Pay Attention. Be Astonished. Tell About It.

The Rev. Dr. Ann Willms
Celebrant at our Centennial Service 2010
Photo by Bonny Bronson

Today is last Sunday that The Rev. Dr. Ann Willms will be with us at St. Paul's. I hope you will join us for worship and to hear her final sermon with us.

I must again express my sadness at her departure, but also my gratitude for the tremendous ministry she has done among us. Please join me in wishing her many blessings as she explores new ways to live into her baptism and ordination vows.

Thanks Ann!

On Friday, at our Lenten Luncheon, Professor Margaret Mohrmann quoted from poet Mary Oliver with a stanza from her poem Sometimes: “Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

I thought you might enjoy reading the full poem:

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Sometimes
By Mary Oliver

1.

Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn't anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn't an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.
I don't know what God is.
I don't know what death is.

But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.

2.

Sometime
melancholy leaves me breathless...

3.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!

The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

5.
Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.

6.

God, rest in my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body

like the hands of my beloved.
Let the cathead appear again-
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably-
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.

7.

Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn't amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.

Photo by Lori Korleski Richardson

Art above by Chiura Obata, Untitled, 1927

Summer solstice and Fiat Lux taking a break

Dear ones,

Welcome to summer.  Life gets a little slower in the summer here in Charlottesville, and it is once again time to take a break here at Fiat Lux.

I need a little time away from the blogosphere to slow down, use fewer words in all things, and find renewal and inspiration. But please check back here soon.

In August, we will be in Jerusalem, and I will certainly resume writing in this space well before then. In the meantime, catch up with what you may have missed here.

For now, let me leave you with a summer poem. I ran this last summer, from my favorite poet, Gary Snyder, and the art is by the amazing Chiura Obata.  "Loowit" is the Indian name for Mt. St. Helens, a place I partially climbed many summers ago after the eruption.  Enjoy the wonder of summer.

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Enjoy the Day
By Gary Snyder

One morning on a ridgetop east of Loowit
after campfire coffee

looking at the youthful old volcano
breathing steam and sulfer
sunrise lava
bowls of snow

went up behind a mountain hemlock
asked my old advisors where they lay

what's going on?

they say

"New friends and dear sweet old tree ghosts
here we are again. Enjoy the day."

What if prayer is the most important thing you do?

This is the First Sunday of Lent, and my sermon is based on the readings for today: Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7, Romans 5:12-19 and Matthew 4:1-11. May you have a blessed Lent.

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Lord, in your mercy, come show us the way. Amen.

I’d like us to take a few moments of silence and prayer to remember those who have died, or who are injured, or homeless from the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, and those who are struggling today to contain this calamity as it still unfolds. I also know many of you have friends in Japan, and so let us hold them also in our prayers.

Lord, in your mercy, come show us the way.

This morning, on this, the first Sunday of Lent, we get a dense series of biblical readings that are the basis of the Christian doctrine of “original sin.” The authors of the lectionary had in mind that you and I should be taught once a year about this knotty doctrine, and today would be the day. 

Well, maybe. 

I must confess, and this is the time of confession, that at the outset that in the face of the horror of our world – wars in Central Asia, Africa, the Middle East and elsewhere – and the horror that is still unfolding in Japan, I find that the doctrines of the church sometimes seem, well, too small, too puny, too inadequate. 

So I’d rather start somewhere else. I’d like us to stand on high ground for a time this morning, and I’d like to start with a question: 

What would it look like if the most important thing we do as a congregation is to pray?
Now, I know that sounds like a silly question. I mean, we are a church, that’s what we are supposed to do, right? 

I know the most important thing you and I are doing this morning is praying; it is why we are here. And even if you are having trouble finding the prayers, someone else is praying those prayers for you. 

As Pastor Ann mentioned in her Ash Wednesday homily, these walls are awash in the prayers of the many who have come before us. Like them, we gather together to pray in many ways: with words and music, in silence, and with symbols for the eyes, and the bread and wine of our Holy Communion. 

We have a feast of prayer this morning for all of our senses. We bring the fullness of ourselves into prayer, and God made that good. 

So let me ask this in a more personal way: 

What would it look like if the most important thing you do is pray? What would that look like for you? 

What if your prayer didn’t stop when you left here this morning? What if prayer was the more important thing you do for the rest of the week? What would your week look like?
I am talking about praying when you take a walk, or wash the dishes, or fold the laundry, or in the quiet of the morning, or late at night before you sleep. 

