.”

No, “if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.”

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

The Christian commandments.
Let's tattoo them on our hands.
Let's nail them to our door posts and kiss them as we go in and out.

What. If.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

certainly not conformed

Dawn happened, already filled with the sound of tractors and mowers. The air is filled with that dust and roar --a strangely comforting sound, even in the morning. Usually the Tribe mows the grasses and weeds behind our house, but they haven't this year. Perhaps it is because it has been so wet, one couldn't take equipment in... What I do know is that the weeds have harbored water, and the mosquitoes are rampant. And huge. At times, even in the heat of the day, they have been so thick, it's dangerous to talk, or to try to stand still.

Actually, there has been no way to stand still. The swatting and slapping and ducking have been a strange dance, of sorts. And the welts have been terrible --lasting for days, itching and swelling like crazy.

Last night, as I came home from the hospital, I saw the hinged bi-fold plywood sign with neon green poster paper taped to it standing in the middle of the street in front of the police station. In a felt-tip scrawl, it read: "Mosquito spraying tonight. Low flying air craft." And just as I read it, I saw the air craft buzz over the largest swampy area east of town --behind my house, heading over to the park where a softball game pushed back at the growing night.

'The moon,' I remember thinking to myself. 'Where's the moon?' I looked to the sky, but saw only clouds --dark and flat underneath, stretched and scattered above. Instead of the moon, I saw a cloud T-Rex with antlers and a too-long tail. And I laughed at that. A T-Rex with antlers.

We had prayed together, a comfort service, a gathering for the grieving family, a meal shared, the elders and children fed in that in-between time before the plans for the funeral are set in to action. And then I had gone to the hospital --hospice. A young mother. Her children, sitting deep in their chairs, unbelieving, angry at the mention of a loving God. Prayers. The labor of breathing. Silence in-between.

And while the world has forever changed in death, the mowers continue their endless summer task of trying to harness abundant life. Life so strong it dulls every blade.

The sweet smell of mown grass. Cut clover. It is overwhelming. Incense.

Everyone is saying that they have never seen clover this thick and abundant before --that lots of clover always means a very wicked winter is to come. I can't imagine a winter any worse than the one we just had --the ground frozen so solid it broke the teeth of the backhoe digging the graves, and that was after they had set a fire with logs on the spot over night to thaw the ground.... I buried two people who froze to death....

If that is so, we must prepare. We must prepare beginning right now. But who really knows?

And I say my prayers into the endless cycle of abundant life and death, always changed. I hold up in prayer those who write me --moved that they would do so. Late last night I opened many emails of gratitude, of remembrance, of fear for me and my well-being --each letter speaking more of its author than of me... because there is so much I cannot, do not say. I am remembering those priests who have served here before me --and I know some of their stories... they are always changed, too. But there has been a generation now, when priests were not lifted out of this very community. And I grieve at that. I think of holding broken bread up at the altar, speaking and praying in the language of the conqueror, the victor --for now. I know of the lives before me --broken in so many ways, yes... but like the prairie grasses, filled with abundant life --more life and death than I have ever known. I ponder the demands of living here. And throw myself, buoyed by the sun, the moon, the stars --the T-Rex antlered clouds, the smell of mown grass and cut clover, by the threat of bitter winter looming in the clover blossoms, the anger of the children, the tears of the grandmothers --I give myself, willingly, to the risk, the the grief, to the abundant life, to the People.

At prayer this morning (Psalm 37:1-18)

Do not fret yourself because of evildoers; *
do not be jealous of those who do wrong.
For they shall soon wither like the grass, *
and like the green grass fade away.
Put your trust in the LORD and do good; *
dwell in the land and feed on its riches.
Take delight in the LORD, *
who shall give you your heart’s desire.
Commit your way to the LORD; put your trust in the LORD, *
who will bring it to pass.
The LORD will make your righteousness as clear as the light *
and your just dealing as the noonday.

Be still before the LORD; *
wait patiently for the LORD.
Do not fret yourself over the one who prospers, *
the one who succeeds in evil schemes.
Refrain from anger, leave rage alone; *
do not fret yourself; it leads only to evil.
For evildoers shall be cut off, *
but those who wait upon the LORD shall possess the land.

In a little while the wicked shall be no more; *
you shall search out their place, but they will not be there.
But the lowly shall possess the land; *
they will delight in abundance of peace.
The wicked plot against the righteous *
and gnash at them with their teeth.
The Lord laughs at the wicked, *
knowing that their day will come.
The wicked draw their sword and bend their bow
to strike down the poor and needy, *
to slaughter those who are upright in their ways.

Their sword shall go through their own heart, *
and their bow shall be broken.

The little that the righteous has *
is better than the great riches of the wicked.
For the power of the wicked shall be broken, *
but the LORD upholds the righteous.


(beginning at Romans 12:1)

I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present:

--your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.

--Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God – what is good and acceptable and perfect.

If anything --I am certainly not conformed... yet transformation is a wild bull or a bucking bronco --heh?

Let nothing disturb you,
nothing afright you.
Whom God possesses
in nothing is wanting.
Alone God suffices.
All things are passing.
God never ceases.
Patient endurance attains all things.

(See sidebar --St. Theresa d'Avila)

Off I go.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

make me good company

I went to Rapid after the funeral. Went to the hospital --in talking with Joel I learned that someone else had died --another young man. Same cause.

