(Ir)Reverend Ramblings

Sunday morning has dawned and here we are, 62 Sunday later, and Sunday morning means – instead of hustling to get to church on time for the morning services – I am still in my pyjamas and contemplating a second cup of coffee.

62 Sundays where, apart from a short window of opportunity that came in the fall to hold in-person services (with very limited numbers in attendance), my Sunday morning rhythm, that has been my rhythm all my life, has been completely halted by Covid 19. Now I find Sunday morning the quietest time at the grocery store and so I hustle up and down the aisles and buy what I need to get me through the week. Then I spend the morning watching church services from across the country, worshipping – well, yes, in part, but also picking up ideas and seeing how they do things. It is nothing like being in the sanctuary with my people.

62 Sundays and our second Pentecost Sunday of being at home. The celebration of the gift of the Spirit is not the same when done in solitude. Sure, I am wearing red and thinking about the ethereal nature of God but it is not like standing before a congregation that is dressed in yellow and red and orange and hear them singing about the fire of God.

All this has led me to think about the marking of time. We have years. We have seasons. We have months. We have weeks. We have days. We have hours. We have minutes. We have seconds. We have the year that someone was born and the year that someone died. We have the year that someone got married and the year that someone moved here or moved away.

Many of us have spent a lot of time trying to predict what this time, this year, this pandemic, will mean in terms of how we do things. How will we remember and mark this time of separation, illness and fear? And, what will be the long term effects of this rupture in social interaction? Only time will tell and with every passing week the feeling of being apart grows deeper and the loneliness of worshipping in front on my computer screen grows heavier.

The counterbalance to lift my spirits on this 62nd Sunday will be a little garden therapy. I will scratch the dirt and pull some weeds. I will celebrate the tight buds of the peony bush and the cheerful blossoms of the primula. I will pause to admire the waving columbine that grows unexpectedly beside the garden wall and take in the scent of the lily of the valley. Even the pandemic cannot stop the seasons of nature and the burgeoning gift of nature. Thank God for that.

For a long time I had heard of Netflix and many recommended it to me, but it wasn’t until the pandemic hit that I decided it was something I would sign up for. Now, when I want to watch something, I just scroll through the program list and the options are endless. I have watched tv series that I didn’t see when they were current. I have picked up some new documentaries that are only available on Netflix. And I get to watch some movies, which if you know me, you know is a favourite pastime. Last night I did just that, watched a movie.

The movie was one I had seen when it was in the theatre a few years back and it was good to see it again. Two of my favourite actors, Meryl Streep and Hugh Grant spooled out the tale of Florence Foster Jenkins. Based on the true story of the American socialite who lived from 1868 to 1944. Florence Jenkins loved music and took promotion of music as her calling. Like all movie productions that are based on the truth, there are some questions as to accuracy but the story is engaging and there is enough truth to it to make it believable.

Jenkins was a terrible singer. She just didn’t know it. She loved to sing and would put on elaborate productions. Being wealthy she could afford to make a mark! She made a record, privately funded and produced from her own pocket. She even presented a concert at Carnegie Hall in New York City. The film ends with the notation that the recording of that concert is one of the most popular in Carnegie Hall history! Let me repeat – she was a terrible singer. She just didn’t know it and her friends colluded to keep her singing and entertaining.

The film ends with her saying, “People might say I couldn’t sing but they will never say I didn’t sing.” I love that attitude.

We all know the old maxim, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” Well, effort does not always produce talent. But effort does merit recognition. As Florence put it, they might say I can’t but they won’t say I didn’t. It has kept me thinking all day – what are the things I don’t do because in my mind I can’t do them? What are the things I could do, even if I don’t do them well? It is an interesting tension between can’t and don’t. How often have we stifled another by suggesting that they are not good at something? How often have I not engaged in something because I believed I wouldn’t do it well?