If you truly made prayer the most important thing you do, what would look different in your life? 

Yes, there are many other important things you and I do in our lives. It is important to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head and to wash the dishes. 

It is important to pay your bills, and to rear children and take care of your health. 

It is important to go to school and learn. 

It is important to have fun and share a meal with friends and family. 

All of that is important. But what would those things look like if prayer came first? 

And what might fall away as not so important? 

Or, let me put this another way: How would you make decisions in your life if you truly brought your decisions into a conversation with God on a regular basis? 

Prayer can be tricky business. It is tempting to pray for things – for stuff – for bread after a forty-day fast, or to be saved from falling off a rooftop, or amassing political power, or at least a promotion at work.

It is tempting to give advice to God – most of us are actually pretty good at that.
The kind of prayer I speak of is simpler, yet scarier. 

This kind of prayer is to be found in the Lord’s Prayer: “thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” 

What if we meant it when we said “thy will be done”? 

It might require setting aside selfish agendas and opening ourselves to hearing “thy will be done.” 

This is not a prayer of despair, or a plea for power and wealth. 

“Thy will be done” is a prayer for healing, hope, and seeing the presence of God right here among us, and hearing what God would have us do on this earth. 

That kind of prayer requires us to see our connection to each other, and to the people of Japan and Libya and Afghanistan, and the people across the street and next door. 

How do we do we pray like that? It may not be as hard as you think. 

Start by with noticing the Holy that is right in front of you. Author and preacher Barbara Brown Taylor calls it “The practice of waking up to God.” 

“Reverence,” she writes, “stands in awe of something – something that dwarfs the self, that allows human beings to sense the full extent of our limits – so that we can begin to see one another more reverently as well.” [An Altar in the World, p. 21] 

This Lent, I am suggesting that we as a congregation look for the Holy all around us, starting in the simple moments. Let’s see where it takes us; I don’t know where that will be, that’s the beauty of it. We won’t know until we try. 

Start by setting aside time each day for prayer, for reflecting on the holiness you see in your life. Hear God in the laugh of a child; look for God in the early spring buds on the trees; feel God in the gentle touch of someone close to you; hear God in the music or in the silence.
Listen for the small still voice of God in all you experience. Trust that something will happen when you stop to notice and to pray. 

Find the time to pray and reflect about what you see and experience. Get up 15 minutes earlier in the day if you have to, or carve out 15 minutes on your lunch hour, or 15 minutes for a walk before dinner. Maybe get off the Internet 15 minutes earlier than you usually do, or turn off the TV. 

Want to give up something for Lent? Give up distractions, 15 minutes at a time. Give up the gods of endless busy-ness, over-scheduling, control. 

Slow it down, and notice the true God one prayer at a time. 

Barbara Brown Taylor, in her book, An Altar in the World, puts it this way [p. 24]: 

“We pay attention to the speedometer, the wristwatch, the cell phone, the list of things to do, all of which feed our illusion that life is manageable…If anything, these devices sustain the illusion that we might yet be gods—if only we could find some way to do more faster.”

The illusion of being God is the “original sin” and humans have been tricking themselves into thinking that since there were humans. The doctrine of original sin is no more complicated than that. 

Look at your illusions, bring those to your daily prayer. 

Look at what hurts you. What holes have you fallen into by your own making, or through no fault of your own? God is in there too – especially there in those lonely places. 

Listen for the voice leading you out. Turn around and look for the ladder up. 

Lord, in your mercy, come show us the way. 

Do you have a heavy stone on your heart needing to be lifted? Come make a private confession with a priest, with one of us – yes, we do that. Come claim the forgiveness that is yours. 

Lord, in your mercy, come show us the way. 

Prayer is not always sweetness and light. It can be hard work like life itself. Prayer may not take us on the safe route. Prayer will test us and mold us as it did Jesus in the wilderness. 

So make this your Holiest of Lents, and don’t do this alone. Make it your practice to gather here every Sunday, not out of obligation, but because it is important for you to be here. Our prayers are richer when you are here, and our prayers are much the poorer when you are not.

Come experience the prayers here as rich food for your body, mind and soul.Make prayer the most important thing you do, this Holy Lent, and for the rest of your life. 

Lord, in your mercy, come show us the way. Come. AMEN.