How God must weep.

The sin of genocide and intergenerational despair, borne in his flesh and blood. Again. Han.

And then another phone call --an old lady, dying. The young man and his family were already gone from the hospital, so, I put my back to the setting sun and began the journey to Eagle Butte. The long shadows, the trilling of the movement of hay not yet mowed, the antelope... abundant life filled me, restored me. I arrived at the hospital about 9 or 9:30pm. I said the prayers. I asked her if she were worried. She shook her head, 'no.' She had seen them --her loved ones had come to carry her home.

I finally arrived home. Fifteen hours after I had begun. Suddenly spent. First, a burial. Then a death. Lastly, someone dying. I don't remember walking down the hall to go to bed. Worse yet, I didn't hear the phone ring at 3am. Two calls. First the hospital. Now, she too, was gone.

But I didn't hear either call.

I must have slept right through them.

I am mortified. Embarrassed.

But it is not to be undone.

This morning, I am moving slowly. Conserving the psychic energy that I will most likely need in the days to come. I am pondering the NPR interview I heard with a military wife who confessed numbing her feelings every time her husband was deployed --calling it a black soul. Numbness.

And I hold two things in tension remembering her interview --the first is a memory of a beautiful woman in seminary who took me to task for calling something awful and tragic by the descriptor 'black'... and wondering how military wives of African descent heard her --calling her own purposeful avoidance and numbing of her emotions a 'black soul.' It didn't sit well with me...

And the second... I know the numbing routine. Another name: Denial. It is a great and powerful tool, denial. It can also be destructive. Very. Destructive. Denial can eat someone up from the inside out.

So. Here. With such overwhelming, constantly present grief and despair. I have had to undertake a different discipline other than numbing... because I don't think a numb presence is a presence at all... I have to remember not to confuse or intermingle my own work of grief or whatever --my own 'stuff' with the 'stuff' that others must do... and I know we are called, on occasion, to carry the cross for one another --but that doesn't mean we make their cross our own.

So, it's a jumble... but it is also very clear: Bearing the sins of the world has been done for us.

We have been called to carry Love. Which is so much lighter. Not easier, just lighter. And we can't carry Love if we are numb...

At prayer this morning (Psalm 38)

O LORD, do not rebuke me in your anger; *
do not punish me in your wrath.
For your arrows have already pierced me, *
and your hand presses hard upon me.
There is no health in my flesh,
because of your indignation; *
there is no soundness in my body, because of my sin.
For my iniquities overwhelm me; *
like a heavy burden they are too much for me to bear.
My wounds stink and fester *
by reason of my foolishness.
I am utterly bowed down and prostrate; *
I go about in mourning all the day long.
Searing pain fills my innards; *
there is no health in my body.

I am utterly numb and crushed; *
I wail, because of the groaning of my heart.
O Lord, you know all my desires, *
and my sighing is not hidden from you.
My heart is pounding, my strength has failed me, *
and the brightness of my eyes is gone from me.
My friends and companions draw back from my affliction; *
my neighbors stand afar off.

Those who seek after my life lay snares for me; *
those who strive to hurt me speak of my ruin
and plot treachery all the day long.
But I am like the deaf who do not hear, *
like those who are mute and do not open their mouth.
I have become like one who does not hear *
and from whose mouth comes no defense.

For in you, O LORD, have I fixed my hope; *
you will answer me, O Lord my God.
For I said, “Do not let them rejoice at my expense, *
those who gloat over me when my foot slips.”
Truly, I am on the verge of falling, *
and my pain is always with me.
I will confess my iniquity *
and be sorry for my sin.
Those who are my enemies without cause are mighty, *
and many in number are those who wrongfully hate me.
Those who repay evil for good slander me, *
because I follow the course that is right.

O LORD, do not forsake me; *
be not far from me, O my God.
Make haste to help me, *
O Lord of my salvation.

I remember reading this Psalm aloud almost daily during those nine long months of chemotherapy... I read it because it doesn't go to that 'happy' place --it doesn't end with something like --but you are the good God who always listens to the prayers of those in need, and I know you hear me and will do something good for me... I think it is the only psalm that doesn't go happy. The only thing said with confidence in this psalm is pain and despair. I remember in amazement how most folks ran from that pain and despair... and as I was grappling with my own mortality and the pain of treatment, most folks just said --but this will make you stronger! No one would be with me where I was...

I was not in denial. I was not numb.

And I was so grateful for the company... and nobody else could do what had to be done for me.

But --the company.

Hey God --make me good company, heh?

Off I go.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014


The wheat is turning golden brown. Already. Some wild stuff on the fringe is turning pinkish, with frothy tops.  And then there are the bombastic heads of some type of thrusting reddish-pink with wide leaves. I think I remember seeing a picture of it in the cultural center, but I can'r remember if it is noxious or not.

The bright yellow of the clover is dominant --everywhere.

The birds nesting on the sill of the bedroom window wake us up with hungry clamor before dawn.

Perhaps I am focusing on flowers, fields, and baby birds because today's work is so difficult... the burial of a young man, age 38... a veteran... dead from excessive drink. The Lakota way of encouraging their people to find their own way --which is so expansive and generous, so good, so amazing... also means there is little intervention. Except for death, or accident.