Florence Foster Jenkins sang with abandon, no, make that with gusto. Why? Because she loved music and she believed in music. The fact that she wasn’t good at it didn’t stop her. Her attitude has opened up a new page for me in considering what I might or might not do. “People might say I can’t, but they will never say I didn’t.” Hmmm, just what might I get up to this weekend?

Today is Earth Day – the naming of which started in 1970 when, on April 22, the UN formed the Environmental Protection Agency and passed the Clean Air, Clean Water and Endangered Species Acts. Earth Day is an international event celebrated around the world to pledge support for environmental protection. The theme, on this 51st anniversary, is ‘Restore Our Earth’.

So much of our spiritual awareness comes from creation, from Earth. The Bible begins and ends with images of creation – from the the world being formed out of nothing to the river of life – nature images speak of God. And we are nurtured by nature. As a faithful CBC radio listener I heard on ‘The Doc Project’ this week a program on the therapeutic value of gardening. The speaker said, just working in the soil or touching a tree could shift one’s mental state out of depression or anxiety. Vincent Van Gogh said, “For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” And it does. Looking into a starry sky or spotting the moon as it rises can take one from the rooted place on earth to realms of wondering.

Today, in Muskoka, it is cold and windy, occasionally a snow flake will drift through the air. April is fickle. Monday was so hot I had to take off my sweater when working in the garden. Today, I don’t even want to venture outside. But I did take a stroll around my yard to check on the things that are growing. Plants are resilient. Despite freezing temperatures the pansies continue to bob their heads and the daffodils stand stalwartly against the breeze. Seeing that, along with the beauty of the region where I live, it is hard to believe the Earth is in the state of crisis that we are in but scrolling around a bit online gives ample evidence of the seriousness of the climate crisis.

I am reminded on the Earth Day of the poem On Travelling to Beautiful Places by Mary Oliver from her collection, A Thousand Morning (Penguin Books copyright 2012) Enjoy!

On Travelling to Beautiful Places

Every day I’m still looking for God

and I’m still finding him everywhere,

in the dust, in the flowerbeds.

Certainly in the oceans,

in the islands that lay in the distance

continents of ice, countries of sand

each with its own set of creatures

and God, by whatever name.

How perfect to be aboard a ship with

maybe a hundred years still in my posket.

But it’s late, for all of us,

and in truth the only ship there is

is the ship we are all on

burning the world as we go.

Some say, “The numbers never lie.” others say, “Statistics can prove anything.” No matter how you look at the numbers, the increasing rate of infection from the corona virus in Ontario is staggering. Today the report is of 4,812 new cases. Admission to hospitals has climbed to 1,955 and those being treated for covid-realted cases in Intensive care units is at 701 with over 440 on ventilators. These are all-time highs in our province since the pandemic began. The government is scrambling to figure out what to do and they seem to be lurching from one idea to another. People are frustrated and anxiety is through the roof. Small town’s like ours, which have been relatively unscathed, are seeing infections pop up.

This week France marked the heart-breaking record of 100,000 deaths due to Covid. There seems to be no end to the bad news and the increase in illness as variants stalk the globe. I am a small pebble in a small pond – no make that a puddle and I am stymied as to how to support people who are feeling the anxiety and terror that comes with the increasing numbers. As a minister I am trying to support and encourage people through this time. I fully recognize that the counterpoint to the fear is people’s acute loneliness and the longing for community and for familiar touchstones. We are social beings and being with others is what is normal for people. Yes, emails, and phone calls and zooms and even old fashioned letters are all most helpful but it is not the same as being together, sharing a cup of tea, having a hug, holding a hand. And yet, and yet – I find I don’t want anyone to touch me – I am afraid of what might happen if I come to close to someone who might have this mysterious, threatening and constantly changing virus. I stand back from people. I don’t want anyone too close to me. Even when I know there is no danger of infection there is just that underlying fear that has crept into life.