Art by Chiura Obata (1885-1975).

Today: One-thousand posts on Fiat Lux

This is the 1,000th posting on Fiat Lux. One-thousand.

I must admit that many of my posts -- okay, most -- are not particularly memorable. But I hope a few are. And, as an ex-journalist (and no newshound is really ever an ex), I appreciate milestones, and 1,000 is a good one for looking back.

I started this blog nearly three years ago as Lori and I were preparing to embark on this zany crazy idea of moving from our comfortable nest in the West to the faraway wilds of Virginia.

I wasn't quite sure what I had in mind with this blog other than chronicling our adventure to East of Reno and giving me a platform for my meandering thoughts, theological ramblings and otherwise, and giving you a place of conversation with me.

I hope you consider this blog a blessing if for no other reason than it has given me a parking place for stray ideas and stories so that they don't clog up sermons more than they do.

The topics here have roamed the map, from the Virgin of Guadalupe to my own reporting from the floor of General Convention in 2009 in Anaheim.

There have been 169 references to biblical passages (who says we Episcopalians don't read the Bible?). The most frequently cited Old Testament book is Isaiah; the most frequently cited in the New Testament is the Gospel of Luke. The most frequently referenced 17th century Anglican divine is Jeremy Taylor; the most frequently cited contemporary theologian is James Alison.

I must say I am awestruck by how many readers come here. As of last night, Fiat Lux has been viewed 107,849 times. It has gone from a handful of readers in June 2008, to an average of about 150-200 per day.

Readers come from all over the world. This week we've had readers from the North Slope of Alaska to Capetown, South Africa; from San Francisco to Parañaque, Philippines, and many places in between.

The most intriguing frequent visitor comes from a server located at The Royal Veterinary College in London, which my tracking software shows is located right where Lambeth Palace is located. Hmm, what to make of that?

In the last 1,000 posts, the most frequently viewed item is a prayer by Mother Teresa that I put here in 2008, and if you want to see it again, click HERE.

This blog has gone semi-"viral" twice. When I re-posted a video of a weather report done in Anglican chant, it became an overnight sensation in the monasteries of Romania, thanks to a link sent to the monks by a friend who had been a Peace Corps volunteer in Romania. You can see that video again by clicking HERE (and it's still funny if I do say so).

Last week we went semi-viral again, this time because someone posted on Facebook an item from my blog by Garrison Keillor about Episcopalians that I had lifted from Salon.com and re-posted last December. We've had more than 1,000 hits on that item since last week. You can read it again (and keep this count going) by clicking HERE.

I've much enjoyed bringing you these items as they strike my fancy. A regular feature has been "The Monday Funnies," and I've run that for 89 Mondays, with a few time-outs for Holy Week and somber news events. Most of the jokes come from my friend Patrick Hill, who lives in the El Dorado Hills above Sacramento in California.

It's also been my pleasure to bring you poems from time to time, and most of the poems are gifts from my friend Karen Claussen Bishop who lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. Lori and met Karen and her husband Jim on a hiking trip in Southern France many years ago. The most frequently posted poet here is Mary Oliver followed by Beat poet Gary Snyder.

You may not have noticed this, but all of the poems on Fiat Lux are re-posted onto another blog linked to this one. You can find the poems of Fiat Lux by clicking HERE.

Now and then I write something original and I hope some of those reflections have been worthwhile. I've stayed out of politics (mostly); I think you can find better commentaries elsewhere. Once in awhile I dip into church politics, but again, I think you can find better commentaries elsewhere.

Among the pieces I am particularly fond of is the series on prayer two years ago during Advent; you can find the first installment by clicking HERE.

I tried to add to the discussion on the morality of the death penalty with a lengthy reflection I wrote last summer after the sentencing of two young men who were convicted of murdering a young friend. You can read my death penalty reflection by clicking HERE. The item got 11 posted comments, which is a lot for this blog, and many more private emails.

I've also tried to give you a glimpse of my own story and my own prayer life, as I did a few days ago with an item about a "thin place" that is hugely important in my own spiritual journey. You can read that by clicking HERE.

When we drove east to Virginia in 2008, I wrote a travelogue along the way, including a post driving through Kansas pointing out the Oz museum. You can read that one and see more photos by clicking HERE.