It is just the way it is.

And this morning, I can't stop and pray and think my way through it, my way with it, my being a priest in it --except to know that it is that same expansiveness and generosity and goodness that allows me, a white, Christian priest to be here, to live here.

This morning, I can only do the shortsighted work of standing with the young mother, the friends, the family, who just want the pain to stop. And I will stand with them, knowing I cannot stop the pain. Cannot stop the grief. I can only speak of God's presence, God's physical understanding of the pain and grief --of their own holiness.

At prayer this morning (beginning at Romans 11:13)

Now I am speaking to you Gentiles. Inasmuch then as I am an apostle to the Gentiles, I glorify my ministry in order to make my own people jealous, and thus save some of them. For if their rejection is the reconciliation of the world, what will their acceptance be but life from the dead! If the part of the dough offered as first fruits is holy, then the whole batch is holy; and if the root is holy, then the branches also are holy.

But if some of the branches were broken off, and you, a wild olive shoot, were grafted in their place to share the rich root of the olive tree, do not boast over the branches. If you do boast, remember that it is not you that support the root, but the root that supports you.

Yes. I, too, am a wild olive shoot. Grafted.
And I bear the name of the wildflowers that grow alongside the road --margaritis --the wild daisy, sun-flower type...

I have no other purpose but to receive the light of the sun, to the glory and delight of God. I am made for the joy of God.

It is that easy. It is that dangerous.

Off I go.

Monday, July 14, 2014

a descant to poor, rocky dirt

The sun just at the horizon. Dawn. The cement of the stoop, cool on my bare feet. None of the harvest dust fills the air yet --it is a clean sky. The polar vortex is supposed to visit us for the next three days. Uncharacteristically cool. I pray for the farmers who had mowed, left the hay in rows, and then were inundated with rain. It can ruin a harvest --the wrong type of mold and rot set in.

It was such an awful storm Friday night, the robins lost their nest. The fledgling birds were found among the leaves and branches on the ground. The boy buried them, and marked the grave with a cross made of small stones. I had done something similar to the small bird I had to pick off the grill of my car. 'The sin of the world,' I think to myself '--they bear the sin of the world.' I had also hit a juvenile prairie dog, lost and confused on the road. They are dead because of my need to unnaturally travel faster than they can fly. In a car fueled and made of pollutants that are killing us all. In a car fueled by the causes of the stuff of war. The sin of the world.

I thought about the crowd of vultures I had seen earlier in the day, flying above the tree line just north of the highway. All too often folks think vultures are eagles, the way they ride the wind currents, their size, the light shining through their feathers. I remembered Deacon saying they were her favorite bird. 'Really?' I had asked. Deacon said, 'Yes. They quietly clean up after everyone, doing the work nobody else wants to do.'

Eagles rarely nest in this part of South Dakota. Sometimes they winter just below the Oahe Dam. They migrate through these parts, twice a year, spring and fall --sometimes late in to the winter months if the rivers don't freeze.

Back to my bare feet on the stoop... I see the meadowlark charge at Paeha's head. He must have been hit recently, because instead of thinking it is a game of chase as he did last week, alternately chasing and being chased in a fast race of fur and feather, he now lowers his head and runs for the cover of the hedge.

The meadowlarks are increasing their territory --now more than half the yard... transgression of some invisible line brings them out to drive us all away. They hadn't come at me on the mower the other day, as I expected they would. I had put my shirt up over my head just in case. Needlessly. Perhaps it is because of the more symbiotic relationship --the mower exposes and injures all kinds of bugs, making them easy prey. Seeds, too.

Seeds. I see the faces of the people as they pained away yesterday after the gospel, during the sermon sharing, longing to be good dirt, feeling they are rocky or weedy or shallow dirt --just plain bad dirt. That the seed won't be fruitful in them. The sense that their dirt will never be good enough.

I had asked them who the farmer is in the story. One brave child agreed he might be the farmer. That made me happy. 'God, of course, really,' said another.

So, I said, if the farmer is God, is Christ part of God?

And are we members of the Body of Christ?
Oh. Yes.

So, then, as members of the Body of Christ, we are like the farmer. In this story, we are part of the farmer. Our job is not to judge the soil, but to do like this farmer does, throw the seed every where. Every. Where. Throw it! Where it lands is none of our business. Our job is to throw the seed --to tell the news of God's outrageous, abundant love. Every. Where. With our lives. In everything we do. Using words only when we have to. Throw. The. Seed.

Unexpected news. I remind them of their baptismal invitation --to join in the eternal priesthood.

Sometimes it's easier to ponder our unworthiness as poor, rocky dirt.

At prayer this morning (Matthew 25:1-13)

Jesus said, “Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept.

"But at midnight there was a shout, ‘Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.’ Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ But the wise replied, ‘No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.’

"And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, ‘Lord, lord, open to us.’ But he replied, ‘Truly I tell you, I do not know you.’

Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

I wonder if the "wise" bridesmaids were girls scouts, always prepared...

So... another end of this story...

the wise bridesmaids get inside, the door is shut, and the bridegroom himself is revealed as The Light, and all their lamps are useless anyway. So they extinguish them. Their hoarded oil useless.

And the bridegroom asks them, 'Whatever happened to those who did not have enough oil?'

And the wise bridesmaids say, 'We told them to go get their own oil. Now they are locked outside.'

