Category Archives: Nature

Morning Light

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I had a bit of time this morning before choir practice began, so I went outside to enjoy the morning sunlight.  Being at the western edge of the time zone, the sun had just risen for us in Michigan.  This picture shows the lovely morning light on the east wall of the sanctuary.  “Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning, born of the one light Eden say play.” Standing in the morning light, I felt a deep sense of peace and gratitude for the gift of life.

Later, during worship, I offered a prayer that borrows imagery from our recent snowfall:

You blanket the earth with snow, God.  Your snow covers the ground, rests on tree limbs.  The beauty of snow reminds us of your beauty.  The sight of it awakens praise in us.  We thank you for the loveliness of your creation, for the beauty of each season.

Yet what we see is only a sliver of all that you have made.  You have set stars and galaxies in motion.  The whole universe, immensely old, is full of your handiwork, with you yourself older still.  Before all things, before all time, you are God.

The thing about you, God, that most astonishes us is that you know us.  You know each of us, even though we are so tiny and vulnerable compared to the vastness of all that you have made.  You know us, you care about us, you watch over us, you stay with us. This is the mind boggling thing, your knowledge of us.

You know when we sit, when we stand, when we lie down.  You know our thinking even before it appears in our minds.  All the days set out for us are written in your book before they even come to pass.  When we are perplexed, at our wit’s end, you know it. When we are in physical pain, you know it.  When we are scared, you know it.  When we are dancing for joy, you know it.  Our laughter, our tears, our smiles are all known to you.

Come to us afresh today, O God, with your beauty, your love, and your great strength. Fill our limbs and our lives with your healing presence.  Let us rest easily in your knowledge of us, your care for each of us.

There are echoes of Psalm 139 in this prayer, as well as 1 Corinthians 8:3, “If someone loves God, then they are known by God.” The latter was part of the morning scripture that the senior pastor preached on.

Woman In the Woods

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A therapist we know lives with her husband in the woods east of Ann Arbor.  I drive up to her home from time to time when a thought weighs on my heart.  My wife suggested I go see her.  There are times when you need to get out of town to get a different view of things.  I drove up this morning and had a good talk with her.  She is to me an Amma, a wise woman.  I will see the woman in the woods more in the months to come.

Snow Rests On Things

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I love the way snow rests on things.  This is from an iron trellis in the Memorial Garden yesterday.  After the snow fell, the sunlight came out.  Sunshine after a snowfall is a lovely thing.  Our warm spell has ended.  Right now it’s only 14 degrees (F).

A Cloudy Day at Heritage Park

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A cloudy day at Heritage Park, but a few pictures.  I think this might have been a ticket booth or concession stand at one time.

In this one I like how the trees lean over the road, and the posts on the right go on in a row over the hill.

Eventually someone says you have to stop.

But then you might see a path through the woods.

Seasons of Silence

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When an old cottonwood tree next to her home loses its leaves, Maria Evans becomes sad with the ensuing silence.  The tree no longer makes its “heavenly applause” as the wind blows through its leaves.  Winter is a season of silence, waiting for spring and the return of leaves.

The tree’s silence, though, is a reminder to her of the planned times of silence in the liturgical calendar:

One of the things I appreciate about the wisdom of our liturgical calendar is that it contains two seasons of planned silence–Advent and Lent.  Both seasons remind me of a very important piece of the Biblical cycle of Creation–> Sin–> Repentance–> Restoration/Resurrection — that for things to be reborn, they must often die to themselves.  That we don’t get to choose the nature of the restoration.  That we will be given enough to make it through this time of silence.  That what springs forth in the new season will most likely be better than we could have imagined or chosen for ourselves.  That it is precisely when things seem the deadest is when the most diligent work of restoration is taking place.  My cottonwood tree is not uncomfortable with its silence.  I am.

My season of silence now is no longer hearing our Ascend praise band sing each week.  That music was essential my spiritual life.  A few of the band members tell me their silence now is in not hearing my preaching.  In many ways we will need to live with the silence, waiting for what will come next.

This post on cottonwoods reminded me of a row of old cottonwoods west of our home in Carson City, when I lived there as a teen and young adult.  In the autumn their leaves turned a golden yellow, which looked striking against the brilliant blue mountain sky.  I used to revel in that sight each year.

On Moving Slowly

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Jesus walked a lot, and not only during the last week of his life.  The four gospels are peppered with accounts of him walking into the countryside, walking by the Sea of Galilee, walking in the Temple, and even walking on water… He walked everywhere he went, except for a short stint on a donkey at the end.  This gave him time to see things, like the milky eyes of the beggar sitting by the side of the road, or the round black eyes of sparrows sitting in their cages at the market.  If he had been moving more quickly — even to reach more people — these things might have become a blur to him.  Because he was moving slowly, they came into focus for him, just as he came into focus for them.