Turning to scripture and prayer and writing has always been a solace to me. But I am finding it hard to find the words of strength to face this pandemic. The closest I can think of is the time of exile. Psalm 137 tells that story in song, “By the rivers of Babylon, we sat down and wept. We hung our harps on the willows as we remembered Zion. How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” How shall we sing, indeed? Perhaps what we need to do is recognize that right now we are in exile and agree that singing is replaced with weeping and all that is familiar is lost to us for now. But as God’s people we know that exile ends and as much as exile is part of our faith story so is homecoming. In this season after Easter we remember that crucifixion is also part of our story but resurrection is the final word.

I looked out my kitchen window and saw something yellow on the ground. There is bush behind my house and I couldn’t figure out what might be there. Had to investigate. A crocus. Whaaat?! How did a crocus get there? I did not plant a crocus bulb in the forest floor. But somebody, or something did! I suspect a squirrel thought that bulb looked tasty and was saving it for a winter snack and then forgot about it. Now it blooms valiantly against all odds. It may not belong there but it is doing its work just the same.

Every now and then there will be a news report of an animal being in a place where it doesn’t belong. Not too long ago the morning news show featured a little segment telling of a beaver who showed up at at TTC station. There was no accounting for this critter trying to take a subway and no explanation as to how he got there but … there he was just the same. Sometimes we hear of birds showing up a bird feeders completely out of their range of flight. Who knows what brought them – the wind? The food supply? Something happened and there they were, right where they didn’t belong, but cheerfully raising their song.

When I hear these stories I think of other ways that we overcome adversity when out of our locale or sense of ease. We are, here in Ontario, back into lock-down as the Covid numbers keep going up. Stories are filtering in from around the globe as countries try to figure out how to defeat this virus. As we come to terms with this illness – clearly something that does not belong in our bodies – amidst the stories of death and loneliness and anxiety – we hear stories of people facing the adversity with aplomb and creativity.

There has been a news story circulating the last week or so about La Verne Ford Wimberley. La Verne, an American woman, dresses to the nines every Sunday for church. She puts on a beautiful dress and dons a glorious ribboned and bowed hat ( a different one every Sunday for the past 52 sundays) and sits down in her living room to watch her church service. She is quite a counterpoint to those of us who sit in our pyjamas or sweats and don’t even bother to comb our hair! She has chosen to bloom in the midst of the forest of sorrow.

This week, post-Easter I am trying to think of ways to bring the resurrection to my everyday. How is the story of life overcoming the stories of death? How is the joy of Easter overcoming the sorrow of Good Friday? How is the crocus blooming where it doesn’t belong but blooming just the same?

I would love to hear your stories of where you saw a splash of colour or heard a note of joy that helped you shift your perspective from death to life. Write in the comments below or send me an email. We need some Sunday hat stories!!

There are several notable dates in mid – March. Yes, the Ides of March is one of them but I am also thinking of Pi Day, International Women’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and of course the day we switch to Daylight Savings Time (I am still tired). This year, for the first time, we had the National Observance of one year of the Covid pandemic. Last Thursday we held a brief ceremony on the front steps of the church to mark that day. And then there is the ten years marking the war in Syria.

On March 15, 2011 as part of the Arab Spring protests there was a protest raised in Syria against the regime of President Bashar Al-Assad. What began as a protest escalated into a civil war that has seen cities turned to ruins, the economy hobbled, thousands of men, women and children killed, and 5.6 million Syrians have fled the country is search of peace and safety.

Most of those who fled went first to Lebanon, Egypt, Iran or Turkey. Many have now made their way to places of security in Europe and approximately 75 thousand have come to call Canada home. Those who left Syria for a new life have had to build that life from scratch, often starting at menial jobs or scrambling to have credentials recognized and previous experience put to good use, not to mention learning a language, trying to understand a new culture, sometimes facing discrimination, and always, always homesick for family friends and all they left behind.

Those remaining in Syria continue to face the fears that come with conflict. The war is not over. The World Food Program has estimated that 60% of those in Syria now are at risk of going hungry. Education of the children there is severely threatened. Medical care is constantly hampered with shortages.