And the bridegroom says, 'Didn't you realize that if you shared your light with the least of these, you shared it with me? So, go now, and open those gates and invite in those who were locked out. Tell those foolish ones looking for oil in the market place to come and sit down at the feast in the light. They have gone looking for something they didn't need.

"And now you, who have oil enough but didn't share, you must stand outside the gates with your lamps lit, to be beacons in the dark for those who have lost their way, until all have come in to the feast. Because the first shall be last... ."

The gospel according to margaret. Not knowing the day nor the hour. Throwing seed as fast as I know how. Even in to the gumbo. No oil in sight. Sleeping when I can. And always having the descant of unworthiness playing its tune right above my head. Too.

Perhaps next time, as I mow, I will not cover my head, and let the meadowlarks pluck and carry that descant away... They could so easily redeem that song with their gorgeous melody.

It is dawn. I am barefoot and awake. A morning glorious and cool and fair. It is not judgment day....

Off I go.

Please keep the family of A in your prayers. We begin the long walk to the graveside this evening.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

dreams of grandmothers in my bones

I heard the sound of dripping water as the light slowly edged to dawn. It sounded like the gurgling of a small stream into a still pool of water. I stretched. Joel had left the air conditioner on all night, so the room was cool and dry. The blanket pulled tight in my stretch --Mr. Witty was up on the bed. His soft fur and wet nose filled my hand with a kiss. The sweetest dog on earth. The sweetest grumpiest old man dog on earth.

And then it registered --dripping water. I awoke in a flash, the hardcore determination of my pioneer grandmothers, always willing to live on the edge, surging through me. 'Good morning grandmothers,' I think to myself, strangely comforted by the presence I feel in my bones of all my mothers who made me. Strangely comforted that I live in a place where even the concept of feeling my ancestors present in me, with me, by me, is not mocked or dismissed, but understood.

I could not have come this far without them. Whenever I have had to dig deep... there they are.

Yesterday, I met with someone in crisis --they wept with exhaustion, with fear. 'I had that dream, where my grandmothers were sitting around the campfire, and they told me to sit and eat, and I was afraid to eat with them because every time I have this dream, something really bad happens, so I turned away from them and ran. Like, you know, last time it was L in the car accident, and they almost died. And now this. I knew it.'

An almost-type death had visited the family. Crisis. Someone had seen the unmentionable thing dressed in black with hooves running around their house, peering around the corner. Someone had given it a ride in their car. There was a dark weightiness, a pall, a shade, a mantle of despair that would tempt them, lead them into death if they were not vigilant. I wondered if I was going to be asked to come bless their house again, to prevent the shadows from coming in the windows.

'Are the grandmothers the ones who bring death so close?' I ask.

'They are always there --I always have this dream before something bad happens,' they said.

'Perhaps they show themselves to you in your dream to remind you that they are there for you, giving you comfort, making and offering food to you to get you through the hard times that are coming,' I said, drawing on my own comfort, not sure if the cultural gap in dreams could be bridged.

'Oh,' they said. And we sat together in the quiet. Then they whispered, 'I like that. My grandma is taking care of me still. I like that.' And we spoke of the strength that comes from outside us that we find inside us. And we prayed. They tucked the cross and the medicine bag on their separate strings around their neck back inside their shirt. And ventured out again, amidst all those things seen and unseen.

Sometimes I feel weird in my own skin, meeting folks where I can in such matters. My western mind, linear, full of scientific explanation and metaphors... . But I never go places that don't 'belong' to me, if you know what I mean. My experience is not this experience, the Lakota experience. My understanding is not this understanding.

What I do know, I do not know. There is mystery, abundant mystery. And like my grandmothers, I seem to walk the borderlands. Out in to difference. Unknowingableness at hand.

Perhaps that is why it is so much easier for me to see God in bread and story, rather than in text, letter after letter, a linear comprehension bound tightly. Perhaps that is why I am a sacramentalist, an incarnationalist, rather than a scripturalist.

I don't know.

But I do know I am so much more comfortable with the understanding that strength, comfort, the Way through something is something ancient outside me which I find inside me --inside my bones lending a strength I cannot claim as my own --something which fills me like food fills me, rather than something I can comprehend or figure out or rationalize.

I stretch again, Mr. Witty still kissing my hand... and as I open my eyes I see and know that the running water is rain dripping on the window sill. July rain. How odd. And Joel says, 'The storm kept me awake almost all night. The lightening and thunder were awesome.' And I wonder how I slept through it all....

At prayer this morning (beginning at Matthew 24:32)

Jesus said, “From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see all these things, you know that he is near, at the very gates.

Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so too will be the coming of the Son of Man.

Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left.

Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.

Hmmmmmm.... the Son of Man like a thief in the night...

Well. Perhaps that is no different or no more difficult to understand than a July rain in the west.

Or, dreams of grandmothers in my bones.

Friday, July 11, 2014

bread for the sake of the people

The sky was kind of opaque yesterday --and the day before. I thought maybe there had been a fire somewhere, and it was a smoke haze in the air. And, then I thought maybe it was because I was feeling so punky and dizzy. But, it wasn't that either. It's just that it wasn't as windy... and harvest of the hay and grains has begun in earnest. That always puts junk in the air.