~ Barbara Brown Taylor

(image by Roger Geach)

Fallen Leaves

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A Native American elder I know says that he begins teaching people reverence by steering them over to the nearest tree.

Barbara Brown Taylor

Sunday afternoon I led an interment service in our memorial garden.  Putting ashes in the ground is a holy moment for those who come.  But the reverence disappears if you are the one who digs the hole, unlocks doors, sets out chairs, practices scripture readings, and rushes to get a music stand at the last minute.  In general I think it is hard for religious leaders to sense much reverence during religious rituals because they are too preoccupied managing them.  But we have our little glimpses of grace too.  My holy moment came when I noticed the carpet of locust tree leaves collected on the ground, and the two leaves in the violinist’s hair as she played.  The fallen leaves made me look up at the tree towering over my head, its branches pointing my eyes to the sky.  I felt small and sheltered.

The Sound of Water

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I love sitting in the memorial garden this time of year, on that bench under the locust tree, and listening to the sound of water in the fountain.

The fountain reminds me of this scripture:

 ”All who are thirsty should come to me!
All who believe in me should drink!
As the scriptures said concerning me,
‘Rivers of living water will flow out from within him.’ ”

Jesus said this concerning the Spirit.

John 7:37-39 CEB

The Lawnmower Lives

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Pastors don’t make lots of money, or at least most don’t.  (My monthly income is $2326, after taxes.)  You don’t get weekends off.  You often work unexpected hours, like Monday night when I sat in the emergency room with a parishioner.  But one benefit you have is the flexibility of your schedule.  You can easily leave work to see the doctor or have the car fixed.  And if you need a mental health day off, you can take one.  I took one Wednesday.  I was tired Tuesday evening, unable to concentrate and unable to remember the last day away from church.  So I stayed home yesterday and did yard work — it’s good for the soul.

Which brings me to the lawnmower.  I have tried to kill my lawnmower, leaving it outside in snow, rain and ice.  Yet it lives.  It mocks me, “Silly man, you cannot get rid of me!”  I feel like the Yugo owner who leaves his unlocked car in airport parking with the keys in the ignition, desperate for someone to steal it.  I want to get a better lawnmower, like this one.  But alas, the old one will not quit, in spite of my attempts to end its life.  It is just as well; the money for a new lawnmower should go into savings for a new car.

‘Everyone seems to be vulnerable’

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United Methodist News Service writer Linda Bloom on tornadoes:

Tornados were not uncommon in northern Indiana when I was growing up, but none of them ever touched down in my hometown of Fort Wayne.

According to Native American legend, or so I heard at the time, the three rivers that converged downtown – the St. Marys, the Maumee and the St. Joseph – protected the city from funnel clouds.

Then, years later, when I was visiting my family there over a Memorial Day weekend, a small tornado skipped across a shopping center and subdivision not far from the restaurant where we were eating dinner, causing some damage but no injuries. The protective spell of the rivers, apparently, was broken.

Everyone seems to be vulnerable these days. This spring’s tornado activity across the United States is setting new records for death and destruction.

Contribute here to the United Methodist Committee on Relief.

A video:

Neighborhood Garden

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From the dedication yesterday of the Neighborhood Garden on the corner of Broad and Church Streets.  Several religious groups and community organizations signed up for the plots and have recently planted.  Long ago this site was a gas station.

Tuscaloosa Tornado

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Video taken yesterday. Leaves me speechless.  Looks like a giant, devouring tree. 

The video shows smaller tornadoes spinning sideways off the main one.

These huge tornadoes are spinning so fast that some of that spin is shed, spawning sidekicks. That’s about as much as scientists know about these sideways funnel clouds. They’re too small to be replicated or studied in the lab. And despite forming from long-lasting tornadoes, sideways funnel clouds are fleeting, lasting maybe 20 seconds before dissolving, as the video shows.

Light In Winter

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Officially, winter begins on the solstice, but that is the darkest day of the year. If you care about light, half of the darkest days are already over when winter officially begins. And the phenomenon of each day getting darker is completely over. Winter understood in terms of darkness would put the solstice at its center and extend a month and a half in either direction. Thus, if the solstice is December 21, as it was this year, then true winter — light-sensitive winter — began around November 6 and ends a few days from now, around February 5th.

So bring on the light.