INNOVATION

Innovations can be scary. It is very difficult to predict what they might mean.

I read somewhere about the response to the printed word. The printing press in 1439 and people began to have limited access to the printed word. As it began to grow, more people learned to read. People held words in their hands and explored ideas of others alone in their room. Before that time, information was transmitted primarily through spoken language and through the institutions of society who controlled that information (primarily rulers and the religious organizations).

Now there were some who were in power who objected to this increased availability of information.  They rightly posited that people would be harder to control if they could interpret what they received for themselves. Some would say that the Protestant Reformation of the church and the Enlightenment’s ability to nurture the rights of individuals was directly related to the printing press. Obviously, those who controlled information objected to the easier availability of ideas.

But, one of the most intriguing objections to the rise of the popularity of books was that individuals would lose track of the real and the present. When we read, we are transported somewhere else. There were those who believed that being fully present where we are and to those around us was a virtue and that anything that caused us to escape the present was unhealthy.

Now, as a book lover, I am grateful that those who resisted the expansion of the print media did not win the battle. I am glad that I can be transported outside my own little world with the reading of other’s ideas and stories. When I am stretched and discover realities beyond my knowing, I am richer for it.

And therefore, I am grateful for the digital age. It may be dangerous if it becomes a drug that keeps us from being present to those in the room with us. But by making possible access to more knowledge and more experience of the vast and exciting world we live in, I think we will all be enriched. It may be messy, but what a ride we can have.

WINTER BRAIN

I have finally figured out what is going on.  I have winter brain.

Winter brain is like the black walnut tree’s naked stems scratching the gray cold sky. There are marks suggesting thoughts, but they don’t create clear images. I stare at them and just when it seems they might reveal themselves, a frigid wind comes along and scatters the marks. The minimalist painting won’t stay in place long enough to form a coherent thought. And the glimpses of ideas that do exist in my brain seem to go into hibernation. They refuse to be found so I can share them with others.

This brain is so different from the baroque summer brain. When it is warm, my brain is filled with little creaturely ideas racing around, chasing each other. Ideas gather in little clusters, and like an intricate baroque paining, get embellished and flow with a flourish.  The fruits hang heavy on the trees and there is plenty of low-hanging thoughts to fill the senses.  

But winter thoughts trouble me.  They cause me to feel so unproductive. Will those seminal ideas ever return?  Will I ever be able to write and share again, or will they resist filling my mind and leave it cold and empty?

But, I am tired of worrying. And I am tired of the fear that they will continue to be as illusive as a butterfly in a snow-storm. I have decided to embrace winter brain. I have decided to accept the infertile ground, to rest in the space between the scattered minimalist marks.

And in the emptiness, I will trust that the frozen earth is doing what it needs to do—protect the seeds of fruit from the snow and cold. And I have given myself to waiting—sometimes patiently and sometimes impatiently—for the thaw that will soften the hard soil and yield fresh green plants who bud with the promise of abundant fruit. When that happens, I will share what gifts I receive with those within whom I share life.

CHRISTMAS EVE GRATITUDE

I read the sports page every day. There is something comforting about it. Most of the stories are about a games. Football, Basketball, Cricket, Soccer, Tennis.  I think the thing that is appealing about reading the sports page is that there are clear outcomes.  Winners and losers. Things get concluded, decided, wrapped up. There is a clear beginning and ending. There is arguing about whether the game should have ended as it did, but that fades quickly as there are more games to be played.

Occasionally there are stories that don’t fit that formula. And unfortunately, most of those have to do with lives messed up because of accidents or violent behavior toward family members or others in the community. 

But today, there is a different kind of story. It is a story about Adam Tatalovich who is a basketball coach in Perth, Australia.  And this is a story about all the people who helped him become a professional basketball coach. They were people he had met and one’s he had not. They were coaches and managers. He was aware that he didn’t make it where he was alone. This Christmas, he was remembering and thanking those many people.

Adam is 36 years old and he has dozens of people to thank. Being twice his age, I have hundreds of people. As I read the article, I am aware of all the people who have helped me along the way of my life. I started thinking about family members, friends, parishioners, students, shop keepers, service providers, mentors, authors, musicians, artists, poets, professors—innumerable people who have been gifts to me.

So, tonight when we go to the Christmas Eve service at church, I will remember. And I will carry all those people with me and lay them at the altar with a deeply grateful heart. The person I am is the result of the gift of love that has come from so many on my journey.

WHAT IF . . . .

What if God is love? What if the core of the divine reality is love?

And what if love is “paying attention?” 

Does this mean that God is paying attention to creation? Does this mean that God is listening to creation’s groaning and laughing? Does this mean that there is a divine spirit that attends to each of us and to our friends, the birds, the horses, the caterpillars?

And what if the Apostle Paul is right and love is eternal? What if he is right that words about God will pass away, that emotional feelings about God will pass away? But love never ends.

And what if love is unconditional? What if love pays attention to us even when we don’t love, even when we shut ourselves off from attending to others because they hurt us or we hurt them?

And what if we quit trying to get love to pay attention to us and opened our hearts to see where love is already coming to us?

What if love is eternal and the creative energy for life? What if we started looking where it is rather than lamenting where it is not? What if we savor it when it comes rather than complaining because it doesn’t from where we want?

If God is love and love is paying attention, maybe the way we know God is to love God by paying attention to where love exists and joining with that love in the world.  Maybe this is what it means to be in communion with God—to participate in the acts of love (God) as they get acted out in our world.

And maybe if this is all true, we can live with more courage, knowing that nothing can separate us from love. Maybe we don't have to be afraid.

IRONING

It isn’t her birthday. It isn’t Mother’s Day. But, that doesn’t seem to matter. Tonight I am remembering my mother.

It started when I picked up a couple of damp dress shirts hanging on the back of a kitchen chair. I decided I would iron them while they were still damp—no steaming.  And flashback—my mother doing laundry for a husband and five children. I think it was on Monday. She hung all the clothes on a line outside.  When they were dry she brought them in. Then she got out a pop bottle with a cap on it that had holes in it. She put water in it, shook water on the clothes and rolled them up. And at the end of the day, she had another pile of clothes.

Tuesday morning was ironing day. And she got out the old dark iron with a detachable handle, placed it on the stove and heated it up. Then one item after another, damp clothes were pressed. The iron would get cool and so she put it on the stove again, reheat and repeat. Over and over.

And she did that for years. I am sure when she finally got a steam iron some years later she was like a kid in a candy store. Thankfully she had the steam iron when she taught me to iron (I had to learn to iron and cook before she would let me leave home—this was way before most clothes didn’t need to be ironed).

But, as I stood and ironed the shirts tonight, I was overcome with appreciation for the sacrifices my mother made for me and my siblings. I didn’t always appreciate her. I didn’t understand what all she had done in those days of no money, little resources and many children. She lived with so many things I take for granted.

And every morning she began the day with this scripture: “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Thank you mother, for your love and persistent caring. You are not forgotten.