As we were driving K to the airport, I saw a strange piece of farm equipment I hadn't seen before --a baler that produced instant hay stacks, instead of the huge round ones or the smaller old fashioned rectangular bales that were sized so a man could throw them around.

The baler looked like this:

--and then when the cage behind the tractor is full, it is emptied, leaving a very old-fashioned hay stack like this:

And I wondered if something old were now the new thing... but after I thought about it some more, I realized that this hay --stored this way, could only be for use on that ranch or a some place very nearby. It is not being stored for transport... it could only be moved bit by bit, loose.

I remembered hearing that 'farmer' was no longer a real number in census statistics --that so few folks identified themselves as such that it is an occupation gone the way of the wind. I have looked it up. I found that in the 2000 Census, fewer than 1% of the U.S. population self-identified as a farmer or agricultural worker of any kind. I would imagine that number to be even less, now because of the greater trend to industrialization.

Which means that the mental image I now carry of someone making hay stacks is an incredible rarity.... And it made me wonder about the surge of farmer's markets and so-called truck farmers. Are they just week-end farmer warriors making that few extra bucks? At many farmer's markets, I have seen produce being sold out of commercial boxes --do they just go buy it whole sale and are nothing more than small merchants?


Myth: All farmer's markets sell local food.
Fact: There are two types of market models: real farmer's markets and "farm markets" where buyers resell produce they bought at wholesale markets. The produce is usually not local and often comes from faraway states or other countries. For a while, some grocery stores were even selling their own produce in their parking lots and calling those "farmer's markets."
I look around me --the prairie... converted in to a machine to produce grains for human and animal consumption, food to produce energy as ethanol... the mega-crops or mono-crops --hundreds and hundreds of acres producing the same harvestable whatever, the land chemically burned in to submission. When does it give? What gives first? I know that none but a very, very few 'ranchers' around here could be considered well off financially. And those that work for them live in poverty....
Labor is often the only asset that small producers and landless people possess. Agricultural workers are amongst the poorest people in rural areas. Their jobs are often temporary, wages are low and working conditions can be very hazardous. More and more women are in waged agricultural jobs, but despite their numbers, they are generally “invisible” to governments, donors and international institutions. Their organizations can be weak and their access to social security and other benefits is minimal.
When does it give? What gives first?

When I think of standing at the altar, holding up some kind of bread, and saying 'this is my Body' --the whole cosmos crashes in at the altar. It's so simple. It's so devastating. It's so... overwhelming. It takes the sun and the moon, the stars in their courses; the snow, ice, rain, heat in their season; the wind, the earth, the creatures of the air, water, earth; fire to cook it --and human hands to have harvested and shaped it. It takes the whole cosmos to make a few crushed grains in to bread.

And we are making it more and more difficult for the every-day common person to have elemental access to the most common food --bread.

All the more reason for the church to offer something besides those fish-food type wafers at the altar. All the more reason for the church to be in the fore-front of the issues of global warming, agriculture, sustainability --food.

All the more reason for the church to offer communion every Sunday --a living sign.

Would that we would dig in to the sacramental imagery... bread, body, wine, blood...  --to be the stuff of life, food, real food for the sake of the world.

At prayer this morning (Matthew 24:15-31)

Jesus said, “So when you see the desolating sacrilege standing in the holy place, as was spoken of by the prophet Daniel (let the reader understand), then those in Judea must flee to the mountains; the one on the housetop must not go down to take what is in the house; the one in the field must not turn back to get a coat. Woe to those who are pregnant and to those who are nursing infants in those days!

Pray that your flight may not be in winter or on a sabbath. For at that time there will be great suffering, such as has not been from the beginning of the world until now, no, and never will be. And if those days had not been cut short, no one would be saved; but for the sake of the elect those days will be cut short.

Then if anyone says to you, ‘Look! Here is the Messiah!’ or ‘There he is!’ – do not believe it. For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and produce great signs and omens, to lead astray, if possible, even the elect. Take note, I have told you beforehand.

So, if they say to you, ‘Look! He is in the wilderness,’ do not go out. If they say, ‘Look! He is in the inner rooms,’ do not believe it.

For as the lightning comes from the east and flashes as far as the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. Wherever the corpse is, there the vultures will gather.

“Immediately after the suffering of those days
the sun will be darkened,
and the moon will not give its light;
the stars will fall from heaven,
and the powers of heaven will be shaken.

Then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in heaven, and then all the tribes of the earth will mourn, and they will see ‘the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven’ with power and great glory. And he will send out his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.”
We live with such denial. Denial that our way of life, our everything, is not sustainable. We sugar coat or justify away or make compromises...

No... I do not believe in "end times" theology. And I do not believe that only a few will be safely gathered to a so-called heaven.

I do believe that we might destroy the very creation that sustains us... the vultures are gathering. I do believe that we are living in a manner which is not sustainable.

I do believe that we can do something about it.
I do believe that I live in a place where the effects of brutal greed and the dismemberment of creation are more evident, and so I find it very difficult to live in denial.

And, I will continue to find ways to resist the desolating sacrilege.
Because I care.
Because I hope.
To offer bread for the sake of the people.


Thursday, July 10, 2014

--what if we taught only that for a couple of years...

It wasn't at the top of the page. I had to scroll down, reading the other headlines first. But there it was: N.D. Pipeline Leaks 1 Million Gallons of Saltwater Into Lake that Provides Drinking Water for American Indian Reservation.