I've stayed mostly out of doctrinal disputes because I think they bring more heat than light. But I took a stab at original sin, forgiveness and salvation, and I appreciate the kind comments from many of you especially those of you who couldn't quite follow my reasoning or agree with me. You can read that series on original sin beginning HERE.

I've had a great deal of fun picking the artwork and photographs for Fiat Lux. Among the artists I've used the most are the legendary Chiura Obata, and lesser known contemporary artists including He Qi and Kathrin Burleson.

I've relied on some very talented photographers, particularly Bonny Bronson, Dudley Rochester and Diane Wakat. I've taken a few of my own, including the photo, right, of St. Paul's at dawn a couple of weeks ago when I was opening up on a Sunday morning.

For the most part, comments left here have been respectful and enlightening, and I much appreciate the wisdom others bring to this space.

I was compelled against my instincts to moderate (review) comments before posting because a few were nasty and several were commercial spam. The tactic worked. The purveyors of nastigrams seem intimidated by the prospect of being reviewed before posting, and the spammers have gone elsewhere looking for easier targets.

As for the future of Fiat Lux, I intend to keep doing this while I can and while my interest level stays steady. Somehow I have managed to bring you one new posting nearly every day, and maybe that's because my journalism blood runs deep. I've taken a few breaks and probably will again, but my goal is to bring you something new every day.

As for changes, there will be a few. Fiat Lux needs a facelift. We've had the same template for all these three years, and it's time for a new look. The baby being baptized in the upper left (that's my hand), will be starting school soon enough; we probably need a new icon. There are newer templates with more features, including captions for photographs. So don't be too startled when you open this up and it looks different.

The meaning of Fiat Lux is "Let there be light," and that is my personal mission statement, and the mission statement of the great university that educated me, my sister and my parents (the University of California). The current look has a lighthouse in the upper left corner and I will maintain the lighthouse theme. But we might need a new lighthouse. The lantern atop St. Paul's (see top photo by Bonny Bronson) evokes a lighthouse, and I suspect it will be displayed more prominently on this page in the near future. Stay tuned.

I think it appropriate to wind up with a poem. This one was sent yesterday by Karen (of course!) and I think it fits a few themes here today. Enjoy:

The Blue

By Billy Collins

You can have Egypt and Nantucket .
The only place I want to visit is The Blue,
not the Wild Blue Yonder that seduces pilots,
but that zone where the unexpected dwells,
waiting to come out of it in the shape of bolts.

I want to walk its azure perimeter
where the unanticipated is coiled, on the mark,
ready to spring into the predictable homes of earth.

I want to stroll through the pale indigo light
examining all the accidents about to rocket into time,
all the forgotten names about to fly from tongues.

I will scrutinize all the surprises of the future
and watch the brainstorms gathering darkly,
ready to hit the heads of inventors
laboring in their crackpot shacks.

A jaded traveler with an invisible passport,
I am at home with this heaven of the unforeseen,
waiting for the next whoosh of sudden departure
when, with no advance warning, to tiny augery,
the unpredictable plummets into our lives
from somewhere that looks like sky.

Finally, dear reader, thanks for coming on this ride with me and these 1,000 posts. Send me your ideas, your comments and your prayers. Blessings to you and yours always,

James+

The cusp between seasons, sitting on a hillside to think about God

We are on the cusp between seasons. The air is warm, but not as moist as a week ago. The trees are starting to twinkle golden on the edges, but are still lush.

Summer is finishing, but not yet done, and autumn is in the air, but not quite here.

Here is a poem sent by Karen from Tennessee to mark the season that is still with us. Enjoy your day.

Song of the Builders
By Mary Oliver

On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God -

a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside

this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope

it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.

Art: Tenaya Peak, by Chiura Obata, 1930

Clouds, air, summer poems and paintings

Summer is now officially here, the season of outdoor cooking, rose´ wine, sparkling sunsets, and slowing down. The other evening, Lori and enjoyed dinner with old friends at their Craftsman-era home. And we got an additional treat: they showed us five original paintings by Chiura Obata that have never been in a museum or a catalog.

The paintings were inherited from our friend's mother, who studied under Obata at the University of California, Berkeley. Each of these wonderful paintings had lightness and a feeling of motion.

Two were traditional Japanese brush paintings, and three had the more familiar Obata style that makes me feel like I am floating on a cloud. Obata (1885-1975) you may recall is famous for his airy renderings of Yosemite.