Here in Bracebridge it happened that yesterday, while marking the tenth anniversary of the war, we also marked the fourth anniversary of the arrival to our community of the Syrian family we sponsored, the Khaleds. I well remember the night they arrived. A handful of us took a small bus to the airport to greet them. It took a long time for all their paperwork to be reviewed until finally they burst through the doors and down the ramp into our waiting arms. We arrived back in Bracebridge in the middle of the night and it was about 20 below zero. They did not know such cold. That was only one of the many adjustments they had to make as they settled into life in Canada.

We have learned much together over these past four years, about life in Syria and their observations in Canada. It has been a journey of affection and insight for both them and us. While the situation in Syria is devastating, and has caused the break up of families, the destruction of dreams and forced so many to leave their beloved homeland, they have blessed many places in the world with their ambition, their pride, the commitment and their new citizenship. Heartbreak and gratitude go hand in hand.

Today is International Women’s Day and I am saying “Cheers” to the women in my life who have influenced me.

Cheers …

To my mother and grandmothers and aunts and sisters who lived life well and raised daughters who sought an education, pursued careers, loved their families, travelled the world.

To Doreen and Joyce and Donna and Ada and Alma and Lisa and Faye who influenced me in my young life through programs like explorers and CGIT and 4-H and Sunday School and who, I realize now, probably felt inadequate and under appreciated but who were formative for me.

To Phyllis and all the other war brides who came to Canada because they had fallen in love with a soldier or an airman and, who realized when they woke up in his bed in Saskatchewan or Manitoba or some farmstead in Ontario, that this was not what he had promised in the passion of new war-time love, and that life was harder than they ever thought possible, but they endured anyway.

To Linda and Sonya and Cate and Beverly and other women who have quietly and patiently walked with me the inward journey of self-awareness.

To Jan and Evelyn and Nancy and Takhoui and Johanne and Jane and Doreen and all the many colleagues in ministry who have helped me to grow in my faith and in my practice.

To Barb and Jen and Mary Ruth and Kathleen who make me better everyday.

To Nora and Janet and Leslie and Gloria and and Shelley and Cheryl and Eleanor and Ginny and Lynn and Sally and Suzie and Kathy and Marilyn and all the other women who have nurtured my soul, often over a glass of wine, and helped me survive the knocks of life.

To Berivan and Chirin and Muna and Noura and Fatima and all the refugee women who have left all that is familiar and known to carve a new future in a new land.

To my beautiful nieces and great-nieces and granddaughters who fill the future with such promise and who, thankfully, seem to love me no matter what.

Cheers … cheers … to all the beautiful women in my life.

The sun will set today at 6:00 pm. 6 o’clock. It is glorious that we get to enjoy daylight until 6 o’clock. Every day the sun is a bit warmer and stays a bit longer.

One of our Lenten hymns has as it’s first verse … As the sun with longer journey melts the winter’s snow and ice / with it’s slowly growing radiance warms the seed beneath the earth, / may the sun of Christ’s uprising gently bring our hearts to life.

And it does, in some ways, feel as if the sun brings our hearts to life! The Syrian family who came to live here, like many other new Canadians, were surprised at how much Canadians talk about the weather! I teased them recently that, after three winters, they have become true Canadians because now they always talk about the weather too. They, like me, are tired of the winter days, the need for boots and hats and mitts. With three little kids, they, like many young families, joke about how long it takes to get out the door on a winter’s day, by the time all the snow pants and boots and mitts are on someone inevitably has to go to the bathroom! Won’t it be great when we can just walk out the door in our bare feet?

The expression of our faith is, understandably, connected to our environment. We put the mystery of faith into the concrete – what we can see, touch, taste and feel. The wonder of Christ’s love is explained in bread and wine. The comfort of faith is linked to green pastures and still waters. Much of the mystery of God’s relationship to humanity is put into words of creation and the environment. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth…”

A five year old recently explained to me why we have season… “In the summer the earth and the sun are friends but in the winter, not so much. Then in the spring they start to become friends again.” Not too scientific but I thought that was a pretty good description of what happens. I am grateful that right now the sun and the earth are reconsidering their friendship and soon we will be basking in the warmth of their renewed relationship.