And, I thought to myself, saltwater... in North Dakota... this has to do with mining... and the pipeline... and all that. And, I'll bet it wasn't the first time...

Jones said the leak at the underground pipeline, owned by Crestwood subsidiary Aero Pipeline LLC, likely started over the Fourth of July weekend but was only discovered on Tuesday. The pipeline was not equipped with a system that sends an alert when there is a leak, she said, and the spill was only discovered when the company was going through production loss reports.
An unknown amount of the fluid entered Bear Den Bay. That bay leads to Lake Sakakawea, which provides water for the [Fort Berthold] reservation, occupied by the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara tribes in the heart of western North Dakota's booming oil patch. But company and tribal officials said the spill has been isolated and contained and has not impacted the lake.
Saltwater is a naturally occurring, unwanted byproduct of oil and natural gas production that is between 10 and 30 times saltier than sea water. The state considers it an environmental hazard.

Kris Roberts, an environmental geologist with the North Dakota Department of Health, said damage from the toxic spill could be seen when he visited the site on Tuesday.

"We've got dead trees, dead grasses, dead bushes, dying bushes," he said.

Karolin Rockvoy, a McKenzie County emergency manager, said it was apparent from looking at vegetation that the spill went undetected for some time.

The number of saltwater spills in North Dakota has grown with the state's soaring oil production. North Dakota produced 25.5 million barrels of brine in 2012, the latest figures available. A barrel is 42 gallons. There were 141 pipeline leaks reported in North Dakota in 2012, 99 of which spilled about 8,000 barrels of saltwater. About 6,150 barrels of the spilled saltwater was recovered, state regulators said.

In 2006, a broken oil pipeline belched more than a million gallons of saltwater into a northwestern North Dakota creek, aquifer and pond. The cleanup efforts are ongoing at that site, which has been called the worst environmental disaster in state history. The ruptured pipeline allowed saltwater to spew unnoticed for weeks into a tributary of the Yellowstone River near Alexander and caused a massive die-off of fish, turtles and plants.

That spill came during the infancy of North Dakota's oil boom. Now, a network of saltwater pipelines extends to hundreds of disposal wells in western North Dakota, where the brine is pumped underground for permanent storage. Proposed legislation to mandate flow meters and cutoff switches on such lines was overwhelmingly rejected last year in the Legislature.
I wonder what makes any of this okay... it seems even the Tribal Officials who say everything is alright have been blinded by the greed. Perhaps when the Reservation is a waste land, and the people have to abandon it, and with it the last vestiges of sovereignty, such as it is, then they will look back with regret... the last bit of their land, raped, pillaged, polluted... and for what... ?

Here is a map of the original land mass set aside by the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851:

The red dash indicates exterior and interior boundaries --between the nations.

This is what happened in South Dakota in less than forty years:

---and then, in 1950, on the Cheyenne River Reservation, 10% of the total land mass, the best river-bottom land for agriculture, was lost along the Missouri River when it was flooded for the Oahe Dam.  The flooding impacted the River all the way up to Bismark --near Fort Clark (in the first map).

You can see the same thing happened in North Dakota:

---right on down to another dam...

Now, the remainder is being polluted for profit. And greed.

I grieve these circumstances in the same way I grieve when I have to bury Lakota men who die of alcoholism or drugs. Slow suicide.

When will it stop? Who is going to stop it? How can we stop it?

Somebody asked/told me --but hasn't it been the same in every generation in every place --the conquered, the conquerors, the rich, the poor --and so on. And I said --as if that's not bad enough-- the extinction of cultures and whole peoples when we know survival depends upon diversity --that is the one obvious feature of creation. Add to that --the difference is we are now not just killing each other, we are killing the planet. There will be no place left --no water left --no air left to sustain us.

This is the way the planet is seen --not as our mother, or grandmother, to be honored --knowing she gives us life... but as a rape-worthy asset:

Looks like a perfect plan to pollute the River-Now-A-Lake, and all the remaining land of the Reservation.

I want to scream.

At prayer this morning (Psalm 18:1-20

I love you, O LORD my strength, *
O LORD my stronghold, my crag, and my haven.
My God, my rock in whom I put my trust, *
my shield, the horn of my salvation, and my refuge;
you are worthy of praise.
I will call upon the LORD, *
and so shall I be saved from my enemies.

The breakers of death rolled over me, *
and the torrents of oblivion made me afraid.
The cords of hell entangled me, *
and the snares of death were set for me.
I called upon the LORD in my distress *
and cried out to my God for help.
You heard my voice from your heavenly dwelling; *
my cry of anguish came to your ears.

The earth reeled and rocked; *
the roots of the mountains shook;
they reeled because of your anger.
Smoke rose from your nostrils
and a consuming fire out of your mouth; *
hot burning coals blazed forth from you.
You parted the heavens and came down *
with a storm cloud under your feet.
You mounted on cherubim and flew; *
you swooped on the wings of the wind.
You wrapped darkness about you; *
you made dark waters and thick clouds your pavilion.
From the brightness of your presence, through the clouds, *
burst hailstones and coals of fire.
O LORD, you thundered out of heaven; *
O Most High, you uttered your voice.
You loosed your arrows and scattered them; *
you hurled thunderbolts and routed them.
The beds of the seas were uncovered,
and the foundations of the world laid bare, *
at your battle cry, O LORD,
at the blast of the breath of your nostrils.
You reached down from on high and grasped me; *
you drew me out of great waters.