The painting at right is of El Capitan at Yosemite; the painting below is of the Topaz Mountains (and not one of our friend's paintings -- we will leave reproduction of their paintings to them).

Here is a poem for summer by Mary Oliver:

Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith

By Mary Oliver

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything -
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker -
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing -
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet -
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

The Summer Day and time for a break

My friends, the time has come for Lori and I to take a break. We've been going flat out since General Convention last July, with fall classes, two EfM groups, Thanksgiving and Christmas, Yule Log hunt, confirmation class, Lent, Holy Week, and Easter.

We've been visited by the Presiding Bishop and the Diocesan Bishop. We've had four blizzards since the Fourth Sunday of Advent, and we've hosted the Parish Tea and the Pentecost Picnic. We've had more special Sundays than I can count. We've also had 10 funerals at St. Paul's since the beginning of the year.

It is definitely time for a break. Time to reconnect with family and friends far away.

That also means I will step back a bit from this blog. Not completely, but this blog can use a rest, too. I will post from time-to-time as events and the Spirit move, but not every day. So please check back, and we will pick up the pace again in July.

For now, let me leave you with a favorite poem by -- who else? -- Mary Oliver. I've used it before but it is well worth repeating. Enjoy your summer...

The Summer Day

By Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Painting of Evening Glow at Mono Lake, Calif., by Chiuri Obata (1885-1975)

We who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life

I am preaching today only at the 8 am service. Please join us at 10 am and 5:30 pm to celebrate the ministry of The Rev. Neal Halvorson-Taylor and hear him preach.

My sermon at 8 am is based on John 14:23-29:

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you… Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Compline. It is one of the treasures of our prayer book, and you will find it beginning on page 127 [Online by clicking HERE].

The reason you many not know of it is Compline is a short service of prayers for late in the evening, and because we don’t usually have church services here late in the evening, we don’t usually conduct Compline.

The reason I bring this up is there is a particular prayer in Compline that has really tugged at me the last few days. And although it is now morning, I want to read it to you. You will find it on page 133:

“Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the hours of this night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Lately this parish and this community have been buffeted by all sorts of changes and chances of this life. Some of these changes are relatively small. But even the small changes can feel like a tipping point – the proverbial “last straw” – when all the changes come all at once.

Other changes are quite large: A number of our parishioners are facing serious illnesses including some of you; we’ve had a wave of funerals and memorial services including three in the last two days.

As you are certainly aware by now, a University student – Yeardley Love – age 22 – was murdered this past week allegedly at hands of her ex-boyfriend, another student.

Her death is truly shocking on many levels, and raises serious questions about student life at Uva, including alcohol abuse and violence against women students. University officials will surely confront these questions in the days ahead.

On another level, Yeardley Love’s death strikes very close to home in this parish.

Her sorority, Kappa Alpha Theta, meets here in our parish hall on Monday evenings, and I cannot quite get out of my mind that I probably walked right past her on many occasions as she and her sisters were going in or out of our building.

So I am also particularly proud and thankful that our Associate Rector, Ann, reached out to Yeardley’s sorority sisters this week, and she has been a rock of strength for them the last few days.

We opened our doors to these young university women so they could have a simple and private prayer service for Yeardley Friday evening.

That is what church should be about, exactly what this church should be about. That is exactly why we were founded.

Amidst all this, I don’t have any great words of wisdom about why someone so young, with so much life ahead of her, would be taken from us. I have no great words of wisdom about why her ex-boyfriend, someone with so much life ahead of him, would be filled with such rage that he would do something such as this.

To say that we live in a broken world is true, but not quite satisfying. To say that God cries with us is also true, but sometimes it is hard to feel.

And as much as we would like to ask God to please stop all the changes and chances of this life, we can’t, and God won’t. We may as well stop breathing.

Into this comes this spectacular promise from Jesus to stay with us as Holy Spirit, to fill each of us with love and grace, peace and rest, and to be faithful to us especially in our moments of darkness and pain. We hear of it in today’s gospel lesson from John:

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you,” he tells us. “Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

Each of us can experience this gift of the Holy Spirit, and this gift comes to us in a way that will find us where we dwell, will speak to us in our own language, and will make sense to us in ways that only we understand as an individual who is beloved of God, who knows each of us by name.

Maybe we will understand this Holy Spirit in a traditional way right out of the prayer book, or maybe the Holy Spirit will be someone, or something else entirely who makes sense only to you.