Tonight, at 6 o’clock, I am going to stand in the long stretch of the closing rays of sun and thank God for the regular return of the seasons, an annual event that reminds me of the constancy of God’s love and renewal.

I often speak of Lent as a journey. I see it as a walk with Christ toward Jerusalem. A time to gather thoughts, think things over and just mull. Long walks do that for a person. The other thing about long walks are crossroads, or junctures. Places where we make a choice. In his poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’ Robert Frost famously wrote, “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood/ And sorry I could not travel both/And be one traveler, long I stood/ and looked down one as far as I could/ To where it bent in the undergrowth/ Then took the other, as just as fair.” The poem ends with “I took the one less travelled by/ and that has made all the difference.” Crossroads, making choices, in many ways that is what Lent is. Setting our compass and following.

I have been working this week on a final read-through of our congregation’s Annual Report before it goes to the printer and gets posted to our website. It is a year in review of the congregation’s ministry in a year like none other we have known. We came to many crossroads as we navigated our way through the last 12 months. Places where we have had to make choices. Some were not easy ones to make.

This morning, as I came to the church, I drove down the main street of our little town. Several stores and shops have sprouted ‘For Lease’ and ‘For Sale’ signs. I suspect this is the impact of long-term closures due to the pandemic. I can only imagine how difficult it has been for those people to confront that crossroad. Facing the decision as to whether to end their business in that location or try to keep things going.

Lent can be about little choices – Should I eat that chocolate? Should I have that drink?, having pledged not to do so during the season. But Lent can also be about big choices – Can I seek a life of greater service and firmer discipleship? Can I bind myself closer to Christ as a disciple? And, sometimes Lent is less about the crossroads and more about the walk between them. The walk that can feel like trudging on some days or gaily skipping on other days; a walk that can be sure and certain on some days but hesitant and faltering on others.

On long journeys, it is often the crossroads that make the trip interesting. A moment to stop, to consider the choice – this way or that, to change plans, to choose a new route, to continue on. Lent is the time of spiritual journeying, a long walk with Jesus. Let’s enjoy the meander, the sojourn, the wander, the ramble. We have time to stop at the crossroads and think about our choices. There are only a few days behind us and many days ahead. Happy Lent. Faithful journeying. Blessings at the crossroads.

It has happened several times over the years that my birthday has fallen on Ash Wednesday creating a mix of moods and considerations. Given that we recorded the Ash Wednesday service last Friday, so it would be ready for viewing today, I confess I have been a little more caught up in birthday events today than the meditative mood of Ash Wednesday. Nonetheless, the season of Lent brings reflection and Ash Wednesday always seems a threshold day of looking back and looking ahead. So do birthdays.

So, on this day of ashes and birthday cake I have been thinking deep thoughts …

Why am I falling asleep at 8 pm when watching tv but when I am in bed at 11:30 pm I am wide awake?

Why is it that I have more ambition to do all the things on my To Do list on the night before than when I could actually do them?

Why do fresh flowers just always make me feel better?

Why did none of the grief books tell me that the third year is just as hard as the first?

Why can I some times feel fatigued but not depleted and other times feel depleted but not fatigued?

Why do some people choose happiness over honour and others choose honour over happiness?

Why after months of staying at home is it easier to stay home than face going out?

Why does a hug feel soooo good? And, why does just the sound of a dear friend’s voice automatically pick up your spirits?

Why does God keep loving me even when I can be such a jerk?

How is it that children teach us so much?

How can rituals (like ashes on my forehead) take on such significance and remind me who I am?

Why does getting older sound better than getting old? I don’t know why but I do know that this is what I am doing … just getting older but I will never get old. And I will always eat cake!