You delivered me from my strong enemies
and from those who hated me; *
for they were too mighty for me.
They confronted me in the day of my disaster; *
but the LORD was my support.
You brought me out into an open place; *
you rescued me because you delighted in me.

Okay, okay... tough love, heh? No "rescue" this time?

--cuz I'm not seeing a way through this mess... the 'enemy' is so big, so virile, and the peoples so addicted to the little bits and pieces thrown their way that they don't have the heart to protest or the eyes to see what's happening.

Here --it is the grandmas in wheel chairs that get out and block the roads... "you have to be the change you want," she says.

Amen, amen.

--what if we taught only that in Adult Ed. and Sunday school for a couple of years.... ?

Amen, amen.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014


I am carrying them --somewhere between the sounds, the sights --I have swallowed them and they have settled near my heart...

The mother, smiling, as the children play in the new front yard of the church. 'I saw this, and thought PERFECT!', she said, pointing to the enclosed grassy area.

--mutual tears shed at the give-away, stirring losses and connections, gratitude, compassion.

--faces at the funeral --children running in and out to grandmas.

--man trying to sell photos of a statue of St. Kateri. $80 each.

--children and young woman, dancing without music. Hula-hoops. Piles of food.

--teens, clustered at separate tables, whispering, shoulders hunched.

--density and height of the clover in bloom in the grave yard. I couldn't see the stones or markers I knew were just four feet away.

--view from the cemetery, the hills yellow and green, the river winding through them.

--poem. Of stars and the salt smell of the ocean and the Dakota prairie, sun and moon together, mingled in longing, steeped as a heavy tea in compassion, her voice like an angel's trumpet calling out The Day.

--fake jewels on the sandals avoiding the prairie cactus.

--two little girls, one says --my daddy is over there. The other one says, And that's my mom, up there.

--grief, old and new, a ragged familiar garment worn by the women embracing at the foot of the cross.

--bird feathers caught in the radiator grill of the car, new dents and dings and missing paint. Oh well. I just hope the crack in the windshield doesn't move until next spring. I've had it filled twice already. Oh well. Perhaps if I fill it with that ultra-sticky bug body juice that I can't get off the car until about February... ... ...

All these, a fugue. Not an ecstatic state, but vibrant tonal melodies. Not interpretation of a foreign language. Nor an old language revisited. Translated. But fresh tones in cadence and sequence, a rhythm new and fascinating. Like hearing a heartbeat for the first time. Or whale song. Wonder. Awe.

At prayer this morning (Canticle: Third Song of Isaiah, Surge, illuminate, Isaiah 60:1-3, 11a, 14c, 18-19)

Arise, shine, for your light has come, *
and the glory of the Lord has dawned upon you.
For behold, darkness covers the land; *
deep gloom enshrouds the peoples.
But over you the Lord will rise, *
and his glory will appear upon you.
Nations will stream to your light, *
and kings to the brightness of your dawning.
Your gates will always be open; *
by day or night they will never be shut.
They will call you, The City of the Lord, *
The Zion of the Holy One of Israel.
Violence will no more be heard in your land, *
ruin or destruction within your borders.
You will call your walls, Salvation, *
and all your portals, Praise.
The sun will no more be your light by day; *
by night you will not need the brightness of the moon.
The Lord will be your everlasting light, *
and your God will be your glory.

Going to help the Good People of St. Martin's finish the fence, restore the sign, explore the teen center...

It's only Wednesday, right?

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

spiritual longing in light of give-aways

K sent a picture from London. He must be back safely. But, there were so many trees in that snapshot! And so many buildings so close together! But, there we are.

But, speaking of street-scapes, when I arrived back in Eagle Butte, it looked like a party outside St. John's. And it was. Grill and all. Celebrating the new fence! However, I can't post the pictures, because I am working from my laptop again (thanks be to God!) --and in fixing it all up, when I stuck in the photo card, I got a little message of an upgrade that would take about an hour in order to read the pictures, and that I wouldn't be able to read any previous photos... so.... perhaps the day after tomorrow... or something like that...


But, the church yard looks really great. There is a fence around the yard now, so that the children can play and run, and mothers can turn their backs for twenty seconds and not worry that the toddlers are going to run into the street. Some place for them to play other than the parking lot. And the yard is accessible from the church parish hall. I am so very grateful. So. Grateful. Thank you St. Martin's, NC!!!!

And today, I will have the privilege of walking to the edge of the grave twice --once this afternoon with a local family, burying a father, uncle, brother, son --and again this evening to a man much beloved, who came here on a 'mission trip,' and he was changed --his heart never left. He was a member of the St. Martin's, NC group.

I was trying to reflect upon the depth and breadth of community I witness here last night. The good folks from St. John's gathered to thank the St. Martin's group with a meal and a give-away. They have given the church a whole new set of chairs, new tables --for our hospitality ministry --especially in funerals and in feeding the hungry twice a week, and the safe-yard for the children. I am not sure I can adequately express the impact of such gifts on this community. Not only the physical impact, which is huge enough --but the presence, and the knowledge that folks simply care. Their sacrificial acts of sweat, labor, love... their tears mingled with ours... their willingness to know and share in the suffering here... met with sacrificial give-aways from the folks here....