Yet sometimes we don’t feel it. Sometimes we need to stop, close our eyes, and sit in silence to feel this sacred Spirit.

Other times, we can feel this sacred presence when we gather together to support each other, to hold each other up, to pray together, or to laugh or cry together. I am certain the Holy Spirit was with Yeardley’s sorority sisters and her family and her friends this week even if they might not have felt it.

I am certain the Holy Spirit is with those in our congregation who are sick or hurting, or bewildered or grieving right now. By worshipping together, we can feel the Holy Spirit more strongly. And when I don’t feel it, maybe you will feel it for me.

My hope for each of us today is that we will take the time to see and listen for the holy, to watch and wait for the sacred, and bring all who we are, and all we long to be, into the prayer of our daily life; and that we will set aside our fear and worry, and will place our trust in the life-giving Holy Spirit who is right here with us.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you… Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

AMEN

Art by Chiura Obata (1885-1975)

A Roadside Shrine for your day: Endless Streams and Mountains, and the art of Chiura Obata

Regular readers of this space may recall that a week or two ago, a friend pointed out that this blog is to her like a roadside shrine, a place to pause to ponder the Holy, or just a place to rest awhile, or maybe smile. I like that a lot, and I continue to ponder anew how to create a shrine in "virtual" space.

Today, I'd like to offer you another shrine: the art of Chiura Obata (1885-1975), whose paintings of the mountains still inspire many people, including me, with their simplicity, shimmering color and rhythm.

Obata first entered the Sierra Nevada in 1927 and he went back again and again over many decades. His paintings were recently featured in the Ken Burns' series on the national parks, and rightly so.

As someone commented in the documentary, it took an artist born in another place (Japan) to help us see our own place.

Obata was a loyal American, and these mountains were his palate. But in the hysteria following the attack on Pearl Harbor, he was incarcerated in an internment camp with other Japanese-Americans during World War II. In the camp, he taught others to paint. He also painted scenes from the camps, capturing the dust, the wind, and the melancholy. Another day we will feature those paintings.

My favorite poet, Gary Snyder, who spent considerable time in Japan studying as a young adult, chose Obata's art to illustrate his book Mountains and Rivers Without End. The painting at the top of Yosemite Falls, painted in 1930, is on the cover of Snyder's book, which won the Bollingen Prize for poetry in 1997 (his earlier works won a Pulitzer in 1974).

For many years I used the first poem, called "Endless Streams and Mountains," in my Morning Prayer meditation. Here is that poem, with some other paintings by Obata.

May peace and holiness follow your day.

Endless Streams and Mountains

Ch'i Shan Wu Chin

By Gary Snyder

Clearing the mind and sliding in

to that created space,

a web of waters streaming over rocks,

air misty but not raining,

seeing this land from a boat on a lake
or a broad slow river,
coasting by.

The path comes down along a lowland stream
slips behind boulders and leafy hardwoods,reappears in a pine grove,

no farms around, just tidy cottages and shelters,

gateways, rest stops, roofed but unwalled work space,
—a warm damp climate;

a trail of climbing stairsteps forks upstream.

Big ranges lurk behind these rugged little outcrops—

these spits of low ground rocky uplifts
layered pinnacles aslant,

flurries of brushy cliffs receding,
far back and high above, vague peaks.
A man hunched over, sitting on a log
another stands above him, lifts a staff,
a third, with a roll of mats or a lute, looks on;
a bit offshore two people in a boat.

The trail goes far inland,
somewhere back around a bay,
lost in distant foothill slopes
& back again
at a village on the beach, and someone's fishing.

Rider and walker cross a bridgeabove a frothy braided torrent
that descends from a flurry of roofs like flowers
temples tucked between cliffs,
a side trail goes there;

a jumble of cliffs above,
ridge tops edged with bushes,
valley fog below a hazy canyon.

A man with a shoulder load leans into the grade.

Another horse and a hiker,

the trail goes up along cascading streambed

no bridge in sight—comes back through chinquapin or
liquidambars; another group of travelers.
Trail's end at the edge of an inlet
below a heavy set of dark rock hills.
Two moored boats with basket roofing,
a boatman in the bow looks
lost in thought.

Hills beyond rivers, willows in a swamp,
a gentle valley reaching far inland.

The watching boat has floated off the page.