But, right now, I do not have the time to reflect --the phone is already ringing, I must go be prepared to greet a family, to receive a body --to spend time in the valley of the shadow of death... and all the while trust that somehow, somewhere, the pall of grief will be torn, the shadow will dissipate in the dark of the depth of the grave --that Holy Saturday will once again be present upon and among us --and resurrection will catch us unaware, surprise us as we search to anoint and adorn death with our herbs and balms, and find only abundant life.


At prayer this morning (Romans 8:31-39)

What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us? He who did not withhold his own Son, but gave him up for all of us, will he not with him also give us everything else? Who will bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? It is Christ Jesus, who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us. Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written,

“For your sake we are being killed all day long;
we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.”

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Yeppa. Oh, and this.... just in case... for all those who come to "save the Indian," and fail to find themselves first --or those who come for spiritual tourism so that others may fill the hole in their soul. But, you know, that never works. The hole will remain. If only folks could realize their spiritual longing... and then give it away... give away what is most dear.... (Matthew 23:13-26)

Jesus said, “But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you lock people out of the kingdom of heaven. For you do not go in yourselves, and when others are going in, you stop them. Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you cross sea and land to make a single convert, and you make the new convert twice as much a child of hell as yourselves.

“Woe to you, blind guides, who say, ‘Whoever swears by the sanctuary is bound by nothing, but whoever swears by the gold of the sanctuary is bound by the oath.’ You blind fools! For which is greater, the gold or the sanctuary that has made the gold sacred? And you say, ‘Whoever swears by the altar is bound by nothing, but whoever swears by the gift that is on the altar is bound by the oath.’ How blind you are! For which is greater, the gift or the altar that makes the gift sacred? So whoever swears by the altar, swears by it and by everything on it; and whoever swears by the sanctuary, swears by it and by the one who dwells in it; and whoever swears by heaven, swears by the throne of God and by the one who is seated upon it.

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel!

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you clean the outside of the cup and of the plate, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. You blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup, so that the outside also may become clean.”

Off I go.

Monday, July 7, 2014

I prefer grace to glory

Taking K to the airport this morning... After the baptism at On the Tree, and then the feast --sitting under the canopy of the heavens, the laughter and the singing moving like a breeze through the grasses and clover, we then prayed and blessed him, thanking him for coming, thanking God for the desire once placed in his heart that brought him here... And as we placed our hands on him to pray, the little girls asked  --what are we doing?  --why are we doing this? -- such is the first instruction in prayer  ---active participation.

So... I will take him to the airport the long way round by the Badlands... And then I will get the car fixed, pick up my computer which is now all cleaned up, try to find some of Mr. Witty's special dog food...  and then come home to a fence party.

Probably. But I don't really know. I got called out to the hospital in the middle of the night. I didn't make it in time... we will have another funeral soon. Two on Tuesday, another as yet unknown.

So, off I go. Full of wonder and thanksgiving, full of the sights, sounds, scents of grace all around.

I do prefer grace to glory.... just sayin.

At prayer this morning (Romans 8:26-36)
Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.
We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family. And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Fourth, now Fifth

I know... It's difficult to imagine.... But by the end of the day, the good children who will come to St. John's in Eagle Butte will have a grassy, fenced in yard to play in, rather than the parking lot, or behind the church where only trouble is hatched. I am so grateful to the good people of St. Martin's in NC who have come all this way to be with us again, and give the good people of CREM such a wonderful gift ---and the tables and chairs for our ministry of hospitality, especially at funerals. Thank you!!!!!

So, now, still full of the sights and sounds of the rodeo, the wild horses and the furious sound they made trying to get those human beings off their back, the smell of the churned dirt and grass, the clang of the gates, the screams and shouts of the people as someone tried to stay on the flying horse, the skill of the native cowboys as they presided over the chaos....

And the dancing, the honorings, the singing, the children learning to pray with their feet ---their whole bodies. The young women and girls dancing on clouds, the young men and boys searching for the imprint of the soles of the hunted... The laughter and good cheer in the arbor, the children sprawled out in the heat, napping to the rhythm of the drum and sound of all the grandmothers fussing and the grandfathers explaining the way it used to be.

We baptized two babies in the powwow grounds, shared bread and wine, and then the mother got on the horse and won the suicide race, far ahead of all the men, on her horse named 'Mahpiya' (Heaven). Two horses refused to go down the necessary cliff. Their riders had to dismount and lead the way. The crowd was laughing at the spectacle.

I think the top of K's head finally blew off....

At prayer this morning (Psalm 137:1-6)
By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, *
when we remembered you, O Zion.
As for our harps, we hung them up *
on the trees in the midst of that land.
For those who led us away captive asked us for a song,
and our oppressors called for mirth: *
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
How shall we sing the LORD’s song *
upon an alien soil?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, *
let my right hand forget its skill.
Let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth
if I do not remember you, *
if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.
Not upon "an alien soil" but upon their own soil, the First Peoples celebrated their love of their land, their families, their relatives. It is not Jerusalem they remember, but the old way, when living was prayer, when they knew they were at every moment totally dependent upon The Creator. Their highest joy.